The Pursuit of Pearls Read Online Free Page B
Author: Jane Thynne
the world, it may as well be an immaculate one.
She turned to her bags, began unpacking, and placed three photographs above the fireplace. One of a smiling six-year-old and another of the same boy ten years later, grown dark-eyed and somber. Her godson, Erich, who was even now burning to join the Luftwaffe and perhaps would soon get his chance. The third photograph was of her mother, Helene, throwing her head back in laughter. Acting, as she had been from the day she arrived as a new bride in England at the age of twenty-two, leaving Germany behind and with it any mention of her Jewish heritage. Clara had no picture of Leo.
—
THOUGH URSULA’S HOUSE WAS far more luxurious than Clara’s last home, that had nothing to do with the actual reason for her move. In recent weeks Clara had been increasingly convinced that her apartment in Winterfeldtstrasse was being watched. Far too frequently there were men around to clean the windows of the block opposite, or to paste new advertisements on the billboard outside. Clara had carried out all her usual precautions. She placed a dish of water for the cat just inside her front door. She didn’t have a cat, but anyone entering the apartment surreptitiously would bump the dish and spill water on the carpet. She left a tube of lipstick balanced on the casement window latch; it would easily be upset if the window was opened. Although she was certain there had been no actual intrusion, the previous week she had dashed home in an unexpected rainstorm and almost collided with an unfamiliar figure in the lobby.
“Can I help you?”
He was a sinewy young man with a lean, evasive face.
“Just sheltering from the rain.”
But he was bone dry. No pearls of water clung to the fabric of his umbrella or dripped from its spokes, nor was there any drop on his coat, dampening his felt hat, or soaking his scuffed leather shoes. He carried a bulky case and avoided her eyes when she spoke to him.
That was the moment she decided. Clara was experienced enough to distinguish between the instinctive feeling of being observed—that constant prickle of self-awareness all actresses develop—and the insidious lick of nerves prompted by Gestapo surveillance. She had learned to trust what her instincts told her, and at that second they told her it was time to switch locations without delay. She had no desire to check the face of every street sweeper or sneak a glance into every idling car on the curb. Fortunately, she remembered Ursula’s offer of house-sitting. Out in Griebnitzsee there was very little chance of passing strangers. It was almost too isolated. But then, she might not be spending that much time at home.
She propped an invitation on the mantelpiece. It was printed on stiff, heavy ivory card with shiny engraved lettering and gold edges—the kind that Angela ordered from Smythson in Bond Street for her cocktail parties and at homes. Just the feel of it gave Clara a jolt of nostalgia for her sister’s smart society gatherings, the Mayfair ballrooms filled with actors and politicians, the theater people and poets. She pressed it to her nose and inhaled the faintest trace of cigarette smoke.
CAPTAIN MILES FITZALAN
REQUESTS THE PLEASURE OF THE COMPANY OF
MISS CLARA VINE
AT A BALL AT THE ST. ERMIN’S HOTEL
VICTORIA,
LONDON SW
CHAMPAGNE AND CARRIAGES AT 1:00 A.M.
The only difference about this invitation was that Clara did not know any Miles Fitzalan. Nor had she heard of the St. Ermin’s Hotel. And she guessed, whatever this meeting was about, it would certainly be no party.
CHAPTER
3
B eing seduced by Joseph Goebbels was every starlet’s worst nightmare, but for foreign journalists it was a rather pleasanter experience. The Press Club he had established at a cost of half a million marks on Leipziger Platz was a comfortable mansion of gleaming wood and chrome, superbly fitted out with ornate restaurant, reading room, library, and bar, where journalists were encouraged to congregate
She turned to her bags, began unpacking, and placed three photographs above the fireplace. One of a smiling six-year-old and another of the same boy ten years later, grown dark-eyed and somber. Her godson, Erich, who was even now burning to join the Luftwaffe and perhaps would soon get his chance. The third photograph was of her mother, Helene, throwing her head back in laughter. Acting, as she had been from the day she arrived as a new bride in England at the age of twenty-two, leaving Germany behind and with it any mention of her Jewish heritage. Clara had no picture of Leo.
—
THOUGH URSULA’S HOUSE WAS far more luxurious than Clara’s last home, that had nothing to do with the actual reason for her move. In recent weeks Clara had been increasingly convinced that her apartment in Winterfeldtstrasse was being watched. Far too frequently there were men around to clean the windows of the block opposite, or to paste new advertisements on the billboard outside. Clara had carried out all her usual precautions. She placed a dish of water for the cat just inside her front door. She didn’t have a cat, but anyone entering the apartment surreptitiously would bump the dish and spill water on the carpet. She left a tube of lipstick balanced on the casement window latch; it would easily be upset if the window was opened. Although she was certain there had been no actual intrusion, the previous week she had dashed home in an unexpected rainstorm and almost collided with an unfamiliar figure in the lobby.
“Can I help you?”
He was a sinewy young man with a lean, evasive face.
“Just sheltering from the rain.”
But he was bone dry. No pearls of water clung to the fabric of his umbrella or dripped from its spokes, nor was there any drop on his coat, dampening his felt hat, or soaking his scuffed leather shoes. He carried a bulky case and avoided her eyes when she spoke to him.
That was the moment she decided. Clara was experienced enough to distinguish between the instinctive feeling of being observed—that constant prickle of self-awareness all actresses develop—and the insidious lick of nerves prompted by Gestapo surveillance. She had learned to trust what her instincts told her, and at that second they told her it was time to switch locations without delay. She had no desire to check the face of every street sweeper or sneak a glance into every idling car on the curb. Fortunately, she remembered Ursula’s offer of house-sitting. Out in Griebnitzsee there was very little chance of passing strangers. It was almost too isolated. But then, she might not be spending that much time at home.
She propped an invitation on the mantelpiece. It was printed on stiff, heavy ivory card with shiny engraved lettering and gold edges—the kind that Angela ordered from Smythson in Bond Street for her cocktail parties and at homes. Just the feel of it gave Clara a jolt of nostalgia for her sister’s smart society gatherings, the Mayfair ballrooms filled with actors and politicians, the theater people and poets. She pressed it to her nose and inhaled the faintest trace of cigarette smoke.
CAPTAIN MILES FITZALAN
REQUESTS THE PLEASURE OF THE COMPANY OF
MISS CLARA VINE
AT A BALL AT THE ST. ERMIN’S HOTEL
VICTORIA,
LONDON SW
CHAMPAGNE AND CARRIAGES AT 1:00 A.M.
The only difference about this invitation was that Clara did not know any Miles Fitzalan. Nor had she heard of the St. Ermin’s Hotel. And she guessed, whatever this meeting was about, it would certainly be no party.
CHAPTER
3
B eing seduced by Joseph Goebbels was every starlet’s worst nightmare, but for foreign journalists it was a rather pleasanter experience. The Press Club he had established at a cost of half a million marks on Leipziger Platz was a comfortable mansion of gleaming wood and chrome, superbly fitted out with ornate restaurant, reading room, library, and bar, where journalists were encouraged to congregate
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