Francis saw some clarity for her. ‘The trial will come to an end,’ he said. ‘And after that, who knows?’
She clung on to his arm and looked up at him. His eyes met hers. He said nothing. He just smiled.
They made their way to the Serpentine later that afternoon and fed the ducks which were beginning to regain their trust in humans as fodder providers. Spare crumbs would have been scarce during the war.
‘Do you see that white swan, Hilda?’
She shaded her eyes and focused on the bird. ‘Yes, beautiful isn’t it?’ she replied.
‘It reminds me of you.’
She nudged Francis playfully in the ribs. ‘What do you mean?’
‘It has survived the war, like you. It hides its feet, which simulate the movement of a paddle steamer below the water surface, but it maintains an elegance and control above water, also like you. And it’s beautiful, just as you are.’
‘I am not a river swimmer; I don’t have a long neck… I…’
‘Not many agents get through the war unscathed, especially double agents. It makes you a very special creature. Just like a swan.’
‘Oh Francis, I cannot decide whether you are profound, or just teasing me.’
He made no reply but gave her a hug instead. She gave up the fight and accepted the compliment.
That night as they ate at Les Trois Couronnes, an elegant French restaurant, the wine gave her a warm glow, and she felt perfectly relaxed. She somehow knew she had crossed the Rubicon in their relationship, and hoped that was what Francis was feeling too.
They gathered their coats and set off in the cool evening to the box in the theatre that Francis had booked. She had not seen a Shakespearian play since her school days, but here in London the magic of the stage unfolded almost every night.
It was King Lear, one of Shakespeare’s longer plays. Hilda knew nothing about it, from her distant education. However, she tried hard to keep her eyes open, while the wine and the heat of the theatre conspired against her best efforts to stay awake. Francis must have been aware and wrapped a supportive arm around her shoulders. He understood the tangle of thoughts in her mind because he was similarly affected. For Hilda it was not only the court case; it was also the knowledge that this growing relationship they had both come to value so highly was about to be severed.
During the third act, Hilda regained consciousness and her dignity. She looked at the programme notes and caught up; fortunately, she was becoming familiar with the plot. By the time the curtain dropped for the last applause, she could honestly say she had enjoyed the evening, but above all it had been the pleasure of having Francis by her side. She laid her eyes on the side of his handsome face and smiled.
Francis walked her home in a dreamy mood.
‘A penny for your thoughts,’ she asked him.
‘I think we should visit St Paul’s Cathedral for our last day. What do you think?’
‘Inspirational thinking,’ she said.
‘Matins or Eucharist?’
‘Steady, Francis, I’m a Scottish Presbyterian with leanings towards Luther. I’m not used to high Anglicanism. Not sure when to stand, kneel or pray.’
He laughed. ‘I’ll be with you to show you the ropes. Moreover, the Church of England will not turn anyone away, especially now, with so many troops in town with spiritual needs.’
They lingered under the gas lamppost outside her accommodation for a few minutes. Francis seemed deep in thought once more. With the insight of the Scottish Highlander, she knew he was about to ask a question.
‘After Nurernberg, will you come to Helsinki to visit?’
‘I’d love to. In fact, the clear air of Helsinki might help me to sort myself out after the trial. Then, who knows? Perhaps everything will be resolved, and I will decide which path in life to take.’
‘I hope so too,’ he said.
On their last morning together, they entered St Paul’s Cathedral, which stood tall and undamaged by Axis bombs, a symbol of defiance, a centre of hope and a place of worship and prayer. The incumbent offered prayers and the bishop brought them to their feet with hymns which were both stirring and reflective. They were all familiar, and Hilda enjoyed singing and hearing the tenor-baritone line of Francis’ fine voice once more. When the Eucharist was called, the bread broken and the wine transfigured, she followed Francis to the oak-barred rail. She knelt with her hands in a cupped fashion as she saw others do in preparation for the curate to come along the line and distributed wafers. Hers stuck to the roof of her mouth, but she managed to dislodge it with her explorative tongue before the wine in its communal silver chalice was presented. A slight nudge from Francis and she was up and walking in line, back to their pew.
‘Now that wasn’t so difficult, was it?’ he whispered.
After the benediction they stood to let the celebrants retire, and then to the heart-lifting melody of Henry Purcell’s Trumpet Voluntary, they made their way out through the central aisle. They stopped at the door to shake hands with the bishop and gazed over a quiet Sunday morning London from the steps of the church. The city was at rest, and the strains of the organ and Purcell’s music remained in their ears and in Hilda’s toes. She had a sense of elation and looked forward to a memorable last day before Francis left.
Halfway down the steps, Francis took a couple of paces ahead. She thought he had tripped at first, but he turned and stood before her, blocking her way. He fumbled in his suit pocket and bent down on one knee.
He took her hand. She gasped in quiet astonishment. They had hardly left the church. She could barely believe what was happening, and would certainly never have imagined it in such a public place.
‘Hilda, will you do me the honour of becoming my wife? Will you marry me?’
Such a flux of emotion washed over her: a thrill of excitement, of acceptance, of wonder and of delight. She had received a proposal on the steps of St Paul’s, and those departing from the service stopped in their tracks in silence, awaiting her response. The departing church attendees and anyone in close proximity heard her reply to Francis, for it was not a whisper.
‘Francis, of course I will. I will marry you, my darling.’
Francis rose, and from his pocket, he produced an engagement ring. It shone in the sunlight. He placed it on her finger and it slipped easily into position; he had chosen exactly the right size. She drew him close and, there and then, they sealed their betrothal with a close embrace and kiss, oblivious to all the applause and cheering of those behind and beside them.
She was engaged to be married, and so very happy to be so. She wore her ring proudly. Her first disappointment was that she had no family with which to share this special moment of joy. Her second was her wish to stay in London until the trial in Nuremberg was over. Francis noticed her sudden sadness and understood it.
‘I can wait. I know how concerned you are about this trial. But let me say, when it’s over, it is a new life you will have, Hilda. One I want to share with you forever. I am your family now. You will never be alone again.’
Hilda smiled. Although Sir Frances was heading for Helsinki the next day, she knew he would wait for her.
Chapter 28
The Nuremberg Trial
The morning dawned, and their last moments together for some time approached. A few European flights taxied to depart from the new Heathrow airport. Then they saw a Scandinavian airliner parked at gate 8.
They had time to say a lingering goodbye. Hilda had not taken her engagement ring off since the moment Francis had placed it on her finger for all to see; its purpose was to ward off any suitors, she told herself – a silly thought really, as Francis was the only one to approach her since she had been widowed.