“My apologies for the incredibly bad manners of my sergeant, Your Grace. It won’t happen again. May I drive you to your home?” I am in my home, she wanted to tell him, but she was grateful to him, too, for controlling the sergeant. He could easily have shot her in the stomach for the fun of it, and the thought of that made her dizzy.
“Thank you,” she said coolly. It was a long walk, and she was exhausted. The baby had been kicking all day, obviously sensing her anger and her terror. She had cried as she packed her things, and she felt completely drained as they got into the jeep, and he started the engine as a few of the men watched him. He wanted to set a tone for them that they would follow to the letter. And he had already explained that. They were not to touch the local girls, shoot anyone’s pets for fun, or venture into the town while drunk. They were to control themselves at all times, or face his fury, and possibly a trip back to Berlin to be shipped elsewhere. And the men had promised him they’d obey him.
“I am Commandant Joachim von Mannheim,” he said quietly. “And we are very grateful for the use of your home. I am very sorry for the imposition, and the unhappiness it must cause you.” They drove down the grande allée, and he glanced at her. “War is a very difficult thing.” His own family had lost a great deal in the first one. And then he surprised her by asking about the baby. “When is your child expected?” he asked quietly. He seemed oddly human, despite the uniform he wore, but she wouldn’t let herself forget who he was, or who he fought for. She reminded herself again that she was the Duchess of Whitfield and owed it to them to be polite, but nothing more.
“Not for another two months,” she answered brusquely, wondering why he had asked her. Maybe they were going to send her somewhere. That was a truly terrifying thought, and more than ever she wished she had gone to Whitfield. But who would ever have thought that France would fall, that they would give themselves to the Germans?
“We should have doctors here by then,” he reassured her. “We are going to use your home for wounded soldiers. A hospital of sorts. And your stables will do very well for my men. The food at the farm is plentiful. I’m afraid”—he smiled apologetically at her as they reached the cottage, where Emanuelle was waiting for her with Phillip in her arms—“for us, it’s an ideal situation.”
“How fortunate for you,” Sarah said tartly. It was hardly ideal for them. Losing their home to the Germans.
“It is, indeed.” He watched her get out of the car and take Phillip from Emanuelle. “Good evening, Your Grace”.
“Good evening, Commandant,” she said, but she did not thank him for the ride, and she didn’t say another word as she walked into the cottage that was her home now.
Chapter 13
And just as the commandant had said, the château itself became a hospital for wounded men, a kind of convalescent home, with wards in each room, and a few of the smaller rooms reserved for high-ranking officers who had been wounded. The commandant lived at the château, in one of the smaller rooms. Sarah had seen a few female nurses there, but most of the attendants seemed to be orderlies and male nurses, and she had heard that there were two doctors, but she had never seen them.
She had very little to do with any of them. She kept to herself, and stayed with Emanuelle and the baby at the cottage. She chafed to get back to her own work again, and worried at the damage they would do during their occupation. But there was nothing she could do now. She went for long walks with Emanuelle, and chatted with the farmer’s wife whenever she could get to the farm, to make sure that she was well. She seemed in good spirits, and said they had been decent to her. They took everything she grew, but they hadn’t touched her. So far, they seemed to be behaving. But it was Emanuelle who worried Sarah. She was a pretty girl, and she was young, she had just turned eighteen that spring, and it was dangerous for her to be living in such close proximity to three hundred German soldiers. More than once, Sarah had told her to go back to the hotel, but Emanuelle always insisted that she didn’t want to leave her. In some ways, they had become good friends, and yet there was always a chasm of respect between them. And Emanuelle had taken to heart her promise to William, not to leave the duchess or Lord Phillip.
Sarah was out walking one day, on her way back from the farm, a month after they had come, when she saw a cluster of soldiers shouting and hooting on an old dirt path near the stables. She wondered what was going on, but knew enough never to go near them. They were all potentially dangerous men, and in spite of her neutral American citizenship, she was the enemy to them, and they were the forces of the Occupation. She could see them laughing at something, and she was about to continue on her route home, when she saw a basket full of berries overturned by the roadside. The basket was one of hers, and the berries were the ones Emanuelle always picked for Phillip because he loved them. And then she knew. They were like cats with a small mouse, a tiny prey they were taunting and torturing in the bushes. And without thinking, she hurried to where they stood, her old faded yellow dress making her look even larger in the bright sunlight. She was wearing her hair in a long braid, and as she approached the group, she tossed it back over her shoulder, and then gasped as she saw her. Emanuelle was standing there, her blouse torn off, her breasts bare, her skirt torn and sliding down on her hips as they taunted and jeered and teased her. Two men held her arms, and another teased her nipples as he kissed her.
“Stop that!” she shouted at all of them, outraged by what he was doing. She was a child, a girl, and Sarah knew from their conversations in the past month that she was still a virgin. “Stop that immediately!” she shouted at them and they laughed at her, as she grabbed at one man’s gun and he pushed her roughly away, shouting at her in German.
Sarah walked immediately to where Emanuelle stood, her face streaked with tears, humiliated and ashamed and frightened. She picked up the shreds of Emanuelle’s blouse and tried to cover her with it, and as she did, one of the men reached out and pulled Sarah close to him, grinding himself into her buttocks. She tried to turn on him, but he held her there, fondling her breast with one hand, while holding her vast belly painfully tight with the other. She fought to free herself from him, as he ground suggestively against her, and she could feel him become aroused and wondered in horror if he would rape her. Her eyes found Emanuelle’s, and the look in Sarah’s eyes tried to reassure the younger girl, but it was obvious that the child was desperately frightened. Even more now for her employer, as one of the man held Sarah’s arms, and another put a hand between her legs as Emanuelle screamed at what she thought was about to happen, but as she did, within seconds, there was an explosion of gunshot. Emanuelle jumped, and Sarah used the moment to pull free of the men, tearing herself away from them, as one of them held to her old yellow dress and tore it. Her long shapely legs were visible, and her enormous pregnant stomach. But she went quickly to Emanuelle, and walked her away from them, and it was only then that she realized the commandant was standing there, his eyes blazing, his shouted orders an avalanche of fury in German. He still held the gun aloft in his hand and shot it off again so that they knew he meant it. He then lowered it at each of them, took aim, and said something more in German, before he lowered his hand, put the gun back in its holster and dismissed them. He ordered each of them to be put in the jail they had fashioned in the back of the stables for the next week. As soon as they left, he moved quickly toward Emanuelle and Sarah. His eyes were filled with pain, and he spoke in hurried German to an orderly standing near, who reappeared instantly with two blankets. Sarah covered Emanuelle first, and then wrapped the other blanket around her middle. She saw that it was one of hers, one of the few she had forgotten when they moved to the cottage.