The editor in chief at G. P. Putnam’s Sons dipped his head to peer over his glasses at the publishing house’s French translator sitting before his desk. He stifled a sigh of frustration. This dilemma was what came of hiring inordinately attractive young women. How to present this knotty situation to Victoria without appearing as…well, Beaumont Fournier’s pimp? There was no other word for it. However, if only an hour or so to sit with Victoria Grayson over a glass of champagne was sufficient to get the illustrious author’s name on a contract, then it was his duty as editor in chief to see to it.
“I’m afraid the author has insisted, Victoria. He wishes to spend a little time with the translator of his book before he will agree to the contract,” Willard Mason said.
“But I thought the deal was made, that he’d already agreed to let us publish.”
“He’s…changed his mind. Now Monsieur Fournier has decided that he wants to be sure you are the one for the job.”
“I would think my translations of former works would assure him of that.”
“You would think so, yes,” the editor agreed, feeling his forehead grow damp.
“So what’s the problem? What else can be gained by my meeting him for cocktails?”
Willard kept himself from shaking his head. Surely, the brightest of his foreign translators, a woman accustomed to being sought after by men, could figure out the author’s motivation without her boss having to explain it. Maybe the man’s reputation as a notorious womanizer had not preceded him. The French author of the internationally acclaimed best seller Cathédrale de Silence had caught sight of Victoria Grayson on his recent visit to G. P. Putnam’s Sons. Willard had been leading Beaumont Fournier and his American agent ahead to his office when he glanced back to find the author had stopped abruptly in the hall before the open door of the reference room, gaze arrested. Willard had muttered an inaudible Oh, dear. Victoria Grayson, absorbed over a linguistic matter, sat before a window at a table suffused in the sunshine of the last week of May. The light fell upon her with the deft strokes of a painter’s brush, accentuating the glow of her blond head, flawless skin, patrician features, and the luster of her ivory silk blouse.
It was no surprise when the Frenchman had asked as he was seated, “The lovely blond woman at the table by the window in the room we just passed…who is she?”
“One of our translators.”
“French, I hope?”
“Ah…yes, she is.”
“Then she will be assigned the translation of my novel?”
“Ah…yes. She is our best.”
“Her name?”
“Victoria Grayson.”
“Is she married?”
“No. Engaged.” Willard, father of twin daughters, young, single, and comely and for whom he had to keep a wary eye out for sexual predators like the man before his desk, then launched into attributes of Victoria’s betrothed against which not even the internationally famous, rich, and dashing Beaumont Fournier could compete.
“I’d like you to introduce us,” the writer interrupted.
Willard poised a finger to push an intercom button. “But of course. I’ll ask my secretary to summon her.”
“No, not here,” the Frenchman said with a smile that looked to Willard like a serpent’s smirk. “I’d like her to meet me for a drink this evening in the lobby bar of my hotel. I’m staying at the Plaza. I’ve found it wise before I sign contracts to…how do you Americans say it?…unwind with the person I’m dealing with to judge their capability. You understand what I mean?”
Of course I do, you profligate, Willard raged inwardly. He understood perfectly. Beaumont Fournier had made plain his condition to seal the deal. Whether that extended to Victoria spending the night with him in his hotel room rather than holding her captive over a glass of champagne in the lobby bar, Willard supposed he’d learn in the morning. All he could do was arrange for the latter, but he must make sure his translator understood that neither her job nor the contract was contingent on the former.
But that was proving hard to do since Victoria didn’t seem to get it.
“I can meet him only for drinks,” she said. “My brother’s in town on leave from the RAF for the evening before he goes to Virginia in the morning to see our parents for one day before he has to get back to the squadron. I’m sure you can understand how important it is that I spend the time with him.” The lift of her perfect brow line carried a world of meaning impossible for Willard to misread. Willard was well aware of the high casualty rate for England’s Royal Air Force pilots as they fought off Germany’s Luftwaffe to remove the last obstacle to Hitler’s intention to take over Europe. Victoria’s brother, like her fiancé, had been among those at Dunkirk of whom Churchill had made his famous statement: “Never in the field of human conflict was so much owed by so many to so few.”
The editor felt a profound sense of relief, not to mention a relaxation of the grip on his conscience. Now he was off the hook to engage in an awkward explanation to Victoria of what was not expected of her, while at the same time impress upon her the need to use every feminine artifice at her command to achieve the desired result without compromising her virtue. There was no danger of the author forcing a future engagement. His Vichy-government-issued travel permit was temporary and required him to return to France the following day.
“I will explain that to Monsieur Fournier,” Willard said. “How can he possibly not understand? Drinks only, no dinner, in case he should have that in mind once you become acquainted. He’d like you to meet him in the Champagne Bar of the Plaza at six.”
“Fine,” Victoria said. “I’ll have my brother meet us there.”
Willard watched her go, then picked up the phone to dial the author at the Plaza. The editor suspected he’d been wasting his paternal concern regarding Victoria Grayson. In contrast to his daughters, pretty but timorous, his lovely French translator could likely handle herself in most challenging situations. The woman was formidable. Every time Willard looked at her, he was reminded of the city fencing competition in which she’d represented the company. He’d been amazed—a bit terrified, really—of her mastery of the sword, her easy but ruthless whip, slice, and thrust of the blade. Victoria Grayson had shown her opponent no mercy. Perhaps Beaumont Fournier should consider himself lucky. Were the evening to extend, she just might serve him his free-wheeling male member upon a silver Plaza platter.
* * *
Victoria returned to her office shaking her head. Men. Their subterfuges were as subtle as a broadsword in the hand of a ham-fisted amateur and no match for a woman. She’d known exactly what Beaumont Fournier was after the second she’d glimpsed him staring gaga-eyed at her through the open door of the reference room. She’d checked her watch and allowed ten minutes before she was summoned to the chief’s office for introductions. Victoria had done her own homework on Beaumont Fournier before a glance from the corridor had inspired in him a sudden need to investigate Victoria Grayson. She’d learned that he was a scoundrel where women were concerned. Poor Willard Mason. The author had placed him in quite a predicament. Victoria guessed the editor now shared her question of how a writer led around by his gonads could produce a brilliant book of conception like Cathédrale de Silence.
But to Victoria’s surprise, she had not been bidden to the editor in chief’s office until after the author’s departure. At her desk she waited a call from Ralph. He was to telephone her at the publishing house the minute he landed at Fort Hamilton in Brooklyn. That would be midafternoon, and then she would tell him of her “flight plan,” as he would call it, for their short time together.
The unexpected turn of circumstances had not thrown her plans for the evening off course. Rather than meet her at the Warwick Hotel, where she’d made reservations for the night, Victoria would have Ralph stroll into the Champagne Bar of the Plaza lugging his flight bag to rescue her from the clutches of Beaumont Fournier. After a quick hello, introduction, and good-bye, they’d be off to the Warwick, which was within easy walking distance of the Plaza, saving them from wasting precious time hailing a taxi to thread through the city’s congested Friday traffic. Even her attire fell in line with the evening ahead. That morning she had dressed in something that could go from office to a reserved table for dinner at Sardi’s, Ralph’s favorite restaurant in the city, so she was suitable for cocktails in the Champagne Bar.
Victoria picked up a framed photograph on her desk of Ralph and his best friend posing in their smashing Royal Air Force uniforms. The best friend was Lawrence Grayson, her brother. Ralph DuPont was the man to whom she was engaged to be married. Victoria had lied that the RAF pilot in town for only a night was her brother, but it was true that he’d be leaving for Virginia in the morning. Ralph’s father was seriously ill in Williamsburg, the reason he’d been given temporary leave. If Beaumont Fournier had been informed that Ralph was her fiancé, the Frenchman might have—would have—waved that consideration aside as of no consequence. So what? But a brother on humanitarian leave from the RAF for such a precious little time…well, that was a different matter entirely. How could the author in good conscience and taste demand her company?
There had been no time for a wedding after Ralph had slipped a ring on her finger in February just before he rejoined his Eagle Squadron. Elopement was out of the question. Their families would have murdered them. “This may not be fair to you, Vicky, tying you down like this, and if you should have reason to change your mind before I get back…” he had said.
“Never,” she said. “Never, never, never.”
Of that, she would never be surer of anything in her life. She had been in love with Ralph DuPont almost since she could walk. She had simply found no reason not to be. Long before she was old enough to appreciate and respond to him as a man, he had won her heart merely by treating seriously his best friend’s little sister through all her stages of growing up. Those had been cherished times, the moments in her childhood and adolescence when he had veered off from Lawrence’s company to allow her to introduce him to her doll, her hamster, to show him her new pair of roller skates, the fort she had supervised building out of Christmas trees, the A she had made in English composition. He had listened to her and not brushed off her dreams and aspirations as those of a silly schoolgirl. If Lawrence had paid her any mind, he would have seen that there was nothing silly about his younger sister. It had been Ralph who had encouraged her to try her hand at foil when she was still in junior high school. Victoria had found that after stolen moments alone with him, she’d felt suddenly, devastatingly lonely once he had gone.
Her mother had considered it an infatuation only natural to the little sister of an older brother whose best friend was as handsome as Ralph DuPont, but her mother was wrong as time had proved. Three years older than Victoria, Ralph and Lawrence had grown up inseparable, joined at the hip from kindergarten through prep school, through college as fraternity brothers, and in September 1940 as volunteers to join an American fighter squadron of the Royal Air Force during the Battle of Britain. Both had strong family ties to England. Victoria and Lawrence’s maternal grandparents and Ralph’s divorced mother lived in London. It wasn’t until Victoria was halfway through her studies at William and Mary College that Ralph took her enduring feelings for him seriously, and then it was love at long-last sight.
The darkest hours of her life had occurred the day he told her of his and Lawrence’s plans to go help the RAF protect their homeland. They would be defying strict U.S. neutrality laws that threatened imprisonment and the loss of citizenship, but Ralph had said, “We’ve got to go, Vicky. We’re going to be in it anyway when the United States gets pulled into the war, but it won’t last forever, then I’ll be back for you.”
Then I’ll be back for you. That was the promise she held on to, her first thought upon waking in the morning, her last when falling asleep at night.
“Your mail, Miss Grayson?” G. P. Putnam’s basement clerk hesitated in the doorway before entering to lay a packet of office correspondence and French periodicals on her desk. “There’s something there on top that looks more important than the usual stuff.”
Victoria saw Washington, D.C., in the return address, and a surge of panic made her tear open the envelope. Oh God. Did the enclosed letter have to do with Ralph or Lawrence?
Dear Miss Grayson,
Your knowledge of and fluency in French, along with your fencing prowess, has come to the attention of this office. Would you be interested in discussing how you might put your language and skills to essential and crucial use in defending the United States against its enemies? Regrettably, for the sake of national security, I cannot tell you more about our need for your assistance at this time. If you are amenable to investigating the request of this office further, please call the listed telephone number at any time of the day or night.
Yours expectantly,
Colonel William J. Donovan
Director of the Office of Strategic Services
Victoria released her breath with a twitch of unease. What was she to make of this? The letter looked official enough, and she had certainly heard of Wild Bill Donovan, World War I war hero, but how had his office heard of her? The signatures of Colonel Donovan and his deputy, Alistair Renault, appeared to be authentic, but was this some sort of hoax?
She glanced uneasily at her watch. It was nearing five o’clock. She’d expected Ralph’s call long before now. What if he did not telephone before she had to leave for the Plaza? He had warned her that he couldn’t be sure when the plane would land. A delayed flight and weather conditions could affect his arrival, but she’d said it didn’t matter. She’d remain in her office until the switchboard shut down a half hour after closing time. After that, he would know to try her apartment.
Victoria decided to cover all bases and dialed the work numbers of her apartment roommates to inform them of the situation and her scheme of rescue. She wanted them to make sure that Ralph understood that he was to introduce himself as her brother, Lawrence, when he met Beaumont Fournier. Victoria gave similar instructions to the switchboard operator, who was also excited to go along with the ruse. Nervously watching the minutes tick by, Victoria finally had no choice but to give herself a final check in her compact mirror before heading out into the fading light of the May afternoon to hail a taxi.