A Kiss for the Enemy by David Fraser Page A

always be changed. And Franz covered the distance to the station remarkably quickly.
    â€˜Did you tell Werner we are to have visitors?’
    â€˜Of course. Friends of yours. He was surprised.’
    â€˜I hope he wasn’t upset.’
    â€˜No, I’m sure he wasn’t.’ But Lise was not really sure. Werner must have wanted his family, his home, peace, no strangers. He’d not been to Arzfeld for months and months.
    â€˜Just as well,’ said Frido, ‘I know he’ll like them very much.’ He loved his brother. Werner’s visits were occasions of joy. But now he felt a touch of cool at the heart, he could not say why.
    He smiled at Lise and thought how attractive she was. They were all dark complexioned, with smooth, olive skin. In Lise’s case this was unusually combined with fair hair, silkily framing a face of exceptional prettiness, with brown eyes and a small, tilted nose.
    â€˜Perhaps Anthony will fall in love with Lise,’ he thought. ‘That might be symmetrical. Symmetrical but difficult.’ Then he thought of Marcia again. Of recent days he had thought of little else.
    They walked together toward the house. By a side door a tall figure was standing. Grey breeches, black riding boots; left sleeve of a green collared jacket tucked into a pocket, pinned there, as all knew. Face lean and lined, high cheekbones, thin mouth, a permanent limp since 1917. Kaspar von Arzfeld stood very still.
    â€˜You have heard that Werner’s coming? We can hear about this Army of ours! And I want to speak to him of next season’s planting plans. I have spoken of them to you, Frido. Not to Werner. It should be done.’
    â€˜Exactly so, father.’
    â€˜He will be here for supper. Perhaps we shall eat late this evening. Is that not so, Lise?’
    â€˜Yes, exactly, father.’
    â€˜At what time will the English family arrive?’
    â€˜It is not certain. They are coming by car.’
    But at that moment Kaspar von Arzfeld cocked his head and said, ‘I think I hear something.’
    The clock in the stable block struck six. Two minutes later, Anthony’s Morris came into sight round a corner of the wood, followed by a cloud of dust.
    Anthony Marvell looked thoughtfully from his host to Werner von Arzfeld, the elder son. Anthony’s German had improved in the last few days. He and Marcia shared a facility for languages, and enjoyed them. Despite a childhood almost entirely free from foreign travel, both were competent in French and German, the work of governesses at an early age, farsightedly employed by Hilda against the protests of the young. Their fluency owed little to formal schooling. Now Anthony felt at ease, anticipating with pleasure practice and conversation in an entirely German household. He was already talking much faster – more like his pace in English.
    Kaspar von Arzfeld, however, insisted on speaking a slow, careful English. His vocabulary was sound, his grammar excellent, his grasp of pronunciation imperfect. He, too, had looked forward to a chance to practise again a tongue learned in youth at which he had once been unusually proficient.
    â€˜I was determined, Herr Marvell, that my sons should learn both French and English. Does Frido speak correctly?’
    They had supped in a low-ceilinged, white-painted room, with heavy oak furniture and antlers of many stags adorning the walls. Now they sat before a huge open fire in the central hall of Arzfeld, a room not dissimilar from and serving the same purpose as the inner hall at Bargate. Chairs were more upright, but had the same comfortable shabbiness. On a long refectory table was a flat, circular bottle containing a white wine from the banks of the Main. It was new to the Marvells, a post-prandial drink, delicious.
    â€˜Frido speaks English very well indeed. Perfectly!’
    â€˜Ach! Perfectly!’ Werner von Arzfeld said it softly, with a smile. His expression was both