Winston and I link arms and gaze out at the shimmering seascape. We point out the gondola route we had taken two evenings before and discuss a picnic luncheon we’d taken in the Italian countryside. We compare the quality of the sunlight here with that of Lake Maggiore, where we honeymooned. I think about how these rare moments, when it is just us two, sustain me. Contented, I squeeze his arm with my free hand. On this trip, I’d left him many notes of invitation for nighttime visits, and on most occasions, we awoke the next day in each other’s arms, a rarity in our usual daily lives.
My attention is diverted by the crewmen who continue to ferry items on board. They no longer carry trunks but familiar-looking crates. “What is in those boxes, Pug?” I ask, trying to keep my voice even.
He hesitates. “Drinks for the voyage.”
“Pol Roger?” I ask, although I already know the answer.
“Yes,” he answers sheepishly. “But not to worry, Cat. It doesn’t come out of our personal budget.”
How could he think our financial situation was the only thing at stake with the purchase of such lavish champagne?
“Pug, you know that our use and the cost of the Enchantress have been questioned by members of Parliament. Do you really think it’s wise to indulge in luxuries?”
“Every pound we spend on the Enchantress is worth the expense.” Winston sounds defensive. “Since I became lord admiral, this ship has covered nearly nineteen thousand miles and has taken me to nearly every port in the British Isles that has any connection with naval interests. From trips taken on the ship, we’ve inspected between sixty and seventy battleships and cruisers, as well as destroyers and submarine flotillas, and I have been present at nearly forty exercises of the fleet. And now, the Enchantress sails to Malta so that I can undertake critical military inspections with Field Marshal Kitchener to ensure defense of the Mediterranean. How else can I ensure that we are building the world’s strongest navy?”
I almost laugh at his elaborate justification, but then I observe the expression on his face. He has complete conviction in his statements. Winston sounds like a Tory, I think. Not at all like the Liberal he claims to be. What is happening to the man I married? I wonder.
I pull away from Winston and gaze directly into his eyes. “I am not a committee of Parliament investigating the use of the Enchantress. I am your wife, and my only interest is in protecting us.”
His furrowed brow softens, along with his voice. “Oh, Clemmie, of course you are. Your concerns are always noble.”
“That may be an overestimation, Pug.” I think about the children back in London, with their nannies and tutors and governesses but without their parents. Would a noble mother indulge in these lavish trips, abandoning her offspring to the care of others? Focusing on her husband and his career instead?
He reaches for my hand. “No, Cat. You are the noblest of women.”
The deck clatters with the sound of ladies’ shoes, and Winston says, “Ah, our guests have arrived. Are you ready?”
I pack away my worries and summon a smile. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”
A mischievous grin appears on his face. “As for the Pol Roger? Well, we can hardly serve the prime minister cheap champagne.”
* * *
“Do we have time to see the Parthenon by moonlight?” Jennie asks, her voice thick with the wine she drank over dinner at the British legation in Athens. Since the Enchantress’s voyage has a military purpose, British officials have flung open their doors in welcome, and they would continue to do so along our route—Athens, Sicily, Corsica, and finally, Malta.
“We set sail in the morning, Mother,” Winston answers, a note of hesitation in his voice. From our other voyages, I know he will have to meet with the captain on our return to the ship.
“Please, Winston,” Jennie pleads, threading her arm through Winston’s. “The moon is so bright.”
We already toured the ancient temple dedicated to the goddess Athena, but our hosts at the British legation declared that “it must be seen by moonlight.” And Jennie always must do what must be done.
“Oh, all right.” His voice has a note of irritation, but I know he adores any opportunity to gratify his mother, particularly now. The press has taken hold of the story of Jennie’s abandonment by her much younger husband—smearing her reputation as an irresistible woman—and she has been quite vocal about her suffering. Even I have been moved to empathy for my usually vain and meddlesome mother-in-law.
The Acropolis looms before us like an elusive woman. The walk there will not take long, but I wonder about the stamina of both Jennie and Margot, particularly given all the climbing and walking we’ve already undertaken today. I also worried about the steadiness of their step in the darkness. “Shall we have the carriages take us, Winston?” I ask.
“No need. We can manage it, can’t we folks?” He calls to the rest of the group in a question that sounds much more like a command.
Asquith, arm in arm with an unusually quiet Violet, calls back, “We can indeed.” No one takes any heed of Margot’s grumble about the crumbling Acropolis stairs and steep hill that we must climb to reach the Parthenon.
As we walk up the Panathenaic Way at the western end of the Acropolis toward the Parthenon, I listen to Winston answer Asquith’s questions about the Enchantress. My husband seizes any opportunity to extoll the virtues of his beloved ship, from the craftsmanship of its twin propellers to the heft of its four thousand tons to its ability to cruise at eighteen knots. He used to mention that it was built by the famous Harland & Wolff, but since the shipbuilder was also responsible for the creation of the Titanic, he has stopped referencing its origin.
Their conversation halts abruptly when Winston catches sight of the piles of collapsed Doric columns. “By God, look at these treasures. Terrible, really, that the Greeks have let them fall to ruins.”
Asquith tsks. “Shameful.”
I refrain from reciting to the gentlemen a fact they should already know—that it is unlikely this current Greek administration is responsible for the state of the Acropolis and Parthenon. The destruction we observe was wreaked centuries before. Perhaps the government has left the evidence of past plunder and warfare intentionally intact as a warning about the vagaries of history. After all, some of the Parthenon’s greatest portable treasures—its marble statues and friezes—were removed by the Earl of Elgin a hundred years ago and are housed in the British Museum.
“I say, why don’t we send in a group of naval blue jackets to set the columns upright?” Winston proposes.
“Ah, Winston, who knows how the Greeks will take to that? Let’s not start an international incident simply because you can’t bear the sight of crumbling artifacts,” Asquith answers, then begins the long ascent to the top of the Acropolis with Violet on his right arm and Jennie on his left.
Margot is left to climb the steep, uneven marble steps alone. Even though she’s known for her sharp tongue and would likely scoff at our efforts to help her if we offered, Winston and I walk slowly alongside her to ensure her safety. As I do, I feel grateful that women’s dress styles have recently changed from the voluminous S-shaped silhouettes to narrower, more manageable skirts. Otherwise, I would be struggling as well.
“These damnable steps,” she mutters, dropping down onto a stair and pulling a fan from the tiny beaded purse at her wrist. The accessory is the only dainty element of her person. “How is any civilized person meant to climb them in this heat?”
Winston sits down next to her, removing his hat and fanning them both with it. When Margot irritably brushes it away, he sets it down on the step next to them. Picking it up, I place the hat on my own head at a rather jaunty angle and, in an attempt to lighten the mood, give them a broad grin.
Margot bestows a weak smile on me, but Winston gives me a glare of disapproval and reaches for his hat with a rough gesture. I recoil at his harshness
, wounded at first and then furious. How dare he. I have served as a good wife and political asset to him for years. How can I not be allowed a bit of silliness? A moment of levity? Must every act I undertake and every statement I make be dictated by the rubric of his political success and the demands of his personal comfort?
Without a word to either of them, I stride away, up the remaining steps to the Parthenon. I need space to separate my own thoughts and feelings from his. As I pace along the plateau at the Acropolis’s peak, oblivious to both the view of Athens and the much-lauded symmetry of the Parthenon, I ponder my role and place in the world. How long has it been since I made a decision or even uttered a word without first considering Winston’s reaction? His needs are like a constant noise in the background of my days.
As I step into the cella, the interior structure of the Parthenon, I hear footsteps behind me. It is Winston, lit from behind by moonlight that now appears anything but romantic.
“Are you all right? You wandered off from us without a word.” He sounds simultaneously concerned and somehow innocent. How can this be? I wonder whether his tone is feigned or whether he’s become so used to having my world revolve around his that he is truly ignorant.
“You don’t know why I left?” I ask, gauging his reaction. It is a skill I’ve honed, for better or worse.
“No, I don’t.” He seems genuinely perplexed.
“You don’t recall the expression on your face when I put on your hat? The derision you showed to me, your wife, for being a little silly? Then your rough grab for the hat? It was not only disrespectful—of me and my efforts—but incredibly embarrassing in front of Margot.”
He appears genuinely despairing. “Clemmie, I’m so sorry. I don’t even remember making a face of any kind, but I would never want to disrespect you, so please accept my apologies.”
He reaches for me, and I allow myself to be wrapped in his arms. Usually, Winston’s embrace comforts me and puts to rest all my misgivings. But tonight, I remain unsettled. And yet I do not think that this problem is one that I can readily resolve.
I remain quiet on our return to the Enchantress. My silence goes unnoticed, masked by exuberant chatter over the inspiring sight of the Parthenon by moonlight. When we arrive at our dock, one by one, we cross the deck of the ship and settle into the sumptuous parlor, a wonder of gleaming brass and polished wood.
I watch as Violet sidles over to the sideboard and fills her crystal glass to the brim with ruby-red wine. Her action is curious. It is unlike her to help herself; she thrives on being served.
The sleeves of her diaphanous green gown sweep back and forth as she downs the entire glass of wine and reaches for a deck of cards. The dress defies stylistic description, and yet it suits her. After all, she herself falls into no set category.
“Shall we play bridge?” she addresses the room, holding up the cards.
Everyone but me, Winston, and Jennie decline her invitation and instead excuse themselves for the evening. I would like to join them. Exhaustion has crept up on me; the health troubles that plagued me after my miscarriage have left me without reserves of energy. But there is a gleam in Violet’s eye that I dislike, and I do not want to leave Winston alone with her.
The four of us walk toward the game table, and I make certain that Winston and I sit opposite each other so we can partner. As he begins to deal the cards, Violet asks, “Shall we partner, Winston?”
He doesn’t hear the innuendo in her words. But I do.
“I believe it is customary to partner with the person sitting opposite you, Violet,” I say before he can answer, and I gesture to Jennie. Violet is an avid bridge player and knows the rules better than anyone on board. What game is she really playing?
“Pity,” she says, her voice dripping with disappointment.
The bridge game begins. We bid or pass depending on the suit, but Violet does not become irritated with Winston’s unconventional style of play, as she usually does. Instead, she seems to find every move Winston makes highly amusing and intensely wise. And she is drinking heavily.
Without lifting her eyes from her cards, Violet lifts up her empty wineglass for the crew member to refill. This is her third glass of wine since we started playing bridge, the fourth she’s had if I count the drink she knocked back when we first arrived back on the Enchantress.
All of a sudden, Winston jumps. I glance at him and Violet, and I am just in time to see Violet’s bare foot snake back to her empty shoe from underneath Winston’s chair. All at once, I understand precisely the sort of game Violet is playing. I also understand why she thinks she has a chance at winning.
I stand. “Winston, I think your mother looks overtired. Would you please escort her to bed?”
Jennie sputters out her objection. “Clementine, I’m not—”
Ignoring her protests, I interject. “We can’t have any of our guests fall ill before we reach Corsica and Malta, can we?” I give Winston a pointed look.
He starts to stammer, but I cannot brook any resistance. “Please, Winston,” I say in my firmest tone, the one I usually reserve for Randolph’s tantrums. The timbre that smacks of my grandmother.
He acquiesces. “Come, Mother.” He stands and reaches for his mother’s hand.
I wait until I can no longer hear their footsteps. Then I pull Violet to her feet and speak directly in her face. “I will not stand for this, Violet.”
“It’s not for you to decide, Clementine.” She speaks my name slowly and deliberately, but she is slurring her words. “It is Winston’s decision.”
“That is where you are wrong, Violet. I am guessing that your mother reported that a rift occurred between Winston and me tonight?”
I do not wait for Violet to answer. I can see from her eyes that I am correct.
“I suppose you imagined that you finally had an opportunity to insert yourself into my relationship with Winston.” I take another step closer to Violet. I can feel the heat of her breath on my cheek and smell its sourness. “Please understand that I will let nothing and no one jeopardize my marriage.”
“At the risk of repeating myself”—she takes a long drink of her wine and gives me a smug smirk—“it isn’t your decision.”
“It is a decision that has already been made. All those years ago, when Winston had the chance to choose you, he picked me. Or have you forgotten, Violet?”
The smug smile disappears from her face, and her features fall.
Tears stream down her face, and she begins sobbing. I sense that it isn’t my words alone that have wounded her. Pivoting back to the entrance to the parlor, I see Winston standing in the doorway.
He walks toward me and reaches for my hand. Facing Violet, he says, “Please understand, I would pick Clemmie again and again and again.”
Chapter Thirteen
July 26 and August 15, 1914
Overstrand, England
Any residual concerns over my dynamic with Winston fade as the threat of war mounts throughout Europe. Worries over the long-reaching impact of Winston’s demands on my life seem petty—particularly since Winston’s needs are critical to the survival of our country. As German hostility takes firm hold, Winston, wearing his hat of first lord of the admiralty, finalizes the naval preparations that will allow Britain to prevail in the war to come. And so, I surrender my apprehensions, allowing Winston and me to form an unassailable unit, one that has weathered the insidious tempest of Violet and emerged stronger than before.
War is inevitable. The June 28 gunshot that killed Archduke Franz Ferdinand, heir to the Austro-Hungarian throne, has begun a chain of cataclysmic events that, Winston has forewarned me, will undoubtedly lead to war, on the continent at least. Understanding that normal life may disappear as quickly as the single shot of that rifle, the sort of normal life I never had in my fatherless youth, I want to make a wellspring of memories from which our children c
an draw in the days ahead. Days when their father may be absent for long months, working in perilous circumstances. Days when he might not return at all.
We rent a beachside cottage at the Norfolk seaside, in a resort town called Overstrand. With Nanny and a maid in tow, the children and I settle into the six-bedroom Pear Tree Cottage, so named for the pear tree that is espaliered along one wall, which hugs a low, craggy cliff and stares out at the sea like a fisherman’s wife. I’d arranged for Goonie and her two children to rent another property on the estate, a sweet house called Beehive Cottage that sits on the opposite end of the lawn. I know they will serve as another draw for Winston to join us whenever the political situation allows, particularly when Jack takes his military leave as well.
I am limited in my activities, because I am pregnant again. The restrictions, in truth, are self-imposed. I could not bear to suffer through another miscarriage and the aftermath, so instead of my usual pace, I spend long, lazy days at the beach with my children, and I surprise myself with how much I enjoy this time. During the weekdays, I dig in the sand, point out fishing boats and gulls to the children, and insist that we dip our toes in the bracing North Sea waters. For the first time, I relish the slow minutes with my small charges and delight in their affection. But by the weekends, this celebration of the maternal wanes, and I begin to long for news and the touch of my husband.
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