Of War and Women

by D. Allen Henry

  Chapter 11

  The Victor’s Spoils

  Wharton Manor – Early June, 1946

  Felicité was shocked by the realization that six months had passed since her arrival at Wharton Manor. There had been good moments and bad, but slowly, ever so slowly, the good moments had begun to outnumber the bad.

  One day, as the two of them sat within the sitting room, Lord Sutherland volunteered out of the blue, “My dear, you must take what is yours in life.”

  “I’m not quite certain I understand to what you are referring, Lord Sutherland,” she replied in mystification.

  “I am referring to my son. He is yours, and always has been. He simply does not know it.”

  “What makes you think that?” Felicité responded.

  “My dear, Lady Sutherland, God rest her soul, would remind you of that weekend so long ago. He was smitten with you even then.”

  At this Felicité raised one eyebrow and said, “And I with him, as I’m sure you well know. But I’m afraid.”

  “Of course you are, my dear,” he replied. “But you must keep the ball in the air, as it were.”

  “Good God,” she responded, “You sound just like her, as if life were a tennis game! But it isn’t, and at any rate I’m afraid that I am not up to keeping the ball in the air.”

  At this Lord Sutherland gave her a knowing smile of accord and said, “But you must take action, my dear. Now that you are fully recovered, both in body and spirit, you must take what is yours.”

  “Alright, now that I understand to what you are referring, I still have no idea what to do about it. Can you please help me?”

  “I’m afraid not, my dear. You see, my expertise is limited to military tactics. I should think that you would do far better to seek Lady Sutherland’s advice.”

  Thinking him to be showing signs of senility, she responded idly, “Yes, perhaps you are right, Lord Sutherland.”

  Eyeing her knowingly, he responded, “My dear, I can see you must think me senile, but I assure you, I am not. Now, you must imagine Lady Sutherland in your mind’s eye. Imagine her right here in this very room. And if you do so, I am quite certain that she shall make her presence known to you.”

  Closing her eyes, Felicité played along, inquiring wistfully, “”And what, pray tell, would she say to me, sir?”

  “She would undoubtedly say ‘you shall think of something, of that I am quite certain’.”

  That Night

  Trant made his way to the library, the appointed time having finally arrived. Finding she had preceded him, he strolled forward and supplied her with a gentle embrace, appending it with, “Good evening, fair Felicité. I am here, in accordance with your bidding.”

  “You’re late!” she responded in feigned condemnation, “But I shall forgive you, as you are doubtless weary from your constant battles with yours truly.”

  “I never could beat you at anything,” he observed in acknowledgment, “Now, shall we get on with it?”

  “With what?” she inquired in surprise.

  “With whatever it is that is your desire,” he replied diffidently.

  “Right,” she replied thoughtfully, and now, appearing introspective, she stammered, “Well, er, here goes…I believe that in the interest of full disclosure, we should have a talk, in the process digging to the heart of the matter.”

  “Suits me,” he responded good-naturedly.

  “Really?” she replied in yet further surprise, “I hadn’t expected it to be so easy.”

  “Try me,” he said.

  “Alright,” she began, “For starters, what happened to Lady Sutherland?”

  “Why, she died, of course,” he responded impatiently.

  “Yes, of course,” she agreed and, sensing his hesitance to expand on such a painful topic, she nevertheless probed, “But what was the cause of her death?”

  “Her car was blown up,” he replied matter-of-factly.

  “That must have been devastating for both you and your father,” she blurted in horror, “Was it an accident?”

  Now beginning to suspect that the moment of full disclosure might be at hand, he answered bluntly, “No, Felicité, I’m afraid she was in fact murdered.”

  Clutching her throat in shock, she exclaimed, “Murdered? But who could have done such a thing? And how could you have possibly coped with such an event?”

  “Are you quite certain that you are prepared for the entire story, Felicité? Because if you are, I am of a mind that it is high time that we laid the entire matter to rest.”

  Her eyes locking with his, she replied, “Yes, Trant, I assure you, I am entirely ready.”

  “Right. Here it is then,” he responded and, having rehearsed it for many months in his own mind, he commenced with, “My father, having been devastated by the loss of the love of his life, was in a desperate way upon my mother’s passing. For my part, I too was sorely disturbed but, being even more concerned for my father’s welfare than my own, I sought a means of affording him a distraction, something sufficiently problematic to help him through his trying time. Try as I might, I could think of nothing nearly so engrossing as the pursuit of my mother’s murderer.

  “Unfortunately, my father not being the revengeful type, I was well aware that he would not be interested in pursuing my mother’s killer. I therefore laid it out to him as a military matter, specifically - the cause of your demise.

  “When I presented it to him in that way, he bit, jumping full force into the investigation. And I don’t mind telling you, I breathed a heavy sigh of relief at his rejuvenation, for I too was in a very bad way, having lost both my mother and the object of my affection.

  “The going was slow and sinuous, the primary war effort having moved on to more timely matters. But somehow, Lord Sutherland managed to devote a significant portion of his efforts to the investigation. He began to uncover evidence quite slowly at first, but it eventually grew into a veritable torrent of damning evidence.

  “First, he discovered that the authorities investigating the explosion of Caroline’s apartment in 1940 had determined that the gas main to her apartment had definitely been tampered with, ergo – Caroline had been murdered. That, of course, wasn’t sufficient to bring charges.

  “However, when he searched further, he was able to determine the source of an anonymous letter to me indicating that you had worked at The Windmill Theatre. Still, it was only circumstantial, but by now the trail was heating up.

  “For him, the coup de grace came when he was able to ascertain that Lady Sutherland’s death had been caused by a makeshift bomb rather than a V-2. And, as it turned out, the bomb had been fabricated using chemicals uniquely available in Oxfordshire. I don’t mind telling you, by this point he himself was ready to explode, but I managed to persuade him to keep focused on the most important issue – you.

  “And so he did. Eventually he was able to determine that someone at Bletchley Park had sent a clandestine and encoded message to German Headquarters in Paris sometime after you were parachuted into France. Undecipherable by the Bletchley Park codebreakers themselves at the time, it was later determined that the message contained evidence that your father had in fact married a Jewess, your mother. Of course, the sender couldn’t have known that you were using an assumed name in France, but this piece of evidence was nonetheless the smoking gun in my father’s investigation. There being no other explanation as to why your name might have been sent to the German Command at such a pivotal moment, the investigation was now complete.”

  “Wait a minute, I’m terribly confused,” Felicité interjected, “I must have missed something. Are you saying that my arrest by the Gestapo and your mother’s murder were related?”

  “Yes, of course,” he replied knowingly.

  “How so?”

  “My dear, it all goes back to that night so long ago, when you and I met right here at Wharton Manor. You see, a chain of events was set in motion that carried right down to
this very moment, a chain of intrigue that was focused on the two of us.”

  Clutching her throat in sudden perception, Felicité uttered the single word, “Annabeth.”

  “Yes, quite so” he nodded, “On interrogation, Miss Fletcher’s brother Morton, who had been assigned to Bletchley Park, admitted to having no knowledge as to why he had been asked to forward the encoded message to France, but that he had indeed been induced by none other than Annabeth to do so.

  “Armed with this information, my father was subsequently authorized by the Home Office to handle this untoward situation in the most expedient way. You see, it was all-important that, there still being a war to win, confidentiality be maintained at all costs. Accordingly, Lord Sutherland stopped by Miss Fletcher’s apartment one evening and, presenting her with irrefutable evidence, he offered her two choices: either death by firing squad for treason, thereby inducing disgrace for her family; or a graceful exit using the cyanide capsule that he had so conveniently thought to bring with him.

  “Upon completing his grim task, he summarily departed her apartment. For her part, Miss Fletcher assuming by his abrupt exit that there might yet be a possibility of flight, she hastily made her way to the street, whereupon she discovered to her dismay that the military authorities were awaiting her attempted escape. Seeing no way out, she wisely chose the latter alternative proposed by Lord Sutherland.”

  “Heavens,” Felicité responded in evident dismay, “What a horrid story!”

  “Yes, Felicité,” he responded, “As bizarre as it may seem, events the night of the birthday party set in motion a series of incidents that included deception, mayhem, lives driven askew, espionage, clandestine military operations, incarceration, murder, suicide, and ultimately, the near destruction of your own life.”

  “To be sure…” she pondered and, the silence now drawing out, she eventually found the presence of mind to inquire, “Do you think we can ever lay it all to rest?”

  “Perhaps, perhaps so,” he rejoined, “But let me ask you a question - why did you never disclose that you had not been the one within the portrait that night?”

  “How could I?” she implored, “Having drawn the curtain, I watched from the garden, you see. The reaction of the airmen was so touching, so utterly overwhelming. I simply couldn’t bring myself to suggest anything that might detract from the success of Lady Sutherland’s magnificent tribute to the airmen. Surely you must see. To have done so would have undermined the joy and attendant resolve of the 93rd. In the end, I felt I had no choice.”

  “I see,” Trant responded and, realization coming over him for the first time, he inquired, “So you weren’t attempting to conceal the fallacy?”

  “Yes, I mean - no,” she replied in bewilderment, “On the contrary, I wish to this day I had been the one up there onstage. It would have been far better than concealing such a horrendous falsehood for all these years. And look what that lie produced! So many have died, and all because I remained silent.”

  “I can’t let you continue with such a mistaken conception, Felicité,” he replied pointedly.

  “What do you mean?”

  “This was not a misconception of your making. We have all been duped by a heinous liar and murderer. You, dear Felicité, perhaps the most maligned of all, somehow emerged as one of the greatest heroes of the D-Day invasion. What you suffered was not for naught, perish the thought.”

  “Well, thank you for that,” she responded, “Perhaps now we can begin put it all behind us.”

  “Perhaps, but there is still a score to be settled,” he responded acutely.

  “Oh? And what, pray tell, is that?” she questioned in wide-eyed puzzlement.

  Sensing victory within his reach, he rejoined smugly, “We have yet to complete our agreement.”

  “Which agreement is that?”

  “Surely you recall, not six months past, we agreed that we two together should dig beneath the surface.”

  “Ah, yes, I do recall, now that you mention it,” she murmured but, her eyes suddenly lighting up, she suggested naively, “But perhaps you shall agree – did we not just do that?”

  “Well, er, perhaps you are right. Yes, it was rather a good digging,” and, a look of awareness now crossing his own features, he added in realization, “I say, I believe we’ve actually dug quite to the bottom of it all, Felicité. Would you not agree?”

  “Why, I believe you may be correct,” she observed in apparent surprise, “But if that is the case, then our agreement should be concluded.”

  “I grant you that we’ve concluded the digging part,” he pointed out, “But there is yet one item to be afforded within our agreement.”

  Still apparently confused, she responded, “Oh? And what might that be?”

  “If you recall, we agreed that you must be restored to your former self,” he replied and, his egotism at having won quite apparent, he added, “And – checkmate!”

  “Oh?” she retorted doubtfully, “Tell me, Trant, exactly whom do you see before you?”

  Peering at her in confusion, he responded bluntly, “Why, you of course, dear Felicité.”

  “Just so, just so!” she observed self-confidently.

  His sense of balance slipping noticeably, he stammered, “But…wait…did you just…?”

  “Yes, of course I did,” she rejoined.

  “Oh, bollocks, Felicité,” he complained, “Why can you not let me win, just this once?”

  “The stakes are far too high,” she responded elusively.

  “Stakes? What stakes?”

  “You know, Mr. Chicken,” she responded, now crossing her arms expectantly.

  “Oh, bother,” he blurted in frustration and, seeking to regain the upper hand, he added insolently, “Alright, Miss Delacroix, I concede defeat. Having satisfied both requirements within our prior agreement, there is still the requisite tennis match to be decided.”

  Arching one eyebrow in disavowal, she exclaimed, “Tennis match?”

  “Yes, of course. I am at your service whenever you are so inclined,” he emitted disconsolately.

  “Think back, Mr. Chicken. Think back to that morning so long ago. Did I ever mention the word tennis?”

  Staring at her in disbelief, the memory rushing back to him, he stammered, “I don’t understand. If not tennis, then exactly what sort of match?”

  Her eyes narrowing in confrontation, she declared forcefully, “A sparring match!”

  “What? I don’t understand,” he murmured in confusion, “You expect the two of us to engage in a sparring match of some sort?”

  “Too late, dear Trant, we’ve just concluded it,” she divulged and, breaking into a superior grin, she crowed in nauseating exultation, “And to the victor go the spoils!”

  His world suddenly spinning out of control, he stared at her in abject defeat, groaning ineffectually, “I say, you cheated!”

  “Touché!”

  Still smarting from such a shocking defeat, he rejoined in disconsolate admiration, “This isn’t fair, but somehow you seem to have won the match!”

  “Nay, Mr. Chicken,” she countered and, slowly enveloping him in her inexorable embrace, she stated with absolute finality, “I’ve not won the match. I’ve won you!”

  For his part, he could only whisper, “And so you have, lovely Felicité, and so you have.”

  Epilogue

  She has passed on now, but the memory of her is yet strong and deep within my soul. Thirty years ago, my mother, Lady Margaret Sutherland, wife of the Earl of Winston, said to me one day to “Always dig patiently beneath the surface layer and focus on the heart of the matter. With forbearance, eventually the proper solution will present itself.” And although I was far too young at the time to understand the meaning of her counsel to me, I wrote down her words in the hope that when the time came whence I should be in desperate need of her counsel, I would have by then reached sufficient maturity to understand her long ago counsel.

&
nbsp; And so it was that when my mother passed on, she left me a letter, and within that letter she counseled me to follow that which she had taught me as a child. Accordingly, I rummaged around and located her by now tattered words whence, following her counsel, I determined to sweep away the accumulated layers of dirt. Digging ever so patiently, I eventually uncovered the heart of the matter. The heart of the matter to which I am referring is the woman who became my partner in life and, more importantly, my greatest heroine - my very own Felicité. And that, dear reader, is my story.