by Peter Albano
Schools were exclusive, attended only by the children of the very rich: Mrs. Bradshaw’s Academy on Twenty-third Street just off Madison Square when she was very young; the Windsor Finishing School in Connecticut came later in her teens, then Bryn Mawr. And there were men. Always men.
She met Anthony Richardson at a party in 1909; the same year Hugh graduated from West Point. She had numerous passionate flings with the muscular young Harvard football star in the dunes at Newport when they were both vacationing in the summer. But most memorable was Troy Archer. A wealthy textile importer and one of John’s closest business associates, he was the best. Middle-aged and married, he had been a tireless lover and ingenious in devising ways to delight a young girl. But his wife found out—threatened exposure and disgrace for all. All parties involved retreated discreetly without a murmur of scandal.
She met Geoffry Higgins in 1910 just after her graduation summa cum laude. It was a terrible year—the year southern mills and their cheap labor sent her father’s business spiraling toward the abyss of bankruptcy. John met Geoffry in England while discussing a possible merger with Geoffry’s firm, Carlisle Mills, Limited, one of Europe’s great textile firms, which had just landed a lucrative contract for uniforms. Panicking, John persuaded Geoffry to inspect the Ashcroft Mill and then invited the Englishman to dinner at the Fifth Avenue home.
From the first, Brenda found Geoffry unexciting. Tall, slender with a weak chin, watery gray eyes, and thinning brown hair, he was at least fourteen years her senior. In addition, he seemed to have no imagination, a dull wit, and lacked the style to match his fine clothes. Most irritating, he had the habit of chewing on the frame of his pince-nez when speaking. Notwithstanding, he was a bachelor and one of the world’s great powers in textiles and Brenda knew her father sensed a merger consummated in the conjugal bed.
“Handsome young man, fine family,” John would hint, fishing for his daughter’s reaction.
Brenda would only nod and choke back her gorge.
“The Englishman would be a fine catch, my dear,” Ellen commented one day as the women sat embroidering in the parlor. “You’re almost twenty-two and unspoken for.”
“I know! I know, Mother,” Brenda said, tying a loose end. And then forcefully, “I hardly know him and he’s not even interested, anyway.” She broke a thread.
“Yes he is! Yes he is!” came the quick retort.
“He’s never shown it.”
“He’s British. They never show anything.”
“His upper lip is too stiff, Mother.” Both women laughed.
Early in 1911, Carlisle Mills opened a New York office and Brenda saw Geoffry Higgins at least once a week. But Geoffry was discussing merger with the largest southern mill as well as with Ashcroft Mills. Brenda began to feel despair as she watched her father’s business erode and the real possibility of bankruptcy loomed.
Then Brenda and Geoffry began to date, always dining in New York’s finest restaurants and always chauffeured in Geoffry’s new Rolls Royce Silver Ghost motor car by his personal chauffeur, Caldwell. And his proposal had been stiff and unemotional like a man negotiating a business venture. “We could have a strong, productive union,” he said, adding a new scar to his frames. “Our interests are similar and you’re from the upper classes, too,” he added generously.
“I’m flattered, Geoffry,” Brenda answered. “Give me time—I need to think.”
John and Ellen were thrilled, urging Brenda into the marriage. She never told them the man had the appeal of a marble pillar. And, true, she was twenty-two and, despite her beauty, had no serious suitor. Finally, after watching her father’s business collapse and sickened by the desperate look haunting his eyes, she consented. The Ashcrofts were ecstatic and Geoffry was so delighted he dropped his pince-nez.
Within a month, Brenda and her parents crossed the Atlantic and took up residence at Fenwyck. Two nights after her arrival and a fortnight before the wedding, they entered the great hall for a formal family dinner. After introductions to twenty-two guests, Brenda, uncomfortable in a tight-fitting satin gown her couturier called en grand toilette, found more discomfort with her father and Geoffry on the hard cushions and straight back of a Victorian papier-mâché settee. Forced to sit erect by the bulging balloon back, she felt her silk crepe de chine chemise tighten and bunch beneath her in maddening creases and folds. Squirming, she moved her eyes around the great hall.
The vast chamber seemed as big as the new Metropolitan Opera House. Two stories high, the ceiling was carded on a great arch hand hewn in Romanesque style from a single giant oak, spanning the chamber from wall to wall and anchored at each end on middle buttresses twenty feet thick. A cavernous fireplace big enough to drive Geoffry’s Rolls through opened on one wall and tiny high windows placed in regular intervals broke the stone high overhead. Fireplace and windows were all surmounted by characteristic moldings of the Romanesque period.
Staring at the fireplace where a half dozen flaming logs roared, hissed, popped, and sparked, Brenda noted, “Big enough to roast an ox.”
“That’s precisely why it’s that big,” Geoffry answered, nursing a glass of Graves. “In the early days the family and its retainers not only ate here, they cooked and slept here as well.”
“Slept here? Did everything here? In one room?”
“Everything.” He grinned.
“Lord.”
The furniture was eclectic, antique, and expensive. It was also overwhelming. A dozen Queen Anne, Georgian, and Regency breakfronts and sideboards of oak, mahogany, and walnut, ornately carved and inlaid with marquetry, lined the walls, and the table, which was at least forty feet long, boasted Louis XIV lineage with the usual heavy, squarish lines, elaborate carvings, and garish gilt that Brenda considered gauche. Especially distasteful were the chairs, designed for aesthetics, not the human body. All had been polished by a thousand hands, day after day, year after year. Banners, flags, bows, arrows, muskets, spears, and even shields hung from the walls, giving a strong militaristic flavor to the medieval ambience. More militarism was found in the guests; six of the twelve men present were in uniform.
“War. War,” Brenda whispered to her father. “This place is a fortress—a war museum full of battle trophies. And they’re getting ready for the next one. They must love it.”
“Nonsense,” John responded. “Technology has made war impossible. Alfred Nobel’s new explosives, rapid-fire artillery, and Maxim guns have made armed conflict obsolete. There’s been peace for a hundred years and you can expect it to last indefinitely,” he assured her.
“Nobel,” she answered. “He’ll be the greatest mass murderer in history.”
He looked at her incredulously. “Why, he established a peace prize and Theodore Roosevelt won it for ending the Russian-Japanese unpleasantness, didn’t he?”
“Guilt, guilt,” Brenda said, turning away as a swarm of liveried servants approached after the butler’s call of “Ladies and gentlemen, dinner is served.”
The meal was memorable and it became obvious from the start the Higginses had a French chef. There was poulet bonne femme served with petits pois a la française, an enormous omelette aux fines herbes, and glasses kept filled with dry Monopole, Graves, and Otard. Then crepes suzette—named after the Prince of Wales’s latest harlot—were served, flaming, squirted with brandy and lemon over sugar. Finally, coffee and cognac.
Slowly, during the meal, Brenda became acquainted with Geoffry’s two brothers. The younger, Randolph, a bachelor, sat to her left and Geoffry’s older brother, Lloyd, sat on her right with his wife, Bernice, at his side.
Two years older than herself, Brenda knew that Geoffry had little patience with his younger brother, Randolph, considering him a wastrel who spent money carelessly, risked his neck with Tommy Sopwith in those flimsy “aeroplanes,” and indulged in short flings with music hall girls like a common libertine. Dark with heav
y black eyebrows that gave his handsome face a thoughtful, brooding look, Brenda found the young man taciturn yet intriguing. There was a deep glow in his eyes that seemed to threaten, but at the same time held exciting promise, too. As the evening wore on, Brenda began to suspect the tall, athletic young man could turn women’s heads and stiffen men’s backs by merely walking into a room.
The most interesting man in the room was Geoffry’s older brother, Lloyd. Dressed in a captain’s uniform of the Coldstream’s First Regiment of Foot, the forty-two-year-old officer was the tallest Higgins at six feet two inches. Thin as a bamboo tree as though the flesh and fat had been burned off his bones by too much marching under the noontime sun, his splendid tailored uniform did little to hide his spindly legs and gaunt chest. Nevertheless, there was steely resolve in the gunmetal gray eyes and strength in a voice that was a rumbling basso profundo strident enough to fill Westminster. And above all, the bearing and demeanor were those of a soldier—a warrior and gentleman. Yet, he wore his hat at the table.
Noticing Brenda’s curious stare at his peaked Wolsely, he explained with clear, twinkling blue eyes shaded by a burlesque of the stiff British salute, “George the Third never removed his hat at the table and he extended the privilege to all officers of the Coldstreams.” A chuckle punctuated by “Hear! Hear!” rumbled around the table.
His wife, Bernice, a diminutive woman with flaxen hair, huge liquid green eyes, and delicate features like a Dresden doll, laughed into her napkin while eyeing her husband with the adoration most women reserve for a deity.
Brenda soon discovered Captain Lloyd Higgins was a storehouse of military gambits who referred to strange units as if they were chapters in an exclusive fraternity. Ignoring the civilians, he gestured around the table at the officers. “You’ve met these gentlemen, but we British wear a strange assortment of uniforms, don’t we? Must be confusing.”
Brenda acknowledged her agreement with a smile and a nod.
Lloyd inclined his head to a kilted red-faced major with huge handlebar mustaches. “Cousin Jerry of the Royal Scots.”
“Cherry Bottoms, old boy,” the major retorted with a wide grin.
“Cherry Bottoms?”
“Yes, Brenda,” Lloyd said. “None of those blokes wear underwear.” A storm of laughter echoed from the stone walls. Holding up a hand, Lloyd nodded at a captain farther down the table. “David is of the Queen’s Own Black Watch.”
“Death or Glory Boys,” David offered.
“Right-oh, old chap,” Lloyd agreed. And then he moved to another heavyset, florid colonel who had obviously drunk too much Otard. “Cousin William of the Surreys.” The colonel nodded unsteadily. Lloyd continued, “The Queen’s Own Bloodhounds.”
“Jolly good! Jolly good,” the colonel muttered, waving a half-empty glass. “First Regiment of Horse.”
In quick succession, Brenda was introduced to Cousin Thomas of the Irish Guard Cavalry, Cousin Dennis of the Welsh Fusiliers, and Cousin Kurt of the Leicesters. All were jovial, spirited, and in high good humor. But their wives were quiet, smiling, chuckling at the quips, withdrawn in the background like moons revolving about bright stars. And the five men in mufti were eclipsed, appearing as sparrows next to preening peacocks in mating season.
There was a barrage of jokes about regimental mascots: the wolfhound of the Irish Guards, the goat of the Welsh Fusiliers, the antelope of the Leicesters, the Siamese kitten of the Surreys.
By the time dessert was finished, Walter’s voice—well oiled by a dozen glasses of Otard—boomed and dominated from the end of the table. Overweight, face crimson from the effects of too much liquor, mustaches dangling and speckled with bits of forgotten food and alternately waving a fork and half-empty glass for emphasis, he was a living, breathing John Bull with the dogged obduracy of George III and the manners of Henry VIII. It soon became obvious Randolph’s ambition was a bone in his throat. Shouting the length of the table in a suddenly silent room, he assaulted a stiffened, reddening Randolph. “When are you going to take hold of yourself, old boy? Shuck Tommy Sopwith and his foolishness about flying machines and come down to earth—at Carlisle Limited. There’s a place for you.” He turned to Geoffry. “Right, my boy?”
“Right, Father,” Geoffry answered through tight lips, eyes on his brandy.
“Please Father,” Randolph began. “This is not the time. . .”
“That’s bloody nonsense,” the old man bellowed, slamming a hammy fist on the table with so much force a forgotten drumstick leapt from the oak and fell to the Maksoud Persian under his feet where an alert servant scooped it up.
Randolph fixed his father with narrowed eyes that gleamed with an amalgam of embarrassment and anger. Obviously, the pair was involved in an old argument with the score still unsettled. “That isn’t cricket, Father. You know I hate the textile business.”
“Then, find something!”
There was a flurry of self-conscious coughs among the guests, but all eyes moved from father to son and back again like spectators at Wimbledon. “In my time, Father.”
“Blast it, man. You’re taking too much time. Must we banish you to the colonies?”
Brenda heard a gasp circle the table. Then Rebecca muttered, “Walter.”
Glancing at the confused Americans, Walter mumbled an apology and pressed on. “What do you expect to accomplish with these machines?”
Randolph seemed to calm suddenly; appeared intent and determined like a man ready to plead his case before a skeptical board of directors. “The government’s interested in flying scouts. A.V. Roe has joined us and we’re going to start building flying machines designed for scouting.” Every officer hunched forward. The two cavalry officers exchanged broad grins.
Walter picked up the gauntlet. “Airplanes as scouts? What in the world is the cavalry for, boy?”
“Earthbound, sir. Anyway, Maxim guns will cut them down like chaff.” The two cavalry officers winced.
“Nonsense! What kind of position would they have for you?”
“Designer.”
“Designer? You’re educated in business and accounting. You know nothing about this flying business—nothing at all.”
“It’s not necessary, sir. It’s a new science. We sketch the airframes on the wall in chalk and. . .”
“On the wall, Randolph. What about stresses? Loads?”
“Not important.”
“You mean none of you know enough.” He took a large gulp of cognac. “You’ll work in a factory, true?”
“True, sir.”
The red-rimmed eyes swept the table. “That’s beneath a Higgins—fit for fishwives and Soho bummers.”
The young man’s face flushed and his chin hardened. “It’s my choice, Father.”
“Bully for you,” the old man said sarcastically.
“Father,” Randolph said sharply, not yielding an inch, “I have my digs in Kensington and it’s time for me. . .” He rose.
“Sit down, young man,” Walter commanded.
“I’m sorry, sir,” Randolph said, turning toward the entry hall.
“I’m leaving, too,” Lloyd said firmly, rising to his feet and followed by his wife.
“No! I forbid. . .”
“Walter!” Rebecca cried. “You’re driving them out.” Then to her sons, “Randolph! Lloyd! Randolph. . .”
“Lloyd! Randolph!” came through the haze. “They don’t know about Geoffry.” It was Rebecca’s voice.
“I’ve contacted Colonel Courtney Covington at Whitehall and they’ll both be informed,” Walter continued. “But blast it, there’s security and all that rot.”
“They’re on the Somme. Everyone knows they’re on the Somme,” Rebecca choked. “Dear God. How much are we expected to give?”
The kaleidoscope had slowed and Brenda tried to turn her head back to the light and the spectral figures, but h
er skull had become a twenty-pound stone. She could only listen. Then the haze darkened and she drifted into a dark cloud. She saw her sons, both on biers with candles at their heads and feet. “Nathan! Rodney!” she shouted suddenly, twisting.
She heard Nicole’s voice “They are fine, ma maitresse. They are with their governess.”
“Thank God.” The maid leaned close and Brenda felt breath on her cheek. Immediately, she felt her head lifted and something was pushed under her pillow. “You will be well, ma maitresse. I promise you,” Nicole whispered hoarsely.
“Here, there,” Doctor Mansfield’s shrill voice broke in. “What in blazes are you doing?”
“Something to help ma madame, monsieur docteur.”
Brenda felt a hand under her pillow. Then the doctor’s incredulous voice said, “A potato—a sliced potato.”
“They say it helps. My mother. . .”
“Bloody nonsense!”
Rebecca interrupted. “Put it back, doctor.”
“Back?”
“It can’t hurt, can it, doctor?”
Brenda felt the potato pushed under the pillow while Mansfield muttered under his breath, “Bloody old wives’ tales. . .”
Walter’s voice crept in from a distance. “Randolph’s squadron’s based near Bailleul. Courtney Covington has assured me a telegram is on its way.”
“Lloyd?”
“The fighting’s heavy along the whole Somme front. It’ll take a few days to find the Coldstreams.”
“But Randolph will know.”
“Yes, Rebecca. Randolph will know.”