by Murray Pura
With that, Buchanan stood and tossed a few Deutschmarks on the table. “That should cover it.”
“Remember that I met you here, Lord Tanner,” said Kipp. “Remember that I tried to reason with you.”
“What are you going to do, Danforth? Shoot me in the back as I walk away? Not very sporting of you.”
“There won’t be any shooting in the back. I’ll leave that up to your Gestapo and SS. But this doesn’t end here at a sidewalk café in Berlin, Lord Tanner. Bear that in mind.”
Buchanan leaned on his silver-headed cane. “There has always been enmity between my house and yours. But one by one I shall overcome you all. Gaining my son back is a sweet victory. Putting a swastika on his arm and rubbing your nose in it is sweeter still. But drawing Caroline back to my side will be the sweetest triumph of all.”
“Caroline! She’ll never return to you!”
“Oh, she will, Danforth, she will. You don’t know how weak Caroline Scarborough is, but I do. If I tell her she can be with her son again, and never be separated from him, she’ll do anything I ask. Live with me, eat with me, attend Nazi galas as my escort. That will indeed be the sweetest revenge of all.”
He took a drag on his cigarette, flicked it on the ground at Kipp’s feet, and walked away.
October, 1936
Terry and Libby’s house, HMS Picadilly, Plymouth and Devonport
“Look, we have another seven days before the Hood heads back to the Mediterranean, love—”
“Shh.” Libby put her fingers to Terry’s lips as they lay together on their bed in the dark. “Don’t use that word ‘Mediterranean’ again. I’ve come to loathe it.”
“The water is beautiful. Often enough it’s the color of your eyes.”
“Then I shall change the color of my eyes. All that horrid sea does is take you away from me. The winter exercises were bad enough. But now it’s war after war. First the Italians going after those poor Ethiopians. Then Franco and his fascists going after the Spanish people who don’t think like him. And whose side are we always on, Terry? The side of the bullies.”
“We never fired our guns in support of the Italians, and we won’t fire them in support of Franco and the Nationalists either. All we want is Gibraltar left unmolested and to have access to the ports on the Spanish coast. We believe the Nationalists can guarantee that and the Republicans can’t. It’s no more mysterious than that.”
“Oh, our sympathies aren’t mysterious at all, Terry. How the world must wonder. Whose feet shall we kiss next? Herr Hitler’s? The emperor of Japan’s?”
“You are wrought up, aren’t you?”
“I have every right to be. You and your ‘heart of oak’ and ‘jolly tars’ rot. I wish you were a carpenter in Ipswich.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Yes, I do. Imagine seeing one another all year round. But what do we have instead? No Christmas together again. And Jane growing up so fast, her second year at Oxford—”
“The three of us had a splendid summer.”
“We always have splendid summers. And like all English summers they are soon spent.”
Terry leaned his head back against his pillow and groaned. “I don’t know how to please you, love.”
“Well, I do. When I’m cross like this I need to be held much more tightly. You must also accept the fact that the more arguments you muster, the more I shall muster until you are awash in them, so it’s best to leave off early. And I don’t want to talk, I don’t want to kiss, I don’t want to do anything except lie in your arms and listen to your heart beating.”
“Right. I can do that.”
“Then do it. And you can make silly promises too. Even if I’m well aware that it’s not in your power to keep them. Daft, I know, but it works.”
“I guess I’m not sure what sort of promises you mean.”
“Well, is there any chance you might make First Sea Lord one day and be permanently based in England?”
“First Sea Lord! Libby, that is as far beyond me as the heavens are above the earth.”
“But it’s feasible, isn’t it? It’s remotely possible?”
“I suppose it is.”
“Promise you’ll try to make First Sea Lord.”
“Libby,” Terry protested.
She pinched him. “Promise me.”
“Right. I promise you.”
“You always say the Hood is badly in need of a touch-up.”
“Touch-up? She needs a rebuild! All these new German warships are quite beyond her in speed and armor plating. Worst of all, their guns can point faster and hit far more accurately. Naval gunnery is developing at a rapid pace and—”
“Excellent. So promise me you’ll come back for a rebuild. A long rebuild.”
“Certainly we need it.”
“Come on. Don’t be so slow to catch on. Tell me what I want to hear.”
“Hood’s coming in for a rebuild. The sooner the better. It’ll take a year. Perhaps more.”
“Wonderful.” She placed her head on his chest and closed her eyes. “More tightly, please.”
Terry tightened his arm around her back and shoulders.
“Very good, Commander. Now make more silly promises. Someday you’ll take me down to that horrid spot with you and we’ll be together all winter.”
“I will do.”
“Someday there won’t be any more running about with the Mediterranean Fleet, and you’ll be permanently stationed at a more suitable port like Portsmouth or Scapa Flow.”
“This is likely to happen any day now, love.”
“You’ll be home for Christmas. Your ship will turn around like it did last year and come right back home again with a propeller problem.”
“We do need an overhaul of the propulsion system.”
“Now we’re playing cricket. You’ll not only be home for Christmas, but after the propeller is fixed up and you’re off to that horrible puddle in the south, quick as a wink the war will be over, Franco will have lost, Spain will be a republic once again, and you’ll be back in Portsmouth in April or May. Am I right?”
“Spot on as usual.”
She smiled, her eyes still shut. “Now, you see? I’m content, very content.” She kissed his chest. “And I love the steady, strong beating of your heart.”
4
January–March, 1937
The winter rains swept over Britain and Europe.
King George V had died in January of 1936 and been succeeded by the Prince of Wales. But Edward VIII had not even lasted a year as the reigning monarch. Instead he chose marriage to an American woman named Wallis Simpson, twice divorced, over the English throne. His brother Albert, who became George VI immediately after the abdication by Edward VIII in early December, was the new king.
With Terry gone, Libby packed up what she needed and took Skitt and Montgomery along with her to their townhouse in London. This made it easier for Jane to get back and forth from Lady Margaret Hall at Oxford and have a visit. It also placed Libby in the same neighborhood as the rest of the family—Caroline, who kept house while Kipp tested improved models of the Hurricane and Spitfire in Suffolk; Victoria, who did as Caroline did with Ben testing fighter planes alongside Kipp; Charlotte, a sea widow like Libby, her husband Edward serving on HMS Rodney with the Home Fleet, which was once again at Gibraltar just like Terry and the Hood; and Emma, keeping an open door at the vicarage of St. Andrew’s Cross, welcoming all with tea and biscuits on the table and with her husband, the Reverend Jeremy Sweet, at her side. And something new—Lord and Lady Preston purchased Kensington Gate as their London residence. It was on Kensington High Street, near Hyde Park, Buckingham Palace, and Westminster. It replaced a smaller townhouse that had been adequate only for Lord Preston.
The stately home, with a vast lawn surrounded by high stone walls, four floors, round turrets, and tall windows, allowed Lord Preston to be at home every night after Parliamentary sessions and permitted him and his wife to see a good deal more of their gr
andchildren than they did sequestered far away in Ashton Park. They brought Tavy along with them, and Mrs. Longstaff, and a half dozen other chambermaids and footmen, as well as the dogs. The Belgian shepherds were still called Wynken, Blynken, and Nod, though Lord Preston had considered changing their names back to Flanders, Charlemagne, and Poppy. Sir Arthur and Lady Grace, each well into their nineties, could not be budged from Ashton Park, and a number of servants remained behind to see to their needs. To Harrison and Lady Holly fell the rule of the Lancashire estate in Lord and Lady Preston’s absence.
So, well before the gray rains of winter became the brighter rains of spring, the greater part of the Danforth family was situated in London at Camden Lock and at Kensington Gate.
April, 1936
The vicarage, St. Andrew’s Cross
“Come in, Caroline, come in.” Emma held open the door. “You look absolutely sodden.”
“I thought I could make the short walk between our houses without an umbrella.” Caroline half laughed. “Then came the deluge.”
Emma helped her off with her coat. “I’ll hang it up by the fire. It will be dry in no time.”
“Thank you.”
“Jeremy has tea for you in the parlor. I’ll be along in a minute.”
Jeremy rose as Caroline entered the room, smiling and taking one of her hands in both of his, his one hand the healthy hand, the other the wooden one. “Hullo, my dear, so good to see you.”
“Cheers, Jeremy.”
“Tea?”
“Yes, please.”
He poured as she took a seat in an armchair. A peat fire flickered nearby and lent a smoky aroma to the parlor. Jeremy handed Caroline a cup and saucer and sat down with his own mug of tea. He was wearing a cardigan sweater over his black shirt, but his clerical collar was still visible.
“How are Matt and Cecilia?” he asked.
Caroline was stirring cream into her tea. “Oh, very good. They always look forward to the fortnightly family gatherings at Kensington Gate. We missed the last one because we drove over to Suffolk when Kipp couldn’t get up to see us. But we’re sure to be there this coming Sunday.”
“Tell me, how are the two of them doing without Charles in the house?”
Caroline sipped at her tea, stopped, put it down suddenly, and clenched her hands in her lap. “It’s not going well, Jeremy. That’s why I asked to speak with you and Emma alone. I miss Charles terribly. But the worst of it is his letters to Matthew and Cecilia. They’re always full of splendid stories about Germany, and now the pair of them are clamoring to go to school in Berlin. It’s out of the question, of course. Losing Charles to that blackguard Buchanan is bad enough. But it brings me a lot of heartache, especially with Kipp away during the week. On top of that, I’m not coping well with my boy being in the Nazi Youth and learning German and marching in those horrid parades. I want him home but he doesn’t want to come home.” Tears started. “Don’t mind me, I cry from one end of the week to the other. When Kipp’s home on Saturday I cry even harder. And that’s the greatest worry of all.”
“Why?”
“I can see how much my pain bothers him. It was a long and rocky road to our marriage, but now Kipp loves me very deeply. I believe he would do just about anything for my sake.” She hesitated and then said, “Including murder.”
“Murder? What do you mean?”
“Kipp is always the one to take action, isn’t he? I honestly wouldn’t put it past him to make up some excuse to fly down to Berlin, pull a gun on Lord Tanner, and take Charles from him by force.”
“Surely not. It would create a scandal. He must know Charles wouldn’t come with him willingly.”
“He’d bind and gag Charles if he had to. And do the same to Lord Tanner if he didn’t put a hole in his heart first.”
Emma entered the parlor and sat down, folding her hands in the lap of her dress.
Jeremy was no longer drinking his tea. “He has not told you he’d do all this, has he?”
“Not in so many words.” Caroline dabbed at her eyes with her fingers. “But I can tell what’s going on in his head. I’ve always known what Kipp was about to do. Even when we weren’t together.”
“Have you tried to reason with him?” asked Emma.
“He says it’s not as bad as all that. ‘I have no intention of committing a crime,’ he tells me. But I see his eyes at certain times and I know he’s hatching a plan.”
“I see.” Jeremy looked at his mug of tea but did not pick it up.
“Prayer is our best course of action right now,” said Emma. “There’s really little that can be done but that, humanly speaking.”
“If I could only control my emotions,” moaned Caroline. “None of this would be happening if I didn’t grieve over Charles so much. Kipp can’t stand seeing me hurt, so he’ll take whatever steps he feels are necessary. If I could just manage this stiff upper lip we English are supposed to be good at…”
“Nonsense.” Jeremy reached over and patted her arm. “You can’t blame yourself for loving your own son. Of course you’re going to shed tears. Lord Tanner has engineered the whole affair. It wouldn’t surprise me at all that part of his plan was to provoke Kipp to the very deed you are describing to us here. That way he can take his revenge on as many members of the Danforth family as possible. He’d probably have the police ready to pounce and place Kipp under arrest.”
“Or he might shoot Kipp himself.” The tears covered Caroline’s cheeks.
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” Jeremy picked up a Bible. “I’ll read from the Psalms. Then Emma and I shall pray with you. This is a matter we need clear guidance on and we are going to pray until we get it.”
Caroline had her hand over her eyes. “Thank you. I hope we can see our way out of this. I hope God will open a door for us. I’m afraid of what will happen if He doesn’t. And I must tell you that Lord Tanner has asked me to leave Kipp and become his wife.”
“What?”
“I couldn’t keep the letter from Kipp. I didn’t want him to find it and think I was scheming. He was furious, of course. I told him I wouldn’t go back to Lord Tanner, not for Charles, not for anyone, not in a thousand years would I go back. But his eyes only turned that hard green they get sometimes, dark and deep and haunting as jade. When that happens, anything is possible. You cannot begin to imagine what he might turn his hands to.”
Four days later Emma opened the door to her sons Peter and James.
“Why, hullo.” She looked at their faces. Both had bruises and swollen eyes. “What happened to the two of you?”
“Rugby,” answered Peter.
“And cricket,” added James.
“My heavens, you don’t get knocked about like that playing cricket.” She turned James’s head to one side. “I thought you two weren’t home until May first.”
“Well, we’re early,” said Peter.
“Not by much,” said James.
She kissed them both on the cheek. “What’s the real story?”
Peter shrugged and unloosened his tie. “We’ve been suspended.”
“Suspended! Whatever for?”
James smiled. “Fighting.”
“You’ve been suspended for fighting? And you’re smiling?”
“It was for a good cause,” replied James.
“What good cause?”
“Jane.”
“Jane?”
“A couple of rotters called her names. In reference to her Chinese ancestry. So we dealt with it.”
Peter nodded. “We were raised to deal with it.”
“You weren’t raised to fight,” protested Emma.
“ ’Course we were,” said Peter.
“The whole family fights,” James added.
“Dad too.”
“Army, navy, air force.”
“I see. And how bad were the names?”
“Bad.” Peter glared. “We won’t repeat them.”
“Were the other boys suspended?”
“What? Why?”
“Because he’s Lord Cheswick’s son.”
“Did he call Jane names?”
“He was the worst of the lot. He even shoved her.”
“And how is she?”
“Fine enough. We escorted her home.”
“So does Aunt Libby know about this?”
“I expect she does by now.”
“Well, come in, you two. I shall have to ring up your father. He’s at the church office.” Emma shut the door firmly behind them. “How long does the suspension last?”
“I dunno, really,” responded Peter.
“January,” replied James.
“You miss out on a whole term?” Emma was aghast. “Your father will be writing letters to the university, you can be sure of that.” She put her hands on her hips. “Did you have to fight?”
“Yes!” Peter and James declared at the same time.
“And what do my knights-errant intend to do with themselves until nineteen thirty-eight?”
“The RAF,” said Peter.
“The Auxiliary,” added James.
“We’ve already signed up at Oxford,” Peter boasted.
“We had every intention of telling you and Dad,” James said.
“Eventually,” Peter added.
“A tad sooner than eventually.”
“Especially after what happened on Monday.” Peter’s face was dark.
“The Germans bombing that Spanish town. Using their Heinkels and Dorniers and Junkers, calling them mail planes and passenger planes.” James’s face mirrored his brother’s.
“Incendiaries, Mum. They burned women and children to death.”
“You didn’t raise us to stand by and do nothing. Not when it comes to Jane. Not when it comes to Nazi Germany blowing civilians to pieces.”
Emma’s face was sharp. “Your father and I know about Guernica. We read the newspapers. We listen to the BBC.” She kept her eyes on her sons. “We’ll discuss all this once your father is home. I’ll call him. Meanwhile fix yourselves something to eat. The new maid, Suzanne, has just baked fresh bread. The butter is on the sideboard.”
“Thanks, Mum,” Peter said.