Joan Taylor had been as thrilled as everyone else by Henry’s safe return, but for as long as Robert was still in Belgium, she couldn’t even begin to think of a post-war life. Her husband wrote to her at Christmas, telling her that he was sure he would be home soon. In fact, he and his unit were still waiting to make their final push, and still short of supplies. As winter set in it grew harder to stay cheerful. For millions of troops out in Belgium and France there was a job to finish and they just wanted to get on with it.
In mid-December the Germans caught the Allies off guard when they made their last great counter-attack of the war through the Ardennes region of Belgium, France and Luxembourg. As the Allies’ front line was squeezed in on itself, the bulge on the maps produced by news agencies gave rise to the battle’s most enduring name: the Battle of the Bulge.
The Germans’ aim was to take advantage of their opponents’ preoccupation with planning their final offensive, and of the heavy fog, which meant that the Allies’ superior air power would be grounded. They almost succeeded. The German Army advanced sixty miles, splitting the Allied armies into two sections and surrounding two pockets of US troops at Elsenborne Ridge and Bastogne. Hitler sent a representative to Major-General Anthony McAuliffe, at the Bastogne garrison, with an ultimatum to surrender or face annihilation by German troops, which massively outnumbered the Americans. McAuliffe’s one word response, ‘Nuts!’, made him famous throughout America and Britain. The cost of this defiance was high, though. It was only the heroic determination of the US 1st Army that held the Germans for long enough that reinforcements could be sent.
Eisenhower ordered Patton to turn his US 3rd Army around and march to the north. He was going in to counter-attack against the southern German flank. It was pure aggressive risk-taking, precisely the sort of thing that Eisenhower had sent Patton back into the field to achieve, and it worked. The pressure points were relieved and shortly afterwards the weather started to clear a little, just enough for the Allies to launch heavy aerial attacks. The trails of smoke from the planes lifted the hearts of the infantry, who had been fighting hand-to-hand through snow and sleet for nearly two weeks. It took until 24 January for the Allies to declare victory and it was a bitter victory indeed for the US Army: 124,000 American soldiers were killed, wounded or captured. Winston Churchill’s verdict when he spoke to the House of Commons was clear: ‘This is undoubtedly the greatest American battle of the war and will, I believe, be regarded as an ever-famous American victory.’
From 23 February the Allies began to cross the River Rhine, Germany’s ultimate line of defence, and from there to fan out through the country and advance along a front that stretched from the Baltic Sea in the north to Austria in the south. Robert Taylor was part of the British push to the northeast. The 2nd Canadian division were following along immediately behind Robert’s tank unit. They had fought to liberate Holland, where the civilian population was starving, and incurred heavy casualties. The troops that had trained at Highclere three years previously, crashing into the buildings at the stud and sneaking into the Library to meet their sweethearts, were now battle-hardened and weary.
Robert was grateful that finally, after months of dismal stand-off, they were on the move again; the war was in its endgame. But the sense of relief and determination to press the victory home was tempered by the misery he witnessed as they marched on to Hamburg. He saw a country in ruins. There were no walls left in the towns they passed through, just acres of twisted rubble populated by skeletal citizens too wasted to bury the dead. Why hadn’t Hitler given the order to surrender? Robert had seen enough, lived through far too much. Now he just wanted to get home to his wife, to Highclere.
Back in London, Gerrit and Penelope had been making plans. They had discovered that Gerrit’s regiment, the Grenadiers, would very soon be sent to Germany with the occupying forces that would be tasked with running the British sector in the wake of Germany’s defeat. He had just three weeks of training left to complete before he would be eligible to be posted, and only two Sundays. The only place where the banns could be read that quickly was at Penelope’s home parish of Highclere. So, most unusually, the Carnarvon family was planning a country wedding with the celebrations at the castle, rather than a grand spectacle at St Margaret’s Westminster and in Mayfair. This suited Gerrit down to the ground. He was a reserved man and not at all keen that his wedding day should feature in the press, especially during wartime. The date was set for 21 April.
It would be the first time Catherine had returned to her former home since she left it on the day she walked out of her marriage, ten years previously. She and Porchey had long ago ceased to hurt each other. They had always been courteous and reasonable in their shared duties as parents, and in recent years they had even become friends. But still, Catherine felt nervous at the prospect of returning to the scene of her old life, to the house where she had been so happy, and so wretched. If Geoffrey had been with her it would have been different, but she couldn’t help slightly dreading the prospect of arriving, of stepping into the Saloon and greeting her ex-husband in what had been their home.
She tried to set these thoughts aside. Catherine had been in a bubble of happiness ever since Henry’s safe return from the war and she was determined not to let her nerves spoil the wonderful occasion. After all, she would have her son, Gar and Doll for support. Meanwhile, she concentrated on preparations and supporting her daughter. There was a lot to do in a short time, and many things were made more difficult by the fact that an exhausted Britain was now suffering from acute shortages of all sorts of things that when Catherine had planned her own wedding she had taken for granted.
Pen managed to find some beautiful pre-war white satin with which to have her dress made, but she and Catherine discovered that there was no tulle for a veil in the entire city. Every day for a week, Catherine finished her shift in the canteen at the docks a little early so that she could jump on a bus back to the West End and hunt through every haberdashery store from Soho to Knightsbridge. In one place the assistant practically laughed in her face. White tulle? There hadn’t been any since 1940! The following day, as Catherine was listening to the same thing from yet another shop assistant, the lady standing behind her tapped her on the arm. ‘Excuse me, I couldn’t help overhearing. I have some tulle at home that might do. Would you like to see it?’ Astounded, grateful, Catherine accompanied the stranger to her flat. The lady had bought a long length of soft white tulle in 1939 and hadn’t used it. She gave a sad smile when Catherine handed over the money. ‘I hope it brings her a great deal of joy.’
Catherine had equal difficulty finding a dress for herself. The boutiques were practically bare and no couturier could make anything in such a short time. Eventually she bought a dress in Peter Jones in a very pretty cyclamen pink and managed to get it fitted despite the short notice. By this time, though, her nerves were a little strained. When Henry rang up and she described the dress to him, he said, ‘Oh, Mama, you can’t possibly wear that colour! It sounds awful.’ Catherine had always been a supremely confident dresser and was used to receiving compliments; now she was crushed. The following day, having fretted all night, she set off again on the hunt for the perfect dress in which to make her reappearance at Highclere. Eventually she found a bluish grey one. When she pressed Doll for her opinion, Doll said quietly that she thought it not very sparky. Penelope agreed. When Henry came to lunch at the weekend to discuss what still needed to be done, his opinion was sought on the two options. He loved the cyclamen pink one. ‘You look lovely, Mum! Now all you need is some orchids for a corsage.’ Catherine had a charming hat made to match and organised her make-up, shoes and clutch bag. Doll had squirrelled away some fabric the year before, but in her rush to get her own dress made, she had bought the wrong size pattern; she had to cut it by hand, then spend every evening for the next week determinedly sewing.
On Friday 20 April, Catherine, Penelope, Henry, Doll and Doll’s dog Pixie (bathed especially for the occa
sion) caught the 10.30 train from Paddington. Catherine and Penelope were both fluttery with nerves. They were met at Highclere station by the Rolls-Royce and driven past London Lodge, still crumbling from the impact of a bomb that only just missed, along the drive, past the Temple of Diana until Catherine caught her first sight of the castle’s familiar tower rising above the tree-tops. Her heart was beating sixty to the minute as Mr Pell opened the car door with a huge smile. ‘You must be Pell, thank you so much,’ she said as he handed her out of the car. This was the moment she had been so nervous about: she knew that once it was all under way she would be too happy for Penelope to think of anything else. Catherine, the Countess of Carnarvon, as she had been the last time she stood here, Mrs Geoffrey Grenfell, widow, as she was now, took the few steps through the front door of Highclere Castle and into the Gothic Saloon.
Pell informed them that Lord Carnarvon would be with them in a moment and two seconds later Porchey appeared, all smiles. He greeted them all warmly and laughed as he excused himself for not having been there to meet them himself. He had been talking to Tilly’s lawyers in New York. ‘She’s making a fuss about money, as usual.’
They all went to have lunch in the Dining Room, Porchey and Catherine sitting opposite each other as they had done in the old days and their children just delighted to have their parents in the same room and everyone back together again. Catherine was so buoyed up by the jolliness of the occasion that she found she was no longer nervous. After lunch Penelope went to wash her hair and try to relax a little, sitting outside as it dried in the strong spring sunshine. Henry went with both his parents for a walk to inspect the stud. Doll admired her mistress’s evident calm and dignity. She must have been relieved; she had shared in every nervous conjecture for the past three weeks. Almina, Eve, Bro and Patricia arrived at tea-time and that night the whole party went to bed early in preparation for the big day.
Catherine woke on her daughter’s wedding day and realised that—though she felt the absence of all the people she wished were here to share it with them: Geoffrey, her brother Reggie, her father Jac—she was happy; happier than she had been since Geoffrey’s death. Seeing her son, the future Earl of Carnarvon, walking around Highclere arm-in-arm with his father gladdened her heart. She was so proud of both her children.
When Doll came to open the shutters, sunshine streamed into the bedroom and the bright spring greens of the park seemed like a promise of happiness for Gerrit and Penelope. Later, as they sat down to lunch, Penelope opened several gifts of exquisite jewellery from her family. Gerrit had given Henry a beautiful ruby brooch to present to his fiancée. Henry then slipped away to Newbury to perform his best man’s duties: lunch and several glasses of champagne for the groom.
Penelope and Catherine went up to dress. Doll helped Catherine, as she had done almost every day for the last twenty-five years. The cyclamen pink dress was pronounced indisputedly the right choice; the whole effect, with her hat perched to one side and her fur shrug, perfectly chic. Catherine set off for the church with Almina, Eve and Brograve as Doll knocked on the door to Penelope’s bedroom.
The bride was already in her dress. It shimmered with just the faintest trace of pink, like an oyster’s shell. The skirt was a simple A-line shape, the three-quarter sleeves and bateau neckline contributed to an effect of perfect elegance. Pen’s thick hair was set in perfect waves, the diamond earrings her grandmother Almina had just given her sparkled at her ears.
Doll had come to help with the finishing touch, the veil. She had pleaded with the very exclusive French lady who made wreaths of orange blossoms in an atelier just off Berkeley Square, to make one for Lady Penelope at incredibly short notice: there was no one else in London who could possibly do it like her. Eventually the appeals to patriotic pride won out and the delicate wreath had been transported in a hatbox down from London. Doll fixed the lace-edged veil in place and set the wreath on Penelope’s head. ‘You’ve never looked so pretty,’ she told her. ‘No, don’t cry, you’ll get puffy eyes!’
Penelope had no bridesmaids to attend her: there hadn’t been time to arrange any more dresses. It was Doll who carried the train of her veil as Penelope walked round the Gallery and descended the Oak Staircase. Lord Carnarvon and Pell were waiting in the Saloon and had broad grins on their faces as she stepped down the last stair. ‘You look beautiful, my darling girl,’ Porchey told her. I’m so proud of you.’ Pell could only nod appreciatively and clear his throat to wish her a wonderful day and a very happy married life. Then Penelope and her father walked out arm-in-arm to the polished Rolls-Royce waiting on the gravel by the front door. Jack Gibbins had taken a day off from his duties with the King and Queen to drive them the short distance down to the church. As he saw Lady Penelope, his face creased in a smile. ‘You look lovely, my lady.’ Penelope couldn’t stop smiling herself. ‘Thank you, Gibbins, you’re so kind to do this.’
Catherine arrived at the church at the same moment as her sister Lady Galloway and a group of Wendell cousins and friends of Penelope’s from London. She was delighted to see Philippa and, as the sisters embraced each other, Philippa whispered in her ear, ‘You look marvellous, darling, so very strong.’ With those words to fortify her, Catherine entered the church. She couldn’t help remembering the Sunday services she had attended every week for more than twelve years as she saw the same faces of employees and tenants. There were many in the congregation who remembered her generosity and smiles and their obvious pleasure at seeing her buoyed her up. She had worried that she would be overcome by memories of her brother’s funeral, but this was, after all, such a happy occasion that Catherine had no room in her heart for anything else.
She saw her soon-to-be son-in-law standing at the altar, with her son by his side. Gerrit had a serious expression but looked so handsome in his uniform. The church was a bower of flowers from the gardens at Highclere, with lilac, azaleas, rhododendrons and apple blossom everywhere she looked. Then, as the music for the bride’s entrance started up and the congregation stood, Catherine could no longer stop her tears. Pen looked so wonderful, her smile of happiness clearly visible beneath the veil that Catherine had found for her. Catherine thought of her own two wedding days, so different, and wished with all her heart that her beloved daughter would be happy, as she had been.
After the ceremony the congregation made for the castle. Chefs in white hats served a buffet of sandwiches and cakes with tea or champagne, from tables in the Saloon. Penelope and Gerrit stood with their arms twined about one another’s waists as Bro Beauchamp proposed a toast for the bride and Gerrit replied in a neat little speech, and then suddenly it was all over. Pen slipped upstairs to change into a navy going-away dress and then the couple were climbing into a car to be driven to Gerrit’s family house in Kent for a week’s honeymoon. Everyone came outside to cheer them off and Henry attached a huge silver horseshoe to the car’s bumper. Doll had slipped another smaller one into her darling Penelope’s dressing case.
Late in the afternoon, as all the excitement faded, Catherine and Philippa walked down the drive, past the dairy yard to the family chapel and their brother’s grave. Catherine placed one of the orchids she had worn pinned to her dress onto his tombstone, and they both paused to weep a little and to remember.
Gerrit and Penelope’s honeymoon coincided with the final days of the war. Victory, and peace, were now only days away. Hitler committed suicide on 30 April; Hitler’s successor, Karl Dönitz, ordered General Alfred Jodl to sign an unconditional Instrument of Surrender at Reims, at 02.41 on 7 May 1945. The decimation of German lives, communities, cities, industry, culture and reputation was complete. As the news spread across Europe, church bells were rung in every village and from every cathedral; people flocked to give thanks for deliverance and to pray for their loved ones who had not lived to see this day. In the United States, Americans woke to the news. It was President Harry Truman’s birthday and he dedicated the victory to the memory of his predecessor, Franklin D. Roosevelt, wh
o had died of a cerebral haemorrhage less than a month before, on 12 April.
At Highclere, Joan Taylor wept with relief. Until now she had not allowed herself to picture Robert appearing at her door, or to imagine what it would feel like to run into his arms, for fear of jinxing his return. In London, Catherine cried when she heard the news, too; tears of relief that – though she had lost her beloved husband—her son had been spared. She welcomed Henry for lunch that day. He had come up to London to take part in the celebrations that he was certain would erupt once the Prime Minister had spoken to the nation.
On V-E Day, the horrors of the recent past were put aside as people burst into spontaneous celebration. Churchill made his broadcast to the nation on the morning of 8 May, declaring that the ceasefire had come into effect the previous day. Hundreds of thousands of people poured onto the streets of London. Mollie Panter-Downes, still filing her columns for the New Yorker, described a day that ‘when it finally came was like no other that anyone can remember’, though the mood of the celebrations was perhaps like one ‘vast, happy village fete’. Young servicemen and women in uniform danced with their arms around one another, American soldiers and London girls did the conga up Piccadilly. Anything that could be climbed, from lamp posts to the scaffolding and sandbags around the statue of Eros’s pedestal, had at least two or three young people hanging from it, shouting their joy to the world. Whole families decked out in paper hats of red, white and blue milled between Trafalgar Square and Buckingham Palace, determined to see the King, and Mr Churchill. When King George VI and Queen Elizabeth appeared on the balcony of the palace with their daughters, the Princesses Elizabeth and Margaret, the ecstatic crowd yelled their approval. The royal family had won enormous respect and affection for their decision to stay in London throughout the war. They had been bombed at Buckingham Palace, they had visited the docks and the tenements of the East End during the Blitz, had stayed to share in the suffering and the fortitude of the British people. But the biggest cheer was saved for Churchill. Mollie Panter-Downes wrote that when the crowd saw him there was ‘a deep, full-throated, almost reverent roar’.
Lady Catherine, the Earl, and the Real Downton Abbey Page 29