A huge oil painting of the Taj Mahal in a chipped gilt frame had also caught his eye, and when the dealer offered to splash a coat of gold paint on the frame for an extra half crown, Thomson jumped at it. He thought it must be a sign. The picture now hung over the living room fireplace in all its glory. He decided he’d have Buck install it in his office at Gwydyr House the following week. The whole lot had cost twelve pounds fifteen shillings, including the slightly worn, blue silk chaise longue and delivery by a man with a horse and cart.
He paused looking at the Taj with satisfaction—he suddenly had a great idea. He’d speak to Winston Churchill about it when he next saw him—he’d heard he something of an artist. Meanwhile, he must write to Marthe. He picked up his fountain pen and began in his bold, beautiful script.
My Dearest Smaranda,
Just home from Cardington. It was a great day and wonderful to be back up there. What an enthusiastic crowd they are—dedicated and determined to make R101 all that she can be. Airships! They are my pride and joy—my phoenix twins, rising from the ashes—I am so passionate about them. There is of course only one precious thing I am more passionate about. No need to remind you of that!
His thoughts were interrupted by a gentle knock on the door. Gwen, his housekeeper, popped her head in; mid-fifties and well rounded, she wore a white apron and matching headscarf.
“Lord Thomson, dinner’s ready to be served, if convenient, sir,” she said in her R-rolling Devonshire accent. Thomson slipped his unfinished letter into the top drawer.
“Very well, Gwen, I’ll come now.”
He’d burned a lot of energy today and felt hungry again. Later, after dinner, Thomson sat alone with his thoughts. Gwen’s chop had been delicious, even though he’d already had lamb for lunch. He didn’t tell her of course. She reappeared as he was finishing his apple pie and custard.
“Will there be anything else, Lord Thomson? Would you like coffee?”
“You know what? I think I’d like a glass of port, if you don't mind.”
Gwen beetled off and brought back a bottle of port and a wine glass on a tray and placed them on the table in front of him. She poured out a decent measure.
“Thank you, Gwen. That will be all for tonight.”
“Are you sure, sir?”
“Oh yes, I’ll be fine.”
“Good night, Lord Thomson.”
“Good night, Gwen.”
Thomson put on his red and black silk smoking jacket and moved back into the front lounge. He put some music on the gramophone, enjoying his favorite pieces while sipping the delicious port. Hearing the music, Sammie, Thomson’s huge black cat, strode into the room with a big meow, jumped onto one of the soft arm chairs and settled down, purring like a tractor.
“That’s what I like—a cat who appreciates opera,” Thomson said.
The cat rolled on its side, understanding perfectly. Thomson took another sip and placed the glass on the coffee table. He put on his favorite recording—Vesti la giubba—sung by the great Enrico Caruso. He turned up the volume and sat down on the chaise, where he rummaged through his dispatch box. Beside him, on a side table, stood another picture frame from which Marthe peered at him from the steps of Mogosoëa. Thomson looked up from his documents and rested his eyes on her and laid his head back on the chaise, allowing his mind to wander. Marthe would be in London in a couple of weeks.
Dear God, how I long to see her!
He remembered how he’d comforted her in her boudoir in Mogosoëa, in 1915. It was a bitter sweet memory. Within seconds, while Pagliacci’s heart was breaking, Thomson fell asleep.
He found himself drinking coffee at his usual table by the window of a popular café on Rue de Rivoli—one of the most fashionable streets in Paris. In British Army uniform with the rank of lieutenant, he gazed at the beautiful girl sitting in an open-top carriage under a white parasol, shading her unblemished, white skin from the blazing sun. She fanned herself with a cream and white rice-paper fan. A matching wide-brimmed hat partially obscured her face and her shoulder-length, dark brown hair. She sat with aristocratic grace, her black eyes—or dark green?—revealed intelligence and innocence.
Much of what he took in was not only by sight, but by clairvoyance. He seemed to know so much about her—as if they were close. Perhaps he’d known her in some previous lifetime. But to her, he was always invisible.
Thomson realized he had to seize the moment—she’d soon be gone and an encounter might never come again. There was always this kind of desperation. He jumped from his seat, almost tipping over his chair and ran out the glazed wood doors into the street, just in time to see the driver snap the reins and loudly click his tongue, signaling the two magnificent white horses to pull out and move toward him.
Thomson stood poised at the curb, hoping for some communication or acknowledgment, but the girl remained oblivious to his existence, staring straight ahead, so close, he could have reached out and touched her—and he had a burning desire to do so. As he dreamed (and he realized this was dream), he knew he’d seen her many times before in other dreams such as this on Rue de Rivoli. As the carriage drew level, the driver looked down at Thomson with evil, piggy eyes and smiled his cruel smile. Thomson remembered him also—only too well.
You always smile at me with devilish intent. Damn you! You do it to torment me, injure me, torture me, aggravate me, toy with me, tantalize me—yes, all of those things!
Overcome by blinding love, his heart sinking, Thomson watched helplessly as the carriage slowly moved away between white, cloistered buildings, its grinding wheels and thumping hooves churning the gritty dirt. When at last it disappeared, the previously immaculate dress uniform in which he stood was covered in white dust from head to toe. He looked and felt like Caruso’s pathetic clown, Pagliacci, the all-too-familiar pain of longing burning like a knife in his gut.
Thomson woke with a snort, coughing and spluttering, tasting the grit in his mouth. The gramophone turntable revolved like the wheels on her carriage, the needle swinging back and forth in the grooves beside the label, making a dreadful scratching sound. Thomson reluctantly opened his eyes, his gold pinz-nez spectacles at the end of his nose, barely hanging on.
He came round in the awful moment of realization: this wasn’t Paris, not the year 1902, but 1929. He was in London as the Secretary of State for Air. He shook off the nostalgia and his Cardington visit flooded back into his mind like water bursting from a dam. He glanced down. Sammie sat on his lap among his ministerial papers guiltily staring up at him, purring as softly as he dare. Thomson reached down, pulled the cat up to his face and nuzzled him affectionately.
“Oh, Sammie, you’re such a naughty boy. But I know I can always count on you to tell me the truth, can’t I!”
The cat meowed a loud response, sounding human—uncannily so.
After meeting Irwin, Lou went home with the chief steward's iced cake. Before he could even put the key in the front door, Charlotte opened it with a flourish. He stepped inside and she threw her arms around him, kissing him feverishly.
“Oh, Remy, my darling. I love you so much. I’m sorry I was so mean to you this morning. You will forgive me, won’t you?”
Lou was surprised, but relieved.
“Of course, Charlie. You must’ve been tired. I’m sorry I had to be out all day.”
“I want to talk to you tonight about things,” Charlotte said.
“What about?”
“Well, about us—and ‘things’ .”
They went downstairs to the lower level to the breakfast table looking out into the garden. It was still sunny and a few of Charlotte’s flowers were in bloom. Lou unwrapped and placed the chief steward’s cake on the table.
“What’s that?” Charlotte asked, reading the icing. “‘Congratulations!’ What for?”
“I’ll tell you in a minute. It’s a present from the chief steward,” Lou said, trying his best to remain expressionless.
“Oh, I see. What’s his name?”
“Er, I don’t know.”
Charlotte batted her eyes and pursed her lips, taunting.
“Oooh, should I be jealous?”
Lou chuckled, not biting. She opened a bottle of white wine and poured two glasses. She held one out to him. The kitchen was warm. He breathed in the dinner cooking in the oven.
“Smells good,” he said.
“Roast beef and Yorkshire pudding—your favorite.”
“Mmm, lovely.”
“Well, how did it go today?”
Lou’s face lit up. “So much to tell!”
She was intrigued. “Why? What happened? Tell me!”
“We fished for a while, and before that, the captain came by and spoke to us at the corner store.” He didn’t mention Jessup or Cameron. “We went to the ship and finished setting up the furniture and I must say, it looked pretty damned good! Then the Old Man arrived. I was stuck on board while Irwin showed him over the ship. I stayed out of sight—I couldn’t very well announce my presence. I heard everything they said. It was pretty damned embarrassing.”
“What did they say?”
“Well, Lord Thomson got a bit flowery about the ship and the future and how he was depending on the captain—and a lot of stuff I should never have heard.”
“What sort of stuff?”
“He talked about a woman he hopes to marry one day.”
“Goodness. Did the captain know you were there?”
“Nobody knew and I won’t say anything. Anyway, they all went off to the gasbag factory. I put on my uniform and joined them. The Old Man had them old gals eatin’ out of his hand. Funny as hell.”
“What did he say?”
“Oh, he told them they were special and doing important work and all that old jaboni. He gave them all a boost. They were tickled to death.”
“That’s good. He must be a very nice man,” Charlotte said.
“Yeah, he’s all right, I guess. Anyway we all went to the big house for afternoon tea and sandwiches. And then, you can’t imagine what happened!”
Charlotte couldn’t contain herself, “Well, tell me then!”
“The Old Man got up and gave a short speech.”
“What about?”
“Me!” Lou said, cracking up.
“What!”
“He said he’d been speaking to the Secretary of the Navy in Washington and he’d asked about me and how I was doing over here.”
Her eyes had become saucers. “Oh go on! … Really?”
“Yes, and then everyone stood up and Captain Irwin did the honors and I got promoted! I’m now Lieutenant Commander Louis Remington! Ta da!” Lou stood to attention, saluted and then bowed with a flourish, as though to the Queen.
“Oh, Lou, I don’t believe it! So what is a lieutenant commander?”
“It’s the same rank as a major in the army.”
“That’s amazing!”
“But that’s not all. The captain talked to me afterwards.”
“What did he say?”
“He said I’d done a great job not only with the furniture and how the Old Man was pleased, which of course I already knew because I’d heard him with my own ears—but he said I’d done a good job at Howden and with the liaison work between them and Cardington.”
“Well, it’s true. You’ve done a bloody good job!”
“Anyway, he’s nominating me for promotion to Third Officer.”
“Two promotions in one day! Lou, I’m so, so proud of you.”
Lou finished his wine and put the glass down on the table.
“You said you wanted to talk about us and ‘things’,” Lou said.
“Oh, it doesn’t matter. It was nothing important.”
He looked at her, puzzled. She wrapped her arms around him and put her luscious, wet lips over his mouth, kissing him gently—at first. Then things rapidly got out of hand.
“I think we’d better turn the oven down low—we’ll eat later,” Lou said, and then taking her hand, he led her up the stairs to the bedroom.
PART SIX
THEIR TRIALS BEGIN
33
ENTER THE PRINCESS
July 4, 1929.
It was July 4th, 1929. The rain had stopped. Clouds were dissipating and the sun beginning to show itself after a succession of miserable, grey days. The longed-for moment had finally arrived. The train bearing Princess Marthe Bibesco glided into Victoria Station. As it did, a debate regarding the British Airship Program was raging in the House of Lords. Naturally, Thomson’s attendance was required. Six months had passed since Thomson had seen Marthe. She knew he’d be bitterly disappointed, not being able to meet her.
Dust-laden shafts of sunlight, interrupted by clouds of steam, shone down from the skylights onto the platform. The train came to a gentle stop, exhaling a huge sigh. All doors swung open and Marthe stepped onto the platform, preceded by Isadora, her maidservant. A thin young man with a pencil moustache peered at her. She studied him for a moment. James Buck, Thomson’s valet, would be meeting her. He wore a green check suit, a yellow tie, and a narrow-brimmed grey bowler, in accordance with the description provided. Not exactly her choice in men’s clothing. But this had to be him.
“Princess Bibesco?” he asked.
“Yes, indeed,” Marthe said. “This is my maidservant, Isadora.”
Buck nodded to the dumpy, non-descript Slavic woman in her fifties wearing a headscarf. She ignored him. She was invisible. Buck turned back to Marthe.
“Honored to meet you, madam. I’m James Buck, Lord Thomson’s valet. I trust the journey’s been satisfactory?”
Marthe adored his accent. It was what she described as 'upper-class Cockney', and it was amusing.
“It was fine, Mr. Buck. Now, if you’ll kindly bring my bags from the guards’ van …”
“Certainly, Princess.” Buck summoned a couple of porters. Soon, they appeared with Marthe’s luggage piled on a trolley.
“Lord Thomson’s limousine awaits you, Princess,” Buck said.
“You’re most kind,” Marthe said, her half smile melting Buck. He led the way to the station entrance where a black Daimler was waiting. The chauffeur opened the rear door and Marthe and Isadora climbed in. Marthe settled down, breathing in the luxurious, beige leather.
Kit’s doing well. I’m so pleased for him.
They loaded her baggage into the boot and Buck thrust some coins into the porters’ hands. They peered in, smiling and touching their caps.
The British are so decent. Like dear Kit, always anxious to make one comfortable.
The chauffeur got in with Buck beside him. Buck pulled back the glass divider. “The Ritz as usual, Princess Marthe?”
“Yes, if you wouldn’t mind, thank you, Mr. Buck.”
“No trouble at all, ma’am.”
“Can we go by the Palace?”
“Oh, absolutely, ma’am.”
Buck closed the partition glass and Marthe relaxed, looking out of the window in the total silence. They entered the main road and moved along Buckingham Palace Road, past Rubin’s Hotel. The cobblestone roads glistened, steam rising in the sunshine.
The streets of London washed clean especially for me!
As an acclaimed writer, Marthe habitually documented her impressions of people and places when she traveled. It was one of her passions. She wrote everything down as soon as she reached her destination before her memories faded. She studied pedestrians; most appeared down at heel. Once in a while she spotted a well-dressed, professional type, a lawyer or a politician, perhaps.
Marthe enjoyed London, a bustling city with its red omnibuses and black and blue taxis. Not Paris, but she could get to love this city every bit as much, with all its nooks and crannies steeped in history. Getting to know London would take many lifetimes.
Horse-drawn vehicles laden with goods, building materials, coal, and junk, accounted for the piles of horse manure everywhere. Soon, she guessed, the evil-smelling combustion engines would take over the city a
nd the manure would disappear. The odor was not so unpleasant, unlike foul black smoke emitted from ten thousand tailpipes.
That will be progress. Such a pity!
An old chestnut mare was being allowed to drink at a granite trough. Marthe was thankful. She felt for the poor creature.
At least the combustion engine will spare their suffering.
Her mind drifted to Thomson. She wished she was sexually attracted to him, though that might be futile. She thought back to the time before the war and his mission in Bucharest. Her husband had brought news of her father’s death—her greatest hero and friend. The loss, on top of her disastrous marriage, had almost destroyed her. She’d passively given herself up to Thomson. Sadly though, his efforts had been clumsy and lacking in expertise, leaving them both miserable. But despite that, his love and tenderness had carried her through inconsolable grief. He was such a dear man—a wonderful man, whose friendship she treasured.
Yes, no question he was a guardian angel sent to save me and nurse me back to life.
She remembered how Thomson had got her to safety during the German advance. She smiled when she thought of the shoe she’d left in his car in her haste to escape—a delicate, Louis-heeled shoe. She’d been wearing those shoes the night they’d met. He said it reminded him of Cinderella from the Italian folk tale. Cinderella seemed apt.
Unrecognized, unloved, and lonely at the time—that was me.
He treasured that shoe, keeping it polished and wrapped in tissue paper. He’d still have it somewhere—probably in his top drawer.
Such a small price to pay—that shoe gives him so much pleasure.
The fact remained: no chemistry existed for her regarding the subject of love. He was a gentleman—always attentive and considerate, unlike many of the men she’d had in her life, before and since 1915. But she had experienced real passion and sexual fulfillment, thank God, and been deeply in love—but not with Kit.
She remembered how her husband had almost ruined her on her wedding night—her fifteenth birthday—a mere child. Such a brute! The thought of it made her shudder to this day. During her betrothal, she’d had such romantic dreams of marrying her prince and their two aristocratic families being joined. It’d been a fairytale, but one which soon turned into a nightmare. Within weeks of their splendid marriage, the rage of Bucharest high society, he’d gone off with another woman—in fact, many other women, leaving her heartbroken and lonely. And nothing had changed since.
The Airshipmen: A Novel Based on a True Story. A Tale of Love, Betrayal & Political Intrigue. Page 28