The Airshipmen: A Novel Based on a True Story. A Tale of Love, Betrayal & Political Intrigue.

by David Dennington

  Oh, well, that’s George. I don’t hold anything against him—he has his good side. Although, it’s a wonder I survived to make love ever again.

  But she had. In matters of passion, Prince Charles-Louis de Beauvau-Craon was the man who saved her—becoming the love of her life. She thought of the abuse she’d suffered, when compared to Charles-Louis’s magnificent, loving treatment of her.

  If my body were a Stradivarius, then Charles-Louis was a maestro. He taught me about sex and love. Oh my God, those nights with him were pure ecstasy! For him, I would’ve given up everything.

  Marthe had been madly in love, but his mother had put her foot down, refusing to allow him to marry a divorced woman.

  And thank God she did! I should hate to be living in abject poverty now. Sex and love are all very well, but …

  No man had abused her since her marriage. In fact, during her numerous affairs she’d tantalized many a man for her own amusement. Marthe wondered about the future. She was still a beautiful woman, adored and pursued by powerful men.

  She thought about this visit and supposed she’d have to succumb to Thomson’s advances at some point. Maybe she could manage to hold him off until the last night. She usually did. This naturally left him thirsting for more. Sex with him was a chore to be endured, but thank God, always soon over. But he really was such a dear, dear man though! She told Thomson she’d been totally ruined on her wedding night. He thought of her as a passionless, injured flower. All he ever wanted to do was protect and nurture her.

  Bless his heart!

  Isadora would play her part. She’d taken care of Marthe in Romania since the age of ten, as her surrogate mother. Isadora certainly cared for her as much as Marthe’s mother—probably a lot more—and Marthe adored her. But Marthe couldn’t be too hard on her mother. The poor woman was in a perpetual state of grief over the loss of her only son, Georges, to typhoid fever and then later, of Marthe’s older sister to cholera. After her father’s death and Thomson's departure for Palestine, her younger sister killed herself. Soon after that, both her mother and favorite cousin also committed suicide. Marthe had been very much alone in the world, but for Isadora.

  Soon after Marthe’s marriage, Isadora had nursed her through near-death during childbirth. Thank God for Isadora! There were two people Marthe kept no secrets from—her priest and Isadora. She and the old Slav woman laughed together and cried together—in private. In public, she became her maidservant, rarely noticed—never heard.

  Marthe was terribly fond of the old priest. He was the second pillar in her life. He’d converted her to Catholicism as a girl of twelve, after she’d been sent to Paris by her father. He instructed her in the faith, becoming her confessor and spiritual adviser. He was modern, open-minded and witty, especially for a priest. That chubby little man in his threadbare habit, living a life of poverty—except for the good food and wine lavished upon him by doting parishioners—was extraordinarily well-read. She told him about all the goings on in her life, including details of her affairs, and he usually chuckled. He advised against divorce—under no circumstance would he approve contravention of God’s laws, except when violence played a role.

  The Daimler passed Stable Row on the palace grounds, where the king’s horses were kept. At the top of Buckingham Palace Road, they turned in front of the palace. Marthe was thrilled at the sight of the mounted King’s Guard on its way from Wellington Barracks on Birdcage Walk. They looked so fine in their red tunics, gold tassels swinging from side to side. The horses glistened beautifully, like the soldiers’ boots and the wet tarmacadam streets. Police held up their limousine as the riders turned and entered the palace gate. Outside the iron railings, Marthe witnessed the changing of the guard.

  Such timing! Such splendor! A perfect start to a pleasant interlude in England.

  After the horsemen had passed, the police allowed them to proceed around the Victoria Memorial and up the Mall. Soon they turned on to St. James’s Street, passing St. James’s Palace. The car moved up the hill, in front of Boodle’s and White’s gentleman’s clubs, well known to Marthe. Some of her male friends were members. How she wished she could set foot inside them. Now, here was Brooks’s conservative club on the left. Kit wouldn’t be a member, but he’d certainly have been invited as a guest. At the top of the street, before entering Piccadilly, the car drew up outside the Ritz. It was immediately descended upon by hotel staff.

  The hotel manager escorted Marthe through the marble hall to the lift and up to room 627, a magnificent suite furnished with Louis XV1 antique furniture with a balcony overlooking the Royal Gardens in Green Park. As soon as the door swung open, she was enveloped by the scent of roses—Variété Général Jacqueminot—in cut glass vases placed around the room.

  “Lord Thomson came this morning, Princess, to inspect the flower arrangements,” the manager gushed. Excited, Marthe went to the vase containing the largest and most beautiful bouquet, placed on the round table at the center of the room. She plucked out the envelope wedged between the stems and removed the engraved card.

  “Ooo la la!” she exclaimed.

  Welcome back to England, my dearest Marthe.

  Our special roses come with my deepest love.

  Until eight, tonight—Your ever devoted Kit.

  Thomson arranged for flowers to be placed in her room every time she returned to London, but like a young girl, she always expressed surprise and appreciation. He’d certainly out-done himself this time, though. She called for Isadora. A scented bath would help soothe her for a couple of hours before he arrived.

  34

  THE WRATH OF LORD SCUNTHORPE

  July 4, 1929.

  Thomson was indeed vexed. He hated not being at the station to meet her. It was such a thrill when her train came steaming in, her face at the window, her uplifting smile. Alas, today it couldn’t be helped—the debate in the Lords concerned the future of the airship program and his presence was of paramount importance. Many on both sides were bitterly opposed to ‘lighter than air’ and out to sabotage the program. They’d cut funding given the slightest opportunity. He must fend off attacks—give them some stick. There were rumors of a showdown.

  Thomson entered the magnificent chamber of the House of Lords, which formed part of the Palace of Westminster. The King’s throne, the highest seat in the room was modeled on the fourteenth century coronation chair in Westminster Abbey. The area was shrouded by a canopy clad in gold and supported by ornamental columns. Oil paintings, depicting Britain’s glorious past, hung above the throne up to the ceiling. The rest of the walls, clad in Elizabethan paneling, ran up to the Gothic stone window surrounds just beneath the beamed roof. Stained-glass leaded windows lent a holy atmosphere. The great space was lit by gold chandeliers hanging from the roof and by candelabras on ornamental columns in front of the throne.

  Visitors and the press, which included reporters who’d attended Thomson’s first press conference at Cardington, stood on the high gallery running around the room. Today, more than a dozen were present, including George Hunter from the Daily Express. As Thomson strode in, he listened to the chatter of finely dressed, white-haired lords. They twisted and turned in their red leather banquettes and leaned over chairbacks, talking. Thomson knew they liked fireworks. They wouldn’t be disappointed.

  He took his seat in the front row, on the left side of the Lord Chancellor’s empty chair. Despite the charged atmosphere, Thomson was preoccupied with thoughts of Marthe—thoughts that gave him butterflies. Everyone stood as the Lord Chancellor entered through the ornate doors. He strode to his seat in front of the throne and sat down. The lords sat down in unison.

  After preliminary remarks, the Lord Chancellor indicated Lord Scunthorpe would speak first. Lord Scunthorpe, an imposing man in his sixties, heavily jowled with flowing, white locks had taken his name from the city south of Howden, which was also his family name—making him Lord Scunthorpe of Scunthorpe. He stood up and glared in Thomson’s direction for a long
moment, before speaking.

  “I’ve never flown in a dirigible and I never will …that is, whilst I’m still in my right mind!” he boomed in his heavy Yorkshire brogue. A chorus went up and many of the heads of white hair shook from side to side.

  “Hell would freeze over before that ’appened!” he added.

  “Hear, hear!”

  “Nor I!”

  “Airships are the devil’s ’andiwork in defiance of God’s laws and we should avoid them like the plague!”

  “Quite right!”

  “Where in the world are we going to find people crazy enough to fly in these diabolically dangerous contraptions? From which lunatic asylum will they be dragged?”

  Lord Scunthorpe stared at Thomson as the jeering and heckling continued. Thomson’s face was expressionless. Inside he seethed.

  “This is not a matter of party politics—of left versus right. It’s a matter of common sense verses sheer stupidity. A matter of life and death. What we’re dealing with ’ere is a flight of fantasy!”

  “Hear! Hear!”

  “I agree!”

  “Now, let us examine the Air Ministry’s achievements to date and the track record of these floating ‘ydrogen bombs. We’ll start with the R33, although there are of course, many earlier horror stories. That airship cost three ’undred and forty-six thousand pounds and blew away to Germany—luckily, no one was killed in that one.”

  Thomson had seen the newsreels. The ship had been torn away from its mooring in Norfolk and blown to the Continent. It limped all the way home flying backwards after the storm.

  “The R34 cost three ’undred and sixty thousand and was scrapped after an argument with the Yorkshire Moors and getting blown out over the North Sea.”

  This infuriated Thomson. Scunthorpe failed to mention the ship had made a historic return flight to Long Island, New York in 1919 (with Scott in command).

  “Now let me see. The R35 cost three ’undred and seventy thousand and ended in disaster. While ’undreds were ’oldin’ ’er down, she took off with scores of men still clinging on. Men died that day—for absolutely no good reason whatsoever!”

  “Shame! Shame!”

  Thomson remained stony-faced.

  “This brings us to another monumental failure—the R37. It cost three ’undred and ninety thousand pounds and was smashed into the shed by the wind, destroying the airship and the shed. Luckily, ’undreds of men escaped injury or death.”

  Thomson folded his arms.

  How much longer must we endure this?

  “Now we come to the R38.” Lord Scunthorpe stopped and gazed around the chamber at the faces. No smiles now. Lord Scunthorpe’s accusing eyes burned into Thomson.

  Carry on, you visionless-fool.

  “Yes, we all remember R38, don’t we? That miracle of British engineering cost a whopping five ’undred thousand pounds. And that’s not all it cost—it cost forty-four men their lives. That monstrosity broke in ’alf, exploded in flames and crashed into the River ’Umber.” He raised his hands to the heavens as if imploring the Almighty. “I seem to remember after that little mis’ap we all said, ‘Never again!’ Didn’t we? …Well, didn't we?”

  “Yes, we did!”

  “We did!”

  “Now, we mustn’t forget our American friends—yes, they ’ave their share of great ‘visionaries’ too, wanting to build airships as big as their egos. After R38, in 1922, the Roma went down in Virginia. Thirty-four men got roasted alive in that one. In 1925, the Shenandoah broke to bits in a storm over Ohio, costing fourteen more lives. The same thing ’appened to the French Dixmude. That thing blew up and fell to pieces in a storm over the Mediterranean with the loss of another forty-four men. It’s obvious to me these ridiculous machines are even more useless in bad weather and, I submit, we will always ’ave bad weather!”

  “Of course we will!”

  “Yes, indeed!”

  Scunthorpe peered round the chamber with his hands on his hips.

  “India …” The word trailed off into silence, his timing impeccable. He stared up at the chandeliers, shaking his head, his lips pursed. Everyone waited. “…you know …I think …you’ve got more chance of flying to the moon on a witch’s bloody broomstick!”

  The chamber erupted. The Lord Chancellor banged his gavel.

  “Order! Order!”

  “Ha, ha!”

  “Stupid fools!”

  “They’ve got no chance!”

  “Let us turn our attention to the Air Minister’s latest folly. The engineering feat he calls the Cardington R101, designed by ‘the experts’ at Cardington, has been under construction for five years now, costing the taxpayer four ’undred and sixty thousand pounds, which by any stretch of the imagination, could not take to the air this year …next year …or the year after that!”

  The chamber was now bedlam. Members stood banging the banquette chair backs while the Lord Chancellor furiously hammered his gavel. “Order! Order!”

  When order was restored, Lord Scunthorpe resumed softly.

  “Finally, I have just one question. When will the British Government come to its senses and put an end to this madness and stop pouring money down the drain!”

  This crescendo exhausted him. With a red face and bulging veins, Lord Scunthorpe sank into his seat. All eyes turned and rested on Thomson, who remained motionless for what seemed ages, glaring at Lord Scunthorpe. Eventually, he rose and the room fell silent.

  “The honorable gentleman may mock …but God gave men vision to better their lot—to use logic and reason and engineering skill to overcome the obstacles of gravity and distance—and yes, weather. God did not give us brains for us to behave like shrinking violets! Men shall break the bonds of earth and take to the air to fly like eagles, despite what the honorable gentleman from the North would have us believe. The trouble with the noble lord is …he doesn’t get out of Scunthorpe enough!”

  It was the turn of the supporters of the program to jeer and for Thomson to give Lord Scunthorpe a withering glare.

  “All the brave pioneers in aviation who lost their lives shall not have died in vain. From the ashes of R38 these mighty airships shall rise like the phoenix—bigger and stronger and safer—capable of flying enormous distances in any kind of weather. Airships are the wave of the future and they’ll forge air routes around the world, binding our empire and improving the lives of millions. Mark my words, sir. Mark my words!”

  Thomson bowed to the Lord Chancellor and marched stiffly from the chamber.

  35

  BITTER SWEET

  July 4, 1929.

  While Thomson was doing battle with Lord Scunthorpe at the House of Lords, Marthe was being bathed by Isadora in the magnificent, marble bath. After sending her away, Marthe allowed herself to soak and contemplate for an hour in the warm, perfumed water. She thought about the roses.

  So many this time! He’s always generous, but is there more to it?

  She hoped not.

  By 8 o’clock Marthe was well-rested and Isadora assisted her in putting the final touches to her makeup, hair and dressing. She wore a black chiffon dress and black goatskin shoes. To complement the dress, she wore a magnificent string of pearls given to her by Kronprinz Wilhelm of Germany, an ardent admirer for years. She twirled in front of the mirror like a dancer. At forty-three, she looked as beautiful as the day Thomson had first seen her in Bucharest: her skin still smooth and white as china, without the first sign of a wrinkle; her hair, rich, dark brown with highlights of red, shone with health. Tonight, as on the first night he’d met her, she had her hair fastened up and drawn tightly to the back, accentuating her bone structure and slightly hollow cheeks.

  There was a knock at the door. Isadora opened it. Thomson stood dressed in a black evening suit, winged collar and bow tie. He’d known Isadora since 1915. She never changed. She appeared old to him then. Always silent. Sullen he thought. She annoyed him, but he knew it was unreasonable to feel that way about a servant. She seeme
d constantly present.

  “Ah, good evening, Isadora,” Thomson said. “May I come in?”

  Isadora stepped aside without a word, allowing him to enter. Marthe appeared from her bedroom, smiling. Isadora hovered.

  “Kit!”

  Thomson was overjoyed and rushed forward. She allowed him to kiss her on both cheeks and to kiss her hands. He longed to take her in his arms and kiss her lips, but now wasn’t the time. Each time they were reunited he had to court her all over again. He was resigned to the fact that Marthe was not a passionate woman—she’d always been that way; affectionate and friendly, but never passionate.

  “God, I’ve missed you, Marthe,” Thomson said, clasping her hands.

  “Thank you for all these lovely flowers. You shouldn’t have gone to so much trouble.”

  “You know it gives me great pleasure, my dearest.”

  “We must go if we don’t want to be late.”

  Isadora removed Marthe’s evening coat from the closet and held it up. He let go of Marthe’s hands.

  They were driven in Thomson’s limousine to His Majesty’s Theater in the Haymarket where ‘Bitter Sweet,’ an operetta by Noël Coward, was playing. Marthe had expressed an interest in seeing it and Thomson had obtained the Royal Box. The musical was popular and the theater filled rapidly. Marthe appreciated the building, admiring the burgundy walls and fluted columns with gold relief. She slipped into one of the red velvet chairs with Thomson beside her. He was in heaven.