Wayward Winds

by Michael Phillips

  “Oh, Martha,” exclaimed one of her lady friends, “isn’t it all so wonderful! And, Amanda dear, how beautiful you look.—Hello, Geoffrey,” she added with a sly expression. “Your cousin is lovely, is she not?”

  Geoffrey mumbled some indistinct words of reply. Amanda cringed and glanced away.

  “Excuse me, Martha,” she said. “I see someone I must speak to.”

  “Go along with her, Geoffrey, and keep her company,” said Gifford.

  “Please, I would rather go by myself,” rejoined Amanda. That would be all she needed—to walk up to Ramsay with Geoffrey following like a puppy dog!

  Amanda moved off quickly before anyone could argue further.

  Before she had taken more than a half dozen steps across the lawn through the crowd, however, she was arrested by another face not twenty feet from where Halifax stood chatting and laughing.

  Amanda’s steps froze. Her face went pale. Slowly she retreated back to Martha’s side.

  “Cousin Martha,” she said, “could you take me home?”

  “But, dear . . . why—your face is white, Amanda. You look—”

  “I’m not feeling well,” said Amanda. “I really need to get out of here.”

  “Geoffrey will have James drive you. Go with her, Geoffrey. Tell James—”

  Martha stopped.

  “—Oh, but, Amanda,” she exclaimed after a moment. “Is that . . . it is! There are your parents across the way.”

  “I don’t want to see them, Martha. Please . . . I must get away from here.”

  Martha glanced bewilderedly back and forth between husband and son. Gifford could not have been more delighted at the turn of events. He was one of those small natures who enjoyed seeing division in a family, especially one he envied. He would be only too happy to take Amanda’s side against his cousin. Apparently the rift in the family went deeper than he had imagined. Amanda’s reaction only showed how much more likely they were to solidify her loyalties to his side of the family.

  He nodded to his son with the same hint of a smile, and Geoffrey led Amanda away.

  22

  On the Other Side of the Lawn

  Across the grounds, having no idea they were at the center of such a fuss, Charles and Jocelyn Rutherford moved leisurely through the crowd, arm in arm, without the slightest inkling their daughter was present at the historic occasion. Charles greeted many of his old friends from London whom he hadn’t seen in years, while Jocelyn clung close to his side.

  The bright red birthmark which scarred half of one side of Jocelyn’s face—from the neck, across her cheek, and up to the left side of her forehead—was not the burden it had once been. She had learned to accept her husband’s love and God’s love, and had through them learned to accept herself and give God thanks for his unique handiwork with her. She had learned, not without tears, to see her scar as the fingerprint of God’s care. Such occasions as these, however, among crowds of people, would always be difficult. She had grown up thinking that everyone was always staring at her, laughing to themselves, silently mocking the bright red side of her face. Such inward habits were difficult to break.

  Charles sensed his wife’s uneasiness and gave her hand a reassuring squeeze.

  “I know I am loved,” she said quietly, “but this is still hard.”

  Charles nodded. “It won’t be much longer,” he said. “We’ll get out of here and be on our way back to Devon—”

  “I say, old chap,” interrupted a boisterous voice.

  Charles glanced up to see its owner moving toward them with a wide grin spread over his face and hand outstretched.

  “It is you . . . I thought so. Charles Rutherford! It is good to see you, old man.”

  The two shook hands warmly.

  “Jocelyn,” said Charles, “you remember my speaking of Byram Forbes, of the Times.—Byram, may I present my wife Jocelyn.”

  “Lady Rutherford,” said Forbes, tipping his hat. “—But I forget myself,” he added, speaking again to Charles. “You are Sir Charles now. I beg your most humble pardon.”

  Charles laughed. “Believe me, Byram, the title is far less significant after one has it than one anticipates beforehand.”

  “You are keeping yourself busy, I hear.”

  “Busy enough.”

  “I hear your name mentioned all the time in connection with electricity and all sorts of newfangled gadgetry. Better not let the Germans or Austrians get hold of that brain of yours. They’re after liberals, you know.”

  Charles laughed again. “And what about you?” he said. “You must just about be editor by now.”

  This time it was Forbes’ turn to laugh. “Not if I live to be a hundred,” he said. “Too many in line ahead of me. But I manage to get the occasional interview to impress my colleagues. I had a session with the new king last month.”

  “I read your piece,” said Charles. “Nicely done.”

  “Would you like to meet him? I’m certain I could arrange it.”

  “That is very kind of you, Byram. Some other time perhaps.”

  “What about you, old man? Any chance I could talk you into an interview? You know, a world view from the retired politician looking at the situation with balance and perspective.”

  “I’m afraid not,” laughed Charles. “I’m out of politics now, remember.”

  Now a third man moved in to join the conversation.

  “I say, Forbes,” he said, “this can’t be Sir Charles Rutherford you’ve cornered—the political recluse?”

  “Hello, Max,” smiled Charles, shaking Baron Whitfield’s hand. “It’s been too long . . . you’re looking well.”

  “As are you, I must say. But you’re a dreadful liar, Charles. Your eyes can’t have escaped the fact that I’ve added a stone’s weight and have lost half my hair.”

  Charles roared with fun. “I try to look at the man, Max, not the appearance.”

  “Well then, I forgive you. But London’s not the same without you, Charles.”

  “You all seem to be managing to hold the world together just fine without me!—Excuse me a moment.”

  Charles turned to Jocelyn at his side. “You don’t mind if I visit a few minutes with my old friends?” he said.

  “Of course not. I’ll just go for a little walk.”

  “I didn’t mean that, Jocie. I wasn’t trying to get rid of you,” laughed Charles.

  “I would like to wander about.”

  “You won’t be uncomfortable being alone? I’m happy to have you stay.”

  “Don’t worry about me, Charles,” she replied. “I’ll go get another cup of tea and leave you men to your politics. I’ll wait for you over by the pond. The ducks and geese will entertain me.”

  “Are you certain, Jocelyn?”

  “Charles, I will be fine—enjoy yourself.” Jocelyn turned and walked off with a smile.

  “I’ll join you in a few minutes,” Charles called after her.

  23

  Former Acquaintance

  Meanwhile the small group had been joined by another of Charles’ former parliamentary colleagues, an outspoken Tory by the name of Chalmondley Beauchamp1*, who now walked up alongside a man whose bearing struck Charles as vaguely familiar but whom he could not immediately place. The man seemed to be eyeing him too, with the merest hint of submerged grin about his lips.

  Friendly greetings and handshakes ensued between Beauchamp and Charles. A brief hesitation followed as the count glanced back and forth between his former colleague and the man who had walked up at his side. His eyes contained the sparkle of fun.

  “Charles,” he began slowly, as if inviting Charles to speak, “may I present—”

  He paused and glanced at Charles again.

  “I have the distinct feeling we’re already supposed to know one another,” said Charles, at last giving in to a smile of bewilderment, “but I must confess—”

  “Think water . . . ships . . . midshipmen . . . admirals,” said the newcomer, speaking for t
he first time.

  “The navy?” said Charles, still perplexed, although the voice was even more familiar than the man’s look.

  “And that training exercise off Portsmouth, when a shipload of new recruits—”

  “The navy!” exclaimed Charles. “Of course—Redmond, isn’t it . . . give me a second . . . uh, Morley Redmond!”

  “Good show, Rutherford—yes, you’ve found me out at last!”

  The two shook hands amid laughter and good-natured comments all around the group.

  “Why, we haven’t seen one another in, what is it . . . must be thirty years!” Charles said, glancing around to the others by way of explanation. “We were stationed at Portsmouth together.”

  “I make it thirty-two,” said Redmond. “I had the advantage of being able to perform some hasty mental computations after I saw you. Beauchamp and I were standing across the way, when suddenly I realized my eyes had fallen on someone I hadn’t seen since I was a raw green sailor. Chalmondley noticed me staring at you and then realized it was none other than his old friend from Parliament. He was off like a flash. I followed . . . I tagged along to see if I could stump you.”

  “Well, it is good to see you again, Morley!” laughed Charles. “The joke was on me, and the two of you pulled it off very adroitly.”

  “It would seem the two of you have risen through the years,” Count Beauchamp now said. “Redmond, your friend is now Sir Charles . . . and Charles, you have the honor of speaking with Dr. Redmond.”

  “I do remember hearing about your knighthood some years back,” Redmond said. “Congratulations.”

  “And you . . . a doctor—my congratulations as well . . . surgery, medical research?”

  “I’m afraid nothing like that,” laughed Redmond. “I am what we call a doctor of philosophy—I earn my bread in the dusty halls of academia.”

  “I see—the intellectual crowd . . . training young minds to thrive in a changing world.”

  “Something like that.”

  “At what level?”

  “Here and there, wherever I can be useful. I bounce around a bit.”

  “My son recently graduated from Oxford.”

  “I do some duty up there myself from time to time—don’t recall encountering any Rutherfords.”

  “George studied engineering and mathematics. What field is your—”

  “Oh, excuse me, Rutherford . . . Chalmondley,” interrupted Redmond. “I just now see someone I need to speak with. You’ll forgive me if I dash off?”

  “Certainly, old man,” Beauchamp replied. “We’ll be here.”

  Redmond walked off and the conversation resumed among Charles, Forbes, Whitfield, and Beauchamp. A minute or two later James, earl of Westcott, joined them, shaking hands all around.

  “Any of you chaps attend Edward’s funeral last year?” he asked.

  Whitfield nodded; Charles shook his head.

  “Should have seen it,” said Westcott, “—kings, queens, and princes from all over Europe. Everyone was there. The German emperor, King Albert of Belgium, Prince Yussuf of Turkey, Archduke Franz Ferdinand of Austria, and more princes and princesses and royal highnesses than you could shake a stick at. I haven’t seen anything like it since Victoria’s Jubilee. This day reminds me of it somehow.”

  “Though Wilhelm II isn’t here today,” said Whitfield, “not even to celebrate his cousin’s coronation, nor Archduke Ferdinand, heir to the Austrian throne.”

  “You note significance in that fact, I take it, Max?” asked Beauchamp.

  The baron nodded, but for the present said no more in that direction.

  1. *pronounced Chum-ley Beach-um

  24

  Disquieting New Book

  A few more friends and former colleagues came by to greet the former popular member of Parliament and Liberal leader, and the discussion about the world situation grew lively. Jocelyn sat near the pond enjoying seeing Charles mix so easily with his friends. Five or ten minutes later, Dr. Morley Redmond returned. At his side was a man Charles did not recognize, though whom several of the group apparently knew. Another round of greetings and introductions followed.

  “Meet my friend Hartwell Barclay, Sir Charles,” said Redmond. “—Hartwell . . . Sir Charles Rutherford, lord of the manor of the Heathersleigh estate in Devonshire.”

  “I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Sir Charles,” said Redmond’s friend. “I have, of course, heard of you and have followed some of your work.”

  “I’m sorry,” Charles replied somewhat sheepishly, “you’ll have to forgive me, Mr. Barclay, but I find myself at the disadvantage of not being able to return the favor.”

  “Mr. Barclay is with the foreign office and works as a liaison with the secret service, mostly on the Continent.”

  “I would not only be surprised if you had heard of me,” said Barclay, “I would be disturbed as well. Success in the field of international intelligence, especially these days with the delicate negotiations in which we are involved, is greatly aided by keeping what we like to call a low public profile.”

  “But I say, old chap,” Beauchamp said, turning to Charles with a somewhat lighter tone, “the country needs you. Any thoughts of returning to the political arena?”

  “None whatever,” laughed Charles. “I am perfectly content at present with where the Lord has me.”

  A few uneasy coughs and adjustments of various collars went around the circle at Charles’ comment.

  “But what do you make of the world situation?” persisted Beauchamp. “Now that we have a new king, will the kaiser bring the German army out of mothballs?”

  “I hardly think it’s been in mothballs, Beauchamp,” objected Forbes. “Don’t you Tories pay attention to what’s up on the Continent? Wilhelm has been rattling his German sabers all around the world for twenty years.”

  “Nothing but bluster and show, if you ask me,” remarked Beauchamp in reply. “He’s just not the diplomat old Bismarck was.”

  “I am not so sure,” rejoined Forbes. “He is an imperialist, bent on antagonizing every nation of Europe, replacing Great Britain’s supremacy on the seas, and taking over the Ottoman Empire when it finally collapses altogether. I say we have plenty to fear from Berlin.”

  “It’s not the Germans I worry about,” remarked the earl of Westcott, “it’s the Russians.”

  “Ah, but haven’t you heard, James old man,” put in Beauchamp, “they’re our allies now.”

  “According to a piece of paper perhaps, Chalmondley. But there’s revolution brewing there, I tell you, and no good will come of it. It’s only a matter of time before that keg explodes.”

  “James is right,” added Forbes. “But it remains the Germans who are the threat to stability and peace in Europe.”

  “Byram is spot on,” said Baron Whitfield, “—it’s the Germans all right. That’s why the emperor isn’t here—relations between our two nations, without Edward at the helm of Britain, are cooling rapidly. They’re infiltrating everywhere. There may, in fact, be German and Austrian sympathizers among us even now.”

  “Nonsense, Max,” laughed Beauchamp. “You’re an alarmist.”

  “I would prefer to call myself a realist. Moles, they’re called, Chalmondley. And you oughtn’t be so cavalier. Watch what you say—the enemy might be listening.”

  “We’re not at war,” rejoined Redmond. “We don’t have enemies nowadays.”

  “There are enemies of the silent, devious kind too, you know, Dr. Redmond,” said the baron. “Enemies don’t always carry guns. Sometimes your enemy disguises his true motive with a smile and soothing words.”

  “Communists too, looking for support for their revolution,” added Westcott, returning to the Russian theme. “One can’t be too cautious these days. It’s a changed world. One hardly knows whom to trust.”

  “I will agree with you there,” added Whitfield. “With revolution in Turkey and Austria annexing Bosnia and Herzegovina and Russia now recovering from their Ja
panese war . . . I tell you, it is a dangerous time. It wasn’t that long ago that we were friendlier toward Germany than Russia. There are many who think England’s present course wrong and would side with Austrian and German interests. But behind Austria, Germany is the greater worry, though it is likely their alliance with Austria will light the fuse. The Germans are a people who thrive on war. If there is—”

  “Come, come—there’s not going to be any war,” said Beauchamp. “This is the age of diplomacy, or haven’t you heard? Am I not right, Mr. Barclay?”

  “That’s supposed to be our job all right,” replied Barclay. “I doubt it will come to war.”

  “I wouldn’t like to differ with someone from the foreign office, but haven’t any of you read General Bernhardi’s book,” asked Whitfield, “—just out?”

  “The old German general?” said Charles.

  “Yes, and the first German to ride through the Arc de Triomphe when the Germans entered Paris in 1870. He was a twenty-one-year-old cavalry officer then. He is a sixty-two-year-old military theorist now. His ideas ought to frighten all Europe.”

  “What’s it called, Max?” asked Charles.

  “Germany and the Next War,” replied the baron. “The title says it as clearly as can be. He argues that war is a biological necessity, that there will always be wars, that they are intrinsic to the struggle for the existence of nations. Furthermore, he says that Germany is at the head of all of Europe, the leader of progress and culture, the most important nation in existence today.”

  “He actually makes such a claim!” huffed Westcott.

  Whitfield nodded. “And more.”

  “It seems that is enough,” commented Beauchamp, though without the earl’s emotion.

  “Germany cannot,” Whitfield went on, “according to Bernhardi, be compressed and cramped into unnatural borders. She is morally entitled, by her inherent greatness above the other nations around her, to expand her sphere of influence and enlarge her territory. Such is its right as political necessity. And to attain these ends, Germany must fight and conquer.”