“No, I think I’ll skip that, but why don’t you all come over to the Hall for lunch on Sunday?”
“Isn’t that putting a little too much pressure on Karin?” said Harry.
“When you’ve been living under a Communist regime for most of your life, I don’t think you’d consider having lunch with the Cliftons as pressure.”
“If you’re sure, then we’ll see you both on Sunday.”
“I’m sure,” said Giles, as the front door bell rang. “Got to dash, Harry.” He put the phone down and checked his watch. Could it possibly be ten o’clock already? He almost ran into the hall to find Markham opening the front door.
“Good morning, Mr. Pengelly, Sir Giles is expecting you.”
“Good morning,” said Pengelly, giving the butler a slight bow.
“Come on in,” said Giles, as they shook hands. “Markham, can you rustle up some fresh coffee while I take Mr. Pengelly through to the drawing room.”
“Of course, sir.”
“Karin should be down in a moment. It’s a long story, but she’s trying to decide which of my sister’s clothes to wear.”
Pengelly laughed. “Women have enough trouble deciding which of their own clothes to wear.”
“Did you have any difficulty finding us?”
“No, I left it all to the taxi driver. A rare experience for me, but this is a special occasion.”
“It certainly is,” said Giles. “The chance to be reunited with your daughter when you thought you might never see her again.”
“I’ll be eternally grateful to you, Sir Giles. And if the Telegraph is to be believed, it was a close-run thing.”
“Brookes exaggerated the whole incident,” said Giles, as the two of them sat down, “but one can hardly blame the man after what they put him through.”
Markham returned carrying a tray of coffee and shortbread biscuits, which he placed between them on the drawing room table.
“Comrade Honecker won’t be best pleased that you upstaged him,” said Pengelly, looking down at the Telegraph headline. “Not that there was anything in the speech that we haven’t all heard before.”
“Several times,” said Giles, as the door opened and Karin burst in. She ran toward her father, who leapt up and took her in his arms. Funny, thought Giles, I never noticed that simple white dress when my sister wore it.
Father and daughter clung onto each other, but it was Mr. Pengelly who burst into tears.
“Sorry to make such a fool of myself,” he said, “but I’ve been looking forward to this moment for so long.”
“Me too,” said Karin.
Giles looked at his watch. “I apologize, but I’ll have to leave you both, as I have a meeting in the Commons at eleven. But I know you have a great deal to catch up on.”
“When will you be back?” asked Karin.
“Around twelve, possibly earlier, then I’ll take you both out to lunch.”
“And after lunch?”
“We’re going shopping. I haven’t forgotten.” Giles kissed her gently on the lips, while Pengelly looked away. “See you both around twelve,” he said as he walked out into the hall where the butler was holding his overcoat. “I’m expecting to be back in about an hour, Markham. Don’t disturb them, as I suspect they’ll appreciate having some time to themselves.”
* * *
Karin and her father remained silent as they waited for the front door to close, and even then they didn’t speak until they heard Markham close the kitchen door.
“Did everything go to plan?”
“Almost everything,” said Karin. “Until we reached the border, when an overzealous young officer started asking far too many questions.”
“But I personally briefed the border guards,” said Pengelly. “I even told Lieutenant Engel that he was to give you a hard time before ticking off your name, so Barrington would be even more convinced you’d been lucky to escape.”
“Well, it didn’t work out quite as you planned, comrade, because a Fleet Street journalist decided to poke his nose in, and even started taking photographs.”
“Keith Brookes. Yes, I gave orders for him to be released soon after you crossed the border. I wanted to be sure he didn’t miss his deadline,” Pengelly added as he looked down at the Telegraph headline:
SIR GILES BARRINGTON RESCUES GIRLFRIEND FROM BEHIND THE IRON CURTAIN
“But we can’t afford to relax,” said Karin. “Despite the lovelorn look, Giles Barrington is nobody’s fool.”
“From what I’ve just witnessed, you seem to have him eating out of your hand.”
“For now, yes, but we can’t assume that will last, and we’d be unwise to ignore his record when it comes to women. He isn’t exactly reliable.”
“He managed ten years with his last wife,” said Pengelly, “which should be more than enough time for what our masters have in mind.”
“So what’s the immediate plan?”
“There’s no immediate plan. Marshal Koshevoi looks upon this as a long-term operation, so just be sure you give him everything his two previous wives obviously failed to do.”
“That shouldn’t be too difficult, because I think the poor man is actually in love with me. Can you believe that last night was the first time he’d ever had oral sex?”
“And I’m sure there are one or two other experiences he can look forward to. You must do everything in your power to keep it that way, because we’ll never have a better chance of getting a foot in the British establishment’s door.”
“I won’t be satisfied with getting my foot in the door,” said Karin. “I intend to break it down.”
“Good. But for now, let’s concentrate on your other responsibilities. We must develop a simple system for passing on messages to our agents in the field.”
“I thought I was only going to deal directly with you.”
“That might not always be possible as I’ll have to remain in Cornwall for a lot of the time if Barrington’s not to become suspicious.”
“So what should I do if I need to contact you urgently?”
“I’ve installed a second phone line for your exclusive use, but it’s only for emergencies. Whenever you want to get in touch with your “father,” use the listed number, and only ever speak in English. If you need to call the private line—and I stress, only in emergencies—I’ll speak in Russian and you should respond in German. So there are only two numbers you’ll need to remember.”
The front door slammed, and a moment later they heard Giles’s voice in the hallway. “Are they still in the drawing room?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And I’ll never forgive myself,” Pengelly was saying, “for not being by your mother’s side when—”
Giles burst into the room. “I wanted you to be the first to know, my darling. Harold Wilson has offered me a place in the House of Lords.”
Both of them looked pleased.
LADY VIRGINIA FENWICK
1971
12
THE EARL OF Fenwick wrote to his daughter and summoned her to Scotland. Almost a royal command.
Virginia dreaded the thought of having to face her father. As long as she kept herself out of the gossip columns and within her budget, the old man didn’t seem to care too much about what she got up to in London. However, her high court libel action against her ex-sister-in-law Emma Clifton had been extensively reported in the Scotsman, the only paper the noble earl ever read.
Virginia didn’t arrive at Fenwick Hall until after dinner, and immediately retired to bed in the hope that her father would be in a better mood following a night’s sleep. He wasn’t. In fact, he barely uttered a word throughout breakfast, other than to say, “I’ll see you in my study at ten,” as if she were an errant schoolgirl.
She was standing outside Papa’s study at five minutes to ten, but didn’t knock on the door until she heard the clock in the hall strike the hour. She was painfully aware that her father expected one to be neither early nor late. When
she did knock, she was rewarded with the command, “Come!” She opened the door and walked into a room she only ever entered when she was in trouble. Virginia remained standing on the other side of the desk waiting to be invited to sit. She wasn’t. She still didn’t speak. Children should be seen and not heard, was one of her father’s favorite maxims, which may have been the reason they were almost strangers.
While Virginia waited for him to open the conversation, she took a closer look at the old man who was seated behind his desk, attempting to light a briar pipe. He’d aged considerably since she’d last seen him. The lines on his face were more deeply etched. But despite being well into his seventies, his gray hair was still thick, and his finely clipped moustache served to remind everyone he was of a past generation. The earl’s smoking jacket was the lovat green of his highland clan, and he considered it a virtue that he rarely ventured beyond the borders. He’d been educated at Loretto School in Edinburgh before graduating to St. Andrews. The golf club, not the university. At general elections, he supported the Conservative Party, not out of conviction, but because he considered the Tories the lesser of several evils. However, as his Member of Parliament had been Sir Alec Douglas-Home, he wasn’t without influence. He visited the House of Lords on rare occasions, and then only when a vote was required on a piece of legislation that affected his livelihood.
Once he’d lit his pipe and taken a few exaggerated puffs, he reluctantly turned his attention to his only daughter, whom he considered to be one of his few failures in life. The earl blamed his late wife for indulging the child during her formative years. The countess had favored the carrot rather than the stick, so that by the age of eighteen, the only carats Virginia knew were to be found at Cartier and not the local greengrocers.
“Let me begin by asking you, Virginia,” said the earl between puffs, “if you have finally settled all the legal bills that arose from your reckless libel action?”
“Yes, I have, Papa. But I had to sell all my shares in Barrington’s in order to do so.”
“No more than poetic justice,” commented the earl, before taking another puff on his ancient pipe. “You should never have allowed the case to get to court after Sir Edward advised you that your chances were no better than fifty-fifty.”
“But it was in the bag until Fisher wrote that unfortunate letter.”
“Another example of your lack of judgment,” spat out the earl. “Fisher was always going to be a liability, and you should never have become involved with him.”
“But he was a major in the army.”
“A rank you reach only after the war office has decided it’s time for you to retire.”
“And a Member of Parliament.”
“Who rate above only second-hand car salesmen and cattle thieves for reliability.” Virginia opted for silence in a battle she knew she couldn’t win. “Please assure me, Virginia, that you haven’t thrown your hand in with any more ne’er-do-wells.”
She thought about Desmond Mellor, Adrian Sloane and Jim Knowles, to whom she knew her father wouldn’t have given house room. “No, Papa, I’ve learned my lesson, and won’t be causing you any more trouble.”
“I’m glad to hear it.”
“But I must admit that it’s quite difficult to live in London on only two thousand pounds a month.”
“Then come back and live in Kinross, where one can exist quite comfortably on two thousand a year.”
Virginia knew only too well that was the last thing her father would want, so she decided to take a risk. “I was rather hoping, Papa, you might see your way to raising my allowance to three thousand a month.”
“You needn’t give that a second thought,” came back the immediate reply. “In fact, after your most recent shenanigans, I was thinking of cutting your allowance in half.”
“But if you did that, Papa, how could I hope to survive?” She wondered if this was the moment to burst into tears.
“You could behave like the rest of us and learn to live within your means.”
“But my friends rather expect—”
“Then you’ve got the wrong friends. Perhaps the time has come for you to join the real world.”
“What are you suggesting, Papa?”
“You could start by dismissing your butler and housekeeper, who are in my opinion an unnecessary expense, and then move into a smaller flat.” Virginia looked shocked. “And you could even go out and look for a job.” Virginia burst into tears. “Although that, come to think of it, would be pointless, as you’re not qualified to do anything apart from spending other people’s money.”
“But, Papa,” Virginia said, dabbing away a tear, “another thousand a month would solve all my problems.”
“But not mine,” said the earl. “So you can begin your new regime by taking a bus to the station and traveling back to London—second class.”
* * *
Virginia had never entered a second-class carriage and, despite her father’s admonition, had no intention of doing so. However, during the long journey back to King’s Cross, she did give considerable thought to her current predicament, and what choices had been left open to her if she was not to further exhaust the old man’s patience.
She had already borrowed small amounts from several friends and acquaintances, and one or two of them were beginning to press her for repayment, while others seemed resigned to the fact that she hadn’t considered the money a loan, more of a gift.
Perhaps she could learn to live without a butler and a cook, visit Peter Jones more often than Harrods, and even board the occasional bus, rather than hail a taxi. However, one thing she could never agree to do was to travel on the tube. She didn’t care to go underground, unless it was to visit Annabel’s. Her weekly visit to the hair salon was also nonnegotiable, and white wine in place of champagne was unthinkable. She also refused to consider giving up her box at the Albert Hall, or her debenture seats at Wimbledon. She’d been told by Bofie Bridgwater that some of his friends rented them out when they weren’t using them. So vulgar, although she had to admit it would be marginally better than losing them altogether.
However, Virginia had noticed recently that she’d been receiving more brown envelopes through the letterbox. She left them unopened in the vain hope that they would go away, whereas in truth they were often followed by a solicitor’s letter warning of an impending writ if their client’s bills were not paid within fourteen days. As if that wasn’t enough, she had that morning opened a letter from her bank manager asking to see her ladyship at her earliest convenience.
Virginia had never met a bank manager, and it certainly wasn’t convenient. But when she returned to Cadogan Gardens and opened her front door, she discovered that the brown envelopes on the hall table now outnumbered the white. She took the letters through to the drawing room, where she divided them into two piles.
After dropping into the wastepaper basket a second request from her bank manager for an urgent meeting, she turned her attention to the white envelopes. Several invitations from chums inviting her to spend a weekend in the country, but she’d recently sold her little MGB and no longer had any means of transport. Balls, at which she couldn’t possibly be seen in the same dress twice. Ascot, Wimbledon, and of course the garden party at Buckingham Palace. But it was Bofie Bridgwater’s embossed invitation that intrigued her most.
Bofie was, in her father’s opinion, a waste of space. However, he did have the virtue of being the youngest son of a viscount, which allowed him to mix with a class of people who were only too happy to foot the bill. Virginia read Bofie’s attached letter. Would she care to join him for lunch at Harry’s Bar (which certainly meant he wouldn’t be paying) to meet an old American chum (they’d probably met quite recently), Cyrus T. Grant III, who was visiting London for the first time and didn’t know his way around town?
“Cyrus T. Grant III,” she repeated. Where had she come across that name before? Ah, yes, William Hickey. She picked up the previous day’s Daily Express and
turned to the gossip column, as a gambler turns to the racing pages. Cyrus T. Grant III will be visiting London this summer to take in the season, Hickey informed her. In particular, to watch his filly, Noble Conquest, race in the King George VI and Queen Elizabeth Stakes at Ascot. He will be flying to London on his Lear jet, and staying in the Nelson suite at the Ritz. Forbes magazine has listed Grant as the 28th richest man in America. A multimillionaire—Virginia liked the word “multi”—who had made his fortune in the canning industry—she didn’t care for the word “industry.” Hickey went on to say that Vogue had described him as one of the most eligible bachelors on the planet. But how old are you? mumbled Virginia, as she studied the photo of the tycoon below the story. She guessed forty-five, and hoped fifty, and although he wasn’t what you might have called handsome, or even presentable, the number 28 stuck in her mind.
Virginia dropped Bofie a handwritten billet accepting his kind invitation, and added how much she was looking forward to meeting Cyrus T. Grant III. Perhaps she could sit next to him?
* * *
“You called, my lady?” said the butler.
“Yes, Morton. I’m sorry to say that I have been left with no choice but to terminate your employment at the end of the month.” Morton didn’t look surprised, as he hadn’t been paid for the past three months. “Of course, I shall supply you with an excellent reference, so you should have no difficulty in finding another position.”
“Thank you, my lady, because I confess these have not been the easiest of times.”
“I’m not sure I understand you, Morton.”
“Mrs. Morton is expecting again.”
“But you told me only last year that you felt three children was more than enough.”
“And I still do, my lady, but just let’s say this one wasn’t planned.”
“One must organize one’s life more carefully, Morton, and learn to live within one’s means.”
“Quite so, my lady.”
* * *
Virginia could no longer put off visiting her bank manager after an embarrassed Mayfair hairdresser presented her with a bounced check.
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