The Proprietor's Daughter

by Lewis Orde

  “I really wish you weren’t going back,” Barnhill said.

  “Stop worrying. The Falklands are eight thousand miles from Britain. I promise you that the moment an Argentine plane flies over Kate’s Haven, I’ll come right back with Henry and Joanne.”

  Despite his concern, Barnhill smiled.

  When the flight was called, they kissed good-bye. “Thanks for coming over and holding my hand.”

  “Thank you for the dedication in a hundred-thousand-dollar book.”

  “I’m going to write to you every day.”

  “Save some of those written words for the book. You haven’t finished it yet.” She wrapped her arms around him and held on tightly, suddenly afraid to let go.

  “Give the kids a hug for me.”

  “I will.” At last, she released him. “Go back to your book. Just because I’m not here, it doesn’t mean you can slack off.” She passed through the gate, turned once to wave, and carried on toward the aircraft.

  The next day, while Katherine’s body caught up to English time, Barnhill’s bleak scenario came true. A huge Argentine force seized the Falkland Islands, South Georgia, and the South Sandwich Islands. The Royal Navy prepared to regain the dependencies. And in the war fever that swept Britain, Roland Eagles’s pleas for moderation were to make him a marked man.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  ROLAND EAGLES had never visited Argentina, nor was he enamored with the military junta that gripped its populace in a fist of iron. Despite that, he possessed a certain warmth of feeling toward the South American country, which had, quite suddenly, become the enemy of his own. His beloved Catarina had come from Argentina, brought to England as an eighteen-year-old girl by her father, the Ambassador to the Court of St. James’s. Because of the blissful year he had spent with her, and the daughter she had given him as a tangible memory of their love, Roland was prepared to regard the country of her birth with more tolerance than the average Englishman.

  When news of the invasion flashed across the world, Roland’s initial feeling was not anger, but disappointment. He understood that the junta was seeking to quell domestic strife by focusing attention on the popular Falklands (or Malvinas, as the Argentines called them) issue. British intelligence appeared to have been taken woefully by surprise, and the handful of Royal Marines garrisoned on the Falklands had been no match for the force Argentina threw at them. If anything, Roland believed that the fault lay almost as much with Britain as it did with Argentina. The thief had made off with the valuables only because the householder had left the door wide open. If you were going to claim some barren rocks eight thousand miles away, right on the enemy’s doorstep, at least protect them adequately.

  That was the tone of the Eagle’s leader on the day after the invasion. Calmness, read the final paragraph, was needed now. A death-before-dishonor attitude would serve no purpose, except to make widows out of young women in both Britain and Argentina. The problem should be solved not through force of arms, but through negotiation.

  When most of the country was demanding a military strike that would teach Argentina a lesson it would never forget, the Eagle’s message was not popular. Thousands of letters poured into the newspaper. For every one that agreed with the Eagle’s stand, twenty disagreed. Many people wrote that they would no longer buy the Eagle. Some queried the patriotism of a newspaper owner who could allow such anti-British drivel to appear in his publication. One retired colonel even offered to start a fund for buying Roland a one-way ticket to Buenos Aires, where he obviously belonged.

  Roland showed Katherine what he considered the cream of the crop. “Aren’t you frightened?” she asked him, after reading just a couple.

  “Why should I be? Letters can’t harm me. We’ll publish the ones that argue cogently against our position. I was even thinking of replying to some of the really abusive ones. Writing M.C. after my name, to show I’m a holder of the Military Cross.”

  “I don’t think it would carry much weight, Daddy. Some of the letter-writers sound like the very men you won your medals fighting. How damaging is all this to Eagle Newspapers?”

  “We’ll lose a few customers, that’s all. Unpopularity is sometimes the price you have to pay for being right.”

  Katherine glanced at another letter, one that labeled the Eagle staff as traitors, and was illustrated with a drawing of a hangman’s noose. It was all she could do to suppress a shudder. The fleet was little more than a week out of port, and Britain had declared a two-hundred mile war zone around the Falklands. If her father was getting hate mail like this when nothing had really happened yet, what would he receive when the bullets and bombs, heaven forbid, started to fly?

  *

  When Raymond Barnhill saw the letters in the Eagle, he telephoned Katherine immediately. “Were those the letters that were fit to print? If so, I can just imagine what garbage was in the rest.”

  She tried to calm him. “Raymond, I really appreciate your concern, but there’s no need to worry. I still say this is going to blow itself out before any real damage is done.”

  “Do you really?” he asked sarcastically. “Argentina has backed itself into a corner from which it can’t escape. Two days ago, the Brits retook the Port of Grytviken on South Georgia, and yesterday Margaret Thatcher told the Commons that further combat appears inevitable. On top of that, the Argies suggested Alexander Haig go jump in the lake, and take his ideas for a peaceful solution with him. And you think it’s going to blow over before real damage is done? Katherine, it won’t be long before Britain launches a full-scale offensive on the remaining territories. Then you’re going to have an all-out war on your hands, and the Eagle’s moderate position will make it the target for every flag-waving lunatic with a grudge.”

  Frightened by such a scenario, Katherine tried to dismiss it with humor. “Will you fly over to protect me?”

  “I’d rather you came here. Bring the kids until this mess is resolved.”

  “And leave my father to face trouble on his own? Never.”

  *

  Bullets and bombs began to fly in earnest four days later. Carrier-based British planes attacked Argentine airstrips on the Falklands, and at sea each side claimed hits on the other’s ships. Theaters and restaurants in the West End of London were empty — unheard-of for a Saturday night — as anxious people stayed at home, waiting for the latest reports.

  The first decisive blow was struck when a British submarine sunk the Argentine cruiser General Belgrano, inflicting heavy loss of life. While most of the country cheered the event with the enthusiasm of a sports crowd, the Eagle’s opinion page lamented the hundreds of fatalities, and questioned the wisdom of the sinking. “Before Belgrano,” ran the editorial comment, “there was still the possibility, no matter how remote, of a negotiated settlement. Now, Argentina will make certain that any solution costs British blood and British lives.”

  The statement proved to be an uncanny forecast. Two days later, front pages of newspapers across the world carried the picture of the Royal Navy destroyer H.M.S. Sheffield being struck by an Exocet missile. Blood had now been drawn on both sides, and the only thing left was a bitter fight to the death.

  Two days after the Sheffield incident, Sally Roberts invited Katherine to lunch. Erica Bentley was also present, and Katherine soon learned the reason why.

  “You’ve been working on the color magazine for more than a year,” Sally said. “Would you like to do something different?”

  “Such as?”

  “How about doing some work for me?” Erica asked. “An assignment that you’re particularly qualified to handle.”

  “Erica wants to run a series on the women left behind by the war,” Sally said. “The wives who wait and pray for their men to come home, and . . . and especially those who now understand that all the waiting and praying in the world won’t help.”

  “Young widow interviewing other young widows?”

  “Precisely.”

  Katherine began the assignme
nt early the following morning, driving to the naval town of Portsmouth with Sid Hall, her favorite Eagle photographer. By midafternoon, they were back at Fleet Street without a story.

  “I spoke to some navy public affairs officer,” Katherine told Sally. “The instant I identified myself, I was given a stiff lecture on being associated with a newspaper that provides aid and comfort to the enemy, and then Sid and I were escorted out. The Eagle’s absolute poison to those people.”

  “I’d have thought someone with your experience would have talked her way around any obstacles.”

  “I had the distinct feeling that if Sid and I had stayed to argue the point, we’d have ended up swinging from the yardarm.” Katherine dropped into one of the chairs facing the desk. “Sally, I’m worried about my father. Do you think he’s taken his stand on the war too far?”

  Sally took her time answering, as though she, too, had pondered the same question. “Katherine, every editorial comment in the Eagle about the Falklands has been prompted by what your father believes is best for this country. He wanted to see the problem resolved without anyone being killed. So did I. So did anyone with an ounce of brains. Unfortunately, when wartime hysteria runs riot, as it is doing, a single voice of sanity all too often becomes confused with enemy propaganda. Right now, the Eagle’s banner might just as well be the Argentine flag. It’s a crying shame, because all your father wants to do is avoid bloodshed.”

  Over the next few days, Katherine saw more evidence of the Eagle’s low standing. On one instance, she passed a shop that sold televisions. Display units in the front window were turned on, and a small crowd had gathered to learn the latest news from the war zone. Katherine stopped to watch. A ragged cheer went up at the report of the sinking of an Argentine ship by a British frigate in the waters between the East and West Falklands. As the cheer died away, Katherine heard a woman say: “Too bad someone doesn’t drop a bomb on the bloody Eagle! Our boys are dying out there, and all those swine can say is that they’ve got no business being there!”

  Face burning, Katherine turned and walked away. There was no point arguing with the woman, explaining that the Eagle had been trying to avoid casualties, not cause them. Logic and truth would be wasted on a lynch mob.

  Katherine quickly learned that the lynch-mob mentality went far beyond the man in the street. In the House of Commons, a motion was put forward to censure the Eagle for activities prejudicial to the country’s welfare. The motion was proposed and seconded by two Conservative Members of Parliament. The men belonged to a right-wing clique that had advocated the bombing of Buenos Aires; they were also the two MPs Katherine had met at John Saxon’s home, Daniel Cooper and Edwin Johnson.

  The instant Katherine learned of the censure motion, she telephoned Saxon at his office in St. James’s Square. They had not seen or spoken to each other for more than a year. She did not ask how he was, or what he had been doing. She just blasted him. “Who the hell do your friends think they are to stand up in Parliament and accuse my father of treason?”

  “I didn’t read of that word being used.”

  “How else would you define ‘activities prejudicial to the country’s welfare’?”

  “Daniel and Edwin might ask who your father thinks he is to use his newspaper to question the actions of the government in a time of national crisis.”

  “My father is entitled to criticize. We’re living in a free country. At least, we were the last time I looked.”

  There was a lengthy pause. Katherine wondered if Saxon had hung up, until he said, “You’re right, Katherine, we do live in a free country. And the laws that permit your father to criticize elected officials give those same officials the right to question your father’s motives.”

  “For God’s sake, John, the Eagle wept far more editorial tears for the Sheffield than it did for the Belgrano. My father was never trying to aid the enemy. He was trying to stop blood being spilled. He was trying to point out that war is not an acceptable means of solving problems.”

  Katherine’s arguments scratched Saxon’s smooth veneer. His voice turned sharp with anger and impatience. “Why can’t you understand, Katherine, that when the country is at war, any show of understanding toward the enemy is liable to be treated as high treason? Maybe it’s about time your father stopped worrying about his principles, and started worrying about his family.”

  “What does that mean?” The question was redundant, because Raymond Barnhill had already given her the answer. They would all be the target for every flag-waving lunatic with a grudge!

  “See if you can get your father to publish a statement of support for the government, Katherine. Persuade him to get off his high horse before his obstinacy endangers himself and everyone around him.”

  “I happen to like my father’s obstinacy, John Saxon. I think it’s one of his most admirable traits!” She slammed down the receiver. Saxon was no different from his friends in Parliament, a staunch nationalist who viewed every slight to Britain as a personal insult, and every person who made such a slight as a traitor.

  Still, Katherine told herself, she’d known that all along. Why should she be so surprised by it now?

  *

  The flood of letters protesting the Eagle’s antiwar position, the navy’s refusal to cooperate with Katherine, and, finally, the attack on the Eagle in Parliament, were little more than heralds of the trouble that was to come.

  On the night of May 23, as British troops expanded the beachhead they had gained two days earlier on East Falkland Island, another army was active. Eight thousand miles away, its soldiers moved unnoticed through London, advancing, stopping, advancing again. With the gray light of dawn, Londoners caught their first view of this phantom army’s achievements.

  “Mrs. Kassler, take a look at this!” Jimmy Phillips entered Kate’s Haven clutching a piece of paper in his hand. “I took the Jag to the garage to fill her up, and I saw this stuck on a telephone pole.”

  Katherine, having her early morning cup of tea in the breakfast room, took the paper from Phillips. At first, she thought it was a poster advertising a romance movie, because the black-and-white picture depicted a smiling, hand-holding couple. Why on earth had Phillips found this important enough to remove from the pole and bring back to the house? Suddenly, her heart leaped into her mouth and nearly choked her. She knew the picture! It was more than thirty years old, taken by a newspaper photographer five months before her own birth, but Katherine recognized it — her father and mother returning to London after their publicized elopement and marriage at the start of 1950.

  “You found this on a telephone pole, Jimmy?”

  “Have you read what’s written there, Mrs. Kassler?”

  Katherine dropped her eyes to words she hadn’t even noticed in the shock of seeing the old picture. A caption identified Roland Eagles and his young wife, Catarina, who was described as the only daughter of multimillionaire Argentine businessman Nicanor Menéndez. Centered above the picture, in block capitals, was the question: “If you stood to lose millions on the Buenos Aires stock exchange, wouldn’t you be against the war as well?”

  No credit was taken for the poster, but Katherine saw the British Patriotic League all over it.

  She snatched the telephone receiver from its rest and dialed her father’s number. Arthur Parsons answered. “May I speak to my father, please?”

  “Just a moment, Miss Katherine.”

  Katherine glanced at the clock on the wall. Seven-thirty, and the day was ruined already. She heard her father’s voice asking if everything was all right. “No, it’s damned well not. Jimmy just brought back a libelous poster he found tacked to a telephone pole.” She described it to her father, and heard his intake of breath.

  “I’ll get dressed and bring it over to you. Then you can decide what to do.” She ran up to her room, threw off her robe, and dressed hastily in slacks and a cashmere sweater. Ten minutes after making the call, she was swinging the silver Porsche out of the forecourt of Kate’s
Haven, and pointing it north toward her father’s home in Stanmore.

  Two hundred yards along the road, she stamped on the brakes. There was a poster, tacked to a garden fence. She jumped out of the car to grab it, only to see another, affixed to an oak tree. Wherever she looked, she saw the damned things. If she stopped to take down every one, she’d never get to her father’s home.

  When she reached Stanmore, her father opened the door. Seeing the posters clutched in her hand, he said, “You needn’t have bothered, Kathy. Sally telephoned five minutes after you did. She looked out of her bedroom window and saw one pasted to a traffic sign not twenty feet away.”

  “They’re everywhere, Daddy.”

  “I know. Arthur Parsons just drove down the hill to see how many he could find.” Even as he spoke, the green Bentley glided between the red brick pillars. Parsons carried three of the posters, which he handed silently to Roland. They were all torn, as though Parsons had vented his fury by ripping them down.

  Katherine followed her father into the drawing room. “Are we in any doubt who’s behind all this?”

  “Of course not. It’s the League. They have the printing facilities, and they can call on a few hundred people to work through the night distributing these things.”

  The telephone rang. It was Lawrie Stimkin, calling from home. He had heard that the posters were everywhere across London, tens of thousands of them. Just what was going on? “I’ll be at the Eagle building in two hours,” Roland said. “I’ll tell you exactly what’s happening, and then I’ll hold a press conference and tell the same thing to everyone else.”