In Farleigh Field: A Novel of World War II

Lady Esme was still reading. “You know how he loves Chartwell. I’d invite them to stay with us, but . . .”

“Esme, we’re packed in like sardines as it is,” Lord Westerham said. “You can’t invite the prime minister of England to bunk up in the maid’s quarters.” The thought of this made him chuckle.

“Don’t be silly, dear,” Lady Westerham said calmly, not looking up from her letter. “Oh no,” she exclaimed as she read on. “How disappointing.”

Lord Westerham raised an eyebrow.

“I told you he has to come down here anyway to attend that ceremony at Biggin Hill Aerodrome next month, honouring those brave lads who were killed in the Battle of Britain. Clemmie had wanted me to help her with the garden party at Chartwell, but Winston got word of it and has put his foot down. No parties in wartime, he says. In these times of economy we have to set an example and not open up the house for one weekend. Isn’t that just like him?”

“Nasty Americanism, the word ‘weekend,’” Lord Westerham remarked. Although he had known Churchill for many years, he still hadn’t quite forgiven him for his American mother.

“Do be quiet and stop interrupting, Roddy.” Lady Westerham frowned at him across the table. “Oh, this is a splendid idea. Listen, Roddy. She wonders if they might come here for tea on the lawn after the ceremony. It would be a lovely surprise for Winston to be with the old neighbours, she says.”

“The prime minister, here to tea? What do you plan to feed them? Dandelions? Are they going to bring their own ration cards?” Lord Westerham demanded.

“Don’t be difficult, Roddy. You know you’d love to see the Churchills again. And we do have kitchen gardens. The strawberries should be ripe, and there would be cucumbers and cress for sandwiches. We’ll manage somehow. So I’ll write back, and tell her it’s a splendid idea, shall I?”

Before Lord Westerham could answer, the door opened and Olivia, the eldest of the Sutton sisters, came in. Although she was only twenty-six, she was already starting to look matronly. She was wearing a navy dress with a white round collar and pin-tuck pleats at the front, which emphasised her ample bosom. And she wore her hair rolled in a coil at the back of her neck, which didn’t really suit her round face.

“Charlie has a bit of a cough,” she said. “I hope he’s not coming down with something. Has the post arrived yet, Pah? Is there anything from Teddy?”

“Nothing but a couple of bills and a letter for your mother from Mrs. Churchill,” Lord Westerham said. “Your husband is probably having far too good a time to think of writing.”

“Don’t say that, Pah. He’s only doing his duty. He had to go where he was sent.”

“And the Bahamas is not exactly a hardship posting.” Lord Westerham looked at his wife, who smiled vaguely.

“How nice for him. I hear they have lovely beaches.”

They all looked up as Dido came in. There were goose bumps on her bare shoulders and arms, but her face was glowing from being outside. “Golly, the whole clan is here. What are you doing up, Mummy? I thought you told me one of the few luxuries of being a married woman was breakfast in bed.”

“Darling, I used to look forward to my fresh brown egg and thin soldiers of lovely fresh bread. Having toast and margarine somehow hardly makes it worthwhile staying in bed.”

“I hear you went out looking for the body, Dido,” her father said. He was eyeing her critically. “Don’t tell me you went outside looking like that? You need your head examined—all those bloody soldiers hanging around with too much time on their hands. You’ll come a cropper, my girl.”

“The soldiers were very sweet to me, Pah. And besides, I was too late to see the body,” Dido said, helping herself to the last of the kedgeree. “Oh goody, hooray for Mrs. Stubbins. She found kippers for us again.”

“Never did I think there would come a day when we would all rejoice over kippers,” Lord Westerham said. “I suppose a mere taste is better than nothing, but I really miss my pair of kippers, all to myself.” He turned to wave a warning finger at his daughter. “But in future, Diana, I do not want you wandering all over the property alone, especially not dressed like that. It looks as if you’re wearing your pyjamas.”

“It’s the height of fashion, Pah. Or at least it was when there was still Vogue. Not that there is any point in trying to be fashionable when one is stuck in the depth of the countryside.” She put her plate down next to Phoebe’s, then reached over to pat the setter’s head before she picked up her napkin. “If you’d let me get a job up in London, I’d be safely out of your hair, Pah. And I wouldn’t have any time on my hands, would I?” she replied bitterly. “I’m dying of boredom, you know. There’s a war on. Plenty of excitement. I want to be part of it.”

“We’ve been through this before, Dido,” Lord Westerham said. “You are too young to go and work on your own in London. I don’t mind you helping out with the animals on the home farm, or even helping teach the children at the village school, but that’s it. And that’s my final word on the subject. Don’t bring it up again.”

Dido sighed and took her place at the far end of the table. They all looked up at the sound of a heavy, measured tread, and Soames came in, bearing a silver salver.

“A letter for you, my lady,” he said. “Hand delivered.”

Lady Esme looked surprised as she took it. “Goodness. What an eventful morning. Who can be writing to me now?” The rest of the family waited as she took the envelope, noted the crest on the back, and smiled. “Oh, it’s Lady Prescott. I wonder what she wants? I thought we were too impossibly dowdy and old-fashioned for them.”

“Perhaps she wants to borrow a cup of sugar,” Lord Westerham replied with a snort. “Times are hard for all at the moment, even the Prescotts.”

“Oh, not the Prescotts, I think,” Livvy said. “Every time I take Charlie out in his pram, I seem to see a delivery van pulling up at their house.”

“What does it say, Mah?” Dido asked.

Lady Esme looked up, a pleased smile on her face and began to read aloud:



Dear Lady Westerham,

I wanted to share our good news with you before you heard it through the village grapevine. Our son Jeremy has arrived home safely against all odds. He is naturally weak, recovering from an infected gunshot wound, but we have every reason to hope he will make a full recovery.

When he has regained his strength, we look forward to giving a little dinner party in his honour and hope that your family will be able to join us.

Yours sincerely,

Madeleine Prescott



She folded the letter and looked around at her family, beaming. “Isn’t that wonderful? I must write to Pamela straight away. She’ll be thrilled.”

“Why Pamma any more than the rest of us?” Dido demanded. “Or is she the favoured child?”