In Farleigh Field: A Novel of World War II

Livvy had been standing silently at the back of the group. She shook her head. “Oh, thank you, but no. It wouldn’t be right with my husband away serving his country.”

Jeremy laughed. “Didn’t I hear that he landed a plum assignment guarding the Duke of Windsor in the Bahamas?”

“Jolly dangerous job protecting a member of the royal family,” Livvy said hotly. “You know very well that the Germans would love to kidnap him and put him in the place of the king.”

“Your husband is with the Duke of Windsor?” Lord Musgrove asked, coming over to join the group.

Livvy nodded. “Actually, Teddy was upset when he was removed from his regiment before they went off to Africa, but the Duke asked for him particularly. They were old polo teammates, you know.”

“I must say I feel that the poor old Duke of Windsor has been rather shabbily treated.” Lord Musgrove took a swig of his whisky. “Packed off into exile like Napoleon.”

“For his own safety,” Livvy said.

“To keep him well away from interfering in what’s going on in Europe,” Sir William said. “His wife has shown a great fondness for Hitler, after all.”

“I still think it’s a shame,” Lord Musgrove said. “I’ve always thought he was a decent fellow. He might well have proved a useful intermediary if we ever needed to negotiate a settlement with Germany.”

“Settle with Germany?” Lord Westerham turned to glare at Musgrove. “Over my dead body.”

“Quite possibly.” Lord Musgrove smiled.

The strong liquor stung as Pamela swallowed it. She wasn’t used to drinking anything stronger than beer and cider, and before the war, the odd glass of wine. But she wasn’t going to be outshone by Dido, who seemed quite at ease with cocktails. As Pamela’s mother hastily led the discussion to safer waters, Jeremy moved closer to her.

“You will come to my party, won’t you?” he whispered.

“I don’t know if I’ll be able to get time off,” she said warily.

“You don’t have to work in the evenings, do you?”

“I’m on night shifts at the moment, actually.”

“Night shifts? What on earth are you doing, fire watching?”

“No.” Pamela gave a nervous little chuckle. “But they need support staff around the clock.”

“Which ministry did you say it was?”

“I didn’t,” she said, “but we do a bit of work for each of the services, fact-checking, looking up things.”

“Jolly good for you.” He rested his hand on her arm. Then he said in a quiet voice, “This party’s all for you, you know. I want you to come and see the flat.” His grip on her tightened, and he led her off to one side. “Look, I’m sorry we started off on the wrong foot. That was thoughtless and crass of me. I suppose I was so eager—well, you can understand, can’t you? All those months of dreaming about you. Fantasising. I got a little carried away, I’m afraid. So can we pretend that never happened and start over? Take it slowly? Get to know each other again?”

He was looking earnestly into her eyes. “All right,” she said.

“Jolly good.” His eyes still held hers.





CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE


Still at Nethercote


The gong sounded, and they lined up to go into dinner. Ben was assigned to escort Dido at the back of the line. His father was asked to escort the elderly spinster Miss Hamilton. Naturally, Jeremy and Pamela were paired together. Ben watched the back of her head and saw her laugh as Jeremy whispered something funny to her.

“We’re clearly the runts of the litter back here,” Dido muttered to Ben as they started to process into the dining room. Inside, chandeliers sparkled over a long polished table. A maid and footman stood in attendance, ready to pull out chairs. Ben found himself between Colonel Huntley’s wife and the commander of the Royal West Kents, whom he hadn’t met before. Jeremy and Pamela sat across from him. Lady Prescott was at the foot of the table with the two lords, Westerham and Musgrove, on either side of her. Her gown and the diamonds at her throat sparkled in the light of the chandeliers, and she looked around the gathering with satisfaction.

“We should have a toast before we start eating, William,” she said. “Celebrating our son’s return, when we thought we’d lost him, and he made it home . . .” Her voice wavered suddenly, and she put her napkin up to her mouth to stifle the sob.

“Steady on, old thing,” Sir William said. “Jeremy’s home, and that’s certainly worth celebrating. We’ll drink a toast to him and our good friends and the fact that even in the bleakest of times, we can get together and still enjoy ourselves.”

“Hear, hear.” The murmur echoed around the table. Champagne corks were popped and glasses were poured.

“Where on earth did you manage to find champagne?” Lady Esme asked.

“Ah, well, that was a stroke of luck.” Sir William laughed. “Little wineshop I know near Covent Garden. A bomb fell next door, and the owner panicked. I told him I’d buy the place from him, including all his stock. He was only too glad to accept my offer and flee. And I ended up with some damned fine wines—enough to last me through the war.”

“If it’s over in the foreseeable future,” Miss Hamilton said in her clipped tones.

“It has to be,” Sir William said. “We can’t go on like this. If America doesn’t come in, we’re done for. We can’t hold off the invasion forever by ourselves.”

“America shows no sign of hearing the call.” Colonel Huntley sniffed derisively. “Only interested in lending us some equipment at exorbitant rates. Making a profit out of our misery.”

“Well, we definitely need the equipment. It has to come from somewhere,” the colonel of the West Kents said. “We can’t fight without it. Do you know when my men were first called up, they had to drill with sticks of wood instead of rifles? That’s how bad things have been. And we’re losing Spitfires at an alarming rate . . .”

“Sometimes I think it would be more sensible to make a pact with Mr. Hitler,” Lady Musgrove said. “I fear it will go on and on until we’re on our knees and starving, and then Hitler will walk in anyway, and what will we have achieved?”

“It’s that warmonger Churchill,” her husband agreed. “The power has gone to his head. I think he’s actually enjoying this.”

“Absolutely bloody poppycock,” Lord Westerham thundered. “If it weren’t for Churchill, we’d all be slaves of Germany.”

“Not slaves, surely. One Aryan race to another. Equals,” Lord Musgrove said.

“Ask the Danes and Norwegians how well that is working,” Colonel Pritchard said.

There was an uncomfortable silence.

“Let’s not talk of such gloomy things tonight,” Lady Prescott begged. “We’re celebrating, remember? And if our son managed to escape from their beastly prison camp and came all the way across Europe to be with us, then surely that’s a sign that they are not invincible. If we are brave and stand up to them, then they can’t win.”