In Farleigh Field: A Novel of World War II

“I’ll be okay.” He put his hands under Miss Gumble’s shoulders and lifted. Pamela lifted her legs, and they proceeded one step at a time. It was slow going, and Ben wondered how long he could hold out when he heard the tramp of feet and a group of soldiers came running up, carrying sand buckets.

“Casualty, sir?” the officer in charge asked.

“We found her lying unconscious in her room,” Ben said.

“Right, two of you—Ward and Simms—you leave your buckets and carry this lady down, then get back up here on the double,” the officer barked. Ben and Pamela handed over Miss Gumble, and the men set off with her as if she weighed nothing at all. Ben and Pamela followed.

“It was a miracle that you showed up when you did,” Pamela said. “How did you know where to find me?”

“Phoebe was worried about Miss Gumble,” he replied, not wanting to admit how frantically he had looked for Pamela.

As they came out onto the front steps, Ben heard the bell of an approaching fire engine. The local fire brigade had come to help. He just hoped it wasn’t too late.

Phoebe gave a cry and ran toward the two soldiers. “Oh, Gumbie, Gumbie. Is she dead?”

“I think she’s going to be all right, miss,” one of the soldiers said. “Smoke inhalation, probably. When she gets some fresh air . . .” And as he spoke, the woman stirred and coughed.

Phoebe grabbed his arm. “Thank you so much for saving her.”

“It wasn’t us, miss. The young gentleman here and the young lady rescued her. We just helped carry her down the stairs.”

Phoebe turned adoring eyes on Ben. “Ben, you’re wonderful. Thank you so much.”

“Your sister got there first,” he said. “Neither of us could have brought her out alone.” He felt himself blushing and was glad it was dark.

“You are both heroes,” Phoebe said, “and will earn my undying thanks.”

Pamela looked at Ben and smiled. “Undying thanks. We’ll remind her of that one day when she accuses me of taking the last biscuit.” She paused, looking up at the burning roof. “If only we knew that Pah was safe.”

“Do you want me to go up and look for him?” Ben asked.

“No, don’t do that.” Pamela put out a hand to restrain him. “The fire brigade is here now. And loads of soldiers.”

“I wonder if it can do any good?” Ben said, but while he studied the outline of the mansion, it did seem that the flames had died down to a dull red glow. He looked around and saw his father coming toward him.

“I’m glad to see you in one piece, my boy,” he said, holding out his hand to shake Ben’s. “That was foolhardy of you. But well done.”

Ben felt an absurd rush of pleasure that, for once, Jeremy had not been the hero. That he had been the one to rescue the damsel in distress.

Miss Gumble was now sitting up, coughing, with Phoebe beside her.

“You’re the vicar’s son, aren’t you?” she said. “They tell me you came up to save me. My deepest thanks.”

“You were jolly brave, Ben,” Phoebe added.

“It was Lady Pamela who found you first,” Ben said. “I helped her carry you down.”

“I remember smelling smoke, trying to get up, and that’s the last thing I remember,” she said. She looked at Ben. “If you hadn’t come in when you did . . .”

“Phoebe was worried about you,” he said. “She sent me up to find you.”

Suddenly she tried to stand up. “But my things. My books. My papers. I have to go and rescue them. I can’t leave them to be burned.”

Ben put a hand firmly on her shoulder to prevent her from moving. “You can’t go up there, I’m afraid. But don’t worry too much. It looks as if they are managing to put the fire out. So all may not be lost. Let’s hope for the best, shall we?”

Ben watched as Phoebe squatted beside Miss Gumble and tried to comfort her, and a strange thought began to form. So many books and papers . . . and a telescope. Why did a governess need a telescope?

They waited on the forecourt, glancing upward anxiously, then focusing on the front entrance, not speaking to one another. The servants stood off in a huddle to one side. Soldiers who had been sleeping in tents on the grounds had gathered to watch. Others stood ready to move vehicles parked close to the house. But in the early hours of the morning, a group of blackened faces emerged from the front entrance with the news that the fire had been put out. What’s more, the damage was not too devastating. Part of the roof and attic had been destroyed. The ceiling had come down in some of the servants’ bedrooms, but the fire had not managed to reach the main floors of the house.

Among the firefighters who came down wearily was Lord Westerham, soot-covered like the rest of them.

“Damned fine group of men we’ve got staying here,” he said as his wife rushed to his side. “We’d have lost the whole bally place without them. I consider it an act of God to have stationed the West Kents at Farleigh.”

Lady Esme just smiled and wisely said nothing. Then she reverted to her role as lady of the manor. “Mrs. Mortlock, why don’t you make everyone hot cocoa? I think we all need it.”

“Very good, my lady,” Mrs. Mortlock said. “But do you mind if the other servants go up and see what damage has been done to their rooms? They’re worried that they’ve lost their possessions.”

“Of course. By all means,” Lady Westerham said. “And tell them not to worry. We’ll replace what they’ve lost and find them somewhere else to sleep. We’ll all pull through this together.”

“Thank you, my lady,” Mrs. Mortlock answered with a catch in her voice.

Miss Gumble was now standing. “I’d like to go up, too,” she said. “Just to see what might have survived.”

Ben watched her go into the house. And he found himself wondering whether the bombing of Farleigh was an accident or deliberate. He thought of those planes flying over. Why would anyone bomb a country house in the middle of nowhere?





CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE


Paris


The first thing Margot noticed as she came to consciousness from sleep was the scent. Rich, smooth, heady. Her nose wrinkled at the unfamiliar perfume. She didn’t use more than a dab of eau de cologne herself, and this was a muskier, more powerful smell that hung in the air. It took her a moment to identify it. Minuit à Paris—Midnight in Paris, the signature perfume of Gigi Armande. And with the identification came the full memory of where she was. She opened her eyes to see the pink silk drapes, tied back with tasselled swags. Early-morning sun streamed in through tall windows. She was lying on a narrow cot, but the other occupant of the room still slept in a luxurious bed, a face mask keeping out the light. She was at the Ritz, in the room of Madame Armande.