In Farleigh Field: A Novel of World War II

Margot Sutton stared out the window of the Daimler as she was driven out of London. City gave way to suburb and then to green and rolling countryside. It felt too good to be true that she was actually back in England, that she was going home to her family, and the ordeal was over. She tried to feel happy and excited, but instead all she could feel was hollow and empty inside, as if part of her had died when they had taken her to that cell at Gestapo headquarters. The past days had been like living a nightmare, and she had steeled herself to accept that it would end in her death or at the very least in being sent to a German prison camp. Her fingernail had already healed. She bore no visible scars of her ordeal. The scar in her heart would take longer to go away. Gaston had denied ever loving her. He had shown complete disdain for her and for the pain being inflicted on her.

She watched green hedgerows flash past. I was a complete fool, she thought. I gave up everything, risked everything, for a man who didn’t even love me.

Memories swirled back into her consciousness, Gaston strolling with her through the Bois de Boulogne, sitting opposite her at a little café, his eyes glowing with desire as he looked into hers. He had loved her, of this she was suddenly sure. Then she toyed with what Gigi Armande had said: that Gaston had shown disdain for her only to protect her. At the time she hadn’t believed it. But now she realised it might have been true. His words to the German had been his way of saving her. By giving the impression that she meant nothing to him he had spared her from further torture. If Gaston was perceived to be completely indifferent to her suffering, then there would be little point in continuing it.

“He saved me,” she whispered to herself. “He did love me. He loved me enough to die for me.”

And she also came to terms with the realisation that nothing she had done could have saved him. He would never have betrayed his fellow Resistance members, and the Germans would never have released him. “True to the end,” she whispered and felt a small glow of consolation inside the blackness of her grief.

And now she was free to resume her former life. Free. Not quite free, she knew that. But she would tackle the next hurdle when she came to it. For now, she was going to try to enjoy the Kentish countryside and her family. They drove through Sevenoaks, then their surroundings became familiar. She had ridden over these fields with the hunt when she was a girl. It’s strange, she thought, but I feel like an old woman, as if my life has already happened. And she wondered if she would ever feel normal again. And then, of course, the worries crept back into her head. Would she dare to go through with it? And could she be brave enough to make Gaston proud of her?

Then they were driving through Elmsleigh. There was the village green with the cricket scoreboard still showing the numbers of the last game. The church beyond. Miss Hamilton walking her dogs. Nothing had changed at all. Only me, Margot thought.



Phoebe was in the schoolroom, reciting the order of English kings and queens to her governess. She had got as far as Richard III and was stuck. She paced around the room. “Richard III,” she said again, and then . . .

“Battle of Bosworth,” Miss Gumble reminded her. “What happened after that?”

“And then . . .” Phoebe looked out the window and gave a shriek of delight. “It’s Margot!” she shouted. “Margot’s home.”

She rushed down the hall, down the two flights of stairs, shouting the good news.

Lord Westerham was in the morning room, reading the newspaper. He put it down and glared at his daughter. “What have I told you about that screaming and shouting? Doesn’t your governess tell you that a lady never raises her voice?”

“But Pah,” Phoebe said, her face still alight with joy, “it’s Margot. She’s home.”



Around midday on Friday, Ben was getting ready to go to Victoria when Guy tapped on his door. “Listen, old chap. I have it on good authority that Margot Sutton is being driven home to Kent. I wondered if you could find a good excuse to be down there.”

“As a matter of fact, I’m heading there right now,” Ben said. “Pamela Sutton asked me to help with a garden party her mother is giving tomorrow.”

A smile crossed Guy’s face. “A garden party? Are there still such things? Remarkable. I might hop on a train and join you. Strawberries and cream on the lawn? So definitely prewar. What’s it in aid of? Fund-raising for our troops?”

Ben shrugged. “I’ve no idea. All I know is that Lady Westerham was in a panic about holding a garden party when she didn’t have the staff or the supplies, and Pamela agreed to go and help.”

“So you’ll put on tails and pretend to be the butler, will you?” Guy chuckled.

“Actually, they still have their butler. He’s too old to be called up. But no footmen and only a couple of maids.”

“How the upper classes are made to suffer,” Guy said with heavy sarcasm. “Mummy wrote that she had to clean her own lavatory the other day. Imagine.”

Ben smiled. He realised what a shock wartime living must be for so many of Guy’s class.

He was about to leave when he heard footsteps coming up the stairs and was startled to see a dispatch rider heading toward him. The man stopped and saluted. “Mr. Cresswell? I was told to deliver this to you immediately. It comes from Medmenham.”

“Thank you,” Ben stammered. The man saluted and stomped back down the stairs. Ben went into his room, closed the door, and opened the envelope. “I think I’ve located the place on your photograph,” Mavis had written. “It’s marked on the ordnance survey map. Actually in Somerset, not Devon or Cornwall as you had thought.”

Ben’s heart was thumping. He had to tell someone before he met Pamela at the station. He grabbed his overnight bag, then took the Underground and walked as fast as he could to Dolphin Square. He rang the doorbell down below, but there was no answer. He rode up in the elevator and tapped on the door. Again no answer. An elderly man was coming down the hall toward him. “No use knocking,” he said. “They went away. I saw them with suitcases earlier this morning.”

“Damn,” Ben muttered to himself. He took the lift back down and stood in bright sunshine, trying to think what to do next. There was nobody he could tell about the photograph. Guy had gone out, and Ben had no idea when he’d return. Besides, he had an uneasy feeling about Guy. He’d have to go to Somerset himself. But Pamela was waiting for him at the station.

He sighed and headed to Victoria.

Pamela and Trixie were waiting under the destination board. Pamela waved when she spotted him. “You made it. How lovely.”