Christmas that year was quiet. Everyone arrived at Cavendon and made their best efforts because of the children. Daphne was managing her worry about the twins battling away in the Eighth Infantry Brigade, and every day she was thankful they were still alive.
Alicia got leave from the Red Cross and helped her mother to make Christmas Day work, and most especially for the younger children. But there was a sadness at Cavendon that seemed to permeate the house with gloom.
Harry came home just after the holidays, invalided out of the RAF. His station had been badly damaged by a series of the pilotless flying bombs, and one side of his body was peppered with shrapnel. After months in a military hospital, being treated for his wounds, he was able to return home.
Miles as well as Paloma, Cecily, Alice, and Walter were thrilled to have him back, and soon he was working alongside Miles running the estate. He also helped to cheer them along. Harry had always been a favorite of Charlotte’s, and he was often at her side, comforting her. DeLacy’s death had taken its toll.
The Inghams and the Swanns clung together more than ever, protecting each other, making sure they were safe and well, had everything they needed.
January 1945 came, and then February and March, and the news grew better and better. The whole country knew that they had the winning hand because of the Allied advances. They expected the war would end sometime that year. Hope prevailed, fed their belief that they would come out on top.
Diedre was optimistic, pushing back her worry about Canaris, knowing how much he was at risk within the Third Reich. She and William, and Tony as well, were baffled about Étoile’s disappearance. Her body had never been found. Both men endeavored to comfort Diedre, who had taken this matter to heart. She loathed mysteries she could not solve and wanted to know Étoile’s fate.
* * *
One morning in April, Daphne went into the conservatory earlier than usual, because she wanted to catch up with paperwork and household bills. As usual she picked up some of the newspapers from the hall stand before she went to her command post, as she called it.
Seating herself at her desk, she opened the Daily Mail, wanting to read Charlie’s column before anything else. But she did not get beyond the front page, her attention caught by the glaring headline. In large letters was the word GENOCIDE.
Horror swept across her face as she read the names … Dachau, Belsen, Buchenwald, Ohrdruf. Death camps all over Germany. Millions of Jews and others murdered in cold blood. Heinous crimes … unspeakable cruelty and brutality.
As she turned the pages and stared at the pictures, she could hardly bear to look at them, yet forced herself. Daphne began to shake uncontrollably as she read on. It was mass murder on a gigantic scale. Hardly believable. The photographs stunned her, brought tears to her eyes. Half-naked people, living skeletons, staring out through barbed-wire fences, hollow eyed. More and more photographs in the other papers, the Daily Express, the Daily Telegraph. Gas ovens, piles and piles of skeletal bodies thrown in a great heap, mass graves. Torture chambers, experimental hospitals. The Nazi death machine revealed at last.
As the pictures grew more graphic she thought she was going to vomit. How had they dared to do this? And she answered herself at once. They had dared because they believed they would never be found out.
Still shaking, Daphne put her head down on her desk and wept. Finally, she found a handkerchief and dried her eyes, and eventually the shaking stopped.
Turning to the Daily Mail again, she found Charlie’s story. He had been given a full page and it was her son who had written the story of this horrendous discovery.
It had been the first British and American troops to enter the country who had found these camps in western and eastern Germany. The Allied soldiers had been shocked, sickened, and stunned when they had entered the camps, and all of them had been appalled at such an atrocity. Some had been nauseated, as she was now, and had vomited. Men, women, and even little children had been victims of this systematic torture and death. Millions and millions killed for no reason.
When Hugo came in to see her a little later, he stood at the door staring at her, aware of her face as white as chalk, her tears. “Whatever’s happened?” he asked, hurrying across the room to her.
Daphne stood up and went to him, leaned against him, holding him close. “Read the papers and then you’ll understand. Those Nazi monsters created a death machine…”
Hugo held her away and nodded. “I heard a rumor of something recently … about gas ovens and mass murder in the camps.”
“Read the papers,” Daphne said. “Read Charlie’s story.”
He did so, and when he looked at her his shock and horror was apparent. “They’ve got to answer for this. Those bloody heathens have to be punished.”
“How?”
“We’ll do it. The Allies will. Have no worries about that. Whatever it takes, this genocide will be dealt with. In the meantime, the whole world will know and they will want the Nazis to pay with their lives.”
* * *
On Monday, May 7, 1945, at 2:41 A.M. exactly, General Alfred Jodl, the representative of the German High Command, and Grand Admiral Doenitz signed the act of unconditional surrender of all German land, sea, and air forces in Europe. The war with Germany was over. The Allies had won, just as Winston Churchill had predicted they would.
* * *
It was May 8. Victory Day in Europe.
There had never been a celebration like it. So everybody said. But who knew if that was really true. And who cared? The whole of Great Britain was rejoicing, and they did it in the streets from Land’s End to John o’ Groat’s.
The Union Jack hanging out of every window in the country, in every village, town, and city, church bells ringing. People singing, clapping, laughing, crying, releasing their emotions pent up for years. With their Allies they had won the war. They were free. Bonfires burned on every street corner, an antidote to years of the blackout. Effigies of Hitler were burned, and the cheering and dancing never stopped.
Street parties flourished. The pubs were filled to overflowing. What better way to celebrate with their fellow countrymen and women. It was a national holiday and would be forever after. It was the commemoration of the destruction of the Third Reich, the most evil regime in the history of the world.
* * *
Diedre’s heart was heavy as she dressed to go to the supper Dulcie and James were giving to celebrate their victory. Her sorrow was twofold. She grieved for DeLacy, so missed and loved, and also for Canaris, their brave Valiant. He had been arrested, put in Flossenbürg prison, and hanged in April. The Third Reich had called him a traitor. But he was not, in her opinion. He had never been a Nazi. He was a true German of the old school. He had been revolted by the war Hitler had waged, and horrified by the atrocities. Valiant had done his duty to suit his own conscience and that was good enough for her.
Winston Churchill had called him “a courageous man,” and C of MI6, also known as SIS, the Secret Intelligence Service, had echoed those sentiments. She truly believed Admiral Wilhelm Canaris had helped to change the course of the war and in Britain’s favor.
This thought cheered her as she finished her makeup and got up from the dressing table. She was wearing the red dress Cecily had made for her prewedding party, and when William walked into their bedroom, he told her she looked beautiful. And she did.
Then minutes later they left for Eaton Square where Cecily and Miles were waiting for them with Dulcie and James.
Cecily and Diedre laughed when they greeted each other. Cecily wore a bright blue cocktail suit and Dulcie was in her best white silk frock. Dulcie joined in the laughter and cried, “My God, we represent the Union Jack. Why didn’t we check with each other about what we were going to wear? But then we’ve done it before.”
James said, “But I like going out with the Union Jack. It’s definitely my flag of choice.”
After toasting each other and the entire family, those present and those go
ne, the six of them left and walked to Whitehall. The streets were so full of people it was impossible to take a cab.
They went to the House of Commons, waiting with the crowds for the prime minister. He had spoken to the nation on the radio at three in the afternoon, but they craved to hear more from this great leader whom they loved and who had brought them to victory, hard-won but truly honorable.
They waited a long time but eventually he appeared on the balcony of a government building. It was ten-thirty at night and he was wearing his beloved “siren suit” and he gave his famous “V for Victory” sign.
The crowd fell silent and a hush of reverence descended on the streets around them, filled with people.
“My dear friends,” Churchill began, “this is your hour. This is not victory of a party or of any class. It’s a victory of the great British nation as a whole. We were the first, in this ancient island, to draw the sword against tyranny. After a while we were left all alone against the most tremendous military power that has been seen. We were all alone for a whole year. There we stood, alone. Did anyone want to give in?” Churchill paused and in answer to this question the crowd roared, “No!” “Were we down-hearted?” the prime minister demanded. “No!” responded the thousands in one voice.
The prime minister said, “The lights went out and the bombs came down. But every man, woman, and child in the country had no thought of quitting the struggle. London can take it. So we came back after long months from the jaws of death, out of the mouth of hell, while all the world wondered. When shall the reputation and faith of this generation of English men and women fail? I say that in the long years to come not only will the people of this island but of the world, wherever the bird of freedom chirps in human hearts, look back to what we’ve done and they will say, ‘do not despair, do not yield to violence and tyranny, march straight forward and die if need be—unconquered.’ Now we have emerged from one deadly struggle—a terrible foe has been cast on the ground and awaits our judgment and our mercy.”
Once he had finished speaking the crowds didn’t want to let him go. They cheered and clapped and called his name. They sang “For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow,” and “Land of Hope and Glory.” The prime minister finally waved and went inside, and the people slowly left.
The six Inghams returned to the Eaton Square flat, where they had a late supper, and rejoiced quietly among themselves. The following morning they all took the train to Cavendon to celebrate VE Day with Charlotte, Cecily’s parents, Harry and Paloma, Vanessa, Richard, Daphne, Hugo, Charlie, and Alicia, and all the other children. They were going to give a party that night in the village hall, and everyone from the three villages was invited. Daphne would have the party catered so that all the staff could join in to celebrate.
* * *
Cecily wanted to look nice tonight not only for herself and Miles, but for the villagers as well. She wanted to set an example, to show that the Inghams were going to soldier on.
It was also for her beloved DeLacy, her best friend throughout her life, except for a short time when they had quarreled. She missed her so much it was unbearable at times and hard to believe it had happened. Gone like that in a flash, killed by a Nazi silent pilotless bomb.
There were days when Cecily slipped up to the cemetery and sat at her grave. She talked to her sweet DeLacy, telling her what was happening here at Cavendon, telling her how much they loved her, missed her. How they would remember her always. DeLacy … so lovely, fragile at times, but always strong, always an Ingham woman standing tall.
She brought a towel to her face to stop the flood of tears, and knew she must get ready for the evening. Suddenly she heard Miles walking across the bedroom floor. When he saw her, he said, “Oh darling, don’t. Don’t. I miss her, too, but we must be strong, and we must go on. We’ve so much to do here.”
Gently he took the towel away from her and held her in his arms for a few moments, soothing her. When they stood apart he smiled. “You look beautiful no matter what.”
She gazed at him. His was the face she had loved all her life. His hair was now streaked with gray, and he was older and still looked tired, but he was fit and well, and that was what mattered to her most of all.
A short while later, wearing her favorite summer dress made of purple chiffon and with amethysts around her neck, Cecily took hold of his hand, and together they went downstairs to the library.
Everyone else was still upstairs dressing, and she led him onto the terrace. Together they stood looking out across the park to the lake where the two swans floated.
Turning to him, Cecily said, “Once, long ago, when everything was crumbling around us, we vowed to build it again. And that’s what we must do once more. If we did it once, we can do it again. We can repair the damages of this war.”
He laughed. “That’s right. My lovely warrior woman. Who’s going to stop us?”
She laughed with him. “Nobody. Because nobody can stop us. We’re the indomitable Inghams, with a bit of Swann thrown in. We’re going to win again.”
“That deserves a toast.” Miles went inside and returned a moment later with two flutes of champagne.
Passing one to his wife, he clinked his glass to hers. “Here’s to Cavendon, Ceci. We’ll bring it back to life because we don’t know any other way.”
“Yes, we will, Miles, as long as we have each other.”
“And we do,” Miles said. “Forever.”
Acknowledgments
Some years ago when I was planning the Cavendon series, I was well aware that this third book would have to encompass the Second World War because of the time span.
I wasn’t too worried about the research I would have to do because I was lucky in having had a World War Two historian as the mentor of my book writing career, the late journalist and war correspondent Cornelius Ryan. His book The Last Battle, about the fall of Berlin, served me well when I was writing Letter from a Stranger.
This time around I knew I must go back to Connie’s book The Longest Day in order to fully understand D-day again. I immediately discovered that the book is as vivid and moving as it was when it was first published. My husband had recently bought me The D-Day 70th Anniversary Collector’s Edition, a coffee-table book full of photographs as well as the text of the original book. Those photographs of D-day boggle the mind, and the text is extraordinary in its detail. No wonder the French awarded Connie the Legion of Honor in 1970 for his books about the war.
Since The Cavendon Luck was covering the entire six years of the war, I needed to read many other books as well. I owe a debt of gratitude to those other authors who put pen to paper to tell various aspects of the conflict. Some of these are The Storm of War by Andrew Roberts, Their Finest Hour: The Battle of Britain Remembered by Richard Collier and Philip Kaplan, and Dunkirk by Hugh Sebag-Montefiore.
Of course, it is impossible to write about the Second World War without bringing to the fore Winston Churchill, and although I know a great deal about him, I did go back to certain books to refresh my memory. I gained new insight into this great man from rereading large chunks of Churchill by Roy Jenkins, and The Churchill Factor by Boris Johnson gave me a very modern look at him. Blood, Toil, Tears and Sweat: The Great Speeches by Winston Churchill edited by David Cannadine brought to life those extraordinary speeches and his gift for oratory that so moved and inspired people, as did Never Give In! edited by his grandson Winston S. Churchill.
I have always been fascinated by Admiral Wilhelm Canaris, head of German military intelligence, and the role he played in helping Britain during those dangerous years. Master Spy by Ian Colvin, the first book written about Canaris, was helpful, and I gained new knowledge from Hitler’s Spy Chief by Richard Bassett. Andrew Morton’s book 17 Carnations took me into the social world of Berlin in the late 1930s and revealed much about Hitler’s attitude toward the British aristocracy and his admiration of MI6.
Now I must mention a most revealing book about the Vatican and Pope Pius the Twelft
h. The author Mark Riebling, who wrote Church of Spies, informed me about the pope’s secret war against Hitler, and how he saved the Jews of Rome. Fascinating reading for me since he mentions Canaris as well.
A Force to Be Reckoned With: A History of the Women’s Institute by Jane Robinson and Jambusters by Julie Summers bring to life the enormous work the ordinary women of Britian did during the war. They practically fed the entire country, making millions of jars of jam, bottling fruit and vegetables, and tending to allotments where those vegetables were grown.
The government gave them sugar to make the jam, which went to the empty shops. They knitted scarves, balaclava helmets, and gloves for the troops and took in evacuee children in a scheme known as Pied Piper, providing them homes after theirs were destroyed by the bombing of our big cities. And working alongside these women from the WI were the energetic Land Army girls. I hope I have managed to bring all this to life in my own book.
Hollywood in the late thirties was very different from how it is today, and to get a sense of those years I spoke at length to my friend Anne Edwards, the biographer, novelist, and screenwriter. She grew up there and her uncle was Dave Chasen, the owner of the famous restaurant.
Anne’s biography of Vivien Leigh took me into 1939, when Gone with the Wind was being made, as did Long Live the King, the biography of Clark Gable by Lyn Tornabene. David O. Selznick’s Hollywood by Ronald Haver also gave me a wonderful view of those years, as did An Empire of Their Own by Neal Gabler. This author explains how the European Jews who emigrated to America created Hollywood, and it is full of wonderful stories.
From all this research has come the second half of The Cavendon Luck, in which I cover the evacuation of Dunkirk, when civilian men were called to rescue the British troops stranded on the beaches. They left in anything that sailed, armed only with their mighty hearts and great courage. There is the Battle of Britain, fought in the skies by young airmen no older than twenty, single, and not even finished with their formal education. Of them Churchill said, “Never have so many owed so much to so few.” As I wrote about the Blitz of London and D-day I was constantly reminded how extraordinarily brave everyone was. Not only those in the armed services but civilians as well. Those horrific years demanded it, I believe, and everyone stood up to be counted.
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