by Murray Pura
“Yes, she was quite valuable.”
“I’m glad to hear it. Would you make use of her skills again?”
“Certainly.”
“And it goes no further than that?”
Albrecht wrinkled his forehead. “Pardon me?”
“Come, Albrecht! We’re grown men. Let’s not play parlor games. We’re perfectly alone and can say what we mean without fear of others repeating our words in the wrong places. I’m glad you offered Catherine an opportunity to get out of the house and do something that required her intelligence. She’s mourned too long…far too long. Truly she had become rather sallow in appearance. The Swiss air and food obviously did her good. Her countenance is greatly improved. I am grateful to the baron and you for that.”
“Thank you.”
“You understand it must end there though. If she marries again, she must marry an Englishman.”
Albrecht sat up straight. “Excuse me, Lord Edward?”
Edward smiled. “I’ve seen the way she looks at you. I thought she was going to take your hand when we were singing happy birthday to Christelle an hour ago. I’m glad Germany is getting back on her feet. I sense Germany can be our ally against Russia and the spread of communism. But a German—even a good German theologian—as part of the Danforth dynasty? Impossible. I think you understand that, don’t you?”
“Yes, I think I do understand you.”
Edward patted the arm of the couch. “Excellent. I didn’t think there would be any trouble. Mind you, I don’t intend to stand in the way of any working relationship between Catherine and you. That’s just what Catherine needs. Let her help you with a thousand of your books. But no more than that. She has her castle, and you have yours. All right?”
Albrecht inclined his head. “This might be something you should raise with your sister, Lord Edward.”
“I may do that.” Edward got up. “Thank you for a stimulating insight on European politics, professor.”
“It was interesting.”
“How is Matthew?”
“He’s all wound up from the big day, and he’s disappointed Charles left so early with his mother.”
Kipp buttoned his pajama top. “Couldn’t be helped.”
Christelle sat on the edge of the bed, the dark lines under her eyes and her tightly clasped hands revealing her tension. “He says he won’t sleep until you kiss him good night.”
“Are you all right then, Chris?”
“No, I am not all right. We’ll talk when you come back.” After Kipp left, Chris dragged herself under the covers and turned off the lamp by the bed. She looked out the window and in the moonlight she saw Skitt walking toward the pond carrying a paper bag, a cricket bat, and the thermos Catherine had brought him from Switzerland. She wondered what he was doing, but she soon drifted off. When a spasm jerked her awake, she clenched her fists against the pain and prayed.
Seigneur, I took so much medication today to get through the celebration. Must I take more now just to sleep? Dieu, I love Kipp and my son. I love my English family. But I think it would be better if You take me now rather than after I become an opium eater. I have no wish to end my life as an addict. Aie pitié, Seigneur.
“Are you asleep?” Kipp asked in the semidarkness.
“Non.” She patted the bed beside her. “Come and lie beside me, my love. Are you afraid I am going to throw the clock at you?”
“I might be,” he said as he climbed into bed.
“Well, I don’t have the energy for that.” She turned on her side to face him. “You will have to decide for yourself what you will do about Caroline Scarborough. I have said enough. In any case, I don’t think what I wished for—and asked for—will ever happen. She did not tell me what you said to her, but whatever it was hurt her deeply. There was no need of you to do that, Kipp. That is not what you do to people. You have never been like that.”
“I’m sorry. It was not a good day for me.”
“I am not the one you need to apologize to. And perhaps she will not hear your apology anyway. I believe she and Charles are gone from your life for good. I hope this is not something you will regret a year from now.”
“I don’t know. When I think of a year from now, all I see is there will be no birthday party for you next year. There will be no balloons, no candles…and none of your smiles.”
“Shh. Look! I am smiling for you in the dark.”
He reached out and touched her face. “Yes, I can feel that.”
She suddenly drew in her breath. “The pain is a little worse. I will have a restless night. You might wish to sleep in another room.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
She took his hand. “Always the gallant one, my knight in shining armor.”
“You looked very good today. You did very well. People remarked on your thinness, but you had so much enthusiasm and charm everyone was delighted. How beautiful you are, Chris! Even while you’re fighting this monster, how much life you give to everyone. You’re radiant.”
“Ah, merci.”
“You don’t really know, you know. You might overcome this cancer.”
“Non, Kipp. Do not allow yourself to think that way. It is not going to happen. I don’t feel that happening inside me.”
“You can’t be completely sure.”
“I don’t want you to believe I will recover. It will make it worse when I—when I—” She stopped. “Just pray. Will you pray? That will help. Hold me close and pray.”
“I’m not good at that anymore.”
“Try. I am asking you.”
He kissed her on the lips. “Yes. For you, of course.”
“Hush.” Catherine put a finger to her lips. “Remember, Skitt is standing guard at the pond.”
Albrecht looked. “Your butler? What is that all about?”
“Poachers go after the swans, so Harrison and Skitt take turns standing guard. They’ve never caught any though, and this is their second summer at it.”
“It would be best if we moved away from the pond then, I think.”
“I agree.” She took his hand in the cozy darkness under the trees. “I thought you might have changed your mind, you took so long to join me.”
“Me? No. Your brother would wish me to, however.”
“My brother? Kipp?”
“Edward. He made it clear he didn’t want German blood in the family. A working relationship with you is fine, he said.”
“Don’t take Edward personally, Albrecht.”
“How should I take him?”
She caught the tone in his voice, stopped, and faced him, still holding his hand. “He fancies himself as the leader of the Conservative Party in ten years and then prime minister. After that, emperor of the world, I suppose. This has nothing to do with you. He’s not comfortable with Chris either because she’s French.”
“So no wedding bells in our future?”
“Do you want wedding bells?”
“I don’t know. The chat with him did give my train a bit of a lurch.”
“The oddest thing is he had a huge row with Mum and Dad when it came to his marriage. Char was a commoner, you see, and they weren’t happy about their eldest son marrying her. But he fought them until he got what he wanted. Now he turns up his nose at my interest in a German theologian? This is one of Edward’s little hypocrisies. Perhaps he’ll grow out of it.”
Albrecht glanced up at the stars. “His political views seem a bit harsh. I hope he grows out of those first.”
“What views?” asked Catherine.
“He’s a little too approving of Adolph Hitler’s ideas.”
“Against the Jews?”
“I didn’t get any sense of that. It was mostly being against the trade unions and communists where he found common ground with the Nazi Party.”
“You have to bear in mind he’s taken on the role of scourge of Bolshevism. That’s all it is. He’s no fascist, believe me. Too much of an Englishman for that.” She led Albrecht unde
r an old apple tree. “But we didn’t come out here to discuss my brother Edward’s idiosyncrasies, did we?”
“No.”
“Or marriage. We don’t want to make a hash of things when we’re just getting started, do we?”
“I agree with you. Talk of marriage is verboten.”
“Good. Let’s keep our relationship uncluttered, shall we?” She kissed him gently on the lips. “Did you get a chance to speak with Chris?”
“Very briefly. The children were playing out on the lawn while she told me my book on suffering meant a great deal to her. She said it made her able to accept her ongoing illness in a better spirit—even to contemplate death in a less fearful manner.”
“Death? I hope that’s not on her mind.”
“Now and then it’s on everybody’s mind, Catherine. Even if it’s only for a few moments. She hoped we could talk more tomorrow after breakfast.”
“I’m sure you can. Didn’t you say you were staying over another night? At least?”
“At least? Where did that idea come from?”
“I thought I might persuade you with my English charms.” She kissed him on the lips a second time, much more slowly, hands on his chest. “We were allies at Waterloo, remember?”
“Oh? Were you there for the entire battle?”
“Yes. Right next to you.”
“Did we kiss?”
“Before and after, yes, quite a bit.”
“Remind me.”
She put her arms around his neck and kissed him a long time before stopping to brush her lips over his cheek and whisper in his ear. “Remember now?”
“It’s coming back to me. I can see Blucher and Wellington. Maybe even a glimpse of Napoleon.”
“Then I’m not doing this right. Let’s try this.” She kissed him with more force and then released him.
He looked at her in kind of a daze.
“Well?” She cocked her head and smiled. “What do you see now?”
“Why, I must admit, not much. Just you.”
“Ah, now we have the chemistry just right, Professor Hartmann. What shall we do with it?”
He ran his hands through her long, dark hair. “Carry on I hope, Lady Catherine. Die Nacht ist jung.”
“It is young. But still not a star or the moon or a kiss should be lost. We must use them up.”
“Once again I agree with you wholeheartedly.”
Kipp woke in the dark. At first he lay still as he listened. Matthew wasn’t crying. There was no noise from inside the house or outside on the grounds. He reached over to touch Christelle’s arm. It was cold and rigid.
“Chris! Christelle!” he cried.
He threw back the covers. Moonlight revealed her open eyes were lifeless. Her lips were parted in a small smile. Her hair was spread over the pillow like silver feathers.
“Christelle!” he shouted.
He moved to her side of the bed. Sitting down, he pulled her into his arms and looked for any sign of life. He clamped his hand over her heart and then grabbed her wrist. He kissed her and cried out again. Her arms remained stiff as stone. Her entire body seemed as smooth and hard as marble.
“Oh no! Oh no! God, my God…no please. Not this…no…no…no!”
He heard the sound of running feet. Switches must have been clicked on because light blazed all around him. Hands gripped his shoulders. He turned his head and recognized Ben. Victoria was slightly behind him, her hand over her mouth as she took in the scene.
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Kipp.” Ben’s face was wet with tears. “God, please help us.”
Then Kip noticed his father and mother looking pale and old. There was Catherine, tears cutting across her face. Emma was clutching Victoria. Edward rushed in with Charlotte, whose hair looked like Christelle’s—wild and shining, except it was moving as she moved and Christelle’s hair only moved because he was rocking her and weeping into the thousands of soft strands.
“Our Father,” Jeremy touched his shoulder and knelt beside the bed, “who art in heaven.” Jeremy’s round glasses had smeared. He took them off. Grasping his prosthetic right hand with his left hand, he dropped his head onto his hands. “Que ton règne vienne, que ta volonté soit faite sur la terre comme au ciel. Donne-nous aujourd’hui notre pain de ce jour.” He stopped. His voice became a whisper. “Forgive us our sins. As we forgive those who have sinned against us. Lead us not into temptation. But deliver us from evil. For thine is the kingdom. And the power. And the glory. Forever. Amen.”
Matthew stood looking at his mother. Kipp saw that he was very slender and very young and that his eyes were as dark as his mother’s eyes had been.
9
July, 1925–October, 1926
Dover Sky
Dear Cornelia, my diary,
How many times have I intended to sit down and write? More than a year has gone by, and it’s July again. But I am determined to tell you everything this evening.
I must start with our loss of Christelle last summer. None of us knew how sick she was. She kept the truth about her cancer from everyone except Kipp until the day she died. Kipp was absolutely shattered. We all were. It was a tremendous shock.
Then the funeral was scarcely over—we laid her to rest at the family cemetery at Ashton Park—before Kipp was gone. He made arrangements with Mother and Father to take care of Matthew. Then he flew off in his SPAD to enter an air race from the Orkneys to South Africa. The first leg he landed at London a half hour behind that horrid von Zeltner fellow. The next day was a short hop to Paris, and the day after that the contestants overnighted at Madrid. Kipp was still behind, but by the time he reached Cape Town in South Africa he was more than an hour ahead of von Zeltner! He won the race and the purse was five thousand pounds! He sent the money to Mother and Father to use for anything Matthew might need.
The next thing we knew, Kipp was missing. He’d taken off for the return flight. Somewhere over the Sahara he just disappeared. Even von Zeltner looked for him. We were frantic for weeks as people searched. If Victoria’s husband, Ben, hadn’t been so concerned about Vic and their new baby boy being sick, he would have flown down and hunted for Kipp himself.
Finally we heard that Kipp had been rescued by French Foreign Legion troops after his plane ran out of fuel and crash-landed in the desert. Father rounded up everyone from Ashton Park and Dover Sky, and we attended a special service of praise and thanksgiving at Jeremy’s church in London even though Kipp wasn’t back yet. It was a wonderful time of rejoicing.
But for all that, we still haven’t seen Kipp since he left for the Orkneys last July. He joined the Legion and remained in Africa. He writes his son often, and the letters are read to Matthew. Kipp sends photographs that we frame and hang in Matthew’s room. My brother looks fit enough in his funny French hat and desert uniform. We think he’s been doing some flying for the French, but he’s very vague about his duties.
The news tells us France is siding with Spain in the war in Morocco against the Berbers of the Rif region. The Legion has been sent in. We haven’t heard from Kipp in at least a month, and Mum is fretting that he’s caught up in the fighting. We know it was very fierce in May. All we can do is pray. Between you and me, Kipp’s behavior since his wife’s death seems suicidal.
It was fierce enough in England in May too. We had a dreadful general strike that lasted a week and just about brought everyone to blows. Edward was ranting about communists and Bolshevists, and I suppose he wasn’t far off the mark. The workers walked out by the millions—especially the coal miners. There was indeed a strong revolutionary element stirring the pot. Prime Minister Baldwin maintained his calm and didn’t send the army in with rifles firing. Eventually the awful strike was over and done. Dad says the time of the strike will come back to haunt us in the next election. He thinks voters will punish the Conservative Party for turning a deaf ear to the workingman’s plea for better wages and working conditions.
Then there is my life. What do I do about men? How ni
ce if I could just traipse off and marry my man as our servant Sally did with her soldier (and leaving us a maid short). I’ve come to an understanding of sorts with Albrecht Hartmann. We adore one another but won’t speak of marriage. I helped him with his book that came out in August last year. We’ve remained close ever since, and we grow closer all the time. He writes constantly and has asked me to join him on his sabbatical from the university that begins this fall and carries over into 1927. I don’t see how I can join him, at least not for all of it, without causing a scandal. Edward is working hand in glove with the prime minister’s office, and he would have me strung up from the yardarm if anything I did cast our family in a poor light right now. I really can’t say what will happen, but I have until September to sort it out.
Speaking of yardarms and the navy, guess who popped back into my life? Terrence Fordyce! He came calling a few weeks ago. I hadn’t seen him in at least a year and a half. I was taken aback. He is more handsome and tanned than ever and keen on picking up where we left off. We’ve gone out for dinner a few times and to a naval ball.
Yes, I did tell him about Albrecht. It doesn’t seem to faze him. I expect he figures that since I am not engaged or married, I am still on the market, which is true enough, I suppose. I don’t know how to solve the marriage riddle when it comes to Albrecht Hartmann and Terrence Fordyce. Edward would have an absolute fit over my marrying Albrecht, whereas Terry would graft nicely into the Danforth family tree.
I confess my affection was all for Albrecht until Terry came to call again when the Hood was back from the Mediterranean. I am so fickle and feel I am playing the coquette. This is all rather difficult. It would help if either man grew ugly or boorish or witless but alas, the truth is they are both lovely in all respects. My head spins like a weathercock, and I fear my heart does the same. “Frailty, thy name is woman!” Do shut up, Hamlet!
What else to write about, hmm? My sister Libby and her American husband, Michael, are at long last returning to England. They’ve been gone far longer than anyone expected, so Mum and Dad are ecstatic. The pair are supposed to show up in Dover this fall. That’s very convenient for me because now I can tell Albrecht I can’t possibly commit to anything until the new year. After all, I must welcome Michael and Libby back and see them settled. It also permits me to spend more time with Terry and see him off to the Med in January. That will give me ample opportunity to decide what to do about Albrecht and his yearlong sabbatical.
