by Peter Albano
Brenda could feel no anger toward Bernice. She knew her sister-in-law loved her, respected her, and shared her antipathy toward Walter. The American studied her cup. “I know what you’re trying to do, Bernice. But I’m not ready for another man—marriage, to love fully and become part of a man’s life—part of him.”
“Did you ever feel that way about Geoffry?”
Brenda fingered her cup. “After his death,” she said bitterly.
“Is that it, then? Geoffry?”
“I don’t know.” She looked up, eyes deep with moisture. “Maybe it’s all of them.”
Bernice nodded and there was understanding in her eyes. “Yes, I know.” She sighed and brightened. “But the party—you’ll come.”
“Can’t disappoint the PM,” Brenda said, smiling.
The women touched cups and finished their tea.
The affair was not held at Ten Downing Street. Instead, to avoid criticism of a luxurious party held in the prime minister’s residence while English boys died miserably on the Western Front, it was held in a magnificent old mansion on Trevor Place off Knightsbridge. The host was not actually David Lloyd George but a minor functionary of the exchequer named Ramsey Kavanaugh. Kavanaugh, scion of a Sheffield steel fortune, had smoothly transferred his allegiance from the conservative government of Herbert Asquith to that of the liberal David Lloyd George. It was common knowledge that Lloyd George favored duties on tobacco, gasoline, beer, and spirits, and pushed for land taxes. Not only had he antagonized the old landed gentry in his early years, but also now he feuded with the generals, publicly criticizing the conduct of the war and the waste of manpower. “British troops should never be buried in the holocaust of French trenches,” he had been quoted as saying. He had even enlisted the support of the conservative Winston Churchill, who had resumed his seat in the House of Commons after being sacked from the admiralty.
But ambitious men gravitate to power and in December of 1916 David Lloyd George, son of a Welsh schoolteacher, husband to a farmer’s daughter, a plebeian who had been accused of “socialist plundering,” and “unscrupulous demagoguery,” sat in the ultimate chair of power—an unsteady chair with weak legs true, but, nevertheless, still the consummate seat of power. And dutifully the aspiring came to pay homage when the strong man beckoned.
Brenda regarded her invitation—a formal engraved invitation had been hand delivered—with mixed feelings. Although she had lost her fascination with fashion, she still enjoyed the knowledge that male eyes turned and female lips tightened whenever she entered a room. She had not bought a new gown in over a year and approached her preparations for the party with indifference. However, Nicole would have none of it. Eagerly, the maid chose a gown by Lucile; an evening dress of gentle blue chiffon with gossamer batiste under-sleeves and a tight bodice laced up the front with gold thread. Transparent at oblique angles even in weak light, the gown was worn over a beaded mauve silk chemise with embroidered birds and flowers that imparted a youthful, ingenue quality to the American’s beauty. Hastily, Nicole took in a stitch here, a tuck there until the gown fit every curve and undulation of Brenda’s body as if brushed on.
“Magnifique, madame,” the maid said, admiring her mistress. She waved a thimble. “Lucile is trés élégante.”
“I think she knows what she’s doing, Nicole,” Brenda said, surveying her reflection in the pier mirror from upswept auburn hair to her highest-heeled evening shoes. “After all, she does dress the Dolly Sisters, Lily Elsie, and even Irene Castle.”
The maid looked puzzled. “The actresses, ma maitresse?”
“Yes, Nicole. The actresses.”
But Brenda was not acting when, following Bernice and a slightly drunk Lloyd, she entered the entry hall of the Kavanaugh mansion. She was surprised and pleased by the opulence and beauty of the Kavanaugh home. A huge rotunda-like room with a glass-domed ceiling, the entry had an exquisite marble floor, paneled walls hung with Gainsboroughs and Monets, and a spectacular cut rock crystal chandelier that reminded Brenda of the Gamier monstrosity hanging in the Grand Opera House in Paris. Four people were in the receiving line: the portly Ramsey Kavanaugh splendid in a perfectly tailored tuxedo, his wife Denise, and Lloyd George and his wife Margaret.
Kavanaugh, fiftyish with a round, beefy face and stomach to match and a bald pate that glared in the light as if it had been polished with paste wax, grasped the American’s hand and held it too long. “Welcome, Mrs. Higgins,” he said. “You will add considerable beauty to our gathering. Please save a dance for me.” His wife overheard him.
When Brenda accepted Denise Kavanaugh’s hand, she felt she was holding a glove filled with cold jelly. The narrow eyes were gray glaciers. A bulky, lined woman, she had obviously had herself cut, scraped, patched, and colored countless times in fruitless attempts to retain a once-famous beauty. Denise Kavanaugh had spent most of her prewar summers in the South of France where she became a Francophile whose affectations and enormous bosom had earned her the sobriquet, The Grand Tetons. Her gown was a gorgeous black brocade and her coiffure sprinkled with diamonds, but no attempts by couturiers, hairdressers, or jewelers could eliminate the ravages of years of overeating and dissipation. “Welcome to our house,” she said coldly through layered chins and turned to the next guest.
Brenda heard David Lloyd George and Lloyd Higgins greet each other with an exchange of “Cousin” and “Godfather.” There were concerned questions about the front and low, almost unintelligible answers. She heard the PM and the colonel promise to talk later, Lloyd George speaking with an unmistakable Welsh lilt.
Now Brenda faced the Welshman. The prime minister was impressive. With a brown, neatly trimmed mustache, dark hair blemished by only a few strands of gray, and an unlined face, Lloyd George appeared youthful for a man well into his fifties. The jaw was square and strong, eyes inquisitive and bold as they wandered over Brenda’s body with a disrobing look the American had felt many times. Smiling, he held Brenda’s hand and surprised her by mumbling condolences over the loss of her husband. “A fine patriot and gentleman to the end,” he said, refusing to release her hand.
“Thank you, Mister Prime Minister,” she said, finally managing to disengage herself and follow Bernice and Lloyd into the adjoining ballroom.
The ballroom was enormous. Two stories high and decorated in golds and white, it was elliptical in shape with an orchestra playing on a dais at the far end in front of a wall of Renaissance mirrors. It was filled with high-ranking officers in fine uniforms, glistening with polished leather, brass buttons, and decorations worn on proud chests. The women were in fine silks, velvets, and glistening jewels. The orchestra was playing and the dancers swirled and glided. One wall was lined with tables laden with hors d’oeuvres, canapés, meats, exotic fruits, and elaborate salads served by liveried servants. Ypres, Vimy ridge, the Dardanelles, Jutland, the Somme, and the rest of the bloody horror were far, far away.
Glancing around the room, Brenda knew she was seeing the heart and soul and brains of the British war effort. Dozens of generals and admirals danced with stately women or stood in groups or sat together, smoking, talking seriously and animatedly. The timbre of their voices, the measured stance, drinks held high, arms carelessly akimbo, the tilt of aristocratic heads, soft, confident laughs, and the hungry glitter in their eyes filled the room with an arcane aura—a palpable force exuded by men on the brink of history about to quench their boundless thirst for celebrity. And Brenda sensed it would be done without counting the cost.
Lloyd grabbed a Scotch from a passing tray and handed the women champagne. Leading them to a pair of plump velvet sofas tucked in a corner, he was obviously upset, downed his drink in two gulps, and commanded another one. Bernice drank slowly and eyed her husband anxiously.
He waved his glass at a cluster of blue uniforms and glistening gold braid clustered around a pair of nearby tables. “The Royal Navy’s here. All the big admirals—Jackson, Jell
icoe, Beatty, and their trifles. They got their noses bloodied in the Dardanelles, at Jutland, and now they’ve got to kiss the new PM’s shoes if they want new dreadnoughts to play with.”
Brenda remained silent, but Bernice gasped, “Lloyd, please. . .”
Lloyd ignored his wife and gestured at a group of army officers standing nearby. “And over there, see those peacocks,” he said in a loud voice. “Commander-in-Chief General Douglas Haig and his lackey, General Henry Rawlinson.” He waved carelessly. “They’re talking to Chief of the Imperial General Staff Sir William Robertson.” He emptied his glass, spoke in slurred sarcasm, “These are the geniuses who plan the grand strategy, populate the grand cemeteries—none of them—not a single bloody one of those blokes has ever been to the front, knows anything about trench warfare, or gives two stuffs for the poor sods in the trenches.” He took a generous drink from a recharged glass. Leering, he continued, “If a zeppelin dropped a bomb on this place England could win the war in two months.”
“Please, Lloyd,” Bernice insisted. “People can hear you—heads are turning.”
“Better a few heads turned here than heads blown off on the Western Front.”
Bernice drank nervously and continued, “But if they’re incompetent, the new PM will sack the lot.”
Lloyd laughed bitterly. “As much chance as the kaiser playing cricket at Eaton.” He pulled another drink from a passing tray. “David Lloyd George is weak—doesn’t even have the support of the liberals. Most of them still follow Asquith. He can only stay in office with a coalition—with the support of Winston Churchill and the conservatives.”
There was desperation in Bernice’s voice. “Certainly, the new PM can do something.”
Lloyd drank thoughtfully. “Yes. He’ll probably cut down on manpower—give the generals less cannon fodder.” He ran a finger thoughtfully over his glass. “Maybe put them under the Frogs.” He nodded at a French general surrounded by his own suite of magnificently uniformed underlings in horizon blue who had joined Haig’s group. “That’s General Robert Nivelle. He just replaced Joffre as commander-in-chief.”
“Oh yes,” Brenda said. “I’ve heard of him. ‘The hero of Verdun.’”
Lloyd snorted. “That hero lost three hundred thousand Frenchmen.” He drank. “Another butcher and the whole lot of them is planning a new offensive. See the happy smiles on their faces?”
Shock broke Brenda’s silence. “A new offensive? And you—they can talk about it casually.”
“It should be a secret,” Bernice said.
“They don’t do the dying.”
Suddenly the crowded room was oppressive; stuffy and heavy with tobacco smoke. “Excuse me,” Brenda said. “I need some air.” Quickly, she rose and walked to the far end of the room to a pair of open French doors. She stopped on the sill, filling her lungs with sweet, fresh air.
“Close in here, madam,” a soft, friendly voice said in a strange accent.
Brenda turned to face a small Japanese naval officer wearing the three stripes of a commander. In his early thirties with jet black hair and fine olive skin, his black eyes like newly mined coal chips were fixed on Brenda’s surprised stare. He had the look of a man who was quick-witted, tenacious, and resourceful. “I surprise you, madam?” he asked.
“Why no,” Brenda said, captured by the eyes and the rare experience of looking down when talking to a man.
“I am Commander Isoroku Yamamoto of the Imperial Japanese Navy. We are allies?”
Brenda smiled. “I’m an American.” She introduced herself.
He bowed but did not proffer his hand. Brenda took it anyway. Two fingers were missing.
“Russian shrapnel—Tsushima,” he said.
“I’m sorry.”
“Do not feel sorry, Mrs. Higgins. The way of the samurai is to offer up his life gladly for Emperor Meiji. The loss of fingers was an honor.” He smiled up at her. “Soon, perhaps, Mrs. Higgins, we will be allies.”
Brenda sighed and answered with a noncommittal “Perhaps.”
Isoroku continued. “I, too, craved fresh air. Arrived with you.” He gestured at the doors. “And you are so lovely. Japanese women are beautiful, too. But western women”—the black eyes roamed her breasts, her hips—”are different in many ways.” He blushed like a schoolboy. “I am sorry. I have been far too bold—impolite.”
Brenda laughed, remembering the few Japanese women she had seen in California in her youth and the remarks the other girls had made. “Flat-chested,” “Bow-legged,” and “No butts,” were just a few of the unkind remarks that came to mind. “No,” the American protested. “You’re not impolite. I find you quite charming, Commander.”
“A dance, perhaps, Mrs. Higgins? Would your husband object? He must be very much in love with you and any man would be jealous of one so beautiful.”
Brenda explained that she was a widow. Yamamoto was properly sympathetic and then led her to the dance floor. He was a superb dancer and although he was at least two inches shorter than Brenda, his physique was solid, shoulders broad and muscled.
After the dance, General Douglas Haig caught Yamamoto’s eye and Isoroku led Brenda to the group of officers. There were bows, handshakes, and Brenda had her hand shook by the Englishmen and kissed by Nivelle and an Italian general named Pietro Badoglio who had joined the group. The Italian slobbered and Brenda found him distasteful. All were drinking, all were in boisterous spirits, and all eyed the American from head to toe and made her promise dances. The fact that she was a widow had apparently circulated quickly.
Haig was the most impressive officer of the group. Of medium height with splendid military bearing, he personified the general officer with perfectly groomed gray hair, tanned skin, and neatly trimmed mustache. Although his features were not large, the bones of his jaw and cheeks and forehead seemed weighty and firm as stone. His nose was straight and patrician, brow beetling, and his mouth unsmiling and immobile. Slender of build, his uniform was beautifully tailored and his leather polished as if it had been stropped with Kiwi polish. His eyes never left Brenda. “A dance—you promise, Mrs. Higgins?” he said. Brenda smiled and nodded.
Delicately, Isoroku excused himself and led Brenda back to the French doors where a handsome young Japanese lieutenant was waiting. “My aide, Lieutenant Yoshikazue Nakamura,” Yamamoto said, introducing the young officer. “We are both attachés at the Japanese Embassy,” Yamamoto explained.
The young officer bowed and shyly asked for a dance. Brenda soon found Nakamura to be a fine dancer, too; lithe, graceful, and a strong leader like Yamamoto. When they were finished, she gestured to Lloyd and Bernice. Nakamura took her to the sofas, bowed when introduced, and excused himself.
“My, those Orientals are so polite,” Bernice said, watching the young officer disappear into the crowd.
“Someday, we’ll be fighting those polite bastards,” Lloyd growled.
“They’re our allies,” Brenda protested.
Lloyd snorted. “Allies? Ha! Long enough to grab off Tsingtao and every German island in the Pacific—that’s all they’ve done.”
A deep, cultured voice interrupted. It was General Haig. “Mrs. Higgins. You promised a dance. Will you honor me?” He turned to Bernice and Lloyd, who had come to his feet slowly. “Good to see both of you again.”
Before Lloyd could answer, the orchestra launched itself into a waltz. Quickly, Haig circled Brenda’s waist and swept her away to three-quarter time.
“You’re an American,” he said, holding her close.
“Yes.”
“Live on Grosvenor Crescent?”
“Why yes.”
“Have you ever had lunch with a general?
“Is this an offensive, General Haig?”
He chuckled. “Perhaps.”
“Sorry. I don’t lunch with married generals or married privates, for that matt
er.”
“You take no prisoners, Mrs. Higgins.”
She laughed. “I’m not a tactician, General Haig, but sometimes there are less casualties if an advancing army knows precisely what the defenses are.”
“Formidable—formidable,” he said unsmiling. “Ludendorff and Hindenburg could not have said it better.” He was obviously disappointed.
Brenda opened the space between them and finally, when the music ended, Haig led her back to the sofas where Lloyd still stood unsteadily.
After thanking Brenda, Haig turned to leave and then hesitated and spoke to Lloyd. “You and the Coldstreams have done splendid work at Thiepval Ridge, Colonel Higgins.”
Lloyd glared back. “Most of my chaps enjoyed the duty, General. In fact, they liked it so much, they’re still there—buried.”
Bernice gasped and Brenda felt an involuntary smile curl her lips. But the general appeared unruffled. “We must expect losses, Colonel,” he said evenly.
“When will you visit my sector, General?” Lloyd shot back.
Haig’s square jaw jutted like a stone. “As soon as I return to France. Will you be there?”
“Of course. It’s the only place you can find an honest man.”
Haig wheeled and left, heels clicking on the polished wood floor like closing rifle bolts.
Brenda heard a chuckle. David Lloyd George was standing behind her. “The general is retreating in disorder, godson,” the prime minister said, obviously enjoying Haig’s discomfort and drunk enough to be indiscreet.
Lloyd pulled another drink from a passing waiter and sank back on the couch. “Rule Britannia, godfather,” he said, smirking at the glass.
“Don’t talk that way, Lloyd,” Bernice said.
The prime minister said to Brenda, “Our dance, Mrs. Higgins?”
“Of course,” Brenda said. Lloyd George put an arm around Brenda’s waist and they circled into the swirl of dancers. Immediately, he held her too close and Brenda stiffened.
“You’re one of the most beautiful women I have ever seen,” he said huskily, breathing heavily into her ear and relentlessly pulling Brenda’s body to his. “Perhaps I can show you around Ten Downing Street.”
