Miss Lily’s Lovely Ladies

by Jackie French

  She was fairly sure they hadn’t been free until James Lorrimer asked.

  ‘What is Halburton like?’ She didn’t say Doris had given her a copy of Town and Country with a feature on the estate. The magazine had been more than a decade old, but she suspected little had changed since.

  ‘The original hall is fifteenth century. Two wings added by my great-grandfather. My mother planted the rose gardens. They’re modelled on the Empress Josephine’s at Malmaison.’

  She didn’t say she knew that too.

  ‘I’m not going to ask if you like roses, Miss Higgs,’ he added.

  ‘Because both the question and the answer would be too predictable? I look forward to it enormously, Mr Lorrimer.’

  ‘Good.’ He smiled down at her. For the first time that afternoon, he seemed to look at her alone.

  So, she thought, he is going to propose, if not this afternoon then at Halburton. And she would probably accept. No, not even probably. She would accept. She’d clung to ‘probably’ because, well, love was supposed to feel more fluttery than this. Had felt fluttery, when it had been Malcolm.

  But she liked this man. Respected him. Admitted, finally, that she had never respected Malcolm. And she liked the fact that James Lorrimer admired her.

  Even for the corned-beef princess there came a time of choices. She could stay in England one more year, perhaps, without encouraging people to talk. She had friends she could stay with now, and work she could do wholeheartedly and with comradeship from Dodders and her friends, or perhaps she might even start a group herself, once she had a household and husband to give her the freedom of social approval. But a third year here, without marriage …

  And home? She longed for Australian sunlight; the drab kiss of khaki trees on deep blue sky; the song of rain or of cicadas. But Australian empires were those of the squatters, where Sophie Higgs could have no power, or those of men like her father, where she too was shut off from rule.

  She would visit, take the children back every Christmas perhaps. But she could find no life of fulfilment there.

  She wished that an English luncheon gave the same opportunities as a Thuringa party, that somehow if she felt James Lorrimer kiss her she would feel more confident that accepting his proposal was the best path for her life to take. She caught his eye, full of an intentness it had never had before. Had he been thinking about kissing her? But James Lorrimer’s cheeks did not flush like hers.

  ‘A penny for your thoughts, Miss Higgs.’

  He knew exactly what she had been thinking, and liked it. ‘I was just thinking —’ She broke off as a man in a chauffeur’s uniform approached. He bent and whispered in Mr Lorrimer’s ear.

  And suddenly it was as though she weren’t there. As though the marquee had vanished, and the top hats and feathers. He stood, lifted her hand, kissed the air above it. ‘Miss Higgs, I’m sorry. I have to go.’

  Suddenly she knew exactly why he was leaving. ‘Of course, Mr Lorrimer. I hope it isn’t bad news.’

  He seemed to see her again. ‘Germany has invaded Belgium; there will be more news in about an hour.’

  ‘Is it war?’

  ‘Yes. By tonight, Miss Higgs, we will be at war.’

  Chapter 40

  People speak of war as though it is all one country. But every war is a separate land.

  Miss Lily, 1914

  The night was filled with cheering, their street crammed with a parade of men with brooms and shovels on their shoulders instead of rifles, marching from all across London till they finally paraded around and around Grosvenor Square. By midnight the marchers had gone, but not the drunks, singing and yelling insults aimed at the Kaiser.

  ‘It’s like a bank holiday, miss,’ said Doris, putting a screen against the window to muffle the noise. She unhooked Sophie’s dinner dress; they had dined at home, the dinner they had been meant to go to cancelled because their host was leaving for his regiment. Doris helped Sophie into a robe, then kneeled to take off Sophie’s stockings. ‘Don’t think I ever heard so many people so happy before.’

  ‘How do you feel, Doris?’

  ‘Me, miss?’

  ‘Your father died in a war.’

  Doris looked at her sideways, as though considering what it was safe to say. ‘I’m glad I haven’t brothers, miss,’ she said at last.

  ‘Me too.’ Would James Lorrimer join the army? Surely he would be needed at home. Malcolm, the young men she had danced with …

  Was far-off Dolphie in the Kaiser’s uniform now?

  ‘What do women do when there’s a war?’

  ‘We wait, I reckon, miss. That’s what Mam did.’

  There was no visit to Halburton.

  Men evaporated. Not just the men she knew, but footmen, chauffeurs; even the milkman’s horse and cart were driven by an older man, hunched and grey.

  There was little war news yet, apart from the German boots and bayonets in Belgium, the ghost faces of refugees caught in photographs, moments perhaps before death or escape: old women carrying bloody children or cherished pigs; bodies curled like kittens on the road.

  The atrocities Dolphie had prophesied were all there, not the blood rage of battle, but carefully planned. Sophie wondered if the photographs were also planned, by Englishmen urging working men to rage and to enlist.

  She wished, deeply, that she could talk of this to Miss Lily. Her Grace would also understand. But Her Grace had worry enough: almost every male in her extended family and social group was either in the army or an officer on the Reserve list, called now to lead his men.

  It seemed that the exact timing of this war, expected for so long, had taken the leaders by surprise. The Kaiser had been on his annual holiday on his yacht; the German General von Moltke, Chief of the General Staff, taking the cure at a French spa; the French President on a state visit to Russia; the Serbian Prime Minister in the middle of an election campaign; and the Russian Ambassador, who had taken such a big part in previous negotiations in Vienna, on leave.

  War had been anticipated for decades. Now, it must be organised at short notice.

  Some hostesses clung to the world of parties. Most accepted that this was a new world, the world of war. Suddenly it was possible to send regrets, which the duchess did, on Sophie’s behalf. Instead Sophie spent that week with Dodders and the women at the Workmen’s Friendship Club, serving stew not just to their regulars, but to white-faced Belgian refugees too.

  This was not the time to reorganise operations here. Many of the women were already talking of directing their energy to war work; to convincing politicians — who probably needed little convincing — that women could do men’s factory jobs while the men surrendered themselves to war.

  Her Grace, Dodders and her friends assumed Sophie worked from charity and comradeship. Perhaps she would have done so. But she had also received a note from James Lorrimer: an apology for withdrawing the invitation to Halburton, and a veiled request. ‘I hear you are working with the refugees. I know you will listen to their stories with your usual sympathy and understanding.’ He had signed it ‘Yours always, James Lorrimer’.

  She understood. If the trembling and terrified, driven from their homes, said anything of military significance, James Lorrimer would be told.

  Sophie arrived there each afternoon, with Doris, thin-lipped, in tow, and John the coachman to keep an eye on them, and to lug the coal to keep the fires going. By the end of that week she had a nickname — Soapy — but had heard nothing except tales of terror, or worse, blank faces that saw nothing, unable to move beyond the horror they had known.

  How can Dolphie support a country that does this? thought Sophie as she and Dodders bore away the pads from a child still haemorrhaging from rape, followed by bayonets.

  ‘I’m glad we’re going to fight,’ said Dodders abruptly as she thrust the dressings into the copper to be boiled, then reused. ‘I was afraid that our wretched government would declare neutrality, let France go under.’

  Sophie sai
d nothing. It had seemed so clear back at Shillings that any war was bad. Yet you couldn’t see this child and do nothing. Which was exactly what Dolphie had predicted England would feel …

  What would Miss Lily say now? Would she somehow produce an argument that showed how fourteen million men could stay in their homes, forget the song of war? Emily had seen what was happening, she thought. And Hannelore had known too. She longed to place a call to Shillings, to give comfort or to receive comfort, she wasn’t sure. But there would be no Miss Lily there.

  Alison returned to the house she had been married from, not her husband’s estate in Derbyshire. Major Standish had been recalled to his regiment. Both his house and their London residence would be shut up for the duration.

  Sophie sat on Alison’s bed — a more sumptuous one than her own, with a dressing room between her room and her husband’s — and watched Alison unswathe the tulle and remove her hat. It was crimson with purple feathers, so different from the whites and pastels she had worn before.

  ‘Do you like it?’

  ‘No,’ said Sophie.

  ‘Neither do I now. But one has to shop in Paris, so I did. And we saw the Louvre — Philip explained the paintings to me. Well, not all: my feet hurt, so we went on the Seine and he told me about the Ile de France and all the history too.’ She sat on her chaise longue, her hands strangely useless in her lap. ‘It’s odd being back here, when I thought I’d be at Philip’s. He’s worried about my being alone. He says there might be food riots.’

  Sophie nodded. Already it was difficult to get bread for the Workmen’s Friendship Club. Food wasn’t rationed, though rumours said it soon would be, and it seemed everyone was buying what they could, just in case. England’s imported wheat, corned beef, chilled lamb, citrus and so much else came in ships that would be needed now for war — or might be sunk by enemy ships.

  Ships with passengers, as well as food, thought Sophie. But she wasn’t leaving anyway.

  She looked at the strain on Alison’s face. ‘What’s wrong? Are you worried about him?’

  ‘No. The Guards won’t be sent to fight. It’s just,’ she shook her head, ‘the refugees from Belgium and Luxembourg. We drove past columns of them for hours after we left Paris.’

  ‘I’ve been working with them,’ said Sophie quietly.

  Alison shivered. ‘Thousands of people, all bundles and bags. One old woman carried three children, despite a bayonet wound in her back. We offered her a lift, but she shook her head and said, “Where can we go?” I gave her what money I had. But it was so little. War is so big, Sophie, and this is just the beginning. No one even cried. They just looked … blank. Madame at the hotel had her niece there, from Belgium, and …’ she looked down at her hands ‘… I tried to talk to her but she just sat looking at the wall. Wouldn’t speak. Madame had to spoon food into her. They’d just buried her sister. The soldiers had raped them both. She was four years old, Sophie!’ Alison shut her eyes. ‘How can men do that?’

  Sophie thought of Miss Lily, and shook her head.

  ‘I was against war. But we can’t not fight now. Not after what I saw there.’

  ‘Not a good way to end your honeymoon.’

  ‘I think I’m glad I saw it. I’ve been in a dream the last few years, just thinking of myself. But now I’m Mrs Major Philip Standish, I’m … stronger. At last I’m really someone.’ She flushed. ‘I like him, Sophie.’

  ‘So I should hope,’ said Sophie lightly.

  ‘No, I mean I really like him. He … he doesn’t expect things from me. He’s the only person who never has, except you. Grandmama expected me to marry well and so did Cousin Frederick. Miss Lily wanted me to be like you and Hannelore and Emily, able to talk about politics and Home Rule for Ireland. Philip’s just happy for me to be me, because now he can be who he is too. And, Sophie … it wasn’t as bad as I thought. And over quickly.’

  It took a moment for Sophie to realise what Alison was talking about.

  ‘I’d like a baby to cuddle,’ said Alison softly. ‘They are so soft, aren’t they?’

  Sophie tried to smile for her. ‘If I end up in Australia after all, will you ever come out to visit me, do you think?’

  ‘Of course. Philip will let me visit anyone I like. He’s so kind.’

  A kind master, thought Sophie, thinking of Samuel’s words about the Earl of Shillings. But still a master.

  ‘The war can’t last long,’ said Alison. ‘The generals say it’ll be over by Christmas, at the latest.’

  Sophie nodded. Like Waterloo, she thought. One major battle and it will be over.

  Chapter 41

  Business carried on as usual during alterations on the map of Europe.

  Winston Churchill

  2 September 1914

  Dear Dad and Miss Thwaites,

  You’ll see by the address above that I’m staying with Alison and Her Grace at Wooten Abbey. The duke has joined his regiment, with most of the men from the estate. The town house has been lent to a charity to house Belgian refugees, and the duke has offered it to the Admiralty for the duration of the war after the refugees move to more permanent homes.

  It is so beautiful here in the country that it is hard to think of the war beyond these shores. The harvest is being taken in, and the fields are all golden wheat or yellow stubble. The workers are shorthanded because so many men have joined up, so the women are helping, with their skirts tied up with rope, and big straw hats. They say it will be the best harvest ever. The men and women sing as they work, old songs about the king of the grain.

  All one talks about here apart from the harvest is what is happening in Belgium. Such a tiny country to be so brave. They could have declared neutrality and let the Germans march through to France. But instead they stood up to them, and are paying for it now. Everyone, I think, wants to do their bit to help, but there are so few ‘bits’ to go round.

  A friend of mine from the Workmen’s Friendship Club has begun work as a VAD (Voluntary Aid Detachment), a sort of nurse’s assistant, at Bedford, where the Territorial Highland Division and other units have been stationed before they go abroad. She says that more than a hundred men have died already of measles — epidemics of one disease after another just sweep through the camps. Many of the young men have never gone past the next village, and the city diseases are strange to them. But again, do not worry: there are no army camps near here, nor are there likely to be any, as we are so far out of the way.

  Her Grace is the chairman of the local Red Cross. She doesn’t actually do anything, of course, except accept a bouquet of flowers at the Red Cross fête that is held in the grounds here every year. But now even she is attending the first-aid classes held in the church hall every Wednesday night. I am practising my bandaging and studying my first-aid book too. My knitting is improving, you will be glad to hear, Miss Thwaites. I have knitted seven balaclavas already. Alison has knitted ten and Her Grace fourteen, which is remarkable, as Alison says she has never seen her knit before, but she must have learned when she was young.

  Five of the footmen from the Abbey have joined up; Her Grace has hired more maids to take their places. It is strange to sit down to dinner with only Blaise the butler and women in caps and aprons, not footmen in their striped shirts and ties. Her Grace has decided there will be only one hot dish at breakfast too, while the war lasts, though of course there is still ham and cold game pies and toast — Her Grace’s idea of ‘austerity’ is like most people’s idea of a feast, so do not think I am starving.

  PLEASE do not worry about me. I am really safer here than I would be sailing home, especially as there may be fighting in South Africa by the time a ship to Australia reaches home. My love to everyone at Thuringa, and my special love to both of you.

  Yours,

  Sophie

  Blaise’s silver tray was laden with letters each morning at breakfast. Women across England, it seemed, were writing to each other. Even Sophie had letters, from Dodders and Lady Mary, still at work at
the club, as well as two notes from Emily, one announcing a jumble sale with proceeds to go to the Red Cross, and the other asking for volunteers to collect comforts for Belgian refugees, establishing her own small empire.

  James Lorrimer wrote twice a week: brief, almost businesslike letters. Keeping me connected, she thought approvingly, while he is needed elsewhere. She was glad that among the bumblings of politicians and generals there were men like James Lorrimer, and she wished she had heard something of value to offer him. Perhaps all she could give him now was understanding and patience.

  Seventy thousand men of the British Expeditionary Fleet had sailed for Belgium in secret, landing before the Germans knew they had even left, the French forming a line along the south of Belgium to repel the invasion of their own country. But the Germans had centred their attack on the north. Yesterday had brought news of the English retreat from Mons and the French retreat to the Somme, the last defence post before Paris. If I had managed to get Dolphie or Hannelore to confide in me, she thought, the war might already have been won.

  If Paris fell, France herself was as good as lost. The Russian army too had lost to Germany at the Battle of Tannenberg, white-horsed Russian cavalry facing grey-uniformed men with Krupps machine guns. Exactly as Hannelore had predicted, what already seemed a lifetime ago.

  Hannelore’s estates were between Tannenberg and the Russian border. Was Hannelore safe? Were any of them? Suddenly it seemed that if the war were over by Christmas it would be because Germany had won it.

  But none of that could be put into a letter to her father.

  Sophie looked up at the dowager, her thick fingers holding The Times. Only one copy was delivered now that the duke was not in residence; she and Alison had to wait for the news. The dowager ate slowly but steadily, even as she read.

  Sophie looked at her face as she laid the paper on the table. ‘More bad news, Your Grace?’

  ‘It is difficult to tell. The Allies have retreated again. Field Marshal Sir John French says simply to a better position, but then he would say that. A supremely silly man. The sort of man who’ll exhaust six horses on the hunting field and then strike the seventh when it stumbles.’ The dowager stood, her flesh wobbling slightly. She must have left her corsets off. ‘But now he is destroying men’s lives, not just horses. The losses have been enormous. Tens of thousands. Stupid, stupid man. Alison, how many wounded do you think we could take here? It seems there is not enough hospital space for the wounded coming over from Belgium and France.’