“You are a worrywart,” she told him. “I’ll be all right. Now what do you think Courtland is up to?” As usual, the political animal in Tosh was coming out and, again, she was his most trusted and valued counselor. For a few minutes, they discussed the difficult senator’s latest moves. “I really believe,” she said, “that he would sacrifice his own daughter.”
“He wants the presidency,” Zack said. “He’s got to discredit my administration…”
“If he wants to defeat the candidate you back in the next election,” Tosh said, completing the thought for him.
“Men do strange things when they want the presidency.”
“Yes, they do,” Tosh whispered. But Pontowski wasn’t thinking about Courtland. He was wishing for a time of healing, much like he had in the spring of 1943. “Go on back,” she told him, “and let me take a nap.”
“I’ll be back,” he told her. He gently kissed her and left, taking the first steps of another hard journey while his wife renewed her battle with an old enemy—the wolf.
1943
Sherston Hall, Suffolk, England
The old duke stomped up and down the south terrace of the huge country house, impatient and caustic as usual, ignoring the nurses and officers taking the afternoon sun. He kept eyeing the path that led to the stables and checking his watch. “Impertinent pup,” he grumbled. He occupied his time by surveying the grounds that surrounded Sherston Hall, his eighty-eight-room ancestral home that had been built in the 1650s. He glanced at the crowd on the terrace and snorted.
It had been hard for the old man to adjust to the hodgepodge of medical staff, orderlies, and wounded officers who filled his country house with chatter. He regretted allowing his wife to open up Sherston Hall as a convalescent home for officers wounded in the war. The noise and commotion that went with fifty to sixty young officers on the mend in the company of a bevy of young nurses and female orderlies had shattered his peaceful way of life. “Damn magpies” he called them with gruff impatience. He would never admit that he actually liked his “guests,” at least not to himself. He was anxious for the war to end so he could settle back into his old tyrannical ways.
Still, he had made it his duty to get to know each of the officers while they were under his roof by inviting them to share afternoon tea with him. When, from time to time, one would die or later be killed in action, he always wrote to the parents or wife expressing his and Lady Crafton’s condolences. He had been delivered a severe shock at one of those teas when a newly arrived RAF officer had spoken with an American accent. He had uttered, “A damn colonial” without thinking and had immediately received a smiling “Oh, I hope so, sir. But it’s only a small imperfection.”
The duke was startled by the reply. Not many were willing to brave his crusty reputation. “Humph,” he snorted. “Never met a colonial who knew damned-all about horses.”
“That’s the worst thing Charles can say about a person,” the duchess said, trying to smooth things over. “Don’t pay any attention to him.”
“I know a bit about horses…for a colonial,” the American had said. The duke had proceeded to bombard him with questions and discovered that he knew more than just “a bit about horses.” They became instantaneous friends.
A gust of wind whipped at the duke’s open coat, revealing a well-tailored mustard yellow waistcoat stretched tight across his big stomach. Perhaps because of his age and rotund body, the old-fashioned plus-four trousers that belted below his knees suited him. He pulled at his handlebar mustache when he saw the tall figure he had been waiting for walk around the far bend of the path leading from the stables.
“The boy’s been giving the nags their exercise,” he said to no one in particular. A nurse smiled at him. She, like almost everyone else at the country estate, had come to like the young American and was glad when he was around to divert the duke’s attention at afternoon tea. Somehow, the American had tamed the old man while he recovered from a nasty leg wound and life in the big house had become more pleasant. They would all miss him when he returned to operations. After that, the duke would then turn his full attention to what he called “maintaining civilized behavior under my roof.” She remembered only too well the torrent of abuse he had unleashed on her and a most appealing young RAF flight officer when he had discovered them locked in a passionate embrace in the maze. “Ask Flying Officer Pontowski to join me for tea,” he commanded, again speaking to no specific person. The nurse and two others made a mental promise to get the word to Zack. “Damn nags,” he groused. “Damn magpies.” He stomped down to the far end of the terrace to wait.
Fifteen minutes later, Zack walked through the tall French doors opening out from the drawing room. He had washed and changed out of the rough clothes he wore when exercising the duke’s horses and was wearing his RAF uniform. The duke studied his gait, much as he would a piece of prized horse flesh. “Humph,” he grunted, gesturing at the chair opposite him. “You look fit enough. Time you stopped wreaking havoc in my stable and abused the king’s property instead.”
Zack ignored his comments and sat down. “I’m expecting a posting anytime,” he said. “The quack said I’m no longer u/s.”
“U/s?” the duke grumbled. “Isn’t that the gibberish you use around those confounded airplanes?”
“It means unserviceable,” Zack told him. “Seems to fit.”
The duke looked genuinely distressed. “Soon?”
“They say the orders will probably come down next week.”
“Then you’ll be here over the weekend. Good. I’d like you to meet my granddaughter…Wilhelmina…headstrong young filly…needs taming.” He stirred his tea and took a sip. “Infatuated with the wrong chap…Roger Bertram…absolutely worthless.”
“I take it that means he can’t ride and doesn’t like horses,” Zack said. He stifled a grin.
“Quite the contrary. Bertram’s mad about them. Rides like a demon. But that’s about all he can mount. Breeding all wrong. Good chest development, short in the withers but weak in the head. All wrong for the girl.”
“If your granddaughter is true to her lineage,” Zack said, “nothing is going to change her mind.” He suspected that Wilhelmina would be built like the duke, horse-faced, and spoiled rotten.
The duke of Crafton humphed at the American and decided not to answer. Underneath his eccentric personality beat the heart of a shrewd and capable breeder.
“Is that the duke’s granddaughter?” Zack asked the orderly, who doubled as the bartender in the evening. He was standing at the bar table in the far end of the reception lounge that had been turned into a common room.
The man looked in the direction of the big double doors opening onto the main hall and studied the young, short dumpy blonde who had just entered. “Sorry, sir. Never seen ’er ladyship before. But this one does match the lot.” The young woman was talking with the marked accent that went with the English upper class.
“I was afraid of that,” Zack said, thinking of ways to escape without the duke seeing him. But he was too late; the old man came in and motioned for him to come over. “Where are those orders,” he moaned, walking across the room. “I need to get out of here.”
The duke said, “I want you to meet my granddaughter, Wilhelmina.”
Zack turned to the woman. “Hello, pleased to meet you.”
“I’m Willi’s cousin, silly.” She looked behind Zack and nodded. “This is Willi.”
He turned and felt his mouth go dry. Standing in the doorway was a slender blonde. Her naturally curly hair fell in a heavy cloud down to her shoulders and in high heels, she matched his height. Her hair framed a beautiful face, a classic peaches-and-cream complexion, and the most profound blue eyes he had ever seen. He was speechless.
“Lieutenant Pontowski,” she said, extending her hand. Her voice was a cool contralto that matched her face. “Grandfather has been singing your praises.” He shook her hand dumbly, not sure what to say.
“Very quiet for a
Yank,” a voice said beside her. For the first time, Zack noticed the tall British Navy officer standing with her. “Could we have a polite American in our midst?” His laughter made Zack think of a horse trying to imitate a goose’s honk.
Zack could sense the hostility behind the officer’s words and his combative instincts flared. Be careful, he warned himself. If this is the guy the duke told me about, Roger Bertram, he is only protecting his territory—Wilhelmina. “Perhaps,” Zack said. “There must be at least one of us over here by now.”
“How refreshing,” the Englishman replied.
“Please, Roger,” Willi said. “They are our guests. Behave yourself.” She gave Zack a perfunctory smile and dismissed him. “So nice to have met you,” she said and swept past him into the lounge with Roger Bertram in tow.
“Overpaid, oversexed, and over here,” Roger said in a loud voice.
“Not overpaid in the RAF,” Zack said in a loud stage whisper. From the way their backs stiffened he knew he had hit home. Willi turned and shot him a cold look. “A drink, please,” she said, walking away.
“Damned wrong,” the duke said, capturing Zack’s attention. “I did that all wrong. Told her you were a decent chap. Should have called you a scoundrel, worthless. Then she’d have been interested.”
Zack was up early the next morning. He dressed quickly in the old comfortable clothes the head coachman had lent him for riding and stole down to the kitchen, careful not to wake his roommate. As usual, the two cooks let him eat breakfast in the kitchen. After he had gulped down a last cup of tea, he thanked them and headed for the stables. “He’s the only decent one here,” one of the cooks said. “I hear he’s leaving shortly. I’ll miss him.” The other cook agreed.
At the stables, he was surprised to see all the horses but one gone. “Sorry, sir,” the old coachman who had come out of retirement to care for the duke’s horses said. “Miss Wilhelmina and her friends went for an early-morning ride.”
Zack shrugged and went to work helping the old man muck out the stalls and pitch fresh hay down from the loft. The smell of the hay brought back a vivid image of Chantal and he paused, resting on his pitchfork, thinking. An ache boomed through his chest as he visualized her curled up in the hay, waking from a night’s sleep. And then other images played across his memory, her kneeling in the hay, a playful look on her face as he taught her English, the first brief sight of her totally nude, and then the last glimpse of her standing in the hospital corridor as he was wheeled into the operating room. For a moment, he could again feel her body pressed against his, her heart racing, as the heavy footsteps of the gendarme stomped down the hall toward their room. Will I ever see you again? he wondered. He forced his mind to think of the present and forget the past. “The past is gone and best forgotten,” he told himself.
The one horse left behind in the stables was a mare, too old to ride and kept in graceful retirement by the duke. Zack forced his attention onto her and was carefully grooming the horse when the duke walked past on his early-morning inspection. The old mare had been his favorite mount when he had still been able to ride. But a stiff hip, the result of an artillery barrage in the Boer War, had finally put an end to his equestrian endeavors. “There, there Nancy,” he said, feeding the horse a handful of carrots. Zack leaned against the stall wall cleaning the curry comb while the duke examined his handiwork. “Well done, lad. Who taught you?”
“An old cowboy who worked on the stud farm where I spent my summers.”
“Ah, yes. So you’ve said. You must have enjoyed your vacations.”
“It wasn’t a vacation,” Zack answered. “I worked like a dog.”
“What did they breed?” the duke asked, now very interested. “Thoroughbreds?”
“Nope, polo ponies.”
“Ever play?”
“Occasionally, during a practice chukker when they needed a fourth,” Zack answered. The duke wandered away, deep in thought.
That evening, the duke sent him word to please join him in the family’s quarters. He was unfamiliar with that wing of the palatial house and a maid had to show him the way. He was not surprised to find Willi and Roger Bertram with the duke. The duke came right to the point. “They tell me the nags are in excellent condition,” he said. “Your doing. An interesting group getting together at Moncton Hall tomorrow. All very keen on horses. Care to join us.” This last was not a question and was only the duke’s way of being polite.
“Hopefully,” Roger said, “we might be able to arrange some entertainment.” He smiled at Zack’s confusion. “Polo, you know. Haven’t done it in years. Just not on during the war. The duke tells me you understand the game.”
“A little.” Zack smiled.
“They’ll be riding over,” the duke interrupted. “I’ll take the carriage. You come with me.”
Zack said that he would like to go and, from the quiet that followed, sensed that he was dismissed. He made his way back to the big lounge. Now what the hell is that all about, he thought.
The ride the next morning with the duke was not what he had expected. The old man insisted on driving himself and had to be helped onto the seat. But once he had the reins in hand, he was formidable. He drove the matched pair at a brisk trot and had no trouble wheeling the carriage down the lane and through the narrow gate leading to Moncton Hall. Once there, and since the duke was oblivious to most social niceties, he abandoned Zack.
Zack went with the flow of people who meandered in the general direction of a big marquee set up on the lawn. He was grateful that his RAF uniform blended in with the hodgepodge of uniforms and clothes the other guests were wearing. From overheard scraps of conversation, he learned that an important conference was being held at Moncton Hall and that Lord Moncton had used the occasion to schedule a garden party for the participants to break the monotony and drudgery of a war that seemed to have no end. Once, he caught a glimpse of Willi and felt a sudden urge in the lower regions of his body. She was dressed in a riding coat and breeches that accentuated her figure and had attracted her own small following of admirers.
Can’t say I blame them, Zack thought, wondering where the ever-present Roger had disappeared to. He turned away and bumped into a tall, dark-haired man who was dressed for a polo match. “Sorry, sir,” he apologized instantly.
“Ah, our polite American cousin,” Roger said as he emerged from behind the newcomer. He was also dressed in riding breeches, boots, and a polo shirt the same color as that of the man Zack had almost bowled over. “Admiral Mountbatten,” Roger said, relishing the moment, “may I present Pilot Officer Pontowski, currently on the mend at Sherston Hall.”
Mountbatten extended his hand and Zack was struck by the firm handshake. “I see it’s Flying Officer Pontowski,” Mountbatten said. “Roger’s not too keen on rank in the RAF.” His voice was warm and friendly.
The old duke came waddling up. “Dickie,” he said to Mountbatten. “Rotten luck about the match. Can’t find a fourth for the other side.”
“All understandable,” Mountbatten said, obviously disappointed. “It was a spur of the moment idea anyway. Too bad, the prime minister would have loved it.”
“Winston Churchill is here?” Zack blurted.
The duke nodded. “The old boy loves a good chukker,” he said, chin on his chest. “It’s been—what?—three years since we last had a match. Damn war. Would have been good for us and the nags. All need a break.” Then his round face shot up, a wicked gleam in his eyes. “I say, Pontowski. Didn’t you ride on a team?”
Before Zack could protest that he had only been an exercise boy, he was shanghaied into the match. Willi was called over to find him some riding clothes and to get him to the paddock while the others left to warm up the ponies. “What the hell,” Zack mumbled, “I haven’t played in years.”
“Neither have they,” she said, coldly eyeing him. “Whatever did Grandfather have in mind?”
Willi proved very efficient in her duties and had him at the paddock wit
hin fifteen minutes to meet the other three members of his team. “There,” she said. “That should do.” Then she left.
“Don’t take any notice of the Ice Queen,” his teammate James said. “She hates Yanks on principle.” James was the number three man on the team and would play as the team’s quarterback, feeding balls to the one and two man.
Zack grinned and shook hands with his team. Then he mounted the pony he was to ride in the first chukker. “Go easy,” James warned him. “The ponies aren’t up to scratch.” Zack cut a few figure eights, swinging his mallet. “I do believe he’s done this before,” James said to the other two members of his team as he watched Zack and the pony blend into one. “I think we should put him in as two.” The number two man on a polo team is the hustler whose job is to always be scrapping for the ball.
The crowd were clustered around different players when Zack trotted onto the field. He caught a glimpse of Mountbatten and Roger standing beside their horses talking to Willi and Winston Churchill. The prime minister was the shortest of the group and Zack touched the bill of his helmet when Churchill looked his way. No response.
From the first bowl-in when the referee rolled the ball between the two teams, it was obvious that Roger and Mountbatten were skilled players and had played together before. Zack wasn’t even in the same league. But he was a good horseman and aggressive. At the end of the first chukker, seven and a half minutes of play, his team was down three to zero and they gathered together to plot some new tactics while they changed mounts. “Roger seems to be tiring,” James said. “Press him a bit.” Zack nodded, thankful that they were only going to be playing four chukkers and not the normal six. Polo takes a great deal of upper body strength and even though he was well-developed from the years he had spent in amateur boxing and muscling the heavy Beaufighter through the sky, he was tired.
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