‘You will stay in Australia with me? I may have to be there some time.’ She crossed to the desk, where Nigel’s and Miss Lily’s newspapers were left each morning after they had been glanced at in the breakfast room, and brought over that day’s edition of The Times. ‘It’s begun,’ she said flatly, displaying the front-page headlines.
‘Something about Nigel?’ asked Green. She looked at the headlines with relief and then asked, ‘A stock market crash?’
‘It’s not going to be this London crash,’ said Sophie sombrely. I’m betting America’s will be soon, and even worse. ‘It’s going to be a long, irregular slide and it will go on for years, or even decades. This is what I’ve been warning everyone about for the past year, though I didn’t expect it to happen now. But then I have been . . . preoccupied. America has been balancing on hope and delusion for years now, lending money they don’t have to the rest of the world, including to Germany. And now it topples.’
‘Will that affect us?’ asked Jones.
‘Us, as in our family? Very little — you did sell those shares, didn’t you?’
Jones nodded.
‘Good. The greatest change for us will be that I will have business decisions to make for the next few years, ones that probably can only be made by me.’ She smiled wearily. ‘Excuse my lack of modesty, but this financial crisis is beyond Mr Slithersole and Cousin Oswald and my other managers.’
‘How much will the crash affect Australia?’ asked Green. ‘It is a long way away, after all.’
‘It will affect us enormously, if not at once.’ She shook her head. ‘I have been saying this for over a year too, but no one has really listened. Others have said it and also been ignored. This will have as great an effect as the war. American investment overseas is going to stop abruptly. American investment and massive war loans will need to be repaid. Too many in Great Britain and even Australia have been tempted to make fortunes by investing in American stocks. They will lose everything, or almost everything.’
‘That bad?’ asked Jones quietly.
‘Yes. England is going to need the loans it made to Australia to fight the war repaid, no matter how bad things are in Australia. Factories will close — though no Higgs factories. People will lose their jobs; without their jobs they will not be able to buy food or clothing or even pay their rent, so other jobs will go. We are in for a very bad few years indeed. But when times are hard people need the cheapest luxuries of life, like canned corned beef and tinned fruit salad that is half choko and so costs only sixpence, though I must work out how we can make it even cheaper. Higgs Industries will do as well from this as it did in the Great War.’
Sophie did not need to say that Higgs Industries would use the profits for good, as they had done during the war. There would be no new cars, no jewels bought — if Violette insisted on pearls she could have Sophie’s, or borrow them at least.
‘And Shillings?’ asked Jones quietly.
Sophie shrugged. ‘Shillings will remain insulated by the Higgs money, as it has been since Nigel financed my father’s first factory. There is no need to sell the Shillings trees for timber to pay the death duties. No jobs will be lost, and every person will be guaranteed a job on the estate, if they wish for one.’
Jones smiled. ‘I should not even have asked.’
‘By the way,’ said Green, ‘we are Mrs and Mr Jones now, though of course in my capacity as maid I will still be Green. Too confusing to have two Joneses.’
‘And I am their daughter and your ward, not your maid,’ said Violette, just in case Sophie needed reminding. ‘But a ward helps her Aunt Sophie, does she not?’
‘She does indeed,’ said the newly minted Aunt Sophie.
‘You know the contents of Nigel’s will?’ asked Jones.
Sophie nodded. ‘I’m the children’s guardian, of course. If anything happens to me, it’s you and Dr Greenman. Bequests for all the staff, which includes you — yes, you too Violette; he made the change before we left for Germany. Everything entailed goes to Danny, in trust till he is twenty-one. Everything else goes to me, which includes much of the Shillings estate, which Nigel,’ yes, she could say that word now, at last, ‘bought after his father had sold it. I need to update my own will. But we can discuss that after the funeral.’
The fire snickered in the silence.
‘When will that be?’ asked Green at last.
‘Monday,’ said Sophie. ‘The vicar suggested we wait a week, so that the Ladies’ Guild could decorate the church prettily, and the verger make sure the churchyard looks its best. But only family and the servants and the estate tenants will be at the service and then here afterwards.’ She managed another smile. ‘Even if it does make Hereward a little uncomfortable to eat crab puffs in the dining room, and not in the servants’ hall.’
‘Do you think the Prince of Wales will come?’ asked Green. For of course no restrictions applied to the heir to the throne.
‘I am pretty sure he won’t,’ said Sophie. ‘I’ve asked Ethel to be here, though, and James Lorrimer is invited, but he has had to fly to Berlin to deal with matters there.’
‘And the prinzessin?’ asked Green. ‘Will she be here?’
‘She would not dare!’ said Violette.
‘I think she would dare,’ said Sophie gently. ‘But that is not why she won’t come. She knows it would hurt us to see her.’
It was strange, but for some reason she wished Hannelore could be with them. She had been so much a part of this, both as instigator and unwitting pawn. Nigel had been right to ask her to try to keep their friendship, or at least rebuild it a little.
If Hannelore came then Sophie might possibly explain to her that the stock market crashes would create the very conditions she and Herr Hitler needed to control Germany. The loans to Germany from the United States must now be repaid urgently; nor would there be any more American investment. America would be licking its own wounds, not trying to solve problems or find business opportunities in Europe. With no money from the United States it would be impossible for the Weimar Republic to continue paying reparations to France.
The German economy was going to crumble more completely than any other nation’s, and faster too. Herr Hitler would probably do very nicely with his country shouldering despair that could be channelled into a longing for revenge.
She must write to James about this. He had probably already foreseen the ramifications for Germany, but English gentlemen were sometimes so appallingly ignorant of the business world, which after all was what life floated on, not the artificial titles they bestowed upon each other.
‘How long do you think we must stay in England?’ asked Jones.
‘I won’t know for a while. We won’t have to wait until probate is granted, at least, as so much is in my name, and I will give Mr Slithersole power of attorney. But there’ll be bequests, and some long-term decisions to be made, if we are not going to be here for a year or more and conditions are to change so much.’
She looked around the room. ‘I think it best if we stay away until the young earl and his father’s death are no longer a novelty. There’s that to think of, as well as the needs of Higgs Industries.’
‘Will I make a tentative booking for mid-December?’
‘Perfect.’ Because that would mean they would have Christmas on the ship. The children — and Violette, and Nanny and Amy, who would almost certainly want to accompany them — deserved a proper Christmas, even if she felt incapable of providing one. ‘A first-class stateroom as usual for each of us, adjoining if possible, though that may not be possible at this late date.’ She managed a smile. ‘Use whatever bribery is necessary though.’
‘I am extremely good at bribery,’ said Jones smoothly.
‘My father is very good at many things,’ said Violette proudly. ‘And my maman too. Have you ever seen her shoot?’
‘Actually, I have,’ said Sophie. ‘She was saving my life at the time.’
Violette looked enviously at her moth
er. ‘I would like to save your life some time, your ladyship. Properly, with a gun.’
‘You are doing pretty well saving my life just now,’ said Sophie gently.
Violette frowned. ‘I do not understand.’
‘One day you will,’ said Green. She smiled at her scowling daughter. ‘I will take you out to the pistol range for a lesson tomorrow. Do you mind?’ she asked Sophie.
‘I can think of no better occupation,’ said Sophie.
‘Packing for Australia,’ said Green. ‘Ordering what we will need for the voyage, and summer there.’
‘Well, there is that. But there is time for pistol practice too.’ Sophie let her head fall back in the armchair and shut her eyes. ‘I’m tired. I will sleep tonight finally, I think. And without the need for morphia in my tea. I did finally realise that you drugged me at the clinic,’ she added to Jones.
‘My apologies,’ said Jones.
‘I still don’t understand why I had to be drugged.’
‘Just to make it easier for you,’ said Jones, a little too calmly.
Sophie opened her eyes. Jones was poking the fire, carefully not looking at her. And a small seed of hope blossomed, so improbable, so wonderful, it was hard to bear.
But she would not mention it. Not now. Not yet.
Chapter 65
Letters cannot press your hand, nor hug you. But one can re-read them, which makes them satisfying communication even when your heart longs so for a presence, not just a sheet of paper. Never underestimate letters, my dears.
Miss Lily, 1913
Letters came. A tide of letters, many of the envelopes edged in black; letters from the ‘people like us’ who had met the Earl of Shillings once at the House of Lords and felt a duty among the nuisances of life to write a letter of conventional condolence to his wife. Letters from officers or enlisted men Nigel had served with, some conventional, others that left Sophie weeping: ‘He bought me a cherry cake when I was wounded. What officer would do that, eh? He was the best chap we ever served under and I wish the world was made of men like him.’
So many letters and among them, these two.
My dear Sophie,
There are no words, of course, so I shall not insult us both by wasting time with the conventional ones. I may, perhaps, however, be of use. The enclosed card gives the contact details of Miss Muriel Ermington, a reliable social secretary who will do all that needs doing in answering condolence cards, fending off attempted visits, and even responding to letters, including this one.
Miss Ermington will not expect continued employment, as she cares for an invalid brother (Ypres, 1917), but three months will help her both financially and mentally, as a break from constant care and, if you wish, she may find you someone more permanent. But I can vouch for her in every respect and she will await your call.
I am so sorry, Sophie.
Yours, always,
Emily
Dear Lady Nigel,
His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales wishes me to extend his deepest sympathy and also his regrets that he will be unable to attend the service for your husband, due to the pressure of his official duties. He asks me to extend his utmost sympathy and his gratitude for the sterling service your husband gave for his country, during the Great War and in the House of Lords . . .
So you have abandoned us, Your Royal Highness, rather than admit you might have had any part to play in . . . unpleasantness. You are a cad, David, thought Sophie. Rumour had it that the Prince of Wales already had a new mistress and was preoccupied by novel devotion. He had probably carefully forgotten his request to Nigel.
I liked him once, she remembered. Did she still like him, despite everything? Was it even appropriate to consider whether one liked the heir to the throne? Surely loyalty outweighed mere liking. But she was only an ignorant colonial.
Yes, she liked him, the way one might a spaniel with a weak bladder who left damp patches every morning on the rug. He was not much of a man, but some of what he was was good. An incontinent spaniel had been made that way, and so David had been constructed too, partly by his inbred genes (had there ever been a monarch quite as silly as his godfather, the last tsar?) and partly by the uncritical adoration of newspapers and the public and the far too critical assessments of his parents.
And the war, she thought. That nightmare made flesh — and shreds of flesh, and rotting flesh, the stench of which would stay with all who knew it forever — must have caught the Prince of Wales too, impotent to stop it, or even play a man’s part in it. All of us who survived it, she thought, were reborn to some extent within its flames.
Poor David. But she was glad he would not be there. He might even have insisted on playing a pibroch for Nigel on the bagpipes and she would have cried at that, remembering David’s bagpipes and the zebra who committed lèse-majesté by biting him the afternoon she flew to Shillings to save Nigel by marrying him.
And if that marriage had in some small way contributed to his death, she was rational enough to accept that, without her intervention, Nigel would not have survived the surgery in any case, emotionally not caring if he lived or died, and physically, without the hygiene and care her expertise had ensured.
She would not say, ‘His death was my fault.’ It was not Hannelore’s fault either, nor even poor, ineffectual David’s — and God help England (a prayer, not blasphemy) when he became king, and may that not happen for a long, long time, beyond the era of Mr Hitler, almost certainly already gleefully plotting the downfall of the debt-ridden Weimar Republic.
Nigel was dead. Asking why or casting fault now was not just fruitless, but a waste of time during which she could be remembering his love.
She resealed the royal envelope and placed it with the others in the study desk.
Chapter 66
A good woman works from her heart. A great woman works from the heart of humanity.
Miss Lily, 1912
This was their funeral. Not Nigel’s: a funeral does not belong to the dead, but those they leave behind. This was for his closest family, the friends that had become like family too, his staff, his tenants.
Sophie sat in the front pew of the church, veiled, Rose on one side of her, Danny on the other. Jones sat next to Rose, with Violette next to him. The earl’s half-sister, Lily, also veiled, sat next to Danny, his small hand in her gloved one. There had been a little murmuring as she entered, this half-sister who had not been seen at Shillings since before the war. Those who remembered her would be telling the youngsters all about her, about the ‘lovely ladies’ who used to visit Shillings before the season, each year.
Ethel sat next to Lily in a dress curiously resembling the elongated shape of a submarine and a hat that was . . . a hat, with nothing more that could be said about it, except perhaps that it was black.
No one remarked on the absence of Sophie’s maid, Green.
The coffin stood on an ancient wooden bench, where the coffins of Vailes had rested for at least three hundred years, if woodworm had not possibly necessitated its renewal in that time. It was impossible to tell, for a cloth of snow covered half of it, its white edges embroidered with the Vaile crest, repeated a hundred times, a gift from the Ladies’ Guild, fashioned in the impossibly swift time of a week.
The British flag was draped across the other half of the coffin. Nigel had served his country in two wars, and was entitled to a full military funeral, though Sophie had refused that as tactfully as she was able. The flag was enough.
Goldenrod decorated each pew, great autumnal swathes of it, and white lilies from the Shillings greenhouses, another small miracle Sophie did not seek to question. Lilies had been needed and so were produced.
‘I vow to thee my country,’ sang the choir.
Sophie had chosen two modern hymns, created for and because of the cataclysmic war that had changed them all. But this, surely, was the hymn for Nigel.
‘The love that never falters . . .
The love that pays the price . . .
The homily then. Sophie had left the reading to the vicar and the words too. He had chosen the unexceptional Psalm 23, beginning ‘The Lord is my shepherd’, but seemed to hesitate before giving his own words about the deceased. Sophie had never known how much the vicar understood about the relationship between Nigel and Lily, nor had he come to offer condolences to the woman who sat as Lily, despite dining with her many times.
At last he spoke.
‘Nigel Vaile was a kind man. It is, perhaps, more usual at a funeral to speak of a man’s title, his honoured position in the world, including his army rank and sterling service to his country. But I had the privilege of knowing Nigel Vaile, and I know that rank was not what he held important. Indeed, it was a burden he had to carry. But carry it he did, because his heart was great.
‘Nigel Vaile cared for each person here, each child on his estate, each nook of England. He cared for humanity, and gave his life for it, for his death in Germany came about because of the express wish of his government for him to travel to Berlin to assess matters there. Nigel Vaile died in the service of his country, as much as if he had died in the Great War.’
Whispers at this; heads nodding. The newspapers had already said as much, though with no details. Nigel had been their earl, and none had any doubt that theirs had been the best aristocrat in England. And kind. Always, without hesitation, kind. They would be recounting his many kindnesses to each other for weeks.
The vicar gazed across the congregation. A single journalist lingered at the back, accompanied by a photographer, tripod and all, as if this were a wedding where all would pose outside. Jones had raised an eyebrow when they spotted him, as if to say, ‘Should we get rid of him?’
But Nigel had said that publicity was necessary. As long as the journalist did not intrude, he could stay.
‘You may expect me to give you great words about so great a life,’ the vicar continued. ‘But there are so few I need to give you. Each person here knows the life and history of Nigel Vaile. Each person here had reason to admire him, even to love him, perhaps, returning some of the love he gave to all of you.
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