England
Summer 1940
IN THE SUNNY DINING ROOM at Birchfields, Garnet settled herself at the table and picked up the newspaper folded at her plate. She opened it with a sense of dread. Lately the news had been devastating. Dunkirk had been a terrible blow. Under the relentless air attack of the Nazis, the Allied troops had retreated to the coast. Although there were naval ships offshore, they could not help the stranded troops, because they had no way to transport them. It was then the stalwart British had shown what they were made of. As soon as the plight of their soldiers was known, a volunteer fleet made up of every kind of craft available—privately owned dinghies, rowboats, yachts, pleasure boats—rushed to the rescue. It was an impossible task undertaken with the rallying cry that failure was unacceptable. The heroic effort succeeded, much to the astonishment of the world. The unarmed seamen made trip after trip to pick up the exhausted men and take them to the waiting ships. In the end some were taken prisoner by the advancing Germans. However, the gallant endeavor of ordinary people to save their defenders was universally hailed. Garnet felt pride in the valor of her adopted countrymen.
Today’s headlines were dire, although security kept the newspapers very guarded in their reporting of just how bad the situation was. Would America get involved? As an American, Garnet wondered. The impression she had from her Virginia relatives was that the United States was increasingly isolationist. Having been drawn against their will into the last war—the one that was supposed to end all wars—there were many, like Kitty Cavanaugh, who adamantly opposed involvement.
Sighing, Garnet turned to the inside page to read “Grace Comfort’s” column. She always read it tongue in cheek. Before it was revealed who Grace Comfort really was, Garnet had always scoffed at the saccharine content, at what she considered its overly sentimental style. But now that her stepniece, Lenora, was married to Victor Ridgeway, the real author, she read it regularly. Whatever her personal opinion of his subject, Garnet had to admit that he did strike a generally optimistic note that many found inspiring. Adjusting her glasses, she began to read. Soon, with a huff of indignation, she got up and walked into the hallway and picked up the phone and called the number of the Ridgeways’ country home.
In the morning room at King’s Grace, Lenora picked up the phone. “Good morning, Aunt Garnet. How nice of you to phone.”
“I’m not sure you’ll think so when you know why,” Garnet replied.
“Why, what is it, Auntie?”
“I’ve just finished reading Grace’s—I mean Victor’s—column today, and I’m most upset about it.”
“But why?”
“I assumed Grace’s—Victor’s—purpose was to lift people’s spirits, to encourage. This is quite the opposite. Very negative. Quoting Edward Grey … listen to this: ‘The lamps are going out all over Europe; we shall not see them lit again in our lifetime.’ If that isn’t blatant defeatism, I don’t know what is,” Garnet declared.
There was a pause as she waited for Lenora to respond. “Well, Auntie, Victor is very depressed about the war. He was very much a supporter of the League of Nations after the last one, believed it to be the only hope for the world. If you read further than the first few paragraphs, though, you’ll see he ends up quoting Winston Churchill.”
“Hmmph.” Garnet was loathe to admit she had not read the whole column.
“Victor is extremely patriotic, Aunt Garnet,” continued Lenora. “He takes his work very seriously. From the number of letters he gets every day, I think he has the pulse of the nation. His mail is overwhelmingly positive.”
A bit taken aback by having acted precipitously, an action more indicative of youth than of someone her age, Garnet conceded she would finish reading today’s “Inspirational Moment.”
Lenora replaced the receiver and turned to her younger sister, Lady Blanding, and lifted her eyebrows.
“I gather Aunt Garnet is at it again?” Lalage smiled. “Victor’s column, I suppose?”
“Yes.” Lenora shook her head. “You would think the old dear had enough to do running Birchfields without trying to editorialize Victor’s column, wouldn’t you?”
“I’m surprised she doesn’t send daily communiqués to the War Office.”
“Well, the poor old thing is probably lonely,” concluded Lenora. “I thought her granddaughter Bryanne was planning to come stay with her. Especially since Bryanne’s husband, Steven, went into the medical corps.”
“Yes, she is lonely. But of course Niki is there.”
“But probably not for long. She’s trying desperately to get into one of the services.”
“She’s too young, isn’t she?”
“I think it’s not that. She hasn’t got the right papers or something.” Lenora reached for the silver teapot on the tray by her chair and asked, “More tea? No? Well then, suppose we discuss the fund-raising event? Let me get my list.”
She rose and walked gracefully to the Louis XIV desk, while Lalage looked around the room with pleasure. The morning room at King’s Grace reflected the exquisite taste of its mistress. When Lenora had married the wealthy journalist Victor Ridgeway, he had given her carte blanche to decorate the old country place he had bought and lived in for some years as a bachelor. Its pale ivory woodwork, brocaded draperies, the lemon-and-lime color scheme, was a fitting background for her delicate, blond beauty. There were Chinese rugs, thick and patterned in blue and jade. There were rounded, velvet-covered sofas and club chairs grouped conversationally around the white marbled fireplace.
The sun rested benignly on the two silver blond heads as they bent over the list. The society columns had often described them as the “beautiful American sisters” when they had both married Englishmen in 1897, the year of Queen Victoria’s Jubilee. And though both were now in their fifties, they were still so described.
As they sipped their Darjeeling tea and nibbled cucumber sandwiches, they got to the business at hand. When they had worked out the details of the fete they were planning to hold at Blanding Court, the ancestral home of Lalage’s husband, they talked of more serious things.
“Is Neil truly worried about an immediate crisis?” Lenora asked worriedly.
“Well, you know him—he’s always inclined to take the most cautious view of things. He always felt that the government should have taken stronger steps sooner to combat the aggression of that awful Hitler. But he was one of those voices crying in the wilderness.” Lalage shook her head. “Now, of course, we have Chance to worry about.” She was referring to her twelve-year-old son. “Even though he’s just in the fourth form at his school, he hopes the war lasts long enough for him to go. Imagine. As he is the heir to the family estate, we can all fervently hope it will be over long before that.” She looked over at her sister. “You really ought to be grateful you don’t have any boys, Lenora.”
“I don’t know about that. Victor would have loved to have a son….”
“Well, I must be on my way,” Lalage said, rising and gathering her purse, gloves, and hat. “Alair and Cilia are waiting for me to help with the children’s picnic they planned for this afternoon.” Refugee children sent from London to escape the German bombing were now staying at Blanding Court. She kissed her sister good-bye and left.
Garnet put on her glasses again and finished reading Grace Comfort’s column. “No matter how great the odds, we British heartily support Winston Churchill’s promise: ‘We shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight on the landing grounds, we shall fight in the fields and in the streets, we shall fight in the hills; we shall never surrender.’”