May 20, May 26, and June 3, 1915
London, England
When the final blow comes, I believe I am ready. Winston’s torrent of letters has prepared me, or so I thought. Yet I hardly recognize the fallen face of my anguished husband when he finally returns from the catastrophe of the Dardanelles and walks through the front door of Admiralty House.
“I will be blamed, Clemmie,” Winston whispers into my hair. We cling to each other in the foyer, ignoring the presence of servants in the background. I think but do not say that it is my fault as well. I encouraged him to pursue the Dardanelles strategy, even when it was ill received by the senior government officials.
The Dardanelles campaign had commenced with Winston’s usual bullish zeal. He worked around the clock with naval and military staff to convince them of his plan and to organize the onslaught. The success of the plan required both an abundance of naval forces to take the Dardanelles strait and a sizable military contingent to conquer the Gallipoli peninsula afterward. Winston set sail to much fanfare, and I followed his every movement by letter and news reports.
The naval bombardment began on February 19, but soon afterward, Winston wrote to me that Vice Admiral Carden’s efforts seemed halfhearted. This suspicion was confirmed in mid-March when Carden resigned due to illness and Rear Admiral de Robeck replaced him. De Robeck had no appetite for the attack and called off the entire naval plan after one French and two British battleships were sunk by mines. Without adequate opposition from the sea, the Turkish fleet was able to restock its troops on land with ammunition, so when War Secretary Lord Kitchener and General Sir Ian Hamilton’s army plan was initiated in April, their troops suffered terrible losses on land—a horrific thirty thousand British, ten thousand French, and more than thirteen thousand Australians, New Zealanders, and Indians.
In an effort to get the operation back on track and give meaning to the men’s horrific sacrifice, Winston appealed for naval reinforcements first to Asquith, who deferred to the local admirals. My husband then entreated the mercurial Admiral of the Fleet Lord Fisher who, having supported the mission at the start, turned on the Dardanelles plan and blocked Winston’s efforts.
If only I hadn’t encouraged him in the Dardanelles plan, the terrible loss might have been averted, I think. If only I had accepted that the government’s lackluster response from the outset meant Winston would receive lackluster support throughout the course of the campaign, perhaps I could have dissuaded Winston from the idea of taking over the Dardanelles. But I say none of this; there are others accountable as well. Others with hands on the wheel of this disaster.
“How can you be blamed, Winston? The plan was sound. If you had been given adequate naval support, the capture of the Dardanelles would have been a success, and the Turks would never have gotten supplies through to their troops. We would have secured the Gallipoli peninsula and vanquished the Turks. Maybe even shortened the war. Asquith, Hamilton, Kitchener, and”—I can scarcely say the name, but I force myself to spit it out—“Fisher refused to send the promised help. They are to blame.”
“You and I know that to be true. But I was the campaign’s most vocal champion, and it was the bloodiest loss in all of British military history—” His words catch, and I know he is holding back tears. “And the people quite understandably want blood in return.”
“But why does it have to be your blood? Can the blame not be shouldered by all those involved in the affair?”
“It seems as though I have already been made the sacrificial lamb, my sweet kitten.”
My heart thuds so loudly, I worry that Winston can hear it. “What do you mean?”
“Rumors are flying that Asquith was approached by the Conservative leader, Andrew Bonar Law, who threatened to undo the wartime detente between Conservatives and Liberals if a head doesn’t roll for the Dardanelles. You know the Conservatives have loathed me ever since I switched parties, and Asquith knows it too. I’ve heard from a reputable source that in order to save his own hide, Asquith made a deal with the Conservatives to form a coalition government with the Conservatives upon my removal from office. And Lloyd George agreed.”
“No!” My hand flies to my mouth.
“I wish it wasn’t true, Cat. But it is.” He sighs, a sound that seems to emanate from deep within him. “I am finished.”
How could Asquith do this to Winston? After all his work and dedication. All his loyalty. All his brilliance.
My tears suddenly subside, only to be replaced by rage. “How dare he! This is an affront not only to you but to the people of our country! You are the only one in the cabinet who has the power and imagination to vanquish the Germans. And you would have been well on your way to accomplishing that if you had been supported by your peers,” I say, seething. “By people who agreed to the plan, even if they were halfhearted in their acquiescence.”
To my astonishment, my fury does not spark a flame within Winston. He only kisses my hair and whispers, “It matters not, my dearest Clementine. I have been eviscerated of power. And one can do nothing without power.”
With the utterance of those words, I know my husband has surrendered to a certain fate.
* * *
We do not receive the official notification of Winston’s removal for nearly a week, on May 26. Even though I’m unaccustomed to the ritual, I find myself praying constantly, praying that Asquith does not force my husband out. I know what this will mean to Winston. But the lambasting Winston receives at the hands of the daily newspapers, combined with the abusive calls of “Dardanelles” and “Gallipoli” I get from passersby whenever I step out in public, make clear that even if Asquith hasn’t made a deal with the Conservatives, Winston’s ousting is inevitable.
When the notice of his dismissal arrives, we leave Admiralty House within the hour, as I’d packed our belongings earlier in the week. Our summer rental of Hoe Farm is not yet available, and we rented our house on Eccleston Square when Winston became lord admiral, so we decamp to a house on Arlington Street owned by Winston’s aunt Cornelia and her son Lord Wimborne, where we spend long hours seated in wingback chairs before the fire contemplating our future, oftentimes in silence. After five days cajoling my husband into discussion, we receive an envelope from Downing Street. While Winston wonders aloud as to why Asquith would write, I stay quiet. I am wary that the missive might reference the scathing letter I’d jotted off to Asquith, unbeknownst to Winston, just before the dismissal, in which I’d extolled my husband’s virtues—along with his importance to the war effort—and excoriated Asquith for even thinking of firing him. In fact, I called out the prime minister on his real motivation for firing Winston, namely ensuring the people’s opinion of him.
But when a hopeful Winston slices open the envelope with the sharp sterling knife on Lord Wimborne’s desk, the letter within makes no mention of my dispatch. Instead, inexplicably, the prime minister and his wife, Margot, have summoned us to Downing Street for dinner. And I am to arrive early to take late afternoon tea with Margot.
Smoothing my gown, an unadorned gray muslin that I consider somber enough for the occasion, I stand at the front door to Downing Street and ring the bell. A familiar-looking maid admits me but will not meet my gaze. Does she know something I don’t? Or is she like everyone I pass on the street, standing in judgment of a catastrophe that has been unfairly attributed only to my husband.
She leads me to Margot’s sitting room, a space to which I’d never been invited before. Early on, I’d attributed my exclusion from her private chamber to her ongoing disappointment that Winston had married me instead of Violet, but now, I wonder whether it stems from my familial tie to Venetia. Until very recently, the relationship between my cousin and Asquith continued apace, and I feel certain Margot knew about it all along.
How will she greet me? I wonder as we march up the three flights of stairs leading to the prime minister’s private residence. Will she deride me for my harsh letter to her husband? Or will she apologize for the terrible penance they’ve forced my husband to pay?
When we finally reach the sitting room, Margot is waiting. Her features are sharp and her gray eyes hard, but she feigns softness. She stretches out her generous arms to wrap me in an unwanted embrace, saying, “Oh, Clementine, how I’ve been thinking about you. What a challenging time.”
Her words—carefully chosen to approximate sympathy without admitting any guilt—enrage me. I keep my body rigid in the encasement of her arms, but when this doesn’t put Margot off, I push her away from me.
“How could you?” I rail.
“Now, Clementine, shouldn’t it be me asking you that question?” she answers coolly, her facade of softness turning brittle.
“What on earth are you talking about, Margot? Your husband sacrificed mine over the Dardanelles. When you and I both know that the fault was not Winston’s.” My tone is every bit as hard as hers.
“I am talking about the letter that you sent poor Henry.” She pauses, and for a moment, I wonder who she is talking about. But then I remember that she calls Asquith “Henry.” “Who has already taken quite a beating over this Dardanelles mess. I forgive you for writing such hateful words, of course. Heat of the moment and all that. But I hardly think you are in a position to unleash any more anger.”
“You forgive me?” I practically scream. “For speaking the truth to ‘poor Henry’? I don’t want your blasted forgiveness, and I’ve done nothing to forgive in any event.”
Margot glances around the room. “Please, Clementine, take a seat and compose yourself.” As I storm toward the door, she mutters, “You are foolish to act this way. You will burn whatever bridges Winston has left.”
Her words cut me to the quick, but I don’t turn back. Before I can reach the handle, the door pushes open. Asquith himself enters the room. “I heard voices,” he comments, clearly displeased.
I know from Winston, and to a lesser extent Venetia, that the prime minister seeks adoration from women—not challenge—and prefers his “ladies” to have a malleable morality. In the past, he has found unappetizing my rather inflexible moral positions and even went so far as to call me a bore for refusing the gift of a couture gown from King Edward VII’s mistress. Now I surmise from his tone that he finds my unfeminine, raised voice disturbing to his sensitive ears.
I want to hurl myself at him, but Margot’s admonitions ring in my ears. Have I indeed damaged the remnants of my husband’s career? I hesitate, even though I long to berate him for his disloyalty and his carrying-on with Venetia as young soldiers are being killed by the thousands. Although, I think with a certain glee, I suppose those shenanigans have ended now that Venetia has agreed to marry the junior minister Edwin Montagu.
Asquith speaks before I decide upon my words. “I wish that there had been another way, Clementine. We needed to show the country was unified in its decision-making.”
How dare he intimate that he’d been forced into firing Winston. I will not placate him. I say nothing, forcing him to entrench himself further in his indefensible position.
“I know it will seem small consolation at the moment, but I promise you this, Clementine. I will protect Winston as best as I can so that—in the future—he can play the role to which he was born.”
While I’m pleased with Asquith’s acknowledgment of Winston’s potential and impending greatness—even though I doubt his promise to protect my husband—I wonder how the torpid, self-serving Asquith knew precisely how to manipulate me. I’d believed him to be utterly disconnected from anyone’s feelings or motivations other than his own.
But I was wrong. He knows I will do whatever necessary to protect my husband. Even if it means temporary silence.