March 10 to April 15, 1941
London and Buckinghamshire, England
Even Harry’s recommendation does not sway President Roosevelt to enter the war. I establish a regular correspondence with him, and reports filter back to us at Downing Street that he told Roosevelt that America must do all it can to help Britain with munitions, equipment, even ships and planes. Roosevelt was apparently incredulous that the once anti-British Hopkins had been moved by the courage and resolve of Britain and her leaders. America has decided to provide us with armaments and the necessary financial aid—even to sing Winston’s praises—but still will not abandon its isolationist stance to join us in the fight.
More persuasion is necessary, Winston and I decide. Once the proappeasement American ambassador Joseph Kennedy Sr. is replaced by Gil Winant, a former Republican governor who, I’m told, shares some of my more liberal social views, we focus our efforts upon him. We arrange for Mr. Winant’s train to be met by King George VI in a rare breach of royal protocol and for an invitation to stay at Windsor Castle to be extended by His Majesty.
I scramble to arrange a welcome dinner once I learn, to my delight, that Mr. Winant has declined the king’s invitation in order to hasten to London and start working. Feeling even more optimistic about this American and his willingness to help when I hear that he’s chosen not to live in the official ambassador’s residence but in a modest flat, I arrange a relatively sumptuous dinner but hold back on the more luxurious details. I don’t want to overwhelm, or alienate, the reportedly humble Mr. Winant.
Over our initial dinner and the many meals that follow, I find Mr. Winant to be warm and, more importantly, principled. While he and Winston connect on the broader wartime strategy about which my husband is brilliant, he and I share kindred political views on the duty to serve the less fortunate. He joins me on some of my Blitz tours in London and throughout the countryside, quietly telling me that the American people are with us.
I arrange for Mr. Winant, Gil as he’s asked me to call him, to join us for a weekend at Chequers, even though Winston’s security advisers now find it inadequate from a safety perspective as they’ve heard that the Nazis have the estate on their maps. In particular, we want to connect him with another American guest arriving at Chequers this weekend in the context of our company.
Chequers consists of a large Tudor country house nestled in a sheltered hollow and fifteen hundred acres of parklands, working farms, and Chiltern beechwoods. While Winston prefers Chartwell, the magnificent house at Chequers, with its great hall, impressive art collection of Constables, Turners, Rubens, and van Dycks, historical relics, and deep fireplaces, is better suited for a prime minister, particularly one who travels with an entourage of cars ferrying secretaries, telephone operators, and security detail and hosts an ever-evolving array of military officials and dignitaries.
Gil arrives at Chequers after traversing the forty-mile distance from London by automobile, and once he has settled in, I invite him to join me for a walk. As we traipse through the maze on Chequers grounds and out onto the Buckinghamshire countryside surrounding the estate, always with a military escort in tow, of course, Gil asks, “Where does the estate get its unusual name?”
“History is more Winston’s subject than mine, but it is my understanding that the name might derive from an early owner whose coat of arms contained a checkerboard—also known as chequer, in the French—or, more simply, it might stem from the chequer trees that grow here on the grounds.” I point to a few of these trees in the distance, near the foot of the Chiltern Hills.
“Speaking of the French, please tell your husband how much I enjoyed his recent speech. It was quite brilliant. I particularly enjoyed the references to de Gaulle and the Free French. Would I be correct in guessing that you had a hand in that speech?”
I glance over at him, amazed at his insight. How had he known? Very few people other than family and staff comprehend the synergistic relationship that Winston and I enjoy regarding his speeches. Gil’s eyes, hooded by thick, bushy eyebrows, reveal nothing about the origin of this observation, and consequently, I merely smile at the compliment.
“Tonight, we will be four for dinner. Our daughter Sarah will be visiting,” I offer by way of a subject change, but lest he think we have dragged him out of London for a family weekend, I add, “A parade of other guests will begin arriving tomorrow morning, commencing with a dinner for twelve, and they will include some individuals helpful in your projects.” I do not mention that, among those other guests, will be more family, our daughter Mary and Pamela, Randolph’s estranged wife. Given that Winston and I work every day, if we want to see our children at all, they must join us in our more official duties and meals.
We finish our tromp through the grounds and enter through the estate’s back entrance, nearly colliding with Sarah, who arrived for the weekend. After kissing one another on the cheek, I introduce her to Gil. The usually reserved American seems animated in Sarah’s presence, and I try to see Sarah as Gil must see her. Her lovely, fair English skin with a rosy tint from the brisk air is complemented by her reddish hair that falls in waves around her face, and the khaki of her uniform enhances her coloring. She has recently entered the Women’s Auxiliary Air Force as an interpreter of aerial photographs—one of the more critical roles that women occupy—and she looks especially becoming in her uniform. What Gil cannot know about my Sarah is her inner conflict—constantly vacillating between indulging in her aristocratic status and pursuing the independent life of an actress—and the tentative state of her ill-advised marriage to fellow actor Vic, who’d decamped to the United States against the will of our entire family and from whom she’s secretly separated. Not that Gil would judge Sarah for her marital state; I’d heard that Gil was all but divorced from his own American wife as well, who allegedly prefers socializing to social reform.
Over dinner that evening, Gil listens politely to Winston’s military updates. He commiserates on America’s reluctance to enter the war, but it is Sarah who captures his attention. What a twenty-seven-year-old veritable girl and a fifty-two-year-old seasoned politician find in common baffles me, but commonalities they do indeed find. Although, I suppose an older man is a comfortable fit for Sarah, as Vic was nearly eighteen years older than my daughter.
“Are we witnessing the birth of something inappropriate?” I ask Winston after Gil and Sarah retire to separate wings for the evening.
“Whatever do you mean?” he asks distractedly, glancing up from a pile of papers on his desk. It will be hours until he makes his way to his bedroom, and his military officers will soon arrive in the study to review developments and plans.
“Did you not sense a frisson between Gil and Sarah?”
“No, but even if some flirtation transpired, surely there’s no harm in it? She’s a good girl.” He seems unperturbed, but then his mind has zeroed in on military matters. Not to mention his reaction is undoubtedly clouded by what he considers to be my exaggeration in matters concerning our children, although it is usually Randolph about whom he accuses me of overreaction.
“Anyway, Clemmie,” he says, softening, “Winant seems like a fine man. She could do far worse. In fact”—he chuckles to himself—“she has done far worse with that damn Austrian actor husband of hers.”
I allow the concern to drop. Who knows? Perhaps Winston is right. And perhaps I am exaggerating the interaction between Gil and Sarah. Anyway, in the scheme of the war, what danger can there be in a bit of flirtation?
* * *
The next morning requires a flurry of preparation, and I’m forced to leave Gil in the care of a distracted Winston and an attentive Sarah while I work with the staff on the final details of the welcoming dinner for our new guest, Averell Harriman. Roosevelt has sent the wealthy businessman to London for the specific purpose of setting up his new lend-lease military aid program, in which the United States would “rent” key armaments to us in return for assets rather than cash, a boon to our cash-strapped economy. Roosevelt’s adoption of this program was the direct result of Harry’s time with us. When he returned, he persuaded Roosevelt to proceed with the program, and Harry now serves as its administrator, overseeing many billions of dollars. Harry is the one who sent Mr. Harriman here and tasked him with delivering the planes, ships, weapons, and equipment we need to fight Hitler.
Winston and I arranged for a naval aide to pick Mr. Harriman up when he landed in Bristol and usher him onto a waiting biplane to bring him directly to Chequers for the weekend. This morning, we received word that he was en route and would be arriving at the estate in advance of dinner. Now we just needed to woo this Mr. Harriman.
By the time the tall, tanned Mr. Harriman strides into the grand dining room at Chequers, I’ve arranged for every surface and nook in the vast space to gleam, despite my reduced staff. From the burnished woodwork on the walls to the sparkling faceted crystal on the chandeliers and goblets to the crisply ironed ancient Belgian linens on the table—but never ostentatious, never opulent, simply a polishing of historical furnishings—the room appears every bit the quintessential country estate. My reconnaissance on Mr. Harriman, by all accounts a suave, wealthy businessman who appreciates all the trappings of luxury, suggests that inviting him to step into our world might be a first step toward bringing him around to embracing our cause and supporting it wholeheartedly with American armaments.
He marches toward me with a bag of tangerines in the crook of his arm. “It is a great pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Churchill. Your hospitality is legendary on the other side of the pond, but I must say, to be kidnapped on my arrival and swept away to this grand manor house, well, you have outdone yourself. I am embarrassed to admit that all I have in the way of a hostess gift is this paltry sack of tangerines that I picked up in Lisbon.” He hands me the bag.
My mouth actually waters at the sight of the vivid orange fruit. I cannot recall how long it’s been since I had a tangerine, or any tropical fruit, for that matter. “It is our pleasure to host you, Mr. Harriman. But don’t you dare call this gorgeous array of fruit paltry—it’s been eons since we’ve had anything so decadent as tangerines,” I exclaim.
“Hear, hear,” Winston chimes in, never one to be left out of a conversation, especially about food.
Winston and Mr. Harriman stroll off, launching directly into a discussion about munitions. I glance toward Gil, thinking that perhaps we could continue one of our conversations about American social reforms, but I see that he and Sarah are deeply engrossed in conversation. Pamela, who stays with us on Chequers weekends despite the fact that she and Randolph are estranged, no surprise given his string of affairs and gambling debts, which he’s inexplicably demanded that she pay, mercifully chats with two of Winston’s military officers with whom I’d rather not engage. Sweet Mary proudly wears her Auxiliary Territorial Service uniform, and I approach my youngest, threading my arm through hers and offering congratulations on her decision to join the unit, where she’ll be working at antiaircraft batteries. It is one of the military posts in which I’d hoped women might find a place, and I am beyond thrilled that my daughter is serving in one of these roles.
As we sit down to another miraculous meal by Mrs. Landemare and toast to our shared venture, I gaze around the room. Through our joint efforts, Winston and I have fueled the British fight against the Nazis in ways unimaginable only months ago. Soon, we may have equipment, munitions, ships, and planes to make success possible, if only we can keep the British spirits high. For so long, the focus has been solely on survival.
A welling forth of laughter, like a spring bursting from the frozen earth, breaks into my reverie. Scanning the table, I realize that Pamela is laughing at something Mr. Harriman said. When had I last really studied her? The youthful, eager expression she used to wear like a playful puppy has disappeared, as has the fullness of her face and the soft, voluptuous plumpness of her figure. She is almost chiseled yet still curvaceous, and she has caught Mr. Harriman’s eye. She seems to be relishing his attention, even returning it. It feels inappropriate, yet how can I begrudge her a flirtation after the reprehensible misbehavior of our errant son?
A rogue notion creeps into my consciousness—how the flirtations of Sarah and Pamela with Gil and Averell might help our cause—before I banish it. Good heavens, how can I even think about utilizing Pamela’s and Sarah’s innocent coquetries, even if it is for the greater good? At what cost am I willing to win this war?