The Storms of War (11 page)

The footman gestured towards two chairs. Celia wanted to seize her mother’s hand and say: ‘Sorry, Lady Redroad. We have a prior appointment.’ Instead they stood there, feeling the terrible late August heat, made worse because Lady Redroad would never open the windows, for that would mean the beginning of the end.

In the centre was a great pile of white sheets, and each lady had one on her lap. Maids stood around the walls. Celia wondered, guiltily, if the maids weren’t faster at sewing than all of them, but she knew they were there to serve tea, stand to attention. Maids doing the sewing while they got their own tea was not the point.

‘Welcome,’ said Lady Redroad, a tall woman with thinning hair, dressed in green. Her voice was cool. ‘We have here Lady Stormont, Lady Martens and Miss Martens, Mrs Fitzgerald, Mrs James and’ – she gestured towards an older woman in the corner – ‘the Dowager Lady Redroad. The sheets and the thread are on the table. Mary, pass Mrs and Miss de Witt their work.’

‘Thank you so much,’ said Verena, too fast and too eager. Celia blushed for her. It was only due to the Dowager Lady Redroad that they had been invited at all. She had met Verena at a charity drive a few years ago and sent her intermittent invitations, usually late, a few days before the event started. Still, they had her to thank for the meeting with Sir Hugh.

The maid passed two sheets and cotton. Celia had no idea what to do with it, not really. She had learned how to sew from their governesses and then at school, but that was embroidery and fancy sewing. She didn’t know how to edge a sheet. The maid bent down to show her that the edges had already been tacked up with big
looping stitches. ‘There, miss.’ She pointed at the spot where she should begin. Celia put her hand there. At school, the teachers had despaired of her sewing. Gwendolyn produced perfect squares of embroidered cotton; Celia’s came out greying and frayed, squeezed where she had pulled the thread too tight. She gazed at one of the maids, tiny, neat hands held in front of her apron. She, surely, would be a thousand times better.

‘How are your three further children, Mrs de Witt?’ asked Lady Redroad, without enthusiasm.

‘Arthur, my eldest boy, is studying in Paris.’ Once, her mother had swelled with pride at the words. Now her voice faltered.

‘Indeed. Surely he will be on his way home now.’

‘I believe Paris is quite safe. Michael is my younger boy. I have also Emmeline, who is nineteen.’

‘Nineteen? She must be quite out.’

‘The elder Miss de Witt is something of a beauty, I understand,’ piped up the Dowager from the corner.

Verena nodded.

‘And due to be married to Sir Hugh Bradshaw, no less.’

Celia dipped her head, stared at her sewing, on which she had not done a single stitch.

Verena nodded again. Previously she would have talked at length about the wedding, Sir Hugh, Callerton Manor. ‘Yes, she is.’ Her voice was tiny.

‘Quite a match,’ said one of the women coolly. Lady Martens, Celia thought.

Verena did not reply. Finally a new conversation started up about the relative heights of Lady Martens’ and the other women’s children. Verena bent her head to her sewing; Celia watched her needle darting in and out of the material. Piles of sheets to go to the men in France. Celia knew she was ridiculous to imagine that Tom might touch the sheet she had sewn – there were so many men there – but she couldn’t help it.

Miss Martens, an insipid girl of thirteen or so, smirked at her. Celia looked back with the stare she used when she played at
being a witch to put a spell on Emmeline.
Don’t look at me,
she wanted to say.

The conversation about the heights faded. ‘You did not tell us about your younger son, Mrs de Witt,’ said Lady Redroad, breaking the silence.

Verena’s needle halted.

‘Is he also at school?’

‘Michael was at Cambridge. Magdalene.’

‘I see. But no longer.’

‘He is going to France for the King.’ She stumbled over the last word.

‘How very patriotic,’ exclaimed the Dowager. ‘Marvellous! Those young gentlemen who choose to volunteer are the backbone of this country. At the end of the Crimea, they were talking of forcing men to fight – can you imagine? We are very lucky to have young men who will lead the way.’ Celia turned to smile at her, hoping it wasn’t too disrespectful.

‘I was horrified to read of the rush of ordinary men to sign up,’ said Lady Redroad. ‘We have a trained army. Men who come from the serving classes will only muddle things. Which regiment is your son with, Mrs de Witt? One of the Hampshires?’

‘No. No, he is not.’

‘A London regiment?’

‘No.’

‘Well, which one is he in exactly?’

‘I confess I cannot remember.’

‘You cannot remember. Dear me. But it is surely Lord Crichton’s. I believe Lord MacAdam’s son is an officer in that regiment. He must know him. I shall ask Lord MacAdam when I next see him.’

Verena held herself still. ‘In truth, Lady Redroad, we do not believe he is an officer. We are not entirely sure.’

‘You are not entirely sure?’

‘No, we are not. His departure was a surprise.’

‘Do you mean, Mrs de Witt,’ said Lady Martens, ‘that he has gone off with one of the ordinary battalions?’ Celia had her witch
stare ready, but it wasn’t working. Just when she needed a spell, none came.

‘A Pals battalion?’ said another woman, her mouth open.

Verena was still holding the needle in her hand. It was trembling so that Celia thought she might drop it. ‘I don’t think so.’ Men with nothing in common but living in the same village or town.
Mixing of classes,
Verena had said in horror.

‘Oh no, no,’ said the Dowager. ‘The Pals are for men from the
north.’

‘Well,’ said Lady Redroad, looking around. ‘Not an officer.’

‘Very brave.’

‘Quite. We need every man we can enlist to fight the enemy. Such atrocities committed against the poor Belgians.’

‘Children burned alive, I understand,’ said Lady Redroad.

‘Mrs Phelps is planning a bazaar for them,’ said the Dowager.

‘Mrs Phelps could not run a bazaar if she tried. We shall have to take the lead. I was thinking that we might engage in some first-aid classes, ladies.’

‘An excellent idea,’ said Lady Martens, soothingly.

‘And some educational lectures. How to distinguish a spy.’

‘They are everywhere, Lady Redroad. Yesterday I even read that one man took a cake at a tearoom in London and dropped down dead.’ Lady Martens lowered her voice. ‘Poisoned.’ The women all gasped, and gazed at Verena and Celia.

‘Shocking,’ said Lady Stormont. ‘They have tried to flood the country with special toothbrushes from which all the bristles fall out and then you choke to death, I read. Ladies, tell your servants. If they see anyone loitering near the river, they must report it, for they might try to poison the water supply!’

Lady Martens fingered the thin material of her blue sleeve. ‘I heard that they were trying to put something in newsprint so that every time you read a newspaper you would get the stuff on your hands and die. They hate
The Times.’

Lady Redroad was warming to her subject. ‘Ladies, if you ever visit a house with German servants, refuse all food and drink.’

‘Oh come now, Gertrude,’ said the Dowager. ‘They said this
kind of thing in the Crimea when we were all wearing crinolines. Nothing happened.’

‘Mama,
dear,
we are not in the Crimea any more.’ She shrugged. ‘The Dowager Countess sometimes forgets that our dear Queen is no longer with us.’

Lady Martens sniffed. ‘Mr Asquith needs to act. These people should be immediately taken into prison. And then, when the war is over in October, they should all be sent back to that horrid little country and see how they like it.’

The Dowager shook her needlework. ‘That would mean that we would have to arrest the royal family, Gertrude, dear. I would like to see someone try with Queen Mary.’

‘Terrifying,’ said the woman who Celia thought was Mrs Fitzgerald. ‘Trying to get the Queen into a prison!’

‘Do not be ridiculous, Mama. You can’t possibly talk about arresting the royal family. His Majesty is not German.’

‘The Queen is,’ said Celia. She sensed Verena stiffen beside her.

Lady Redroad stared at her. Finally she spoke. ‘Her Majesty is as English as I.’

‘A whole school of children might be dead from a poisoned well before Mr Asquith acts on the enemy within,’ said Lady Martens. ‘Lord Martens has written to
The Times
about it.’

‘Quite right, Lady Martens.’

‘But of course, Mrs de Witt, no one would mean your family,’ said the Dowager Countess, kindly. ‘The ladies here are talking about the other Germans.’

‘Yes,’ said Lady Redroad, icily. ‘Of course not. The other Germans.’

‘Thank you,’ said Verena. Celia hated her mother for saying those words. She dipped her head and began sewing. She would not shame herself. She would sew as neatly as Gwendolyn.

‘Why did you make us go?’ she hissed at her mother on the way back to Stoneythorpe. ‘Why?’

‘We had to go. It is the effort for the war.’

‘We should sew at home, then. All day long. I will never go again.’

‘You don’t understand, Celia. We must be seen to be doing it.’

They arrived back at the house. Smithson met them at the door. ‘There has been a letter from Callerton Manor, my lady.’ He held out the platter, elaborately polite.

‘I should wait for your father,’ Verena said to Celia. Rudolf had travelled up to Winchester to visit his bank.

Celia looked at the envelope. ‘I think you should open it now. Emmeline can’t wait.’

Smithson’s hand was shaking slightly as he held the platter.

‘You are right, Celia. I shall read it now.’ Normally Verena took her letters to the parlour and Rudolf took his to the study. This time, she seized the letter and ripped it open.

‘What is it, Mama?’ said Celia, watching her eyes scan the paper. Verena’s face was filled with fear. ‘Tell me!’

Verena dropped her hand, the letter drooping.

‘What does it say, Mama? Please.’

Verena turned to her. ‘It’s not good news, Celia. I must go and speak to Emmeline now. Not good news at all. Smithson, please leave us.’

‘He won’t come for dinner?’ Celia felt panic rising.

‘Worse. I don’t think he will ever come again. I must speak to Emmeline.’

‘I’ll come with you!’

‘I don’t think so, dear. I must talk to her alone. Wait in your room.’ Verena turned and walked up the stairs. Celia hurried up behind her.

But Emmeline had already heard them and was out of the door. Her hair was undone and she was still wearing her nightdress. ‘What is it? Why are you coming? Have you a letter?’

‘I need to talk to you, my dear,’ said Verena. ‘Let us go and sit down.’

‘I don’t want to sit down! What is it? Tell me!’

‘Please, Emmeline. Let us go to your room and talk.’

‘Mama, tell me now! Give me the letter!’ She reached out and tried to clutch the paper. Verena held it up. ‘Emmeline! Stop this!’

‘Give it to me! Tell me!’ Tears were rolling down Emmeline’s face. ‘Please.’

‘Very well, let us sit here. On the floor. That is it.’ Verena held the banister as she lowered herself to the ground. She coughed. ‘It is some time since I sat on the floor.’

Emmeline sat and put her legs out in front of her, the way no debutante ever should. ‘Tell me, Mama. He won’t come to dinner?’

Verena shook her head. ‘No.’

‘But he will come again?’

Verena shook her head. ‘He says not. I suppose he means only in friendship.’

Emmeline opened her mouth and began screaming. Her screams filled the hallway. She paused, looked at them both and screamed again.

‘Emmeline, please stop.’

She lay down, curled into a ball and screamed there, into the floor.

Verena gestured to Celia. ‘Go and fetch Smithson. Or Thompson. Anyone.’

Celia hurried to the stairs. Jennie was already walking up. ‘Were you in need of help, miss?’

Celia nodded. She grasped Jennie’s hand and hurried her forward. Jennie crouched down by Emmeline, who was still wailing. ‘Come now, miss, come on now.’ She slipped her arms under her and steadied her as she rose. ‘Good girl.’ Emmeline put her arms around Jennie’s shoulders and buried her face in her chest. ‘Let us go to your room. Come on now.’

Celia followed and opened the door to Emmeline’s room. She hadn’t been in it for weeks. It was strewn with clothes, stockings, shawls.

‘Come, miss.’ Jennie laid Emmeline down in the bed and put the blankets over her. She smoothed her hair. ‘That’s it, have a good cry now. Get it all out.’ She looked up at Celia. ‘It’s all right, miss. Leave us now. Miss Emmeline will be fine with me.’

Celia closed the door and walked along the landing. Verena was still sitting there, her head against the wall, her eyes closed.
Celia put her arms around her but Verena did not flinch. ‘Mama, I think Emmeline is getting better.’ Verena made no reply. Celia held her. Finally, Verena opened her eyes. ‘Thank you, dear. Now, surely Mr Janus will be waiting for you downstairs. You should go to your lessons.’

‘Yes, Mama.’ She set off towards the hall. Mr Janus was there, leaning against Rudolf’s shelf of ornaments. He was gazing at the reproduction Turner on the wall.

‘I am sorry to keep you waiting, Mr Janus.’

‘Good afternoon, Miss de Witt. Time for history.’

She nodded.

‘Are you quite well, Miss de Witt? You look rather pale, if I may say so. I thought I heard noises earlier of some distress.’

‘The noise was because one of the maids received some bad news. I’m just tired.’

‘History will wake you up. How is Miss Emmeline?’

‘She is sleeping.’

‘That is nice to hear. Sleep is good for beauty.’

Verena knew that her mother would have stopped him saying such things, but she did not know how to do so. She was still trying to think of the right words when Mr Janus said, ‘To the Wars of the Roses, Miss de Witt.’

‘I wish we didn’t have to study war, Mr Janus. Why is there so much of it in history?’

‘Because people think it’s glorious. Perhaps you are right, Miss de Witt, we have covered enough war. Let us turn a little further forward. The fiscal policy of Henry VII.’