Cavendon Hall (44 page)

Then, just as he thought he could not sustain himself any longer, that he was going to fall down from fatigue, Hugo heard a strange sound, a noise he couldn’t define because of the deafening guns. It became almost a roar, or so it seemed to him. Suddenly he was startled. The Germans were retreating, going back to their trenches. Then running to their trenches.

Hugo stood stock-still. He heard Sergeant Crocker’s voice just behind him. “It’s the ladies from hell, Lieutenant.”

Glancing to his left, Hugo felt a grin spread across his face. He saw a large contingent of Seaforth Highlanders marching toward them, their kilts swinging in the breeze, the skirl of the bagpipes filling the air with a sound that was most joyous to him. Their saviors were here.

“From now on they’re the
angels
from hell, as far as I’m concerned,” Hugo shouted back to Crocker.

Fifty-six

A
fter the arrival of the Seaforth Highlanders, there were two days of respite. Both sides tended to their wounded, buried their dead, and got themselves back into shape.

Always alert, poised for the unexpected and ready to rush into action, Hugo sensed the Germans might be revving up again. He sent his sergeant, Bill Crocker, and a four-man team out to do a recce.

Within an hour they were back, jumping into their trench. “We’d better start gearing up, sir,” Crocker said quietly to Hugo. “The buggers are slowly getting ready. They’ll probably strike tomorrow or the day after.”

Hugo simply nodded. “Do what you have to do, Sergeant.”

Later that afternoon Crocker was back at headquarters, looking for his lieutenant. When he found him, he said to Hugo, “There’s a few stragglers, sir, they’ve just come into our trench. Will you come and question them, Lieutenant?”

“I will,” Hugo answered, sighing under his breath. “Do you think they might be deserters, Crocker? Is that it?”

“No, sir. Well, I don’t know, Lieutenant, I’m just not sure. But they seem like three tommies who got separated from their regiments.”

“Knowing you, you got their ranks and serial numbers, all of that?”

“I did. Written it down, sir.”

“Which regiments?”

“Two from the Lancashires, and one from the West Kents.”

“What are their names, Crocker?”

“Arthur Jones and Sam Tyler from the Lancashires, both privates. And a Lieutenant Richard Torbett from the West Kents.”

Hugo couldn’t believe what he had just heard. “Richard Torbett,” he repeated, and stood absolutely still, frozen to the spot. His heart was suddenly beating very rapidly; he felt the blood rushing to his face. My God, the rapist was here! And he had him in the palm of his hand. I’m going to kill him. I’m damn well going to shoot that vile bastard, Hugo vowed silently. Revenge for Daphne.

Vaguely, Hugo heard Crocker’s voice saying, “Are you all right, sir?”

“Never better, Crocker,” Hugo answered, recouping, pulling himself together. “Any of them wounded?”

“The two lads from the Lancashires both look as if they’re about to collapse.”

“Bring Layton and Macklin, and let’s go. The Torbett chap? He’s been wounded?”

“No, sir.”

Crocker turned around, strode out of the tent. Hugo picked up his revolver, put it in his pocket. He followed Crocker out to the trenches, heading to the one his platoon usually holed up in.

*   *   *

Hugo virtually ignored Lieutenant Richard Torbett of the West Kents. Instead he spoke to the two privates, asked them a few leading questions. Satisfied they were genuine stragglers and not deserters, he sent them off with Layton and Macklin.

He then stood opposite Torbett, and looked him over swiftly. He saw a tall man, probably in his early thirties, with swarthy skin. He was not very good-looking, rather weak, and quite ordinary in his appearance. A nonentity.

After asking him the usual standard questions, about how he had become separated from his unit and regiment, and so forth, he then said, “You don’t happen to come from Yorkshire, do you, Lieutenant Torbett?”

For the first time Torbett relaxed, and a smile flashed. His dark eyes filled with curiosity when he said, “I do indeed, Lieutenant. Why do you ask?”

“I know your name. Isn’t your family home Havers Lodge on the Havers estate?”

“Why, yes it is,” Torbett replied, smiling again.

Hugo stepped forward, took hold of his arm firmly, and brought out his revolver. He stuck it against Torbett’s forehead and said in a low, threatening voice, “You bloody bastard! You son of a bitch! You raped a young girl, you vile bugger. I’m going to shoot you for ruining a young innocent girl. You deserve to die. Shooting’s too good for you, in point of fact.”

“Lieutenant! Lieutenant! Take it easy,” Crocker was shouting. “Put your gun away. Please, sir. He’s not worth it. You’ll be court-martialed if you pull that trigger.”

“I don’t bloody well care. He’s going to die for what he did,” Hugo shouted back without turning around.

Torbett was shaking from head to foot. So terrified he wet his pants. And like all bullies he started to beg. “Don’t kill me. Don’t kill me. Please, don’t kill me.”

Hugo cocked the trigger, stared into Torbett’s eyes. “I am going to shoot you.”

“Please, Lieutenant, please,” Crocker pleaded. He loved and admired his company leader and wanted to prevent a ruinous action taking place. The head of their platoon was a unique man. True blue. The best. He didn’t want his life in ruins after the war.

Torbett shouted, “She was always tempting me! It wasn’t my fault. She was flirtatious. Leading me on.”

“You liar. What a vile creature you are,” Hugo replied in a dangerous voice. “You went looking. For her. For other women. Even little girls. You were the trespasser always roaming the Ingham estate. I know that for a fact. You were recognized.”

Torbett was still shaking. He moaned, “I didn’t mean any harm.” He was on the verge of tears.

“But you
did
harm, you frigging bastard! What were you going to do with the child? Tell me the truth. And I won’t kill you. Just for that information, Torbett, I’ll let you live.”

“Nothing. I wasn’t going to do anything to her. Just take her to the bluebells. I was going to let her go.”

“You fucking liar! You weren’t. You were going to rape that child, just as you raped her sister. You deserve to die.”

“Please, Lieutenant, put the gun down,” Crocker said in a quiet, steady voice. He did not dare go near the lieutenant for fear of startling him. Just moving closer might make him pull the trigger, which was already cocked.

Hugo did not answer. Torbett was snivelling.

“He’s not worth it, sir,” Crocker went on in a calm voice. “Just put the gun away. Think of your lady, sir. Please, please, don’t do this. Think of your children. Lieutenant, don’t sink to his level. Rise above this coward. Please, sir.”

Hugo remained standing close to Torbett, staring intently into the other man’s face. The revolver was pressed to Torbett’s temple. And Hugo’s face was set in determined lines. There was unremitting fury in his eyes.

Crocker spoke once again. “For God’s sake, please, don’t do this, Lieutenant Stanton. They’ll fucking court-martial you if you kill him. Think, sir, please think. Remember you’re an officer and a gentleman. And remember your lady, how much you love Lady Daphne?”

Hearing Daphne’s name brought Hugo up sharp.

He had to go home to her. What would she do without him? She needed him. His children needed him. Charles needed him. Very slowly Hugo Stanton lowered his arm, held the gun pointing to the ground.

“Let go of his arm, sir,” Crocker instructed.

Hugo did so.

A look of relief surfaced on Torbett’s face, but his eyes were still filled with fear.

“Run, Torbett!” Crocker shouted. “Run for your life. Go on! Run down the trench. Find another unit.”

Torbett did as instructed. He turned, leapt away from the sergeant and his lieutenant. He ran for his life and into death.

Hugo turned around and peered at his sergeant. “Thank you, Crocker. You brought me to my senses.” Hugo’s brows came together, and his eyes narrowed as he looked down the trench. “But you’ve sent him the wrong way. You’ve sent him into the German lines. Our other units are back there, behind us. You sent him the wrong way.”

“No, I didn’t, sir,” Crocker answered very calmly. “I sent him the right way. I sent him into hell, Lieutenant, which is where he belongs.”

At that moment the German guns started to roar in a great crescendo. Hugo and Crocker swung to face the German lines. There was a huge deafening roar as bombs began to explode farther down in their trench. And the machine-gun fire started its inevitable rat-a-tat.

“Well, he’s a goner, sir. Torbett’s just been blown to smithereens,” Crocker announced. He took hold of his lieutenant’s arm and led him back to headquarters.

*   *   *

The Yorkshire Regiment stayed on in Ypres. In August came the rains, turning the area into a sea of mud. Hugo’s division moved closer to Passchendaele, where it soon grew worse. The earlier bombings in the region had ruined the drainage system of the Flanders lowlands, and all of the British divisions were trapped in the mud. So were the Germans. It was a strange standoff.

One afternoon Crocker said, “I just want to tell you this, sir. It’s been an honor to serve under you. I’ve never met a man like you before. A true officer and a gentleman. And I just want to thank you for being so good to the lads. And for leading us so well.”

Hugo was touched by Crocker’s words but somewhat puzzled. He asked, “Are you leaving me, Sergeant? Joining another platoon?”

“No, sir.”

“Then why are you thanking me? You sound as if you’re saying good-bye.”

“In a way, I am, sir. Because I don’t think we’re going to get out of this bleeding mud alive. We’re going to drown in it.”

Hugo shook his head. “No, we’re not, Sergeant. Remember what you said about thinking of my lady. That’s what I do every day. And I’m going home to her.”

*   *   *

In April of 1917 the United States had declared war on Germany, joining the Allies in their battle against the Axis Powers. They had the manpower to build and train an army, but it took them months to do this. Finally, they were well prepared. American troops and armaments were shipped off to the Western Front to the relief of Churchill and the government.

This reinforcement for the British and their Allies turned the tide of war. The Americans had a massive and destructive impact on the German army, and by the summer of 1918 they held the upper hand in the war. Success was in the air, boosting morale and reenergizing the fighting men.

By October of 1918 the Germans knew they had lost the Great War. In November they surrendered to the Allies in a railway carriage in the Forest of Compiègne in France. It was at 11
A.M.
on the 11th day of the 11th month that the war to end all wars was finally over.

*   *   *

There was rejoicing all over, and sorrow as well. Many soldiers went home relatively intact. Many others were wounded. Others were left behind, thousands and thousands of them mown down in the line of duty.

Hugo Stanton was lucky, and so was Sergeant Crocker. They were on the same British battleship that took them safely home to the country they loved and had fought so valiantly for. Hugo could hardly wait to see his beloved Daphne.

Walter Swann and his son, Harry, returned to Cavendon and the waiting arms of Alice, and Gordon Lane to Peggy Swift. And many of the men from all three Cavendon villages also returned safely, and were welcomed with open arms by their families.

The Honorable Guy Ingham did not return. He had died at Verdun and was buried in some far corner of a foreign field. Charles was filled with grief for Guy, and mourned him. But he was comforted by Miles, who had not passed the physical because of poor eyesight, and had not gone to war. Charles had his heir to the earldom. The Ingham line was safe.

Part Five

A MATTER OF CHOICE

September 1920

And so it began: the most relentless

pursuit of success and fame ever

embarked upon, the most grinding

and merciless work schedule ever

conceived and willingly undertaken

by a young woman.

—
Emma Harte:
A Woman of Substance

Remember me when I am gone away,

Gone far away into the silent land;

When you can no more hold me by the hand,

Nor I half turn to go, yet turning stay.

Remember me when no more, day by day,

You tell me of our future that you planned;

Only remember me; you understand

It will be late to counsel then or plan.

—
Christina Rossetti

Fifty-seven

T
he evening gown was breathtaking. It was made of different shades of blue chiffon, from indigo to delphinium, cornflower to sky blue, and a final grayish-blue tone that emphasized the vivid blueness of the other shades. From a molded bodice and a tight waist were layered petals of chiffon, which fell down to mid-calf length. And each petal had a handkerchief point.

Dorothy Swann Pinkerton, Cecily’s aunt, kept nodding her head and beaming. Finally, she said, “It’s extraordinary, Ceci, a dream of a dress. You’ve outdone yourself.”

Cecily nodded, looking pleased, and said, “Thank you.” She then turned to DeLacy. “You look so beautiful, Lacy, you really do. And I’m glad I had the shoes dyed sky blue, because they look so … light, as light as air.”

“I can’t thank you enough for making something so special for me, Ceci. You’re a genius.”

“I don’t know about that, but I know what suits women, and you in particular.”

At nineteen Lady DeLacy Ingham was a ravishing blonde, effervescent and slightly scatterbrained. She was fun-loving and forever rushing around Mayfair, caught up in the social whirl of London society, eyeing the young men and flirting with them.

Her best friend, Cecily Swann, who was also nineteen, was now a blossoming fashion designer with a tiny shop in South Audley Street. She was serious, hardworking to the point of obsession, driven by enormous ambition to succeed and to fulfill her childhood dream. She was sincere and loyal; honesty and integrity were the keynotes of her character.