Alice Adshead stood on the first floor landing of Bellingham Hall, her hand on the balustrade, and surveyed the area in front of Willi's room for the second time Friday morning. Sunlight flooded over the landing from the cathedral windows of the great hall.
She decided again that the women from the cottages had done a good job. She could see the nicks in the door jamb of the boy's room. Her face reddened in embarrassment. Shot, she reminded herself, from the shotgun blast that had brought down the man who'd thought he would take Willi from her and Robert. They'd just have to be filled in and painted over come spring.
The table across from the child's room was bare. Its doily was still soaking in bleach, but she doubted that horrible Hun's blood would ever come out of it. She would have to find a nice piece of linen with which to replace it. She shook her head at the deadly precision that nice German boy had shown, using an entire clip of bullets firing into the shadows and somehow knowing that man was there with poor Max's body.
She folded her arms over her chest and nodded to herself. It was as clean as it was going to get. There was nothing left that would give poor little Willi nightmares, except the nicks in the door frame. In front of him, they could pretend that nothing had happened and he would be none the wiser.
She knew better, though. Robert would never stop and think before he spoke in front of the boy. For that matter, Elizabeth was nearly as oblivious as her cousin.
At least, there was now practically nothing to remind the child of what had happened. He could hear Robert and Elizabeth, and even Barry, talk about it; but there was nothing for him to link their words to the Hall.
There were too many shadows along the corridor, however. Young boys were prone to imagining things existing in dark places. She would have to talk with Robert about putting in more lighting for the whole floor. Willi was almost too bright, he didn't need dark places for nasty things to breed in his mind.
Alice turned and started slowly down the stairs. She hoped she never had to live through another two days as ghastly as these last two had been. And the very worst of it was poor Max.
She smiled as she remembered him when he would stay at the Hall with Robert during school holidays. He'd been such a gentle boy then. She'd never been able to reconcile her memories of that boy with the man who'd made that homosexual approach to Barry in Robert's very home in London almost three months ago now.
She reminded herself that she was not going to be the one to harbour evil thoughts about the dead or, even, unpleasant memories about them. Whatever he might have done in his life, Maximillian Molloy had died most honourably. He had died in defence of his friend's family against an enemy of his King and country, no less. No man of their sort could ask for a more noble death than that.
Alice reached the foot of the stairs as she looked around her at the gaily decorated great hall. She frowned suddenly.
Should Bellingham Hall be so festive after what happened only yesterday morning? She wondered if she should have Jane Murray take down some of the ornaments and replace them with something funereal. It would be proper, after all, to join with the old Earl and Max's wife and son in their sorrow.
It would be proper, she told herself frowning; but what would it do to young Willi? In an hour—two at most—he would be home. Returned from a house that had been thrown into sorrow yesterday. There was no telling what someone might have said in his hearing. He needed the normality of the season most of all.
Besides, the Earl's youngest son wouldn't be entering Bellingham Hall. Dagold had been kind enough to meet him and Willi at the village station. She'd spoken with the undertaker yesterday and make arrangements to ship Max's body to Easthampton-Mares on the afternoon train with Max's brother. No one from the Earl's household was going to see the lack of funeral decoration at the Hall.
But Willi would see the Christmas decorations that had been there when he left. That was the normality that a child needed. The continuity of things. As Robert's aunt, she would see to that continuity before anything else for his heir.
She nodded her agreement to herself at her decision. Yes. Life did go on—even in the face of death. It was necessary for Willi to see that and know it with all his heart—especially after everything the poor child had been through over there in Germany.
Willi was running from the car towards the entrance before Dagold could turn off the ignition. He burst into the great hall and stopped, surveying the decorations suspiciously.
He broke into a grin as he realised that nothing had been changed since earlier in the week. "Goddamned Huns didn't stop Christmas!" he yelled, beginning to jump up and down with excitement as he accepted that he would have Christmas after all.
"What did you just say, young man?" Alice demanded, hurrying along the corridor from her room.
Still jumping with his joy, Willi turned to her as she swept into the great hall. "Goddamned Huns killed Cecil's Vati, but they didn't stop Christmas after all, Aunt Alice!"
In shock, she stopped, her left hand going to her breast, and stared at the boy. Where had he learnt such vulgar words?
Carrying the boy's suitcase, Dagold entered the hall then. He turned to close the doors and only realised something was wrong when he'd turned back to the great hall. He glanced from Alice to Willi and back again. The woman's face was the colour of beetroot, it was so red. The boy was still jumping around happily, oblivious to whatever had upset Alice.
"Is something wrong, Fraü Alice?" Dagold asked.
"He—that boy … Such language!" she sputtered.
"What did he say?"
"I—I certainly couldn't repeat such file language, Dagold."
Willi began to realise that he'd upset Aunt Alice and stopped jumping up and down. He studied her for the moment it took Dagold to reach him.
"What did you say to your Aunt Alice, Willi?" he asked, squatting beside the boy.
"I said nothing, Dagi," he answered, lapsing into German. "I didn't even see her come from her room."
Dagold fought against the smile that threatened to take over his face. "What were you yelling then whilst jumping around out here?"
"Oh that!" Willi grinned and put his arm around Dagold's neck. "I was so happy when I saw all the decorations still here."
"But what did you say?"
He looked down at the floor, realising that his words had meant something entirely different here at Uncle Robert's house than they had at Cecil's. "I said 'The Goddamned Huns didn't stop Christmas', Dagi. Was that wrong?"
Alice cringed as she heard the offending words once again.
"Where did you hear this, kleiner Graf?" Dagold asked in a troubled voice.
"Cecil's Großvati," the boy answered, finally realising what had so bothered Aunt Alice. "He kept stomping around the house saying it as the servants were taking down the Christmas decorations there." He sniffed. "Poor Cecil. He's not going to have Christmas now that his Vati is gone."
Dagold looked up at Alice. "He says Earl Molloy was using the words all day yesterday as he had his servants take down the decorations."
She nodded, accepting the explanation. "Willi," she said. "Those are very naughty words. You must forget them."
"But the Earl said them, Aunt Alice. Is he a naughty man?"
"No, but—" She looked helplessly to Dagold.
"Willi, do you know what this season is about?" he asked
The boy raised his head and looked into his eyes. "Of course, Dagi. It's about good boys like me being rewarded with nice gifts."
Dagold chuckled. "Yes, it is that," he admitted. "But it much more. It's our way to honour the birth of the Son of God, Willi."
"That too," the boy conceded.
Dagold smiled. "It isn't right to use God's name in vain then—not ever, but especially when we're about to celebrate the birth of his Son."
"But I didn't—"
"Willi, 'Goddamned' means Gottverdammt. It's very naughty. Father Christmas could punish you for using it."
The boy studied his face for a moment. He could see that Dagold was telling him the truth and averted his eyes.
"You won't use it again then?"
Willi nodded without looking up.
"And the word 'Hun" means us German to the English. It's not a nice word, either."
"They were saying that about us?" the boy asked quietly.
"Who?"
"Cecil's Großvati and his Önkel too. They both kept saying the bad words all day. Are they bad men?"
"Not bad, Liebchen—just very upset. They had just lost someone they loved very much. Now, promise your Aunt Alice that you won't use such words again, Willi," Dagold told him.
The boy turned to face Alice.
"Promise her in English, kleiner Graf. That way, she'll know what you're saying."
* * *
Barry had been given another dose of morphine and his wound cleaned with a solution of carbolic acid late the night before after the doctor had seen to Philippe and declared that the son of the Pretendant would indeed live. Though, sedated since Wednesday, Elizabeth had managed to feel him gruel from the kitchen on several occasions.
As I sat with him Friday morning, holding his good hand in both of mine, he still slept the drugged sleep French medicine had declared for him. I thought that he did look better. His eyes were still darkened shadows but his face didn't look as pinched as it had Wednesday and, even more so, Thursday. His colour was better, as well.
I was still concerned. True, I had never been involved with anyone who was recovering from a gunshot wound, but injecting Barry with morphine to keep him sedated didn't seem the most logical way to help his body heal.
I wanted him seen to by a specialist, an English-speaking specialist preferably. Instead of Coventry, we would fly into London. We might be a day or two late arriving at Bellingham Hall, but I now knew them to be safe and the danger past. In London, I could have my doubts eased and never once seem to be calling into question the quality of French care.
"Monsieur le Baron?"
I looked towards the door, pulling myself from my thoughts about Barry's care as I did. The château's majordomo was watching me, his face expressionless.
"The Minister has just arrived. He has asked that you make your presentation in fifteen minutes."
"Where?"
"In the study, sir."
I arrived at the study at the appointed time to find Philippe d'Orléans and several men I didn't recognise stand and clap as I entered the room.
A burly, middle-aged man broke from the others and began to descend on me. "Monsieur le Baron Petersholme," he said barrelling across the room at me like one the tanks Colonel de Gaulle recommended in warfare in his book. "I am Paul Reynaud," he continued, slowing to a normal walk as he approached. "My very good friend, Winston Churchill, recommends you so highly. Thank you for coming during this special season to describe what you've seen in Germany," he gushed as he grabbed my hand and began to pump it.
Paul Reynaud was my stereotype of a politician. I couldn't imagine why Churchill thought so highly of him.
"Come, Monsieur le Baron," he said, keeping hold of my hand. "I want you to meet the one man in all of the Republic who most wants to hear your report." I was pulled after him towards the other men in the study. All of them wore Army uniforms.
There was Philippe in his sling, of course—smiling at me. The older man to whom Reynaud was pulling me looked be well into his sixties and had the most medals and braid I'd ever seen on a man. And there was another officer. I blinked. The man towered over me.
"This is Marshal Pétain," Reynaud told me, stopping in front of the older man. "He thought he should hear of your tale of Peenemünde, even if it does entail but a child's toy."
I smiled to the man and extended my hand. "Marshal Pétain," I said, "Your genius saved France in the Great War."
He took my hand and shook it once before releasing it, without saying a word.
"And this is Colonel de Gaulle, Baron. He is our genius of the future of warfare," Reynaud said as his hand on my elbow moved me past the Marshal.
I looked up. I was nearly six feet tall, and this Frenchman had me by nearly a head. "I've read your treatise on the use of the tank, Colonel." I extended my hand once again. "It makes a tremendous amount of sense—"
The Marshal harrumphed and left our group for the sideboard and the whisky decanter there.
"And you, Lord Petersholme," Charles de Gaulle said in barely accented English, his eyes twinkling with merriment, "would naturally be interested in the tank as a weapon. After all, your factories supplied Britain with theirs in the great war—those of the Russians too, I believe."
I felt my ears grow warm. It appeared that I was not the only one who brushed up on people I was about to meet officially. "Thank you for coming," I said.
His eyes twinkled even more. "I wouldn't have missed it, even if the Minister hadn't threatened me with a court marshal tonight and execution at dawn tomorrow, Lord Petersholme—" He paused for the space of a heartbeat. "He even suggested that he'd use the guillotine rather than allow me to face a firing squad."
* * *
It had only taken Pettigrew a couple of telephone conversations to bring the HP42 that had been assigned to me from Paris to Deauville and to gain clearance for us to fly to London instead of Coventry. After only the briefest conversation between the two, de Gaulle had given Philippe a fortnight's leave to visit us and fly on to Morocco to spend time with his parents. We were airborne by one o'clock that afternoon.
I had heard about Pettigrew's near altercation with Philippe and I suspected there was more to it than young John's effort to keep faith with Brigadier Dunham. I was concerned that it might carry over into our flight. But, as our aeroplane climbed into the clear skies over Normandy, my concern was focused on Barry.
He had lapsed into unconsciousness whilst I briefed the Minister and warlords of France and was running a fever as we covered him in blankets to carry him to the car. Airborne, he was burning hot with fever and I was squabbing his forehead with a flannel continuously. Elizabeth had offered her help but I shooed her back to her own wounded man. It was no longer a matter of consulting a London specialist to ease my doubts; it was become a necessity.
"My Lord?"
I looked up to find Pettigrew standing beside me. I'd been aware of his checking on us a few times but paid little attention to him. "Yes?"
"I've spoken with London, sir—" He glanced to Barry. "About Mr. Alexander, sir."
"I didn't ask—"
"Sir, I am the commanding officer of this mission—anything that happens on this ship when it's in the air is my responsibility."
He looked at Barry again. "Anyway, sir, the First Sea Lord himself has ordered the Navy's senior surgeon to meet us the moment we're on the ground. He'll be taking charge of Mr. Alexander, sir."
I looked up sharply. "I have my own surgeon meeting us at the aerodrome—"
"Sir, it appears that Lord Stanhope has decided to take charge of Mr. Alexander's health at Mr. Churchill's request."
"What?" I yelped, staring at him in shock.
"We're flying to Portsmouth, sir."
I swallowed my shock and the expletives that went with it. "When did Mr. Churchill have time to plan this?" I asked with resignation.
"I reckon after I called him this morning, sir."
"You called him?" He nodded. "From that château in Deauville?"
"Yes, sir."
"And why did you do that?"
He was concerned about Mr. Alexander, my Lord. He told Brigadier Dunham to have me call him in Chartwell the moment that Minister Reynaud arrived."
I had to admit that it did feel good to be taken care of. To have my every concern met before I even knew that I was concerned. But I felt more than a little disquiet as well. I was, after all, fully capable of thinking for myself.
Copyright © 2006-2025 David MacMillan
First posted 2006
Updated 2 July 2025