— Death what?
— The death drive, or so it says here. ‘A lecture on the subject of the Freudian death drive as the primal force behind mankind’s lust for war.’
Temerity sat across from Edward, deciphering the story on Spain. The half-column of text mentioned hunger and air raids.
Edward followed her gaze and stabbed a trembling finger at the story on Spain. After a coughing fit, he got the words out. —Damned Bosche.
— Don’t excite yourself.
Coughing some more, Edward peered over the edge of the newspaper. With his blue eyes and white hair he looked nothing like Temerity, yet anyone seeing them together, observing body language and hearing voices shot through with expectation of command, knew them for father and daughter. —Herr Hitler’s Luftwaffe at target practice, that’s what this is, training Franco’s boys. Marshal Stalin’s no better, whatever side he pretends to take. God’s sake, proxy wars. And I’ll thank you, Temmy, not to patronize me like that again. Don’t excite myself, indeed.
Apology ready, Temerity sighed, then said nothing.
Edward seemed not to notice. —We should strike the blighters now, while we still can, unless we want to lose the entire empire and perhaps even England itself, though India’s just a matter of time.
Temerity thought of their family’s wealth, how much they’d benefited from the commerce of the empire.
— Temmy, my dear, did I ever tell you why your uncle and grandfather stopped talking to me? I was twelve. All I said was that we British might have shown some restraint in our reprisals after the ’57 mutiny. My history master beat me. The headmaster beat me. Then he wrote to my father, and when next I returned home between terms, my father beat me.
Temerity suppressed another sigh, this story so familiar, often told. —Dreadful.
— And then, when I refused to apologize or go back on my word, for that’s what it was, the old man expecting me to go back on my word, my pledge to justice, you see, I…where was I?
— You refused to apologize.
— Yes, so the old man gave me the silent treatment. Communicated by note, if you please. And your uncle, the rotter, he did the same, and when he inherited, he told me in a letter left atop my packed bags that I was not welcome in Kurseong House. Used the old man’s stationery. From the Desk of Lord Fenleigh. Your Aunt Min pleaded with him, got nowhere, so then she refused to speak to him.
Temerity watched raindrops stream across the train window.
Edward rattled the newspaper. —Best thing for me. I had to make my own way in the world, me and my languages. I met your mother. And then your damned fool uncle died. It’s all such bloody nonsense, Temmy, Kurseong House, the titles. Your grandfather only got elevated when Lloyd George had to recreate the House of Lords. Then he built Kurseong House on the dampest piece of ground he could find. Fen-leigh, indeed. All we sheltered were leeches and mosquitoes.
— It wasn’t that bad.
— You never got stuck in the fen, did you? And the house is damp. You must concede that. I don’t even know why we’re bothering to open it. Freeman tells me you’ve transferred over from Five?
Abrupt changes of subject: one of her father’s favourite tricks.
Temerity nodded. —I should like to put my languages to work.
— Good way to save face after that bother with the fascists and Brownbury-Rees.
Bother? Temerity’s cheeks flushed. Every time, every bloody time, her father found some way to belittle either what she’d accomplished or what she’d endured. She felt at once cocky and inadequate, as if she’d exaggerated and bragged when in truth she’d understated. If she now corrected her understatement to the truth, she’d sound conceited, and her father would make short work of it. —I should never have told you about that.
— I’d have seen Brownbury-Rees go to prison. Nothing in the courts, mind, leastaways nothing to involve you. Stitch him up for theft, perhaps, find someone over in Five who owes me a favour. Easy enough to do. But his father’s not well. Dying of shame, I shouldn’t wonder.
Temerity snatched the newspaper from Edward, ink from the story of Spain smudging her fingers.
— What on earth is the matter with you, girl?
— Tell me, when France, bloody France, has taken tens of thousands of refugees from Spain, why is it that the greatest empire in human history can’t be bothered to accept a mere fraction of the burden, indeed, can’t even be shamed into it? All I can think of here, Father, is Queen Victoria: tell me not what is expedient; tell me what is right.
Expecting a lecture on the complexities of British foreign policy with a reminder of atrocities committed on both sides of the Spanish Civil War, ready to kick herself for even inviting such condescension, Temerity took a sharp breath.
Edward gently removed the newspaper from Temerity’s fingers, resumed his study of an article, and then, after a long moment, turned a page. —I may install a shower bath at Kurseong House. All the comforts of a city flat back at the estate. What do you think?
— Did you not hear a word I just said?
— Mm-hmm.
— Father, I’ll be leaving next week.
Edward finally looked up, his eyes glinting with the recognition of an argument already lost. Still, he’d fight. —I beg your pardon?
— I can’t tell you where.
— I can bloody well guess it’s Spain. Out of the question.
— I don’t need your permission.
— I’ll not have you gallivanting over half of Europe and in the papers every other day like Jessica and Unity Mitford!
— Unity? How dare you compare me to that gormless fascist heifer? And what would the papers know about it?
— Temmy, for God’s sake, I’ve given you an excellent education, and you’ve got the bloody vote. What more do you want?
Tears pricked. —The freedom to take up my duty! If I were Felix—
— Don’t you dare throw your brother at me, girl. Don’t you dare.
— Aunt Min—
Edward dashed his newspaper to the seat beside him. —I only let her take you to India to test your mettle, see how you travelled, and she talked me into letting you attend those damned suffragette-su classes —
— Jiu-jutsu, Father.
— Withered old maids wielding Indian clubs—
— The correct term is Persian meels.
— You want to take up your duty? Languages, girl, your languages and that phenomenal brain beneath your thick skull. Decrypt. I’ve been telling you that for years.
Temerity sniffed, blinked at the few tears, folded her hands in her lap and studied her fingers. —Father, listen to me.
— That fool, Freeman, he’s put you up to this.
— I can decide for myself.
— Decide to run off to a war zone, with bloody bombs falling from the sky? Women in the field, God’s sake. Have your forgotten you’re someone’s daughter? Have you forgotten what that would mean to invading soldiers?
Temerity said nothing.
Edward stared out the window, thinking of the graves of his wife and son, long untended. —I’ve given the Service almost twenty-five years. All my languages, all my work, and now they tiptoe around my desk like I’m soggy ordinance ploughed up in a field and liable to go off. Worse than you with your Don’t excite yourself. I’ll not have it.
— Father, I don’t like that wheeze. Have you been ill?
— I’m fine.
The compartment door squeaked open, and the train guard stepped in, seeking tickets. —Beg your pardon, sir, but as this compartment is reserved, I must ask…
Edward turned his icy gaze from the glass. —Ask what?
Temerity smiled at the guard. —My father is tired. Is the compartment reserved in the name of West? Or perhaps Lord Fenleigh and Lady Temerity West?