“Yes, we’ve heard nothing since the telegram he sent to me from Paris. He was over their talking to the movie people about the film rights to Abe and Kate Lincoln’s story…”
The young woman realised that this was too much information; if this was to be an abbreviated meeting there was no time to be wasted.
“Sorry, I know you have so much else on your plate, sir.”
De L’Isle shook his head, tried not to be as frightening as imperial viceroys could, so easily, and inadvertently be.
“It happens that through the offices of my staff, my daughter, Henrietta, and former detective Inspector Danson’s most concise reports, that I heard a full accounting, with I must say, much interest, of the remarkable adventures of the Lincoln-Fieldings.”
Suddenly he was thinking about the dreadful reports he was receiving from the Caribbean: the fighting on Jamaica, the sinking of HMS Achilles in the Windward Passage, the bombing raids on the Turks and Caicos, the attack from the sea and the air on the telegraph station at Matthew Town on Great Inagua, and that morning, of the radio intercept intelligence indicating that this island had been invaded by Cuban Marines under cover of a massive naval bombardment.
“I’m sorry,” he said with a heavy heart. “I have heard no firm news about Mr Stanton, or of my daughter’s situation since the coup began in Madrid last month. All I can tell you, in the greatest confidence, is that I am led to believe that the Secret Intelligence Service has mounted several operations to rescue ‘our’ people from the fighting, one of which may have involved Mr Stanton’s courageous voluntary participation.”
“I know I am being selfish,” Maud Daventry-Jones sniffed, on the verge of a flood of tears. “But I was counting the days to when Albert was returning to New York and…”
The Governor reached across and took the young woman’s left hand, squeezing it reassuringly.
“The moment I hear anything,” he murmured, as if the wall had ears and he was speaking out of turn, “I, or in my absence, my office, will let you know. That I promise.”
Philip De L’Isle relinquished his careful grip, sat back.
“I know it is easy for me to say, as an old soldier,” he guffawed paternally, “but at times like this the best thing one can do is carry on as normal. One cannot help thinking the worst; nevertheless, one should always hope for the best. You must be comforted by the knowledge that by all accounts, Mr Stanton is acknowledged to be a most resourceful fellow, as I know my daughter, Henrietta and her companion, Miss Danson, most certainly are, also.”
This said, knowing that Admiral Lord Collingwood was a ferociously punctual man, the Governor rose to his feet.
Maud, in her anxiety, jumped up.
“So, you and I must keep our chins up, what?” Philip De L’Isle ascertained.
“Yes, yes, I will, I promise…”
The Governor of New England tried not to be too stern.
“At about this time of the afternoon I usually take tea with my wife, Lady Diana, in her first-floor rooms, Miss Daventry-Jones. Regrettably, I have engagements scheduled,” he smiled a wan half-smile, “from now until Judgement Day, it seems sometimes. Might I persuade you to do me the great service of keeping my wife company in my absence this afternoon?”
Maud’s eyes were as wide as dinner plates.
“I’d… I’d, be honoured, sir.”
De L’Isle knew full well that his wife would effortlessly do a much better job of temporarily soothing the young woman’s worst fears than he. Diana would soon have Miss Daventry-Jones gossiping about New York society, the latest fashions and probably, laughing about her part in Leonora Coolidge’s most remarkable campaign of civil disobedience and mainly pacific protest to right the wrongs of her Colony’s initial response to the Empire Day atrocities.
Admiral Lord Cuthbert Collingwood was shown into the Governor’s presence as the young woman scuttled out. The C-in-C of the Atlantic Fleet nodded fatherly indulgence at Maud as she passed, and raised a curious eyebrow to the Governor.
His friend grimaced, shook his head.
“Her young man is tied up in that damned fool scheme to rescue Hen from the Mountains of Madrid,” De L’Isle explained. “Understandably, she got so fed up ringing Government House everyday and getting nowhere – there’s not a lot we can tell her, in all honesty – that she summoned up the pluck to travel down to Philadelphia. The least I could do was find five minutes in my diary for her.”
“Oh, absolutely,” Collingwood concurred. He sighed: “I’m afraid I received more bad news just before I came over from Admiralty House.”
Admiralty House, was something of an anachronism in the modern age. Originally, built back in the early nineteenth century, the New England analogue of its mother institution in Whitehall, London, the majority of its functions had transferred from its impressive, neo-classical portals in Philadelphia to Norfolk by the time of the Great War. Nowadays, it was simply the residence of the Superintendent – customarily a rear admiral – of the Admiralty Dockyards of Philadelphia, and accommodated senior officers visiting the city.
Collingwood was presently splitting his time between Norfolk and Philadelphia – more the former – as the present crisis deepened. The days when the men who commanded the great fleets of the Empire were purely naval-military men were long-past, and Collingwood wanted, and expected to be at the heart of the decision-making process at the locus of colonial governance.
The Governor had asked him to brief him on the naval situation ahead of the full Chiefs of Staff meeting he had called for six o’clock that evening.
“Wasn’t that the young lady who was responsible for inciting so much trouble in New York last year?” Cuthbert Collingwood queried, dryly.
“Yes, she and Sir Max Coolidge’s girl were at the heart of it. I suggested young Miss Daventry-Jones takes tea with Diana.”
The C-in-C Atlantic Fleet chuckled heartily.
Both men knew that Lady Diana would hugely enjoy the company of such a renowned ‘feminist’ trouble-maker, albeit one who had quietly stepped back into relative anonymity once the most egregious injustices – against the three Fielding brothers – of the immediate post-Empire Day outrages had been well and truly righted last year.
A Royal Marine steward entered the room bearing a tea tray.
The two men sat down beneath the regal portrait.
The royal couple had sat for the picture just a week after the atrocities in New York, two years ago. Thinking about it a flicker of pain creased the Governor’s face: Henrietta had spent every hour of every day, it had seemed at the time, making sure that the King and Queen’s – Uncle Bertie’s and Aunt Ellie’s – stay and engagements in Pennsylvania went as smoothly as was humanly possible.
The King had suggested, only half-joking, how he and the Queen would love it if Henrietta had been free to accompany them for the rest of their North American progress. It had been said half in jest because His Majesty knew only too well how De L’Isle, and more importantly, his wife, relied on their precociously capable youngest daughter. But for Diana’s illness, De L’Isle would almost certainly have put the King’s suggestion to Henrietta but knowing she would be torn by such a choice, he and his monarch had determined to keep the thought to themselves.
Besides, Henrietta had her own life to lead, a thing emphasised by the fact that when later, the mission to Spain had been in the offing; it was an enterprise which had caught his youngest daughter’s imagination. Notwithstanding that De L’Isle, and to a lesser extent, his wife, were anything but blind to the inherent dangers of their daughter’s obvious infatuation with Melody Danson – herself, a quite remarkable woman – they had known better, or at least they thought they had known better at the time than to risk placing any obstacles in Henrietta’s path.