Beneath the Dover Sky (36 page)

“I thought you might wish to come downstairs, m’lord.”

Lord Preston stroked away foam on his cheek with the razor. “I’m in my robe. Why should I want to go downstairs right now?”

“There is something you should see.”

“Can’t it wait?”

Yips suddenly sounded through the window.

“What is that?” He rushed to the window. Three puppies were romping about on the grass with Harrison. Baron von Isenburg stood watching and leaning on a cane. Lord Preston ran to the door and threw it open. Skitt stood there in his butler suit.

“Why on earth didn’t you tell me, Skitt?”

“I did, m’lord.”

“Next time it’s a dog, shout, ‘
Dog! Dog!
’ And then I shall respond far more appropriately.”

“Very good, sir.”

Lord Preston rushed down the staircase, lather flying from his face as he tightened the belt about his maroon robe. “Elizabeth! Elizabeth!”

She popped her head out of a doorway just as he reached the front door. “Whatever is the matter, William?”

“Dogs! The baron is here with dogs!”

“The baron? He’s supposed to be in Switzerland with Catherine and Libby!”

Lord Preston swung open the front door and let it bang against a wooden holder for canes and umbrellas. Running down the steps to the lawn, he became an instant attraction for the puppies.

The pups, one black, one brown, and one brown-and-black—tumbled towards him, their tails thrashing.

“Gerard, what is this? What is this?” Lord Preston went to both knees and the puppies scrambled all over him, licking his face and hands until he laughed. “Praise God, what is going on? Where are you going with these rascals? Why are you here?”

“These are Belgian shepherds, Vilhelm. The black one is the Groenendael kind, the brown one a Malinois—you see it has a short-haired coat while the other two are longer haired—and the brown-and-black one is a Tervuren. I have named her Poppy since the breeder is in Flanders, and there is that famous poem from the war about that area. Indeed, I’ve given the black male that very name—Flanders. His coat reminds me of the long fields of dark soil. It is up to you to name the Malinois.”

“I?”

“The puppies are home, Vilhelm. That is to say, wherever you hang your hat is their home.”

“Impossible.”

The baron lifted his cane. “I saw your family to the Hartmann Castle on the Rhine, and then I came back as quickly as I could through Belgium to the coast. My chauffeur drove, and I watered and fed and pampered the beasts.” He lowered his cane and watched his friend play with the puppies. “Once I heard you had lost Gladstone and Wellington, I set the wheels in motion. I know the breeder well, and these will be extraordinary dogs. I expect them to be with you at least until 1945. I have also had them blessed.”

“No.”

“Yes! By a priest in Ypres. I hope they will in turn bless you, my friend.”

The black puppy had his face right in Lord Preston’s and was washing the statesman thoroughly.

“They shall, Gerard. I have no doubt of it.”

14

July–December, 1928

Dover Sky

“Who was that at the door, Skitt?” Lady Preston asked.

“It’s a cable, m’lady.” He brought it into the library and presented it to her on a silver tray as she sat with her tea in the library.

“A silver tray, is it, Skitt?” she asked as she put her teacup in the saucer and set both on the small table next to her.

He smiled.

She picked up the envelope. “It’s from Germany, I expect.”

“Paris, m’lady.”

“Paris? What on earth?” She examined the envelope more closely. “It’s addressed to Lady Caroline Danforth. Why have you brought it to me?”

Skitt’s smile was gone. “It bears a government stamp, ma’am.”

“It bears a—” Lady Preston’s face whitened. “Oh no! Dear God, please, no.” She bowed her head and closed her eyes. “Pray, give me a moment. Fetch Lord Preston.”

“Yes, m’lady.”

Lord Preston was at her side within ten minutes. “I was running the puppies about with Harrison. We must keep them away from the pond and the swans.”

Elizabeth was slumped in her chair, her face drawn and looking ten years older.

“What in heaven’s name is wrong?” He saw the cable in her hand. “Bad news? Where from?”

“France.”

“France…” His mind raced. “No…not Kipp!”

“Of course Kipp. What other member of the family rushed off across the Channel to enlist in the French Foreign Legion?”

“May I see it?”

She lifted her hand, and he took the envelope.

“Why haven’t you opened it?”

She put a hand over her eyes. “It’s addressed to Caroline. Even if it wasn’t, I really don’t think I could, William. I can’t bear more bad news. Can you imagine what this will do to Caroline if it’s what we think it is?”

Lord Preston turned the envelope over in his hand. “It’s not addressed to us so I don’t feel comfortable opening it.”

“Would you feel more comfortable giving it to Caroline without reading it first so we are unprepared to help her cope?”

He tapped it against his pant leg. “There is a teakettle in the front parlor. I shall steam it open.”

She pushed herself wearily out of the chair and followed him. The kettle was plugged in and once the water came to a boil, he held the envelope over the spout. “Thank goodness it is not a whistling kettle,” he said.

Lady Preston watched him from the wicker chair she’d sat in. “A small mercy God has granted us, yes.”

“There we are.” He unplugged the kettle and the cloud of vapor vanished. Peeling back the seal carefully, he brought out the telegram. He waited a moment. “Lord, help us.” He glanced at the words. “The cable is in French.”

Lady Preston made a fist and gasped. “Of course. And I don’t know French and you don’t know French. I do know the word ‘mort’ means dead. Can you see it there?”

“I don’t know what I can see or can’t see. Holly!” he called as he noticed his sister walking past the doorway. “Holly, how is your French?” he asked when she stepped inside the room.

“
Magnifique
. I learned a great deal from Christelle.”

“Are you able to make sense of this?”

Holly, dressed in trousers and a coat, took the cable. “I was just about to go over the grounds with Harrison,” she said, noticing her brother looking at her clothes. She scanned the telegram.

Lord and Lady Preston stared as they waited impatiently.

Holly frowned in concentration. “Ah…”

“What is it?” demanded Lady Preston. “Is he dead? Is Kipp killed?”

Holly looked up. “Not at all. He’s been wounded. He was treated in Paris and is being honorably discharged from the French Foreign Legion.
La libération honorable
.”

“Discharged?” Lady Preston’s face and eyes took on color as she smiled.

Holly smiled back and handed the cable to her. “He’s coming home, Elizabeth.”

Caroline saw Kipp from a distance when he returned, stepping out of a cab, right arm in a sling, the puppies and children running up to the car. He was taller and thinner than she remembered and his skin was much darker than May of 1927 when they had married. Matthew, who was six, threw his arms around his father’s neck as Kipp scooped him up with his good arm. Her son Charles, seven, stood off to one side, stiff and awkward, smiling, but not sure what to do. Kipp put Matthew down and offered Charles his hand. Charles shook it. Kipp patted him on the shoulder and said something she couldn’t hear that made her son laugh. A warmth went through her.

He was a man absolutely without fear. I think he’s the only man I have ever met who was incapable of fear
.

She remembered reading the words in a newspaper. The American pilot Eddie Rickenbacker had said it about Canadian ace Billy Bishop but it had made her think of Kipp from the beginning, even after they broke up. His blond hair blazed in the morning sunlight as he spoke with Ramsay and Owen and knelt to pet the Belgian Shepherds.

So finally you have let your beautiful hair grow back
.

His mother came quickly across the lawn from her white rose bush by the front porch, tugging off her gardening gloves, and Kipp put an arm around her and hugged her with enough force to knock the broad-brimmed straw hat from her head. She put her fingers to her mouth and laughed as Kipp kissed her on both cheeks, French style. Lord Preston hurried out the front door with Skitt and Norah.

Caroline smiled to herself.
It is all right for you to have him now. I know he wishes to greet you. But he wants me most of all. After he is done at the manor house he will find me. And then it will just be the two of us
.

She was standing in a cluster of red poppies that had sprung up a hundred yards north of the house and to the east of the pond. Walking slowly, hearing voices calling out to Kipp as Harrison and Holly came up from the stables, she headed away from the manor and towards the northern end of the property. The poppies streamed ahead of her to an old dry stone fence spattered with orange lichen that separated Dover Sky from the McPhail acreage. She trailed her fingers over blossoms that began to show pink, white, and orange as well as scarlet among the tall blades of green grass.

Did Harrison do this? Or Holly? I’m sure they didn’t just sprout here on their own
.

She followed the stone fence to the west, getting farther and farther from Kipp and the house. The McPhail fields were overgrown but pleasant enough despite that, bending and rippling in the July breezes like long hair. Without thinking about what she was doing, Caroline took off her sun hat and shook her hair loose from its pins so that it fell over her shoulders and back and began to move with the breezes like the tall grass.

“Caroline Virginia Scarborough.”

She looked up in surprise at a figure standing in a copse of young oak trees by the fence.

The man put a finger to his lips. “Shh. Don’t say a word.”

He emerged from the shadows in his sport coat and pants, arm in a khaki sling. “They think I’m freshening up in my room, you see. I slipped out the back door.”

She opened her mouth to reply but his hand went over her lips
gently. “No. No words. The first thing I want from those perfect lips is a kiss. And a long one at that.” He put his arm around her. “It’s like water to me. And I’ve been in a desert, you know.”

She tried to respond again, her lips moving against the palm of his hand, but he shook his head. “Really. There’s nothing to say.”

Her eyes softened to a pale blue.

“Do you know my hand over your lovely mouth has the effect of a Moroccan veil covering the lower half of your face? It accentuates the blue in your eyes and the bright gold of your eyebrows. As if there’s nothing else in the whole wide world.” The corners of her eyes moved. “Do you know, I think you’re smiling at me beneath that veil.”

Her lips kissed his palm.

“Ah, thank you, but I shall need a great deal more than that if I’m to survive.”

She kissed his palm a second time.

“I’m grateful. But it isn’t quite what’s needed.” He put his head by hers and whispered in her ear. “Most beautiful woman in the Empire and the world, your dress and your eyes and the sky over your head are exactly the same color right now. Did you know that?” He closed his eyes, taking in the scent of her blonde hair and skin. “Most beautiful woman in the Empire and the world, if I remove the veil, do you promise not to speak?”

Her eyes softened to a lighter blue so that they looked as if they were the color of clear air.

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

He removed his hand. Gazing down at her face he entwined his darkly tanned fingers in long strands of her thick hair. Her eyes were still and unmoving and fixed completely on his. He took in as much of her beauty as he could without doing anything more than twine her hair around his fingers and feel her warmth against his chest and breathe in the smell of the perfume at her throat and shoulders. Then he closed his eyes and put his lips to hers, slowly and almost awkwardly as if he had never kissed her before, then adding more energy and force until he heard the air leave her body and felt her fingers dig into his arms and move higher and higher to finally grip his back with all the
strength she had. She refused to let go or lighten her hold, drawing him farther and farther from England and Dover Sky to a place that was all Caroline Scarborough and her sapphire eyes and golden hair, all her cloud white skin and poppy red lips.