Beneath the Dover Sky (44 page)

The great blessing has been how Mum and Jane have come together because of the attack by the brownshirts. No more talk of Jane being adopted or not being of English blood and all that rot. Mum says she is a Danforth through and through. Jane cries when she talks about how Mum fought to protect her, putting her body over Jane’s and absorbing the blows. The two are inseparable now. It does the heart good to see. You can imagine the happiness this has brought Libby.

So now my feelings about Libby and Terry. I can truthfully say the street incident with Mum and the girls and the Nazis shook me awake. If God means Terry to be part of the family, who am I to stand in His way or, indeed, in the way of my sister’s happiness? Jane could have been beaten to death, and Libby would have been left with no one. Any lingering feelings I may or may not have for Terry Fordyce simply have to be locked in a steamer trunk and stored away in the attic. My sister comes first. If she marries my navy man, God bless her, and may she have a new start on a life that is filled with love and miracles. In any case, they wouldn’t be making their home in Germany—not with Terry being an officer on the
Hood
. So I shan’t see him unless I go to the wedding. I find I am quite strong enough to do that now—if they get to that place—and I look forward to it. No wedding has been announced—not even an engagement—but if I were betting on the horses, I would be betting on Libby and Terry.

Finally I must mention my pregnancy. It is much easier than Sean’s was, but I don’t think that necessarily means it’s a girl. I crave strudel, so whoever is coming into the world has a very strong sweet tooth. I intend to give birth in this lovely old castle, which has Albrecht on needles and pins. He has a doctor and midwife standing by. And, as I reminded my German prince, it is not so many years ago that most babies were born in the home, not in hospitals. We’ll be fine. These castles
represent some of the best of the German spirit, and I want a child crying its first cry and taking its first breath in one of them. That is my fairy tale.

Jerusalem

“How is your Arabic coming along?” the man asked.

Robbie poured his friend some sweet strong coffee. The windows in his office were shuttered against the bright Jerusalem sun. “
Jayed
.”

“Glad to hear it.” The slender man in the white Thawb and keffiyeh lifted the small cup of coffee to his mouth. “You have made it exactly the way I like it, major. Just the right amount of sweet; just the right amount of bitter.”

“It sounds like you’re talking about Palestine, Azad.”

The Arab laughed. “I suppose I am.” He set the cup down. “Did you attend the hangings on the seventeenth of June?”

“Yes.”

“Did the three men die well?”

“They died, Azad.”

“Only Arabs were executed.”

“Many other Arabs and Jews received life sentences. The three who were hung were convicted of multiple murders and mutilations.”

Azad picked up his cup again and sipped. “It won’t matter. The Palestine Arab Congress will twist it to suit themselves. So will the Zionists.”

Robbie drank from his own small cup of coffee. “Let’s talk about your writing. What sort of novel are you working on?”

“Two friends in Jerusalem. One Jewish, the other from an Arab family that has moved into the city from a village. The story is tragic.”

“I’m just working my way through your first novel with an Arabic–English dictionary by my side. There is a good deal of
joy
in that book.”

“I wrote it fifteen years ago, Robert.”

“I’ve read portions of it to my wife. You know how the Irish are about literature. They believe they created it. She quite likes your prose, even in my rough and ready English translation.”

Azad bowed his head briefly. “Convey my thanks.”

“We must have you over for dinner.”

“I should like that. Please, let us do it sooner rather than later.”

“Why? Is something about to happen?”

“Something is always about to happen, Robert. My fear is that eventually too many things will happen. The British will leave, Jews and Arabs will be at each others’ throats, and we will have half a dozen countries in this region at war with each other. Arab Christians in one place; Arab Muslims in another; Orthodox Jews in Safed and Jerusalem; Jews who no longer believe in God in Tel Aviv and Haifa.”

Robbie leaned over the table between them and poured more coffee into Azad’s cup. “Where will you be?”

“England. Where else does a nonpracticing Muslim run to?” He wrapped both hands around his small cup of fresh coffee. “But the believers will come there too eventually and find me. So then I will flee to America or Canada.”

“I suppose if we miss the dinner date here we can always make arrangements at my family’s estate at Ashton Park.”

Azad smiled. “If there is a great deal of green, I will come.”

“Lancashire is as green as a
keffiyeh
full of emeralds.”

“Count on me then.” Azad drank from his cup. “You opened fire on Arabs during the riots. You testified against a number of them at their trials.”

“Azad—”

He held up one dark hand. “It is true you arrested several Jews as well. One was attempting to burn down a mosque. Your testimony put several Jews behind bars. They should have been hung for what they did.”

“Several Arabs as well as Jews had their death sentences commuted to life imprisonment.”

“I do not say this to incriminate you in any way. Those on both sides who still choose to see clearly understand you are fair and evenhanded.
But others only see what they do not like. You will be surprised to learn I don’t come to warn you of what the Arabs might do but the Jews.”

“What do you mean? No one has attacked British troops or officers. Not Jews, not Muslims.”

Azad took a biscuit from the tray next to the coffee. “You spoke with members of the Hope Simpson Royal Commission this past year, didn’t you?”

Robbie nodded. “I was ordered to cooperate. I spoke with the Members of Parliament who drafted the Shaw Report as well.”

“Do you know Sir John Hope Simpson?”

“Yes. He’s a friend of the family in England.”

“I understand the report will be presented this fall. There are rumors about what is in it. The rumors have the Palestine Arab Congress singing praise to Allah and Jews gnashing their teeth. Hope Simpson will recommend Jewish immigration be restricted.”

“The Shaw Report was made public in March. It said the same thing.”

“So Hope Simpson will push the line that much harder.”

Robbie was quiet a moment. “How reliable are your sources?”

“Very. The reason Hope Simpson will give is that there is not enough farmland to support the influx.”

“Nonsense. The Jews have planted eucalyptus trees to drain swamps. They’ve irrigated desert no one wanted. They’ve taken the worst land Arabs have sold them and raised crops.”

“I grew up in this region. Many Arabs living here now did not. They are immigrants just as a large number of the Jews are immigrants. From what I understand the report does not go into great detail about Arab immigration.” Azad spread his hands. “Hope Simpson had to give some rationale. That is what he chose—insufficient arable land. If true, Zionists will never accept such a proposal. Should your prime minister, Ramsay MacDonald, implement it, British officers will be targeted. So I ask you to be careful, my friend. Vary your driving routes. See there is security keeping an eye on your home. Perhaps MacDonald’s hold on power is too weak for him to act on the report. Or perhaps he will find the support he needs close at hand.”

“Or perhaps your sources are inaccurate. Perhaps Hope Simpson will not recommend a hard line on Jewish immigration. Perhaps Westminster will pay no attention to either Shaw or him.” Robbie smiled. “Or perhaps you exaggerate the threat to the British army and myself.”

Azad sipped at his bittersweet coffee. “Perhaps.”

Ashton Park

At the dinner table, Lord Preston was cutting into his mutton when Ben cleared his throat. The older man glanced up and cocked a white eyebrow as he chewed and swallowed. “Mmm? What’s on your mind?”

“I was wondering if you were heading to Dover Sky for the summer, sir? Or are you remaining here at Ashton Park?”

“I will go down. But first I’m waiting to hear from Lady Preston on the birth of Catherine’s child. Once I have that cable in my hand, I’m on my way to Germany and the Hartmann Castle on the Rhine. I have never seen it, and I very much want to take Catherine’s son or daughter into my arms among those crenellations and merlons. I must say I am looking forward to a trip abroad.”

“Will Elizabeth be returning with you?”

“She’d better be!” Lady Grace darted a glance at Ben. She held her soup spoon firmly. “She’s been in that dreadful country since Easter and all because of a Chinese girl!”

“Thank you, Mother.” Lord Preston wiped the corners of his mouth with a white napkin as Tavy hovered over him with a silver coffeepot. “The Chinese girl is our granddaughter, and Catherine is happily married to a German professor of theology.”

“You’re making all that up.” Lady Grace’s attention returned to her soup, eying it suspiciously. “Tavy, did you exchange my soup bowl for this one?”

“No, ma’arm.”

“Because I had more soup than this.”

“Shall I ladle a bit more into your bowl, Lady Grace?”

“No, thank you, Tavy. You will not. Having my own soup returned to me will be sufficient, if you please.”

“Very good.” Tavy brought a fresh bowl of soup curling with steam from his cart and placed it before her. He removed the bowl. “There you are, m’lady.”

“Ah.” She half-glared and half-smiled at him. “Now that wasn’t so hard, was it?”

“What’s that?” Sir Arthur looked up from his plate on the other side of the table.

“Someone took my soup. I have it back now. All’s well.”

“Grace, it’s the same soup, year in, year out. What bowl it’s in hardly matters.”

“It matters a great deal who has been sipping at my soup. I want my own bowl, untouched, unspooned, thank you.”

Sir Arthur sawed away with knife and fork. “The cook tests the soup by putting it to her lips. That’s what you’re eating, and you’ve been eating it since 1909.”

Lord Preston laughed. “Ben, you’re going to get lost in the shuffle. Speak up, my boy, before there’s another incident with soup or dumplings or mutton.”

“The mutton is fine.” Lady Grace’s voice was rimmed with frost. “I’ll trouble you to mind your manners and keep to your own plate, William.”

“Sir!” Ben blurted. “William, I have intentions of going into the ministry. I’ve talked it over with Victoria, and she’s in agreement.”

“Ministry? What?” Lord Preston put down his fork. “Ben Whitecross an Anglican priest like Jeremy here?”

“Not exactly Anglican—”

“Please, my boy, enough. I much prefer to hear ‘father’ from you.”

“Yes, of course. It’s just that this is something of an announcement I want to make.”

“Not Anglican? What then? Baptist? Presbyterian?”

“Methodist, Father.”

Both of Lord Preston’s eyebrows shot upward. “Do you say so? You mean like John and Charles Wesley? Like circuit riders on the American frontier? Count von Zinzendorf and the Moravians?”