

### Of War and Women

### by

### D. Allen Henry

### © D. Allen Henry 2015

### Smashwords Edition

### Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. This includes free copies, as Smashwords is utilized to track download totals. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

### On the Cover

Public domain photos Photoshopped by the author

### Also by D. Allen Henry

### at

### Smashwords.com

### Hawk Banks

### Those Who Fought for Us

### Enlisting Redemption

### Finding Patience

### My Father the God

### Merging Destiny

### Galileo's Lost Message

### Dedication

### To all those women who fought for us...

### Preface

The twentieth century was dominated by a succession of wars, two of which were on a global scale never before seen on this planet. As such, the effects of those wars profoundly influenced the course of history. I am speaking of course of The Great War (termed World War I in the United States), World War II, and to a lesser extent, The Vietnam War, and the Gulf Wars. Although much has been written about the history of these wars (especially the first two), much less has been written about the effect of these wars on the lives of those who lived (and died) through them.

_The Sutherland Saga_ consists of a sequence of six novels chronicling the lives of four generations of the fictitious Sutherland family, the patriarch being the Earl of Winston. Set against the backdrop of world-changing events of the twentieth century, the saga traces the travails of the Earls of Winston and their loved ones. Having been awarded the Earldom of Winston by King James the First, the ancestral home of the Sutherland family is located at Wharton Manor in Gloucestershire, England.

I have chosen each of the four wars mentioned above as the backdrop for one of the stories within The Sutherland Saga. Accordingly, the first book in the series depicts events during the era of World War I, whereas the second and fifth books span the period of World War II. The timing for the third book is during the Vietnam War, and the fourth and sixth in the series each span a twenty-five year period roughly corresponding to the Gulf Wars, thereby leading up to present day. As such, the plots are strongly connected to their associated wars and, although the storylines are intimately related to English culture, there is also a strong thread of both Scottish and American ancestry evident as the saga evolves.

The idea for the Sutherland Series was born from my own experiences, travels, loves, and losses, spanning a lifetime. While the stories themselves, including the primary characters, are entirely fictional, the places are not. In addition, I have, where appropriate, included historical figures who played significant roles in the events portrayed with the series. Indeed, I have attempted to portray both historical events and historical figures within the series as accurately as possible. Where I have erred, I offer my sincere apologies.

_Of War and Women_ , the second novel in the series, depicts the lives of the Sutherland family spanning the era of the thirteenth Earldom of Winston, the backdrop for the events depicted herein being the period spanning World War II. As such, it may be read as a standalone novel, or it may be viewed as a sequel to _Those Who Fought for Us_ , the characters being related but the plotlines independent. I hope that this account will provide an enlightening and enjoyable experience for you the reader.

D.A.H.

### Figure Credits

Fig. 1 Map Showing Gloucestershire, graphic drawn by the author {{PD-dallenhenry}}

Fig. 2 Graphic Depiction of the North African Campaign, graphic by Wikipedia contributor Stephen Kirrage, accessed in November, 2013 at  http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:WesternDesertBattle_Area1941_en.svg

{{CC BY-SA 1.0}}

Fig. 3 Trant's Route Across France, graphic by Wikipedia contributor Sting (modified by the author, accessed in November, 2013 at  http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:France_map_Lambert-93_topographic-blank.svg

{{CC BY-SA 1.0}}

Fig. 4. Felicité's Route Across Europe, graphic accessed in November, 2014 at

 http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Blank_Template_for_Greater_Europe.PNG

{{CC0 1.0}}

### Author's Note Regarding Sectional Perspectives

The reader will notice that throughout the text I have delineated sections by the use of boldface titles. Each title normally describes the setting location and date for the section that immediately follows. However, when only a date is included, it is implied that the location for that section is identical to that of the previous section. Furthermore, each section begins with a few boldface words immediately after the section setting. The name of the first person included in boldface within the section is intended to be the person whose perspective is taken within that section of the text.

### Author's Note Concerning Language

The characters in this novel come from several English-speaking nations, including England, Scotland, Wales, and the United States. Furthermore, the story is set within the central portion of the twentieth century. There is no doubt that the vernacular forms of the English language deployed by many of the characters found herein would have been markedly different from one another. In my view, any attempt to accurately portray these various differences in language would significantly detract from the story that I am attempting to articulate. With this conjecture in mind, I have 'simplified' the language deployed by the characters.

In some cases, I have employed terms that are crudely representative of the way that the user might have spoken, based on where they were described within the storyline to have been born. Where I have done so, it is with the intention of either intensifying the plot or as a subtle reminder of the character's lineage. I have attempted to use these terms accurately based on my own research. Where I have erred, I apologize to those who take offense.

### Chronology

**1615 –** Alan Sutherland is appointed the first Earl of Winston by King James I of England

**1883** – William Sutherland becomes the Twelfth Earl of Winston

**1893** – Robert Sutherland is born in Gloucestershire, England

**1895** – Margaret MacCreedy is born in Melbourne, Australia

**1914-1918** – The Great War

**1917** – Trant Sutherland is born in London

**1919** – Robert Sutherland marries Margaret MacCreedy

**1920** – Robert Sutherland becomes the thirteenth Earl of Winston on the death of his father, William Sutherland

**1919** – Felicité Delacroix is born in Italy, but moves to France when her mother dies shortly thereafter

**1931** – Felicité moves to England with her father

**September 1, 1939** – World War II begins

**June, 1940 –** France surrenders to Germany

**June, 1940** – Trant and Felicité meet at a party at Wharton Manor

**July – October, 1940** – Battle of Britain

**December 7, 1941** – Pearl Harbor is attacked by the Japanese, The United States enters the war

**February, 1942** – Trant is transferred to North Africa

**March, 1943** – Felicité is transferred to occupied France

**June 6, 1944 –** The Allied Invasion of Normandy begins

Fig. 1 Map Showing Gloucestershire
Prologue

**You will quite possibly** come round to the premature notion that all was rather decorous and superficial, but I must caution you to persevere. If you are persuaded to simply bide your time quite to the end of the telling, I assure you that it will all converge to profundity. You see, you need only _read_ it. I, on the other hand, had to _live_ it. And I must confess to you, the living of it was extraordinarily unwelcome to me. It was at times so disagreeable that indeed I thought that I should perish in the night from the sheer weight of it applied to every fiber of my being. But somehow, survive I did, and looking back, despite having lived through it my own self, I nevertheless conceive of it even now to have been unendurable. Such are the tricks that memory plays upon us through the course of our lives, especially those of us who suffer through events so traumatic that our own minds are obliged to sedate the facts with fictitious amendment. But here is the most wondrous and joyous part of all as I look back with both trepidation and astonishment, and I trust you shall agree – _it was all indeed worth it!_

I was born in London and raised in Gloucestershire, England, the son of the Earl of Winston. Yes, I was born into wealth and privilege, but are the rewards of title sufficient to accord one special advantage in life? Perhaps in the general scheme of things such a supposition is true, but in times of great turmoil, I would submit to you that the burdens of title can be just as abundant as the privileges, perhaps even more so. And so it was that title brought upon me enormous responsibilities.

I loved my father dearly, but to be truthful, the greatest influence on my upbringing was my mother, Lady Margaret Sutherland. Lady Margaret, as I was required to address her formally up to the age of about fourteen, was to me indeed larger than life itself.

When I was a small boy she seemed to me to be at least seven feet tall. For instance, although my father stood six feet two, in my childish estimation my mother's physical stature was well in excess of his. Don't ask me how I had come to such a notion, but by the time I was twelve and had realized that this was erroneous aggrandizement on my part, the damage had been done – I was by then an inextricable disciple to my mother's insurmountable will.

By the age of twenty-five I had begun to lament this realization, thinking that I had perhaps been overly influenced by the weaker of the sexes. But shortly thereafter world changing events would reassure me of just how fortunate I had been to grow to manhood under the tutelage of Lady Margaret.

One day when I must have been about fourteen years of age my mother and I were passing the time in her beloved sitting room at Wharton Manor when she raised her glistening eyes from a book that she was perusing. The book was I believe _All Quiet on the Western Front_ , by Erich Maria Remarque. "You must promise me," she began surreptitiously – I always knew to pay careful attention when she began a soliloquy with those words - and I still remember that on this occasion she actually repeated it, "You must promise me, my child, that you shall cast off the extraneous, and always relentlessly score away the surface matter until the true meaning of the matter at hand is exposed. This, of course, will require great forbearance on your part."

I don't mind telling you that a statement of that sort is not only excessively verbose for a boy of fourteen, it is furthermore burdened with extremely obscure meaning. But when my mother spoke in such deeply mystical and duplicitous terms I was always fearful that I might miss something profound lying hidden beneath the surface. Thus, on that occasion I recall seeking clarification, "Lady Margaret, I'm not sure that I comprehend. Could you perhaps explain in further detail?"

"My child," I remember her responding patiently, "I assure you most ardently that beneath the surface of every issue, there is a deeper and more meaningful purpose. Take Wharton Manor, for instance. On the surface, it is a stately mansion worthy of an earl. But scrape away the snooty titles, as well as the hypocrisy of ancestry, and what do you have?"

"I say, I'm not quite certain," I replied doubtfully.

"You have earth, my son! You have normal, ordinary, extremely plentiful earth - dirt - a commodity that is one of the most easily attainable on our planet."

"But what about the walls, the roof, the floors, the grounds, Lady Margaret?"

"Dirt, dirt, dirt, and more dirt. Perhaps fashionably accoutered, but nonetheless dirt, not one whit of which will stand up to the importance of a single moment of human compassion. In the Great War, millions upon millions of lives were turned into worthless dirt because of the simple yet extraordinary failure to observe human compassion, my son."

I was beginning to sense the profundity of her meaning, but as I was nevertheless still uncertain as to her exact meaning, I queried one last time, "Could you say it a little more simply, Lady Margaret?"

"Yes, my child. _Always dig patiently beneath the surface layer and focus on the heart of the matter. With forbearance, eventually the proper solution will present itself."_

Since this final evolution of her lesson seemed to be focused enough for me to one day comprehend, I wrote it down, thinking that one day I might indeed possess sufficient intellect to ascertain its hidden meaning. Inevitably, years later, when I found myself in need of profound guidance, I rummaged around in my old school desk and located that lesson.

I always suspected that Lady Margaret had said something profound that day, and when much later I located that by now tattered note, I inevitably realized that I had indeed been correct in my suspicion. Lady Margaret's advice, as it turned out, was the most important lesson of my life. And thus without further ado - here is my story – a story of war and women.
Chapter 1

The Party

Gloucestershire, England – Mid-June 1940

**For Trant it was** a time of absolute foreboding. There is simply no way to explain it - you would have had to have been there to comprehend the immense magnitude of it all. Although the war had technically begun, the reality of it had not yet come home to England. It had commenced with the capitulation of Austria and Czechoslovakia, both having acquiesced to the Third Reich without so much as the firing of a single shot. Germany had subsequently struck with lightning speed in the previous fall, Poland having fallen by the first snow. And in the spring, France had fallen in little more than a month, in the process driving the remaining allied forces from the European Continent. The entire world was in absolute shock at the incomprehensible speed of these events. Still worse, fear of what the next revelation might be was universal.

Thus it was that Great Britain was thrust into the role of savior against everything evil in this world, her people now nervously awaiting the next move by Hitler and his henchmen. The vestigial losers of the Great War had come home to roost, and it was now the turn of the British to face the results of the unhappy losers' two-decade long grudge.

The Great War had pulverized an entire generation of men from Western Europe and beyond, and now these selfsame combatants stood on the precipice of yet another annihilation of potentially even more staggering proportions. This then was the mood that pervaded the peoples of the British Isles in the early summer of 1940.

On this day Lady Sutherland lounged incongruously in the sitting room of Wharton Manor, as if unaware of the profundity of the times, the afternoon sunlight casting a bright strip of reflected light across the enormous Persian rug that dominated the convivial room. The overall effect was one of rare warmth, even for this time of year within the Cotswolds.

From her vantage point she could just make out her son Trant and his friend Walter on the lawn, the pair pursuing their own modern version of jousting with one another on the tennis court. Though she was able to observe the pair chasing this way and that, the trees provided just enough cover that she found it impossible to discern which erstwhile knight prevailed.

At length, their match completed, within minutes Trant strode confidently into the sitting room. Surreptitiously closing her book and placing it on the table, Lady Sutherland inquired with evident anticipation, "Who won?"

"Who do you think won, mother?" Trant responded egotistically.

"I suppose that I needn't have asked," she replied with a sarcastic grin. "After all, you do take after your father." She halted for a moment, but then added wistfully, "Tis nice to have you home for a day, my child. I've not seen much of you since the war began."

"Yes, it is nice, mother," he responded, wondering to himself at what age he would cease being 'her child'. "Perhaps never," he pondered silently to himself.

"Trant, I've been thinking," she continued, signaling by her thoughtful demeanor a change of subject, "Things are about to heat up. The Germans are going to invade England. Winston Churchill himself said as much."

"Yes, I know, mother. Everyone knows," he responded blandly, "And your point is?"

"Well, under the circumstances this may sound misplaced, but I'd like to have a party for the 93rd. You know, a sort of going away present."

"Why ever on earth for, mother? We're not going anywhere. The coming battle will be fought right here, in the air over England."

"Well, I suppose you're right, my dear, but in this case 'going away' has a somewhat different meaning than physical."

Seeing her ominous glance, he replied, "Ah, yes, I see what you mean." Pausing for a moment to dry his face with a towel, he subsequently added, "So what exactly did you have in mind?"

"Well, I'd like to have a birthday party for you and invite the whole squadron."

At this suggestion he frowned and responded with apparent oblivion, "My twenty-fourth birthday isn't until April!"

"Yes, I think that I should know, my dear, as I was there for your very first one."

"Right-o," he responded with a chuckle, but he nonetheless blurted in apparent confusion, "So why have a birthday party?"

"Dear, you would have had to have lived through the Great War to understand. Let us simply say – there is no time like the present, and a birthday party gives a good excuse to throw the sort of event that I have in mind."

"What sort of event is that, mother?"

"I should think that a costume party would be perfect."

"A costume party? Why ever for?"

"My dear, tis complicated, but bear with me if you will for a moment. Remember when you told me that the average age of the boys in your squadron is about twenty?"

"Yes, mother, of course I remember telling you that."

"Well, you're a bit older than the rest, so you will undoubtedly have had experience, so to speak, but I should think that many if not all of the boys in your squadron will not have had any experience whatsoever at such a tender age."

"Experience, what sort of experience?"

"Oh, don't be a muddle-head, Trant. I mean experience with young ladies, of course!"

"Oh! Well, excuse me for being dense, mother, but one doesn't normally discuss such matters with one's own mother."

"I know, but these are not normal times, are they dear!"

"Touché...touché, mother," and at this pronouncement he paused and, scratching his chin for a moment in contemplation, he continued with, "So tell me more about this party."

"Why don't you leave that to me, dear? I can handle the planning. All that I need know is when you could assemble the squadron for a weekend escape here at the manor. The sooner the better...I'm certain you understand why."

"Let me see...we have a drill next weekend, but the weekend after that is free."

"How many of the squadron do you think you could persuade to come?"

"Oh, I should think that for a weekend getaway and a costume party, especially if there will be women present, I could scare up between thirty and forty airmen."

"Perfect!" she replied. If you could round them up, I shall manage the remainder of the planning. The costume party shall be on Saturday night, so everyone will need to be here by around four P.M. And they should plan to stay until midday Sunday. How does that sound to you?"

"Yes, I think that I can arrange that, mother. Where do you intend to discover a sufficient number of appropriate young ladies on such short notice?"

"Just leave that part to me, dear. I assure you that they shall be fine young ladies from excellent backgrounds."

"Yes, mother, I would have expected nothing less under your omnipotent vigilance. Now, I believe that I shall go shower and change for dinner, by which time I expect the entire affair shall be planned to the minutest detail."

"Alright, I shall see you at seven, dear," she replied.

Moments Later

**Lady Sutherland contemplated for a few moments** in solitude and, suddenly reaching for the telephone, she dialed a number. When the party on the other end of the line answered, she said, "Edith, this Margaret."

"Hello, Lady Margaret. How are you?" the voice on the other end responded.

"Fine, and you?"

"I am quite well, thank you. To what do I owe the pleasure of a call from you today?" Edith replied.

Lady Sutherland responded, "Edith, I have a bit of a challenge. I am planning a birthday party for Trant in two weeks' time. I am wondering if you could persuade your husband to supply me with the names of about ten to twenty young ladies of the utmost quality for the party. It will be held here at Wharton Manor. Would that be possible?"

"Yes, of course, I think that can be arranged. Exactly what qualities are you looking for?"

"I'm looking for four qualities. First, they must be between the ages of eighteen and twenty-three. Second, they must be attractive, and toward that end I would need photographs of them. Third, they need to be educated, intelligent, and possessed of good manners, of course. And fourth, they should each be a bit headstrong, and this last qualification is quite important. I realize that finding a number of young ladies with all of these qualities is a challenge, and that is why I've telephoned you at Oxford."

"Alright, I shall see what I can do. You said that the event is in two weeks' time?"

"Yes, and I shall have my man screen the group and reduce it down to perhaps six or seven participants. So please do not let on to any of the young ladies that you have suggested them for the event."

"Certainly. I shall get back to you tomorrow, Margaret."

"Thank you, Edith. I shall be greatly in your debt," Lady Sutherland volunteered, and with that she rang off.

Oxford - A Week Later

**Annabeth Fletcher was,** at nineteen, in the flower of womanhood. As the eldest daughter of Charles Fletcher, Viscount of Oxfordshire, she was destined to fame and fortune, and most importantly of all, to marry a member of the peerage. Having been endowed with a slender frame and singular facial features set off by flowing long blonde hair, she was a catch simply to die for. Truth be told, it was well known throughout the whole of Oxfordshire that she was by far the most eligible, most talented, and most attractive young lady within the whole of the shire.

Accordingly, she had matriculated to Oxford for her university studies, but with the primary motive of increasing her exposure to potential future members of the peerage from elsewhere within the realm. Thus, when word came that she was invited to a weekend party at Wharton Manor, she considered her options. Whereas the Earldom of Winston was indeed a lofty title within the British Empire, it was well known that the family Sutherland had matriculated somewhat ingloriously from Scotland during the reign of James I of Scotland. Still, one had to consider all options, there being very few indeed within Great Britain to both satisfy her father and meet her own standards. She therefore made it her purpose, despite her rather busy social calendar, to treat this invitation with the import it deserved. She would plan everything down to the tiniest detail, and she would ascertain whether this upstart ruffian Trant Sutherland was indeed worthy of an earldom, and if so, perhaps even Annabeth herself.

That Same Day

**Felicité sat before** her mirror contemplating the image of the blonde-haired ingenue staring back at her. At twenty, she was at that age when one is still uncertain of her own charms. Was she attractive to men? Admittedly, there was beauty in her face. After all, her friends invariably informed her of such. Surveying herself, she couldn't help but wonder to herself \- were her hips too large, her breasts too small? Such was the age-old question that young ladies of her age asked themselves.

Suddenly, a second equally striking young lady rushed into their dormitory room and announced breathlessly, "We've been invited to a weekend retreat in the Cotswolds! Tis at an estate called Wharton Manor, and tis owned by an Earl! Tis going to be a birthday party for the son of the Earl, a flight lieutenant in the 93rd RAF Squadron. The whole squadron will be there!"

Reverting to her native French language as she often did when she became excited, Felicité responded, " _Merveilleuse_! When is it to be, Maryann?"

"Tis next weekend! So we don't have long to prepare."

"What is there to prepare for?"

"The invitation says that we should arrive by six P.M. on Saturday night, and that the festivities will commence with a costume ball. We have been instructed to arrive in our costumes, and we should each wear a mask. At the end of the evening there will be some sort of special ceremony."

"That sounds delightful," Felicité replied, "But wait, I have nothing at all to wear! I have no mask, and I have no costume."

"Well, then, we had better get to work, hadn't we!" Maryann replied.

In the end Maryann settled on playing the role of a tavern wench, most likely because it was convenient more so than because of the innuendo that it portended. On the other hand, Felicité, was decidedly more steeped in the French tradition of carefully conceived attire. Although she had lived in England for more than a decade, she had nonetheless retained much of her heritage from her youth. She therefore thought long and hard before settling on the impersonation of a French breed of cat that she called 'Fifi the Feline'.

She rushed to downtown that very afternoon and purchased a black mask that covered the upper half of her face, and fortunately for her, the mask included ears that were just like those of a cat. She supplemented the mask by pilfering two black tassels from an ancient chair within the lobby of the dorm, utilizing them to create a set of enticing cat whiskers.

When she tried on the mask and whiskers, they created the perfect complement to her long wavy blonde hair. She found some gorgeous drop earrings at a local jewelry store, and within a single afternoon she had completed her costume above the neck.

As a final step she went shopping at a second-hand shop, where she located the remaining items that she needed. She bought black gloves and a stunning floor-length and tight-fitting black dress that was cut thigh high along one side. Imagining herself attired beneath in ebony garter belt and stockings, she was confident that the suggestive slit would provide just the right hint of feminine exposure. Having thusly completed her ensemble, she tried on the entire costume and, surveying herself within the mirror, she was immediately embarrassed by Maryann's unexpected arrival.

Observing the marginally vulgar image before her, Maryann exclaimed, "My Goodness, Felicité, the manor is going to spontaneously ignite in flames from the collective heat when those fly boys see Fifi the Feline! That costume is simply sizzling!"

" _Merci_ ," Felicité replied. "Fifi shall purr, and they shall heel in helpless obedience. Imagine the irresistible feline strutting seductively, her panting puppies in tow, each of them bound helplessly by her tantalizing tether!"

"You shall have them nibbling from your paw!" Maryann replied in awestruck admiration.

Wharton Manor – Two Days Later

**Felicité and Maryann rode through the front gate** to the manor, the stunning view before them causing the pair to gasp in collective delight. "Ooh, Maryann," Felicité purred with obvious glee, "Isn't it all too lovely. I am so excited!"

Upon halting at the main entrance, they were led up the steps by the footman and subsequently welcomed within the manor. The entryway was impressive, a long curving staircase drawing the eye upward toward the second floor. It was apparent that the party within was already well underway, as evidenced by the numerous costumed men milling about within their collective view.

Observing their entrance, an oddly costumed man approached them and volunteered, "Ladies, welcome to Wharton Manor. I am your host, Robert the Robin. We shall have your luggage ported to your rooms, so do not be concerned about that just now. First, let me remind you that this is a costume party, so please remain disguised at all times this evening and do not give out your real names. Accordingly, may I know your chosen identities for the evening, ladies?"

"I am Amy the Barmaid," Maryann replied with a faintly cockney accent.

"I say, well done, Miss Amy," he responded pleasantly.

"And I am Fifi the Feline," Felicité replied with a distinctive French accent.

"My, your French accent is spot on, Fifi!" he responded with evident appreciation, at which Felicité blushed discernibly.

"Pleased to meet you, Rob Roy," Maryann interjected playfully, adding luridly, "Sooo, where's the bar?"

"Oh, I say, that's jolly good, Miss Amy the Barmaid! You are right on character tonight. Both of you have chosen your attire quite impressively, I might add." He paused for a moment and, surveying the pair yet again, he disclosed, "The bar is adjacent to the library on your left. However, Lady Sutherland is assembling the young ladies in the sitting room at this moment. She has instructed me to inform you that she would like to speak with you right away if you don't mind. The sitting room is to your right. Ladies, please make yourselves comfortable here at Wharton Manor."

"Thank you," the pair replied in unison, and understanding that his last statement was an implied dismissal, they turned to search out their instructed destination.

Having withdrawn from earshot, Maryann whispered, "That guy was something special. I wonder who he is."

"We shall know soon enough, I suppose," Felicité responded breathlessly.

As they entered the sitting room an elegantly dressed lady rose from her seat and announced, "Ah, here they are now. Please ladies, if you will, take a seat with the other young ladies," and at this, she gestured toward the two remaining chairs. Maryann and Felicité followed her command, joining four other young ladies, all attired in impressive costumes.

The lady now strolled gracefully to the hearth and turned to face the young ladies. All eyes now focused on her, she commenced with, "Ladies, I am Lady Margaret Sutherland, wife of the Earl of Winston. This is my party. I have screened possible candidates for this weekend's party quite carefully, and I have selected the six of you that are here tonight.

"I don't think I need tell you – these are extraordinary times. And extraordinary times require extraordinary measures. I have chosen the six of you to be here this weekend for quite important reasons. I am hoping that each of you shall join me in pursuit of a paramount mission at Wharton Manor."

"And what might that be?" one of the young ladies blurted naively.

"Right. You will not have reason to know this, my dears, but since I lived through the Great War, I am afraid that I indeed do," and, pausing for added effect, she subsequently proclaimed, "It seems that we are about to be embroiled in yet another Great War." Pausing yet again, she stared wistfully into the distance, as if she were seeing something in her mind's eye. Then, suddenly snapping back to reality, she pronounced, "We lost so many, you see. We lost the flower of Britain's youth. Those poor boys! They went off to war, and they all died! And now, here we are again a quarter of a century later, about to endure another mass destruction of the flowering youth of Britain."

She now paused for yet another moment, but then, regaining her composure, she continued with, "Well, I am here to tell you – I shall not stand for it! Though I cannot stop them from taking the youth of our nation from us, I refuse to let our boys perish without first giving them a proper sendoff!"

"Oh, so the party is a sendoff!" another young lady put in surreptitiously.

"Yes, my dear, and we want to send them off properly - with _experience_ ," Lady Sutherland suggested, "So many of our boys died in the Great War with no experience whatsoever."

"Experience, what sort of experience," another young lady inquired skeptically.

"She means sex!" another young lady replied with palpable disgust.

"No, my dear, that is not what I mean at all," Lady Sutherland replied patiently. "What I am trying to say is, experience with the physical appearance and makeup of the fairer members of our species."

"What!" Maryann blurted out. "You want us to show off our bodies? Is that why we were invited here?"

"No, my dear, you put it much too crassly!" Lady Sutherland responded in apparent exasperation. "Let me try again. As I said at the start – these are not ordinary times. The boys who are here for the weekend are about to go off to war, and if what transpired in the Great War is any indicator, half of them will be dead within a year or two. Now, let me ask you this," and as she did so she directed her gaze toward Maryann, "Do you want them to go off to war and perhaps even perish, never having known anything whatsoever regarding the loveliness of a woman?"

Maryann glared at her suspiciously, and subsequently averting her eyes, she spat out menacingly, "I still don't understand what you are getting at, Lady Sutherland."

"My dear, I am not suggesting that any of you do anything so debasing as to have sex with them. Quite the contrary, I absolutely forbid it on the grounds of the manor. That is one of the primary reasons that I have chosen ladies of proven virtue such as yourselves for this weekend's festivities. On the other hand, what I am suggesting is that you treat the troops most generously, in a way that is appropriate given the sacrifices that they are about to endure. And if the opportunity presents itself to allow some of them to be awarded a furtive glance of a particularly delightful feminine charm, then I earnestly hope that you shall consider such an opportunity proactively, and that you shall comprehend and take most seriously that this is a significant part of your calling in the great conflagration unfolding before us - to provide support to the troops in their hour of need. And furthermore, might I remind you that I have planned this party quite carefully. You are all in disguise so that you are entirely anonymous tonight. Should you be presented with the opportunity to display any one of your uniquely feminine attributes, then you shall have the singular opportunity to do so in complete anonymity."

"Well, I never!" exclaimed one of the young ladies, "So we were hand-picked to spice up the action this weekend!"

At this Felicité leaned forward to Maryann, whispering, "Who is that striking young lady who just spoke?"

"Oh, she's some mucky-muck from Oxfordshire. She's supposed to be the most eligible young lady in the shire. Her name is Annabeth Fletcher."

"We must maneuver to meet her. She appears to have a head on her shoulders," Felicité whispered.

For her part, Lady Sutherland gazed despondently at Miss Fletcher and proffered with apparent resignation, "I had hoped that you would understand, Miss Fletcher, but if you do not, you most certainly will someday, someday very soon, I fear," and with this she turned to the entire group and announced, "In the meantime, I wish you all a very happy stay here at Wharton Manor. Now, if you please, it is time to entertain our boys in uniform. Please enjoy them while you can, ladies!"

At this signal the young ladies rose and made their collective way to the party.

"How do you like that?" Maryann said with obvious effrontery.

"I like it ever so much! Actually, I believe that Lady Sutherland is spot on," Felicité replied.

"What! Why ever on earth for?" Maryann quipped in obvious exasperation.

"Well, as she said, she lived through the Great War. Imagine for a moment how many young men she must have known that she never saw again. Imagine with her sense of dread that a similar scene is about to be played out again. Imagine that she may in fact be correct - all or most of the lads in this house shall perhaps be dead before long. Imagine that you could do something about it. I for one would want them to not have died completely in vain. That is all I am saying, Maryann."

"Well, then, you just get right out there and start mixing, Fifi the Feline, because you shall never have a better chance than this weekend!" Maryann exclaimed with a self-conscious giggle, and with that the pair headed directly for the bar, each entertaining high hopes for the evening.

Entering the bar, Felicité noticed the striking young lady at the far end and, seeing an opportunity, she made a beeline for her. "I say, you were spot on in there just now," she offered upon arriving at the young lady's side.

"Why, thank you," she replied with a pleasant smile, "And who might you be?"

"I am Felicité Delacroix," she responded, "And this is my friend Maryann."

"Ah, yes, we've met," Annabeth responded pleasantly, "And you, Miss Delacroix, do I detect a French accent?"

"Yes, you are quite correct," Felicité replied, "I am French, but I've lived in Oxford these ten years."

"That is quite a costume," Miss Fletcher observed dubiously, "Do I detect a French motif of sorts?"

"Yes, well," Felicité responded with obvious embarrassment, "I seem to have missed the mark. You see, I've never been to a costume party in England before."

"Oh, no need to be embarrassed," Annabeth rejoined, "Tis really quite striking, you know."

"Thank you," Felicité replied, "But to tell you the truth, I much prefer your costume."

"What, this old rag?" Annabeth responded pompously, "Tis little more than an old ball gown, spiced up with a Venetian party mask. I'm afraid I didn't really put much into it, you see."

Marveling at the way Miss Fletcher filled out such a lovely royal blue gown, Felicité volunteered, "Well, it certainly is lovely."

"And how do you find our England?" Annabeth responded convivially.

"Interesting, to say the least," Felicité answered ingenuously.

"Oh? How so?" her new acquaintance queried.

"Oh, I don't know," Felicité put in, "Take tonight, for instance, I for one have no idea what is transpiring this evening."

"Yes, just so," Annabeth replied knowingly, "But trust me on this, Miss Delacroix, it is exactly as we three have presumed – a rather sad and sordid affair, if you ask me."

At this, Maryann interjected, "I should say so. That Lady Sutherland seems a witch to me."

"Quite so," Annabeth volunteered agreeably, "Now, what say we three join forces for the evening. As I see it, we three have the power, if we stick together, to refute any attempts by Lady Sutherland to besmirch our collective reputations. There is safety in numbers, you know. So, what say you?"

"Oh, I say, that is quite sporting of you, Miss Fletcher," Felicité agreed, "Please, count me in."

"Me, too," Maryann added happily.

"Thank you, my newfound friends," Annabeth responded, "And please, call me Annabeth. Now, let us join in the festivities and sniff out what nefarious plots there may be lurking about." And so saying, Annabeth smiled brilliantly and took her leave of the pair.

"My, she was quite charismatic," Felicité whispered on her parting.

Apparently deep in thought, Maryann responded, "Yes, she was. I don't know her all that well, but I've never seen her quite so engaging as tonight."

"Well, I feel much safer with her in our camp," Felicité suggested, "Things seemed to be getting out of hand until we met up with Miss Fletcher."

"I agree," Maryann replied, at which she turned to the bar and ordered a scotch and water. Turning back to Felicité, she queried, "How about you, Miss Fifi? Shall you throw caution to the wind?"

"I think that I shall stick to French wine," Felicité responded cautiously.

"My, my, is that French arrogance, or are you simply playing up your feline role?"

"Neither," Felicité replied. "I am simply going slowly for the moment to keep my senses about me. I am still contemplating exactly what Lady Sutherland was getting at."

"Seems clear to me, Fifi. She's looking out for the flyboys. And she is either doing a very good job of it or a very bad job of it, depending on one's point of view. Which one it is remains to be seen."

"Why do you say that, Maryann?"

"I'm just thinking out loud. Are you really serious about playing into her game, Felicité?"

"I don't know what you mean by 'playing into her game', Maryann."

"I mean, are you up for showing these flyboys a bit of your knickers? That's what I mean!"

"I am not quite certain, Maryann. I'm saying that I'm not ruling out anything at the moment. Let us simply wait and see, shall we? At any rate, in this costume, I suppose that technically I am already showing a bit of my knickers!"

"Ha! That is certainly true!" Maryann responded gleefully, but then, changing her demeanor, she added in all sincerity, "Still, I'm darned if I'm falling for her line. I am here to have a good time, but I intend to keep my clothes on, and I mean everything!"

At that moment Robert the Robin came up beside them at the bar and interjected politely, "So, ladies, how did it go with Lady Sutherland in the sitting room?"

"Perfect," Felicité replied noncommittally.

Immediately contradicting her, Maryann interjected, "Quite bizarre, if you ask me, Mr. Rob Rob Robin."

He chuckled at her seemingly endless misnomers, but then asked in evident confusion, "Exactly how do you mean?"

"She seems to think that you flyboys deserve some special attention by the young ladies who are visiting this weekend."

"Oh, that," he responded with embarrassment, "I am afraid my mother has some quite unusual ideas."

"She's your _mother_?" Felicité blurted.

"Yes, of course she is. At least she was the last time I checked my birth certificate," he replied with flippant arrogance.

Glaring reprovingly at him, Maryann expostulated, "So you are the future Earl, and you're a part of this whole deplorable thing!"

"I say, I'm not quite certain I get your meaning, Miss Amy," he replied with a mixture of bewilderment and politeness.

At this she responded derisively, "I should bet you don't," and with that she abruptly turned and walked away.

Clearly confused by Maryann's behavior, he asked Felicité, "What was that about?"

"Oh, don't mind her. She's simply irritated."

"Why ever on earth for?"

"She thought that we were invited here this weekend because we are important," Felicité replied self-deprecatingly.

"But you were, and you most certainly are, Miss Fifi! I assure you, you were invited for very special reasons. You were screened quite carefully by my mother. I just spoke to her, and she told me that she had extremely high hopes for you in particular. She seemed to think that you might be the key to the success of the entire party!"

Now herself insulted, she responded carefully, "And what do you mean by that, Mr. Robert the Robin?"

He returned her gaze doubtfully, as if he had no idea why she looked so irritated to him, but she knew better \- she could see that he was most certainly in on his mother's clandestine scheme.

"Well, I'm sure I have no idea what you mean," he responded in apparent confusion and, plunging yet deeper, he added, "My mother indicated to me that she thought that your French background might be just the ingredient needed to rouse things up. I'm certain that she said it just so, Miss Fifi."

Downright affronted by his insinuating remark, Felicité was now convinced that this was all nothing more than a devious ploy by him to entrap a few naïve young ladies into a weekend of frolicking with his fellow soldiers. And to think, she had at first fallen for it. It was now apparent to her that he was nothing more than an aristocratic fop, and an immoral one at that.

Accordingly, she responded with obvious annoyance, "I doubt very seriously that I shall be anything of the sort, Mr. Robin. Now, if you will excuse me, I think that I shall make the rounds and meet some of the lads who are not so opinionated about people of French ancestry." Having said this last, she forthwith turned on her heel and marched to the adjacent room as nonchalantly as possible.

For his part, Mr. Robin was left to gape in confusion at the two lovely but enigmatic young ladies who had both succeeded in insulting him within an hour of the party's commencement.

Quickly finding Maryann already surrounded by a half-dozen entranced airmen, Felicité nestled up beside her as if to say, "Introduce me, please."

Maryann caught on immediately, announcing, "Gentlemen, this is my roommate - Miss Fifi the Feline."

"Hello, gentlemen," Felicité volunteered seductively. Suddenly there were numerous pairs of eyes glued to the attractive young lady before them, her costume clearly striking her intended mark. From there events improved quickly, so much so that within an hour Felicité and Maryann were the life of the party.

Things were by now going so swimmingly that all thoughts of Mr. Robin and his mother fleeted from the minds of Maryann and Felicité. Both pleasantly tipsy, they found themselves flirting with a captive group of intelligent and attentive young males. Life was at that moment quite as perfect as it could possibly be.

Within the Library

**Robert the Robin found himself approaching** the lovely young lady in the royal blue evening gown. Reaching her side, he offered, "I say, that is quite a lovely gown, Miss, er...?"

"Why, thank you, Mr. Robin. I am, for the evening, Miss Eloise," she responded turning to face him head-on and, presenting him with her most impressive smile, she continued with, "Of course, I already know you, at least by name, Mr. Sutherland."

"Oh?" he replied in confusion.

At this, she volunteered, "Annabeth Fletcher, daughter of the Viscount Morton Fletcher, of Oxfordshire," subsequently holding out her gloved hand for his.

Accepting the proffered hand, he leaned forward and supplied the requisite feigned kiss, subsequently responding politely, "Ah yes, I've met your father, and a brother, too, if I am not mistaken."

"Yes, of course, that would be my older brother, also named Morton, after my father."

"Ah, yes," Robert the Robin responded, "Sooo, we two appear to be the only members of the nobility here tonight, excepting Lady Sutherland, of course."

Evading the obvious implications, she replied pleasantly, "Yes, so it would appear."

"I assume from my mother that you are a student at Oxford?" he queried.

"Yes, and quite lucky, I suppose," she responded.

"How so?" he inquired vacuously.

"Actually, although women's colleges were founded in the nineteenth century at Oxford, it hasn't been that long ago that women were accorded full equality at Oxford."

"Yes, of course," he replied, "Silly, isn't it?"

Her eyes flashing defensively, she responded, "Silly? In what way?"

Sensing his gaff, he responded, "Oh, I say! I'm quite sorry. I meant no offense. What I meant to imply is how truly unfair it is that it has taken so long for women to receive full equality within the British Empire."

"Ah," she replied, her frown disappearing, "Well said, sir. You seem to have extracted yourself quite nicely from that one. I trust you meant it."

"Of course I did," he replied, still embarrassed, and searching for a face-saving means of retreat, he offered, "I say, Miss Fletcher, I must admit I find you quite lovely."

"Thank you," she replied noncommittally, "And?"

"And..." he stammered, "Well, er, one cannot predict what shall transpire over the next few months, but if all goes well, might you consent for me to call upon you?"

"Why, that is most kind of you, Trant. May I call you Trant?"

"Yes, of course, Miss Fletcher."

"Please, call me Annabeth, if you will."

"Yes, of course. Then shall we say, when the battle is ended, I shall search you out, Annabeth?"

"Nothing could possibly please me more so," she responded politely, and seeing he was about to make his withdrawal, she took his outstretched hand and added pleasantly, "I shall look forward to it, Trant."

For his part, Trant found a new spring in his step as he made his way to the ballroom, whereas, having achieved her first and only objective for the evening, Annabeth secretly pronounced the party a perfect success.

At eleven-thirty the butler circled through each room, announcing, "Gentlemen, it is time to gather in the bar for Lady Sutherland's surprise entertainment. Please make your way there now. This way, please!"

"Ladies, if you will please follow me to the library," he subsequently entreated, upon which the young ladies commenced twittering to one another as to the meaning of this development.

The lads all crowded within the bar and, as a means of preparing for the upcoming festivity, they served themselves with potent nightcaps, thereby heightening their already libidinous anticipations.

"I say," Trant's friend Walter offered, "What is going on, Trant?"

"I'm certain I've no idea," Trant responded sheepishly.

"Surely you should know something, if indeed anyone should," Walter queried.

"What? Why should I?" Trant inquired vacuously.

"Just tell me this, Birdman," Walter said accusingly, "Who is planning the evening's final event?"

"Oh, that," Trant murmured dismissively, "My mother is, of course. I should have thought you would know that, Walter."

"Aha!" Walter exclaimed pointedly, "I knew it! I _knew_ something untoward was going on!"

Self-consciously brushing back a wayward feather, Trant replied, "What the...what in tarnation are you talking about, Walter?"

"How soon we forget!" Walter expostulated, "How soon we forget!"

"Forget? Forget what?"

"Trant! You seem to have forgotten telling me not three days since of your concern that your mother had something up her sleeve."

"Oh, right..." Trant mumbled, "Supposing I did. What has that got to do with it?"

"Everything! It's got _everything_ to do with it, my friend."

"I say...I'm quite certain I have no idea to what you are referring," Trant stammered.

At that moment the butler appeared yet again, announcing, "And now, if you will, gentlemen, please follow me to the ballroom," at which the crowd followed as instructed.

The attendees having assembled, the ballroom suddenly became hushed as Robert the Robin stepped to the head of the room, announcing pleasantly, "Gentlemen, I hope that you have quite enjoyed the evening's festivities. I trust that you have also found your room assignments to your liking. And now, the time has come for the final event of the evening."

At that moment Lady Sutherland entered the room and, clapping her hands imperiously, she announced, "Gentlemen, we have arranged a special treat for all of you tonight. Now, if you please, turn and approach the stage at the far end of the room," at which the entire crowd followed her bidding.

Before them stood the curtained stage and, Lady Sutherland clapping her hands once again, the curtain was silently drawn wide. Onstage there stood a large rectangular frame tightly overlain with a single white opaque sheet, on each side of which stood a young lady, the pair of them apparently holding it in place. For their parts, the two young ladies stood absolutely motionless, bedecked in elegant undergarments the likes of which the flyboys had never in their lives laid eyes upon. Off to one side stood a grand piano, played appropriately by Amy the Barmaid.

Jaws dropping in collective awe and appreciation at the unlikely scene before them, the flyboys gathered still closer round the stage. Everyone having now assembled close in, Lady Sutherland signaled for the pianist to pause, at which point she announced, "Now, gentlemen, we come to the penultimate moment of the evening," and, halting momentarily as a means of focusing attention on herself, she now commenced her carefully planned oratory, "You, who are about to go off to war, are to be commended. You are the flower of Britain's youth and, having myself survived the Great War, I am all too aware that some of you may not survive this one.

"Youthful though you may be, because of your about-to-be-endured sacrifices, we ladies, those who must necessarily stay behind, now offer you our undying gratitude for your efforts to save our world, and as a semblance of our gratitude, we present you this graphic symbol which I shall term 'The Profile of a Woman'." And at this, she clapped her hands yet again and simultaneously commanded, "Ladies!"

The music now recommenced and, a bank of lights suddenly flashing on from above the stage, there appeared within the frame the image of a single motionless figure. The overlain sheet having been some sort of diaphanous gauze, the overall effect was one of a rather stunning portrait of a blonde-tressed woman who, though posed quite demurely, to all appearances wore nothing at all save the mask and whiskers of a feline. There was an immediate hush from the crowd, the airmen stunned by the realization that though she was separated from them by a thin layer, there stood directly before them an entirely naked woman.

The silence was immediately replaced by a parade of "oohs" and "aahs", all evincing admiration and appreciation of the hitherto unknown charms of a woman. And suddenly, the transcendent splendor of such a vision now apparent to one and all, the room erupted in an enormous round of applause, accompanied by cheers such as, "Bravo!" and "Lovely Ladies!"

The applause having eventually begun to ebb, the lighting was at Lady Sutherland's signal quenched and, the curtain subsequently drawn, Lady Sutherland announced with mock superiority, "Gentlemen, can there be any further doubt as to the perfection of the objects of your collective affections? I submit to you that your attentions are well placed!" at which the crowd of well lubricated airmen roared their collective approval.

After still further rejoicing, Lady Sutherland announced, "And now, we are all soldiers in the war against the vilest regime the world has ever known. Please join me in singing God save the King!" The subsequent chorus was absolutely deafening.

At the end of the chorus Lady Sutherland made one final announcement, "And now, you who are all soldiers in the cause for freedom of the entire world - may God be with each and every one of you. And should Great Britain prevail in this second Great War of my lifetime, God grant that we shall all meet here once again when it is all over! And now finally, good night and God speed." The crowd gave one last round of applause, the evening festivities having come to an all too glorious ending.

"Now, I wish you all a good night's rest. We shall reconvene for breakfast at nine tomorrow morning," she commanded.

The crowd having now dissipated, Lady Sutherland was nonetheless not quite done. Locating Felicité in the library, she tugged her aside and said, "My dear, that was absolutely stunning! I hoped that you might be the one, but of course I had no idea that you were possessed of such fortitude! Thank you so much for paying attention to my plea! I had hoped the weekend would be a roaring success, and it shall be - all because of you."

Felicité eyed her cautiously for a moment and responded, "To tell you the truth, Lady Sutherland, I'm still uncertain what to make of it all."

"That may be, my dear," Lady Sutherland replied jovially, "But I promise you, you shall see the importance of it all in due time."

Failing to follow Lady Sutherland's line of thought, Felicité blurted vacantly, "How is that?"

"My dear, if the coming war is anything like the previous one, then everything you know and believe in shall change dramatically by war's end."
Chapter 2

The Trollop

Wharton Manor – The Following Morning

**The members of Squadron 93** descended for breakfast quite early in anticipation of the arrival of the young ladies. By eight-thirty the dining room was filled with every male in the manor, but in stark contrast to the previous evening they were all in uniform. As no young ladies were to be seen anywhere, by nine o'clock soldiers had begun to take bets on whether or not Miss Fifi would indeed find the nerve to show her face in the light of day.

At nine-fifteen Miss Fifi bounded energetically into the room and, still sporting her feline mask but otherwise clothed quite elegantly, she exclaimed merrily, "Good morning, gentlemen! I apologize for our tardiness today, but as I'm sure you well know, we ladies must necessarily prepare ourselves prudently when young men such as yourselves are within our grasp."

At their appreciative twitters, Felicité carefully removed her mask, thereby eliciting a collective gasp from the assembled airmen. Observing that her unveiling had struck the mark, she now announced pleasantly, "I hope that you are all feeling refreshed from last night's party. And I do hope that you enjoyed last night's penultimate event. I know that I did!" The gathered troops immediately broke into shared laughter, and the tenseness was thankfully broken.

At this Felicité announced rather pointedly, "And now gentlemen, I have quite the surprise for you. Ladies, please come forward!" At this the five remaining young ladies stepped elegantly into the dining room. Although each remained concealed within her mask, every one of them was now dressed quite stylishly. The effect was quite stunning, causing an appreciative hush to come over the troops.

Felicité now took her place at the table, as if it were a day like any other day, and the remaining five young ladies joined her, each now modestly doffing her mask. Suddenly, the room was a cacophony of the boisterous chatter that is quite typical of a large group dining together. Under these rather unusual circumstances, everyone seemed quite at ease despite the still unfolding developments at hand.

Felicité and the young ladies subsequently enjoyed a festive breakfast, served ably by their already fed flyboys, and then each of them arose and commenced to interact with the soldiers. As the men had also been incognito the previous evening, the room was a veritable cauldron of activity as they reintroduced themselves to the young ladies, thenceforth getting to know their counterparts yet again within this new and quite garrulous setting.

At this point, Robert the Robin stood and spoke, "Ladies, last night I was known to you as Robert the Robin. My other guests here this morning already know me as Flight Lieutenant Sutherland, but I invite you lovely ladies to call me Trant. We airmen who are about to go off to war salute you!" at which the airmen applauded in uniform approval.

Pressing his hands downward to hush his fellow servicemen, Trant now proffered, "As a memento of our collective appreciation, we of the 93rd now invite all of you to join us as honorary members of the 93rd Squadron of the His Majesty's Royal Air Force," at which the room became deathly silent. He now added, "Ladies, come forward, if you will," at which the six young ladies arrayed themselves before the airmen. And now, he commanded, "Raise your right hands, if you please," thereby eliciting the intended reaction. He then followed with, "Do you solemnly swear to serve our country throughout the coming conflict in any and all ways becoming to God and King?"

At this, all six young ladies responded in unison, "We do!" And at this, the room erupted in yet another round of applause, the airmen rushing forward to supply congratulations to their honorary brethren.

Having completed the formalities, Trant now took Felicité's hand as a form of reintroduction and politely asked her to remain beside him. He then continued, announcing, "Miss Delacroix, on behalf of my fellow airmen, may I say thank you. Thank you for enlightening we men assembled here as to the most inspiring of mysteries a woman can offer," at which the crowd broke into spurious applause. Quieting the crowd, Trant continued with, "I for one am forthwith resolved to end this war as quickly as possible, so that I may get on with the business of discovering further of those mysteries!" at which the crowd broke into even more boisterous applause.

Trant now added, "Seriously, we are greatly indebted to you ladies, and we resolve that your generous actions shall be justly rewarded by our actions in combat," and at this, the troops gave one last round of applause.

Shortly Thereafter

**Felicité slipped away from the throng** and, making her way to the sitting room, she accidentally encroached on Lady Sutherland's solitude. "Oh, I'm sorry, Lady Sutherland," she exclaimed, "I hadn't realized that you would be here. Pardon me," and having said this, she turned to withdraw from the room.

"My dear, please don't go. I've been hoping that you would come. Please, stay and chat with me for a few moments. Take a seat here beside me if you will."

"Thank you," Felicité replied, taking a chair beside her inadvertent mentor.

She commenced, "Of course, I already know that you are Felicité Delacroix as a result of the information that I received from the rector at Oxford. But tell me a bit about yourself, my dear."

"There is nothing to tell, Lady Sutherland. I was born in Italy, but I moved to France when I was very young. My mother died, you see, and my father decided to return to France. We moved to Paris, where he soon remarried, and he began teaching at the Sorbonne in the first _arrondisement_. As a result, I was always around books and learning. My father became very well known in his field, and he was offered a position at Oxford when I was nine years old. Thus, we moved to England, and I excelled in school, so that I was eventually admitted to studies there, in Queen's College."

"Very interesting, my child. Let me see, if memory serves, you are not yet twenty-one. Am I right?"

"Yes, that is correct."

"Excellent. My dear Felicité, I suppose that it is an obvious understatement for me to say that you shall remember this weekend for the rest of your life, but I cannot help myself for saying it. And now that you have shown such extraordinary compassion to our young soldiers, I must also admit to you my heartfelt thanks for what you have done for me as well. Thank you, my dear, from the bottom of my heart."

Staring at her in confusion, Felicité murmured, "How so, Lady Sutherland?"

"My dear, I had a similar opportunity before the outbreak of the Great War. Well, I'm afraid that I prudishly rejected that opportunity, and as a result I subsequently spent the better part of the last quarter of a century regretting that decision. Now I have the distinct feeling of having redeemed myself, and it is all because of you."

"I see..." Felicité murmured, perhaps finally beginning to understand her meaning.

"Now, I can tell by your morose demeanor that you are regretting your performance last night, and under the circumstances that reaction is quite understandable. But you must focus on the positive. When war breaks out here in England, and it will very shortly I assure you, your certitude of the rightness of your actions will only grow with time, and I can say this with absolute conviction – the day will come when you shall feel only pride at the compassion that you displayed this weekend."

Felicité gazed at her for a moment and responded disconsolately, "I doubt that, Lady Sutherland."

"Even so, may I say what a pleasure it has been to know you. You are a truly extraordinary young lady. It is my fervent desire that this war shall be short-lived. And I hope that I shall have the pleasure of seeing you again one day at Wharton Manor."

"Thank you, Lady Sutherland," Felicité responded and, sensing that she had been dismissed, she arose to depart the room.

"Not so fast, my child," Lady Sutherland responded, herself rising. "Please give me a hug, as I shall miss you terribly." The two embraced, and Felicité subsequently stepped gracefully from the room.

A Short Time Later

**Trant found Felicité alone** in the library. Standing near the windows, she appeared to be staring in the general direction of the tennis court. "Why are you in here all alone, Miss Delacroix?" he inquired.

"For some reason, I don't feel like I fit in here with my proper clothes on. No one seems to know quite how to treat me."

Seeing that she was apparently in an introspective mood this morning, Trant suggested empathetically, "Miss Delacroix, as entrancing as you were without your evening gown, you are perhaps even more radiant this morning."

At this she brightened a bit, responding doubtfully, "Thank you, Mr. Chicken."

Ignoring her somewhat derisive remark, he responded, "I believe I detect a note of sadness, Miss Delacroix. Is there anything I might do to restore your cheerfulness?"

She paused and, holding his eyes with hers in a desperate bid to extract his consent, she queried softly, "After the war, perhaps someday, you might grant me a favor. May I please have your promise on it?"

"A favor? What sort of favor?"

"A post-war visit to Wharton Manor. Perhaps even a match of sorts?"

"Match? What sort of match?"

"Oh, I don't know. Perhaps we should address that question at the appropriate point in time."

Her wistful look and her perfectly put request, together they were simply too much for him to resist. He therefore responded with attendant aplomb, "By all means, Miss Delacroix. After what you did this weekend, that is the least that I can do to repay you. When this is all over, you shall have your favor. I promise."

Shortly Thereafter

**Trant observed as all six young ladies** assembled in the entryway and offered their somber farewells to the troops. There was much embracing, accompanied by numerous solemn promises, as if everyone assembled that weekend had been close friends for a lifetime. Then the ladies made their way to the waiting vehicles, and their departure was greeted by one last singing by the troops of 'God Save the King'. And then the two automobiles pulled slowly away from Wharton Manor.

The troops departed within the hour, all except for Trant, who lingered for a bit with his mother. They retired to the sitting room, where Lady Sutherland took her favorite chair and gazed wistfully from the window. "It seems only yesterday that we sat here discussing the possibility of having a party for the troops. Time does fly, my son."

Completely missing her poignant meaning, Trant observed, "Yes, mother, but despite the shortness of time, you managed to put on a fabulous event."

"I wonder," she began, and then pausing a moment, she gazed out the window. Then, recommencing, she added wistfully, "I wonder where we shall all be a year from now? I wonder, will the world be a better place, or will it be someplace that we find quite intolerable?"

"Only time will tell," he responded, only now beginning to comprehend the depth of her meaning.

Lady Sutherland now inquired offhandedly, "I say, this may perhaps be premature, but did you fancy any of the young ladies?"

Peering at her suspiciously, he countered with a question of his own, "Why mother, is there one in particular that you had in mind?"

Placing her hand over her chest in denial, she responded defensively, "Why, I should never pretend to interfere in your selection of a partner, my dear!"

Grinning impishly, he supplied with palpable sarcasm, "Of course not! Perish the thought."

Now smiling in embarrassment at having been found out so easily by her own son, she confessed, "It's just that, I found one or two of them to be quite charming in their own way."

"Why, I declare, I can't remember the last time you were so entirely evasive about anything at all, mother. Please, just get to the point, if you will."

"Well, I suppose..." she murmured and, taking up again, she surmised, "Well, perhaps the young lady dressed as a barmaid, or, well, I don't know...perhaps the French kitten? What was her name?"

"Felicité, as I'm quite certain you well know," he responded in obvious resignation.

"Yes, of course, that's the one," she agreed and, catching his eye, she inquired hesitantly, "Did she perhaps strike your fancy?"

"Nice thought, mother, but it is entirely out of the question."

"And why do you say that, if I may be so forward?"

"She is not fit for an earl, mother, as you yourself well know."

"And what makes you say that?"

"There is of course the unfortunate fact that her family does not belong to the peerage, which as you well know does not completely rule her out. But when one adjoins that with her highly inappropriate display last night, she has by her own actions removed herself from the possibility of ever becoming the wife of a future earl. She is quite frankly a trollop, dear Mother."

"Ha! What a crock of unmitigated British priggishness and ignorance of youth!" she bellowed and, calming a bit, she followed with, "Mark my words, my child, by the time this war has ended you shall discover the absolute absurdity of what you have just said."

"Perhaps, mother, but that day is surely far in the future."

The Battle of Britain commenced four days later.
Chapter 3

Interrupted by War

England – Six Months Later

**The Battle of Britain finally** ground to an exhausted termination. To be sure, battle was not new to the British Isles. As far back as anyone could remember, battles had been fought on every corner of The British Isles. But this was a new kind of war, a kind of war that no one on this planet had ever seen or even imagined before, for that matter. The Battle of Britain was the first battle fought entirely within the air in the course of human history. It was a battle in which little more than the whistle of a descending projectile could foretell the end of human life on an enormous scale. Those who lived through it were seen to admit that for the remainder of their lives they were prone to duck instinctively whenever they heard a similar sound to that of the bombs dropping on London.

Up in the skies over Britain, the British airmen were flying nonstop twenty-four hours a day, fighting off Herman Goering's Luftwaffe, the German Messerschmitt fighters and the Heinkel, Dornier, and Junkers Bombers. But the British had three insurmountable weapons. First, they had the Spitfire fighter, by far the best fighter aircraft in the world, as well as the Hurricane. Second, they had radar, something that no other country on earth possessed at the time. Finally, rallied by Sir Winston Churchill, the new prime minister, the British possessed an undaunted will to succeed. And succeed they did.

By November of 1940, the Battle of Britain was won. Hitler threw in the towel and headed for the Eastern Front in an attempt to cover for his ignominious defeat by a small island nation. The exhausted British rejoiced, but their happiness was short-lived, as they slowly came to the realization that though their nation was spared the humiliating fate of the French, the war was far from over.

Wharton Manor – February, 1941

**Squadron Leader Trant Sutherland** emerged from the military vehicle and, marching purposefully through the entryway to the manor, he boomed, "Mother!"

"In here, in the sitting room!" she shouted, a loss of decorum that would have been unthinkable little more than six months earlier.

Trant rushed into the sitting room, whereupon his mother rose, the two embracing one another fiercely. "Where's father," he inquired.

"Oh, he will be along. He was delayed at the Home Office this morning. However, they did grant his leave. We shall have an entire weekend together."

"Excellent!" he replied.

"Trant, dear, I have a surprise for you."

"Uh oh, I can always tell something bothersome is coming when you say that, Mother. So what is it?"

"I have arranged for us to have a visitor this weekend, my dear."

"A visitor? Why ever on earth for, Mother? Who is it?"

"Tis that young lady that was here for the masquerade party last summer. You remember her, right?"

"Which one? There were six of them as I recall."

"Oh, don't be a muddle-head, Trant. You know exactly which one I'm referring to – Miss Delacroix!"

Trant responded distantly, "Oh, you mean the one that played the part of the wanton feline?"

"Trant, you may want to watch what you say," his mother responded sternly, "She happens to be standing right behind you."

Trant turned and, blushing in embarrassment at the sight of her, he blurted apologetically, "Oh, my goodness. I am so terribly sorry, Miss Fifi, er, Delacroix. It is indeed wonderful to see you again!"

At this Felicité came forward, tentatively replying, "Thank you. I am so happy to see that you have survived the battle unharmed, Squadron Leader."

"Thank you, Miss Delacroix. That is very kind of you, especially after my gaffe. I am so embarrassed. Please forgive my disingenuous remark. Can you?"

"Of course," she replied with a slight smile that was nonetheless laced with uncertainty.

He now took her in more carefully. She was every bit as lovely as she had been the previous time he had seen her. Dressed in a flowing black evening gown, her blonde hair appeared somewhat shorter, but otherwise she seemed quite unchanged.

"So, what have you been up to since we last met?" he queried pleasantly.

"I've been at work for the home front in London," she responded matter-of-factly.

"Oh, how did you manage that assignment?"

"Your mother helped me to get it. She wrote to me and suggested it. Of course, I accepted immediately, and she found a position for me straightaway." She then turned to Lady Sutherland and proffered, "I'm very grateful, Lady Sutherland. It's been difficult, but I am so glad that I've been able to be of service to our country. But enough of me. Tell me about the 93rd, Flight Lieutenant Sutherland."

At this, a pained look coming over his face, Trant murmured dejectedly, "We lost quite a few."

"Yes, I know, I followed it in the newspapers. They carried the names of those killed in action. Tis quite sad. You must be devastated."

"Yes, I am. But as Sir Winston Churchill so aptly put it, it was all for a necessary and just cause. We shall carry on right to the end, of that I am most confident. At least now that Herr Hitler has suffered his first defeat there is a glimmer of hope."

Lady Sutherland now interjected, "How are your lady friends who were here that night, Miss Delacroix?"

"Caroline was killed in the air raids. Perhaps you remember her, she was one of the two that posed in her knickers adjacent to the screen. Her apartment building was decimated by a bomb."

"Ah, yes, she was a vivacious young lady," Lady Sutherland observed, adding, "It is all too sad. So many young people lost already, and we have such a long way ahead of us."

"Yes," Felicité responded, "If it is any consolation, I remember what Caroline said on the way back to Oxford after the party. She said 'I can now live the rest of my life with the happy thought that my attributes were once quite appreciated by forty lusty young airmen'."

"Ha! Good for her!" Lady Sutherland exclaimed. "It is so sad that she is gone, but she shall be remembered with great fondness by those who were in attendance, of that I am quite certain."

At this Trant put in, "I say, I quite agree. I am certain that the boys in the 93rd appreciated that party beyond all expectations. They went off to war with songs in their hearts. Buoyed by the images of that weekend, those who died did so with a sense of fulfillment that could not have been otherwise possible. You were right, Mother. So thank you!"

Trant's mother stared in shock at him for a moment and, seeing that he had no notion of correcting his mistake, she exclaimed, "Don't thank me! Thank her, you idiot!"

"Oh, my, I am indeed sorry," he replied and, turning toward Felicité, he proffered, "I seem to have put my foot in it again. Please forgive me. I meant to say – thank you, Miss Delacroix!"

At this Felicité blushed noticeably but, smiling shyly, she responded, "It was all for a good cause, of that I am quite certain."

At that moment General Sutherland rushed into the room, announcing, "I am so sorry I'm late, dear. You know how the Home Office is these days. But if all goes well, I shall indeed be able to spend the entire weekend at home." He summarily embraced Lady Sutherland, following it with a peck to her cheek.

He thenceforth turned to his son, saying, "Hip hip, son. I say, well done. Well done indeed. I can't believe that I've not seen you since before the battle began last June. All Britain owes you and your flyboys a great debt of gratitude. We've finally turned the tables on the Germans, and from here onward things should only get better."

"Thank you, sir," Trant replied with obvious pride.

Lady Sutherland now interjected, "Trant, please introduce our guest to your father."

"Father, this is Miss Felicité Delacroix. Miss Delacroix, my father, the Earl of Winston, and Brigadier General in the British Armed Forces."

The Earl accepted Felicité's curtsy and, tugging her up, he dragged her into a fatherly embrace. "My dear, tis such a pleasure. My dear Lady Sutherland has told me so much about you."

"Thank you, sir. The pleasure is mine," she responded politely, apparently flustered by such empathetic treatment from one who to all appearances was nothing of the sort.

"I understand that you've been serving Britain down in London, where I too have endured the battle. It was rough, was it not, my dear?"

"Yes, sir," she replied, clearly uncertain quite how to respond to an earl, much less a general.

"Well," the Earl continued, turning back to his son, "I don't know about you, but I could use a smooth glass of port. Shall we all retire to the library? I'm so looking forward to a quiet relaxing weekend at home with friends and family. It may be our last for quite some time."

At this the four of them moved silently to the library, where the men drank a glass of port and discussed military matters, while the women talked about the men who went to war. In a word, the scene was the perfect picture of domesticity.

The evening was a resounding success, just as Lady Sutherland had planned. Aware that Trant was disturbed by her sly but nevertheless obvious attempt to bring him together with Miss Delacroix, she was nonetheless buoyed by the possibility that she had been correct in her initial assessment of the young lady who had now blessed them with her presence on a second occasion.

Fortunately, Trant had displayed better manners once he had gotten over the initial shock of Felicité's presence. He had indeed been the perfect gentlemen, to the point that Lady Sutherland had detected a growing sense of comfort on Felicité's part, not only with Trant, but also with the whole snobbish ceremonial atmosphere that attended British nobility. Having been forced to accept such treatment in her own youth, Lady Sutherland was thus well pleased with the evening.

The following morning Felicité accompanied Lady Sutherland on a drive to Bath. They lunched at The Pump House and strolled on the lawn adjacent to the Circus. Afterwards, they returned to Wharton Manor, whereupon Lady Sutherland retired for an afternoon rest.

Felicité took the opportunity to sun herself in the garden. She was sitting perusing _Persuasion_ by Jane Austen, when Trant came passing through the garden.

"Oh, I say, good afternoon," Trant said pleasantly. "How are you, Felicité? How was the outing to Bath?"

"We had a lovely time," Felicité replied. "I absolutely adore your mother. She is such a great lady."

"Yes, she is that," he responded distantly.

"She is very kind to me," she proffered hesitantly, "She makes me wish that I had known my own mother. But she died when I was too young to remember her."

Sensing her complacency, he volunteered, "She wasn't always a member of the peerage, you know. In that regard, I suppose that the two of you have much in common."

"Oh, is that so? And in what other ways, might I ask?"

"Well, of course, she's not English, as is also the case with you."

"She's not from England? Where then is she from?"

"She's from Australia, although her roots are in Scotland, as are the Sutherlands'."

"My, I had no idea. Her English is quite perfect."

"Yes, well, it wasn't always so. On occasion, you may still hear her utter the word 'mate'," and this last he appended with a chuckle.

"Ah, anything else?"

"Else what?"

"Anything else that we two have in common."

At this inquiry, Robert thought a moment and suggested, "Yes, I suppose there is one other thing. The two of you share rather unusual attitudes."

"Oh? How so?"

"I believe that is best left for another day."

"Yes, of course," she responded, sensing something profound, but aware that it fell beyond her provenance.

Changing the subject, Trant queried, "So I assume that she is taking her afternoon rest?"

At her nod, he continued, inquiring, "And what, if I may ask, are you doing to amuse yourself in her absence?"

"Oh, I'm reading Jane Austen, I suppose," she replied timidly.

"Well, I believe that I can say this with absolute certainty – I know absolutely _nothing whatsoever_ about Jane Austen," he offered in genteel surprise.

"Perhaps you should," she responded thoughtfully, "It might do you good..."

"How so?" he blabbered vacuously.

"I don't know," she responded indecisively, "Her stories are so timely, so indicative of the times, I suppose."

"Surely not. We are in the midst of a great conflagration at the moment!"

"Yes well, that part is quite different, but the personal interactions are quite complex, you know," she responded with a slight smile.

"Personal interactions? Who has time for personal interactions these days?" he countered assertively.

"Just so," she replied wistfully, "Just so."

Suddenly rising from his seat, he said, "Well, I must be off, but before I go, I do have a question for you, Miss Delacroix."

"Yes?"

"What made you do it?"

"Do what?" she replied in bewilderment.

"Pose quite in the altogether for forty lusty young men?"

Eyeing him disconsolately, she exclaimed, "You know, when you put it that way, it sounds quite immoral. But what about the Moulin Rouge in Paris, and for that matter, The Windmill Theatre in London?"

"Well, there is that, but aren't those places rather sordid?" he responded dismissively.

"I'm sure I've no idea to what your referring, sir. My memory is that your mother's purpose was for a few young ladies to afford your airmen a glimpse of what might lay in their future should they survive the war."

Attempting to absorb the implications of what she had just said to him, he stared at her for several moments, eventually responding, "Well, that is certainly one explanation," but it was nonetheless clear that his doubts remained.

Having exhausted the subject for the moment without a successful conclusion, it was clear that they would do better to move on to lighter subjects. The conversation therefore moved on to plans for that evening's dinner, after which he made a hasty retreat.

Later That Day

**Lady Sutherland had arisen** from her rest and was tending to her coiffure when the Earl entered her chamber, inquiring, "My dear, how was your trip to Bath?"

"It was lovely, dear. Miss Delacroix entertained me ever so well. She is just the loveliest creature I've ever laid eyes on."

"She is certainly pleasing to the eye," he replied thoughtfully, "So what is going on, my dear? Why is she here?"

"Why, whatever on earth do you mean, dear?"

"Oh, give over, Margaret. We've been married far too long for this bandying about. What is she doing here? There is not another person on earth that would have received an invitation to visit on what may be the last chance for you to be together with your husband and son for many months to come."

Lady Sutherland smiled slyly at her husband through the mirror and replied, "I do so love you, my dear. Very little that I do escapes you."

"That may be, but there is still quite enough that does. With you, I must always be on the very tips of my toes, my dear."

"Alright, I see that I shall be forced to divulge. I am planting the seeds for the next generation of Sutherlands, my dear."

"What! You think that this young lady is fit for our Trant?"

"Yes, my dear, quite so."

"But I thought you told me that she was the one that 'entertained' the troops last summer!"

"That is correct."

At this revelation, he scratched his head for a moment in confusion, subsequently appending, "This is all much too complicated for me, my dear. I am quite certain that you have thought this through, and that you have excellent rationale for reasoning thusly. For my part, I believe it advisable that I concentrate my efforts on far simpler issues, such as fighting a world war."

"Well said, my dear. Now you just leave everything to me. I may not be correct about this, but I see amazing things in Miss Delacroix, and if my sixth sense is correct, Trant will as well. But we shall see, all in good time."

"Excellent!" he replied, "And now let us retire for a drink in the library before dinner. "Perhaps we shall even be treated to a glimpse of the spark that you imply exists between these two young people. I for one could do with some excitement around here!"

The Earl and Lady Sutherland were joined a short time later by Trant, Felicité entering shortly thereafter in a flowing blue gown. Lady Sutherland commented on seeing her attire, "My dear! You look absolutely stunning this evening."

"Thank you," Felicité responded demurely.

Turning toward her, Trant immediately spilled his port, something that he had never been known to do in his entire life. "Oh, I'm so sorry," he said apologetically, at which Lady Sutherland turned to her husband and awarded him with a covert wink.

Deftly diverting the subject, the Earl said to Felicité, "I hear you had a lovely drive to Bath today,"

"Yes, sir, Lady Sutherland showed me a fine time. Although I lived at Oxford for many years, I never had the pleasure of visiting Bath. One can almost envision the characters from a Jane Austen novel emerging from a side street. It is such a reminder of our historic past."

"So what do you intend to do now that The Battle of Britain has ended, Miss Delacroix?" the Earl queried.

"Mostly I have been helping with the cleaning up of London, but that will come to an end at some point, I am quite certain. I would very much like to hear if you might have any suggestions, sir."

"Well, actually, I do have a suggestion for you. I assume that your French is excellent."

"Yes, sir, I lived in France until I was almost ten years old."

"So, tell me truthfully, would you pass as a native if you spoke to a French person?"

"Certainly! My command of events in France over the last decade might not be spot on, but both my command of the language and my accent would surely pass muster."

"Excellent, Miss Delacroix. Then, with your permission, I shall check with the Home Office. Ever since France was cut off from us by the Germans we have encountered ever mounting difficulties with the language barrier."

"How is that, sir?"

"Right, I am certain that you know that General Charles de Gaulle is here in London leading the Free French Army. That army is by-and-large in hiding in France. We are in constant communication with factions within France that are fighting an underground war. Their activities need to be synchronized with British military plans, and the coordination of these activities requires constant translation of a voluminous number of documents and communications. Might this sort of work be of interest to you, Miss Delacroix?"

"Yes, of course. I would be honored to perform any task that will help the war effort, but this particular one does indeed sound as if it might make use of my French heritage."

"Excellent! I shall do some checking on your behalf and let you know what may be available."

"Shall I give you my address?"

"My dear Miss Delacroix, anyone who wants to find you need only ask my lovely wife, Lady Sutherland," and so saying, Lord Sutherland afforded a convivial wink to Lady Sutherland.

"Oh, right," Felicité responded in embarrassment, at which all four of them laughed heartily.

The following morning when they said goodbye, Lady Sutherland volunteered, "Miss Delacroix, I don't mind telling you, it's been delightful. I do hope that we shall see you again at Wharton Manor in the near future. In the meantime, I wish you well."

"Thank you, Lady Sutherland," Felicité responded and, turning to Trant, she offered, "It has been a pleasure, Flight Lieutenant Sutherland."

Leaning forward to take her hand, Trant responded, "Good luck, Miss Delacroix."

"And now," Lord Sutherland put in, "Let us be off, Miss Delacroix," and so saying the pair climbed within the car and drove away.
Chapter 4

Interlude

London – February, 1941

**Felicité and Lord Sutherland** shared quite a merry time on the drive back to London, he possessed of a way of making her feel quite comfortable in his presence. On their arrival at her flat in North Dulwich, he dropped her off, volunteering, "It's been a pleasure, Miss Delacroix. I shall be in touch."

"Thank you, Lord Sutherland, the pleasure is all mine. I shall look forward to hearing from you."

The following day Felicité returned to her demoralizing job clearing rubble. As London was rapidly being restored to her pre-war look, Felicité realized that this sort of work was short-lived, not to mention the fact that it was not her cup of tea. She desperately hoped for word from the Earl, but by the time a month had passed her hopes had begun to fade.

March

**Felicité rushed into the small shop,** desperate to escape the tumultuous rain plummeting without. Spying Maryann across the room, she waved frantically and, rushing forward, she enveloped her in a smothering embrace and exclaimed, "My, it has been months, Maryann! How in heaven's name are you?"

"Never better," Maryann deadpanned and, pulling out a chair for Felicité, she inquired, "Coffee, tea?"

"Something hot, anything hot, to take the chill from this miserable weather," Felicité responded pleasantly.

"Be right back," Maryann replied, and shortly thereafter she came back with a brimming cup of tea, saying, "Here you go, piping hot!"

"Thanks," Felicité responded, but thenceforth changing the subject, she inquired, "Why meet in the West End on such a day, Maryann?"

"Oh, I live a block from here. Sorry if it was inconvenient for you."

"Oh, I had no idea you lived in the West End. Just exactly what are you doing in London, anyway?"

"Same as everyone else - attempting to make a living. These are tough times."

"You can say that again," Felicité responded in agreement, "I'm having a time of it myself. How about you?"

"Oh, I have a job. The pay is okay, but who knows how long it will last."

"What sort of job?"

"I work at the Windmill Theatre," Maryann revealed impulsively.

"What? The Windmill? Isn't that the place where the women are _dénudé_?"

"Well, after a fashion, yes," Maryann responded evasively, "But, according to the law, if one is motionless, one is not naked. One is instead _a sculpture_."

"Hmmm, seems like I heard something like that," Felicité volunteered, "Maybe that's where Lady Sutherland got the idea for her show that night at Wharton Manor."

"You are entirely correct, Felicité," Maryann observed matter-of-factly.

"How do you know that?"

"Because she told me so that very night," Maryann put in, "That's how."

"Wow! I had no idea..."

"Yes, well, there it is nonetheless," Maryann murmured.

"But what's that got to do with you, Maryann?"

"Oh, not much. It's just that, after the Battle of Britain began Oxford cancelled classes, and I was left with no means of support. I had been on scholarship at Oxford, and my parents were in no position to care for me for long, so I came down to London, and somehow I became interested in The Windmill."

"Soooo, what do you do at The Windmill, if you don't mind me asking."

"Why, I am a sculpture, of course," Maryann volunteered.

"Surely not!" Felicité inquired, fear rising within her.

"On the contrary, I take my clothes off and let the soldier boys ogle my every attribute." she responded decisively.

"What!" Felicité exclaimed in denial, but then, realization finally coming over her, she murmured, "Oh, I get it. It all started with Lady Sutherland's speech that night, about how we all needed to give the soldiers a going away present. That's it, isn't it!"

"Well, more or less, but the truth is, I needed a way to make a living. And that night gave me the idea, that's all. Besides, there's really nothing to it, Felicité. Why don't you come down some night and see the show. Tis quite classy in a certain way. I think you'd like it."

"Well, I don't know about that," Felicité responded doubtfully, "I shall think about it."

Shortly thereafter the two departed, promising to see one another again as soon as possible.

A Week Later

**Felicité purchased a ticket and,** locating a seat on the very back row, she attempted to remain as unobtrusive as possible. Sure enough, at the end of the third part of the show, there was a still scene in which Maryann was one of the principles. And, although she was nearly naked, there was no movement whatsoever and the scene was overlain with a thin gauze curtain, rendering the entire scene somehow ethereal. The overall effect was one of artistry, thereby eliciting awed responses from the nearly entirely male audience. Felicité had never imagined that such a seemingly lurid show could somehow be produced with such elegance and taste.

The Following Day

**The pair met in the same coffee shop,** Felicité bursting at the seams with newfound interest.

"It was incredible, Maryann! I mean, I had no idea," she volunteered, "And you, dear Maryann, you looked absolutely _stunning_!"

"Thank you, dear Felicité. Thanks so much."

"I've always thought of that night at Wharton Manor as somehow immoral," Felicité observed. "I suppose one has to be on the viewer's side of the screen to get the proper impression."

" _Exactly!_ And that, dear Felicité, is precisely why I was drawn to the theatre. I simply had to know what was going on in the minds of those airmen that night. Same with you, I'll bet."

"And now we both know," Felicité nodded in agreement, adding, "And it seems, tis not the prurient reaction I had assumed."

"No, not at all, if you ask me," Maryann replied thoughtfully, "So, when can you start?"

"Start what?" Felicité responded blankly.

"Start working at the Windmill, of course," Maryann observed with obvious certitude.

"Oh, I don't know about that," Felicité frowned.

"Look, how much longer do you plan on carrying rocks?"

"I know, I know," Felicité stammered, "Tis just that, well, let me think about it."

"Right, but don't wait too long. More and more girls are applying to work there."

"I shall let you know within a week. How does that sound?" Felicité suggested.

A Week Later

**Felicité came forward,** a pained expression on her face.

"What is the matter?" Maryann said, rising to give her a hug.

"I don't want to do this, that's what is the matter," Felicité responded, adding, "But I feel I have no choice in the matter. I had hoped for a job with the Army, but it's been two months, and I've heard nothing. The rubble clearing jobs have all dried up, so now I have no means of employment, and I am afraid that I'm in a rather tight position, Maryann."

"Why don't you want to do it, Felicité," Maryann inquired.

"I don't know," Felicité responded, "I really don't know."

"Well, what about this? Suppose I could get you a job working stage crew, just for a bit, until you decide to take the plunge. What about that?"

"I say," Felicité responded excitedly, "That might just be the perfect compromise. "When could I start?"

"Come by tomorrow afternoon."

"Perfect! See you then, Maryann."

Two Weeks Later

**Still attempting to adjust to her new nocturnal working hours** , **Felicité** arose to the sound of a knock at the door of her tiny apartment. "Who is it?" she inquired groggily.

She heard a voice from without reply, "Message for Miss Felicité Delacroix from General Sutherland."

Felicité jumped up, tugged the door open in anticipation, and replied excitedly, "Yes, I am Miss Delacroix."

Politely handing her the envelope, the soldier responded, "Message for you, miss."

"Thank you," she said and, quickly tearing the message open, she perused the following:

April 23, 1941

Miss Felicité Delacroix

7 Upton Place

North Dulwich

Dear Miss Delacroix:

I trust that you are well. You will recall that we met more than two months ago at Wharton Manor in the Cotswolds. Perhaps you will also recall that we discussed at that time the possibility that there might be a position within the Home Office for a translator with your skills. I believe that I have found a position that may be of interest to you. If you will be so kind as to come by my office at 14 Sherendon Lane, near Piccadilly Circus at your earliest convenience, I shall supply you with further information. I look forward to seeing you very soon.

With Kind Regards-

General Robert Sutherland

Earl of Winston

Felicité immediately put on her best business attire and, shrugging into her coat, she made her way directly to the address listed on the general's letter. After a short wait the general's adjutant ushered her into his office.

Rising from behind his desk in evident delight, General Sutherland announced, "Miss Delacroix! It is so nice to see you. Thank you for coming on such short notice."

Attempting to appear professional, she responded politely, "Sir, thank you very much. Tis so wonderful to see you again."

"Have you heard from my son, Trant?"

"No sir, I have not," she replied in embarrassment.

"Too bad, but I shouldn't worry, Miss Delacroix. We are all quite busy at the moment. War will do that to one, you know."

"Yes, sir," she replied.

"Right, then, down to business. Miss Delacroix, we have need of an interpreter between the Home Office and General de Gaulle's staff. Tis just a backup at the moment, as we have another senior interpreter, but we could really use your help. Our other interpreter is not a British citizen, if you get my meaning."

"Ah, yes, sir. I understand. I assure you that my full allegiance is to our country."

"That is reassuring, Miss Delacroix. We have done our homework, and your dossier confirms your assertion. Therefore, I am pleased to offer you the position forthwith. The pay is at the same pay grade as a lieutenant in the army. How does that sound to you?"

"Sir, I am quite overwhelmed. I am most honored by your offer, and of course, I accept. I hope to make you proud of me."

"Miss Delacroix, Felicité, if I may, I already am most proud of you. You have done much for our country already. With this new position, I believe that you shall continue to do us proud."

Felicité was so excited when she left the general's office that she actually jumped for joy. Having thusly informed Maryann, the following day she began her new job at the Home Office. At first she had no idea what was going on. She was placed in a large open room with perhaps twenty other young ladies, all of whom were tasked with translating documents. She translated six days a week from eight in the morning until six-thirty each evening. She had never worked so hard in her life, but she couldn't complain since everyone else was working the same hours.

She had been working at the job for nearly two months when she was called into the superintendent's office one day. "Miss Delacroix," the superintendent began, "We are most pleased with the work that you are doing here at the Home Office. In fact, your translations are so precise and well written that we have been asked by none other than General Charles de Gaulle himself to transfer you to his personal staff. Since you are not military personnel, this appointment would necessarily entail your appointment to the British Army. You would hold the rank of lieutenant. Would such an appointment interest you in any way?"

Somewhat taken aback by the military implications, she replied, "I would like to have more information, if you don't mind."

"Excellent. I shall take that as a 'perhaps'. Here is an address. Please go round to see Captain Hightower immediately. He will brief you on the possibility and, if you are interested, he will affect your transfer. If you decide to decline the offer, then I shall expect you back here within two hours' time."

Felicité immediately returned to her desk and gathered up her belongings. A short time later she was a lieutenant in the British Army, assigned temporarily to the staff of General de Gaulle. Within the space of two months she had gone from little more than a rubble digger to a lieutenant in the British Army, forthwith detached to the Free French Army. She was terrified, but she supposed that she was not alone in that feeling. At least she had not been transferred to the front lines, a far more terrifying fate shared by many.

London – November, 1941

**Squadron Commander Trant Sutherland** was temporarily assigned to the Home Office for the purpose of air command planning of the North Africa Campaign. Tasked with organizing fighter support for the British land forces, he was working extremely long hours. He nevertheless took the opportunity to visit his father's office before the end of his first week on assignment in London. Upon being admitted to the general's office he said, "Good morning, sir."

"Good morning, Trant," his father replied, "Good to have you here. We need more men with good planning skills. I know that you would rather be on the front lines, but you were well enough in harm's way during The Battle of Britain, and now we are in desperate need of your help here."

"I'm here to do what I can to help, sir," he responded grimly.

His father then said, "Excellent. Now, have you seen that young lady that visited us at Wharton Manor? What was her name?"

"You know her name very well, father - Felicité. You arranged for her to be posted to the Home Office. Mother has informed me of everything. It seems that there is a conspiracy to bring the two of us together."

"Guilty on all counts, Trant. Surely you are aware by now that your mother is the queen of our chessboard, as it were, and you and I are little more than her pawns. I suppose that we should at least be pleased that she is indeed the white queen rather than the other way round. But seriously, you could do worse than this young lady your mother is touting for you, of that I am quite certain."

"Perhaps, father, but at the moment I'm unlikely to do either better or worse, since there are not enough hours in the day for anything but this damnable war. What is she doing these days perchance?"

"You haven't heard? She's been posted to General de Gaulle's personal staff."

"What, Felicité?" Trant blurted in utter amazement. "No, I hadn't heard. What in blazes is she doing for him?"

"It seems that her translating skills are exceptional. General de Gaulle happens to be very picky about his staff, as I'm sure you know. She passes as a true French national by his standards, and she passes as a true Brit by ours. That combination is quite difficult to come by in a single competent person. And in case you hadn't heard, she has been placed on active duty in the British Army, with an officer's commission of course."

"Oh, a fellow officer..." Trant mumbled to himself incredulously, "I say, that's rather hard to envision. My most vivid image is of her decked out as a kitten in rather ribald fashion. This is all far too shocking and difficult for me to assimilate, sir."

"Understandable...quite understandable, under the circumstances," Lord Sutherland rejoined and, pausing for a moment, he continued with a not unsurprising observation, "As usual, your mother has a recommendation."

"Aha! Leave it to Lady Sutherland to intervene. What does she have on her mind, sir?"

"She thinks that it is high time you had dinner with Miss Delacroix."

"I say, what bad timing for such a suggestion!"

"Perhaps, but is there a better time, pray tell?"

"Point well taken, sir. Right. Well then, perhaps I should see her. Can you arrange for General de Gaulle's staff to release her to the Home Office for dinner with one of the staff?"

"Certainly. I shall arrange it forthwith. And I shall give you a call when it is arranged."

"Thank you, sir. I wish you good day," and at that Trant saluted his father and departed.

London – A Week Later

**Trant met her at** a restaurant near Piccadilly called The Hefty Boar. Felicité was in uniform, as was Trant. As she came in off the street their eyes met momentarily. He came towards her, apparently taking her in. Upon reaching her he put out his hand to hers and blurted serendipitously, "My God, I can't breathe, Felicité. You absolutely take my breath away. May I say, you look even lovelier in uniform?"

Eyeing him suspiciously, she countered, "And what, if I may ask, brought this on, Mr. Chicken?"

Ignoring her question, he instructed, "Please follow me, Felicité. I have a quiet spot already set for us." She followed him to a table that was well situated for a bit of privacy. After they had each been seated he probed, "So, tell me about your assignment. How is it turning out for you, lieutenant?"

"To say it is challenging would be an understatement - long hours and little sleep. To make matters worse, General de Gaulle is not a very pleasant man. Actually, that is perhaps too polite a statement on my part, if you follow me."

"Yes, I get the picture, but his role is an essential one. As the war rages on, we seem to get deeper and deeper embedded with the French. I have no doubt that the Free French will at some point become indispensable to the Allies."

"And what are you doing in London, sir?" she queried.

"I've been transferred here, and please drop the 'sir'. I'm helping the planning of fighter cover in North Africa. I suppose I'm lucky to be grounded, but I'd far rather be in action."

"I'm sure that you will get your fill sooner or later. There aren't enough pilots to go round, you know."

They subsequently ordered dinner, the evening progressing swimmingly. Afterwards they each had a glass of scotch. They toasted and, reaching forward to grasp her free hand, he whispered impulsively, "I've missed you, Felicité."

At this she put down her glass and replied noncommittally, "I've missed you, too."

Sensing that she was taking his advance far too lightly, he pressed ahead with, "No, really. I've missed you terribly."

She eyed him suspiciously, picked up her glass and, taking another sip, she replied doubtfully, "Then why have I not heard from you in six months?"

"Er, I needed time to think," he responded evasively.

"Time to think," she muttered blandly, "And have you thought?"

"Yes, yes, I have," he offered impetuously and, catching her eyes with his, he admitted, "And I find that I am quite taken with you."

"And?" she coached distantly.

"And...and I suppose that I am asking if you would be interested in doing something about it," he asked tentatively.

"Sure," she answered blithely, "What did you have in mind?"

"Perhaps you could accompany me to my flat? Tis not far."

"I thought you'd never ask," she replied, but he somehow failed to sense the rather obvious bit of sarcasm in her voice.

"Well then, shall we?" he queried hopefully.

"Yes, let's," she responded, subsequently rising from her seat.

They caught a cab to his flat and once inside the door he grabbed her and kissed her passionately, saying, "God, I've waited for this for so long. You are so gorgeous, Felicité!"

Felicité kissed him in return, but then she gently pushed him away, responding, "Thank you for the offer, sir, but I'm afraid that I am not that sort."

"Oh come now, Felicité, surely you quite demonstrated what sort you are at the masquerade party."

"I'm afraid that remark is quite insulting to me, Squadron Commander Sutherland!" she retorted grimly.

Eyeing her forlornly, he murmured, " _Touché_ , lieutenant. It seems that I have lost the game."

" _Game?_ I assure you, I am not playing at games! At some point you shall realize that, or you shall move on to your next intended conquest. Now, I must say good night to you. I have an early day tomorrow."

"Good night, Miss Delacroix," he croaked forlornly as she yanked the door open.

"Good night, sir!" she exclaimed, summarily slamming the door behind her as she departed.
Chapter 5

War Intervenes

London – Early December, 1941

**Trant met Lord Sutherland** for lunch at his club. As it was a frigid day in London, the dining room boasted a roaring fire that warded off the chill. They shared an excellent meal and chatted thereafter to catch up on recent developments.

"How is Lady Sutherland?" Trant queried.

"Well, I've not seen her for more than a month, but we do talk by phone every few days. She seems to be bearing up rather well."

"Good. I miss her. When I was stationed in Wales I was able to see her quite often, but since my transfer to London, I've fallen somewhat out of touch."

"Yes, she mentioned that. She asked how you were doing when we spoke last. Oh, and that reminds me, she wanted to know how your dinner with Felicité went."

"Sir, I'm afraid that I made a mess of it."

"Oh? Tell me more, Trant."

"Well sir, I'm afraid that she and I are simply not suited for one another. I confess that I am a normal man with normal male needs, and I find her quite attractive. Thus, I made my interests known to her and, unfortunately, my suit was soundly rejected."

"Ha!" Lord Sutherland chuckled lightly, and slapping Trant gingerly on the back as a fatherly gesture, he expounded, "I doubt that very much, Trant. Surely by now you have begun to discern something of the enigmatic subtleties of the female mind."

"Yes, sir, of course I have. But I confess that I have no idea whether I am coming or going with her. In short, I believe it best for me to move on."

"My," his father guffawed. "I am quite certain that Lady Sutherland will be quite disappointed to hear that. She led me a merry chase for five years, spanning the entire course of the Great War, if you must know."

Trant eyed him morosely and, feeling outnumbered three to one, he took a long sip of port. He then revealed, "Small consolation, if I do say so myself, father. At any rate, I've put in for a transfer, and I am supposed to hear something shortly."

"To where, might I ask?"

"North Africa, of course. I need to fly, sir. Nothing takes one's mind off things so well as flying."

"Son, now you are making sense. If you are transferred there, you shall be killing two birds with one stone, as it were. Not only will you be escaping a potentially debilitating personal situation, you shall be serving the RAF admirably. I am told that had we had better air forces in North Africa, we should have taken Tripoli in November. In order to win the campaign against that fox Rommel we shall need to achieve air superiority down there. I say, let me know if your transfer comes through. We must get together again before you leave."

"Yes, sir, I shall do that," Trant responded. "Now, I must be getting back to the office."

North Africa - April, 1942

**Trant peered from** the window of the cargo plane and, following its progress as the aircraft taxied in from the sunlit runway, he observed as it halted haphazardly. The cargo door opened shortly thereafter, Trant emerging in the company of several other servicemen. He strolled forward a few paces, but halted abruptly, suddenly struck by the desolate surroundings.

Before him there was a single small building that had obviously been constructed in haste and, scanning the horizon, he discerned no other structures whatsoever. Hazy outlines of faded blue mountains wafted in the distance, but other than that there was little noteworthy within sight. Not a single wayward cloud was to be seen anywhere in the enormous blue sky, as far as the eye could see in any direction the roiling heat coming off the ground, thereby inducing the desolate view to dance in the morning sun. Trant could feel wayward sweat rapidly moistening his shirt, something that he had never before experienced this early in the calendar year. Such torpid heat was completely alien to him and, glancing at his wristwatch, he realized that it was as yet well short of noon.

After a few stultifying moments, a solitary officer came walking towards him through the suffocating heat and, saluting, he inquired, "Are you Squadron Commander Sutherland?"

Suppressing the urge to ask how anyone had managed to survive in this place, Trant returned the airman's salute and responded tersely, "Yes."

"Excellent," the airman replied, "I'm Squadron Leader Martin. If you will follow me, we have a vehicle standing by to take us to headquarters, sir."

Trant followed and, the pair rounding the building, they shortly arrived at a vehicle that was coated with what was to all appearances a permanent layer of dust and dirt. They settled into the car, Trant noticing that the interior was coincidentally also coated with dust.

The drive took only a few minutes, but the heat was impossible to escape despite the circulating air blowing through the windows of the automobile. Trant couldn't help wondering incongruously to himself how much more unbearable the heat would be when summer arrived in little more than two months.

Several minutes passed, the vehicle trailing a large plume of dust on the unpaved road. Eventually Trant thought he perceived some slight signs of civilization ahead. Sure enough, the vehicle pulled up at a gate, whence they were waived through, the car subsequently halting abruptly at a low white building. The pair climbed out and traipsed inside, Trant discovering that there was a veritable hive of military activity underway within. An officer came forward to him and inquired impatiently, "I assume you're Sutherland?"

"Yes," he replied, the pair surreptitiously shaking hands.

"So glad you're here, old chap. I'm Squadron Commander Frost, I've got the 143rd, mostly Hurricanes. You've got the 244th. It's mostly Spitfires. Follow me. I'll introduce you to Air Vice-Marshall Coningham."

Squadron Commander Frost led him down a hallway and entered a large planning room. "Vice-Marshall Coningham, Squadron Commander Sutherland has arrived." He turned to indicate Trant, who saluted smartly to the commander.

Returning his salute, Coningham exclaimed, "Oh, good show! Glad you've arrived, Sutherland. We've got ourselves a mess here in Libya. Here, look at the map. You're wing is here, east of Tobruk. You've got four squadrons. Three are Spitfires, our best planes, and our best pilots. And we need you! That desert fox Rommel is receiving reinforcements and supplies from Sicily as we speak. He's pushing us back. Before long we could be fighting in the streets of Cairo and Alexandria. I don't need to tell you what that means for the Allies if we're pushed back that far."

"So, what are your orders for my wing, sir?"

"Right now our ground forces are retreating eastward towards Alexandria. With Rommel, our challenge is to keep him from using his tanks to skirt our southern flank. You are to support our ground forces south of El Alamein. You must ensure at all costs that Rommel's tanks do not outflank us. Understood?"

"Yes, sir."

"We shall have a daily briefing at 7 A.M. here at headquarters. I will expect you to attend, Squadron Commander Sutherland."

"Understood, sir."

"Excellent. That will be all, Squadron Commander. Get some rest. You will need it in the coming days."

Wondering to himself what he had been thinking of when he had requested a transfer to this godforsaken hell on Earth, Trant saluted and departed immediately.

Fig. 2 Graphic Depiction of the North African Campaign

The next several months were a blur to Trant, as his squadrons were compelled to fly day and night in an attempt to keep Rommel's tanks from flanking the British Eighth Army. Although they were successful in keeping Rommel in check until June, he finally managed to skirt the British at Gazala, inflicting heavy losses in doing so. In the process, Trant's wing lost five aircraft and four pilots within a two-day span.

The British Army under General Auchinleck retreated eastward into Egypt, attempting to find a defensive position with natural protection to the south. They finally stopped at El Alamein, ninety miles west of Alexandria. If they hoped to halt the eastward advance of the Germans and Italians it would have to be soon, or before long Mussolini would be staging a victory parade in Cairo.

Trant was by now full onto Rommel's plan of attack. In each battle the Desert Fox attempted to drive his panzers out into the desert to the south and flank the Allies. For their part, Trant's flyboys flew long hours and multiple sorties each day attempting to contain the flanking actions by the German panzers.

Early July

**For Trant, it all came to a head** in El Alamein. On the first of July the Allies sent out their entire air force in Africa in an effort to break Rommel's attack on El Alamein from the west.

Trant flew three sorties that day, taking out four panzers in his first two sorties. On his third flight of the day he was attacked by two Messerschmitts as he strafed the battlefield. He climbed as quickly as he could in an attempt to outrun the two German fighters, but it was simply not possible for a single Spitfire to outrun two Messerschmitts. He managed to reach an altitude of five thousand feet, at which point his Spitfire took a hit in the left wing. The projectile went through one of his fuel tanks and caused his wing to immediately spew smoke profusely. Confident that his aircraft was done for, the two German pursuers immediately broke off their attack in search of other more potent adversaries.

All too aware that there was no way that he would make it back to the airfield, Trant aimed his Spitfire eastward and prayed that his aircraft would not burst into flames. Realizing shortly that he was too far west to even make it back to British lines, he made a last-ditch effort to save himself by veering southwards into the desert. He managed to get thirty miles south before he was forced to make a crash landing. Unfortunately, as there was no good place to land in the soft desert sand, he augured in at a speed of a hundred knots. The plane bounced twice and, striking hard, subsequently pitched onto its nose in a large dune. The impact drove the engine back toward the cockpit, causing the control panel to impact Trant's chest, whereupon he sustained a broken arm and several broken ribs.

Though conscious, he was dazed from the impact, his senses slowly coming back to him. Once he began to recover he realized that he was in great pain over his entire upper body. Indeed, the pain in his chest was so profound that he didn't even notice his broken arm. The pain clouding his senses, he slowly realized that since the aircraft might explode at any moment, it was vital that he extricate himself from within as expediently as possible.

Surveying round the craft and observing no visible flames, he began to extract himself from the cockpit. As he did so he tossed out his emergency kit and then slowly slid down from the cockpit, striking the ground hard. Lurching in pain, he rolled over onto his back, realizing as he did so that the plane was now in flames. He forced himself to his feet with his good arm and grabbed the emergency kit, thenceforth trotting away from the plane as quickly as he could.

Suddenly the plane erupted in a spectacular explosion, the impact knocking him from his feet. The resulting flames caused the remaining machine gun rounds to begin popping off, thus forcing Trant to quickly roll behind a small sand dune and burrow into the ground for protection. The unused rounds continued going off for several minutes, thereby forcing Trant to simply lay motionless until the popping sounds abated.

When it was over, Trant crawled slowly from his place of safety and observed the damage. By then there was virtually nothing left of the aircraft. The raw silence of the desert now became apparent to him for the first time as, dry torpid heat encroaching from every quarter, nothing but sand dunes could be discerned in every direction. Pondering his options, he abruptly realized that he had not radioed his position before he'd gone down.

He now took stock of the items in his emergency kit. There were medical supplies and water, together with a pistol and several candy bars. He immediately gave himself a shot of penicillin to stave off infection and, hopeful that his supplies would last him long enough for help to arrive, he settled down for a long night in the desert. He did his best to preserve his water, aware that he would be in desperate need of it the following day.

Despite his injuries, his exhaustion allowed him to sleep soundly. Awakening at sunrise, he decided that he should stay with the aircraft. He doubted that the enemy would come searching for him this far south. The Germans and Italians likely had much more important things on their minds at the moment.

Aware that his best chance of survival was rescue by air, he determined to make a large sign in the sand before the heat of the day became unbearable. Despite his crippling injuries, he managed to construct a large sign in the desert sands. The completed sign simply relaying 'SOS', he then took several pieces of the undamaged portion of the fuselage and made a small cover to protect him from the rapidly approaching midday heat.

Through the course of the day he watched and waited for the sound of an aircraft engine. Unfortunately, he heard not a single sound, aside from the wind sweeping across the dunes. He therefore passed a second night in the desert, and this time the pain from his injuries made it impossible for him to sleep. The second day passed in much the same way, and by the third morning his meager supply of water was completely gone. He was now suffering from dehydration, and he was certain that his medical supplies would no longer stave off infection from his injuries. He was now in dire straits. He knew that he wouldn't last much longer.

During the hottest part of the day he began to hallucinate. In his half-conscious state he began to imagine himself back home, at Wharton Manor. In his imagination, he was playing tennis with a gorgeous blonde-haired woman. No matter how well he struck each shot, she returned it with ease. She seemed to be wearing a mask, but he couldn't be sure, because the sun seemed to be in his eyes. He struggled to get a closer look at her, but each time he attempted to do so, she flitted lightly away from view.

Late in the afternoon of this, his third day in the desert, he was aroused from his delirium by a sound. Instantaneously aware, he scanned about for a glimpse of the woman, but she had scampered effortlessly into the burgeoning desert. Abruptly realizing that he had regained consciousness, he propped himself up on his good elbow, concentrating on the sound. It was indeed something familiar, and within moments he was certain that it was the sound of an aircraft engine.

He crawled out of his small shed and searched the horizon and, hearing a sound over his shoulder, he turned just in time to see a Hurricane fly low overhead. As it passed him by its wings rocked, the signal that he had been spotted. He promptly dropped prone to the ground in exhaustion, aware for the first time that he was going to survive. An hour later a rescue plane landed and airlifted him out of the desert.

Alexandria – Three Days Later

**Trant awoke slowly,** an intense throbbing forcing him painfully to consciousness.

"How are you feeling?" a voice said to him.

His eyes remaining tightly closed, he managed to croak only the single word, "Alive."

"That's good," the voice replied.

"That may be, but right now it hurts like hell," he whispered.

The voice responded, "That's normal, you took quite a spill, Squadron Commander Sutherland. I'm Doctor Finch. You had some internal damage, and there has been some infection due to your broken bones. But we're treating you, and at this point it appears that you shall make a full recovery. You're in the hospital in Alexandria."

Still unable to rally his senses, he whispered, "Thanks."

"You're a very lucky man, if I do say so myself."

His eyes still clinched shut in a vain attempt to ward off the pain, he murmured, "I sure as hell don't feel like it at the moment, doctor."

"You just rest. You'll feel better in a couple of weeks. We shall airlift you out when you're well enough to travel."

Suddenly opening his eyes, Trant blurted, "Wait a minute, doctor. Who won the battle?"

"Oh, no one knows, Squadron Commander. They're still fighting. That sorry hellhole of El Alamein has become the center of attention in all of North Africa. Both sides are having one hell of a time. This could well be the decisive battle of the entire North Africa campaign."

"Thanks, doctor," Trant mumbled woozily.

The doctor then patted him on his good arm, suggesting, "Get some rest, Squadron Commander," at which suggestion Trant immediately drifted off to sleep.

The Battle of El Alamein persisted for another three weeks, finally grinding to a stalemate in late July, both adversaries having become completely exhausted by the effort. The only good news for the Allies was that they still held Egypt.

London - October, 1942

**Felicité met her** at a small shop near St. Paul's Cathedral. Lady Sutherland rushed in from the drizzling rain and, spotting Felicité ensconced at a corner table, she traipsed over and offered, "My dear, tis so good to see you. How have you been since last we met? That must have been nearly two years ago. My, how time flies."

"I'm doing well, thank you, Lady Sutherland. General de Gaulle keeps all of us quite busy at his headquarters."

Taking a seat opposite Felicité, Lady Sutherland responded, "Yes, I can imagine. I hear he is a real stinker!"

"Yes, he can be quite a challenge. The other day one of my fellow British officers said that the last Frenchman to behave so arrogantly on British soil was William of Normandy, and he conquered Britain in 1066."

"Yes, and wasn't that a disaster!" Lady Sutherland responded, thereby deriding the French as only a British aristocrat is able.

"I heard that your son was injured in North Africa. How is he?" Felicité queried with genuine interest.

"Trant is doing much better, thank you. His plane went down on the first of July, at the height of the battle. He was marooned out in the desert for three days before they found him, and by then he was in pretty bad shape. He was airlifted home in late July, and he's been recovering since then. He returned to service in late September, and he is working with the RAF Headquarters on air planning at the moment. I suppose that's good. I'd rather he didn't get into another aircraft for the duration of the war. Too many of our pilots have been killed or captured."

"Tis a relief to hear that he has recovered," Felicité uttered.

"Oh, he's recovered from his wounds, but he's not recovered from you at all, my dear."

At this Felicité arched one eyebrow and inquired, "And just what does that mean, Lady Sutherland?"

"My dear, surely you know that you hurt him badly the last time you saw him."

"Yes, well, he hurt me as well, if you must know."

"Yes, yes, I know, my dear. Perhaps it is better to let sleeping dogs lie, at least for the moment."

"Yes, I'm afraid you are correct, Lady Sutherland. I had entertained hopes that he might get beyond certain _events_ , if you follow me, but I'm afraid he is quite stubborn."

"I couldn't agree more, Miss Delacroix. Perhaps someday he shall change, but not yet. In the meantime, please be aware that I remain your friend."

"Thank you, Lady Sutherland, and I yours," Felicité responded sadly.

Shortly thereafter, the two said their mutual goodbyes and departed.

London – December 14, 1942

**Trant wended his way among the** assembled mass, all the while wondering at how some things never changed. Here they were, engaged in the most horrific war in the history of mankind, and Downing Street had arranged for an enormous party to celebrate the King's birthday. Such things seemed incomprehensible to him, but there it was nonetheless.

Surveying the crowd, he noticed Sir Winston Churchill himself and, momentarily stunned, he suddenly realized that there was absolutely no one in the whole of England who could afford to back out of such an invitation.

Unexpectedly, he felt a jostle from behind, and turning to apologize, he exclaimed, "Why, I say, tis Miss Fletcher, is it not?" and observing the gorgeous vision before him, he stammered, "I say, I'm so sorry to run into you."

Observing his rather injudicious self-introduction, she responded, "Well, that's a bit impolite, if I do say so myself."

"Oh, I'm terribly sorry," Trant exclaimed, "What I meant to say was – Sorry to have jostled you, Miss Fletcher, but absolutely delighted in every other possible way to see you," and, positing his most gracious smile, he hoped that his belated attempt at supplication had righted the course.

For her part, she replied, "Well, since you put it that way – apology accepted, Mister...or should I say, Wing Commander Sutherland," and now she was smiling as well.

Immediately jostled yet again by a much too overwhelming throng, he offered, "Miss Fletcher, er Annabeth, if I may. It has indeed been quite too long since last we met. I must apologize most abjectly."

"That isn't necessary, sir," she observed politely, "We've all been busy, what with the war and all."

"Yes, of course," he mumbled aimlessly, but then, an idea striking him, he suggested, "I say, you're not here with anyone are you?"

Suddenly appearing to show a spark of interest, she responded, "Just my father, but why do you ask?"

"Well, I was just thinking, I don't know about you, but there is absolutely no one in this world that would miss me at all were I to disappear from this ghastly affair..." his voice suddenly trailing off in fear that he had made yet another gaff.

Staring at him a with one eyebrow raised haughtily, her demeanor suddenly changed to one of geniality and, surveying her surroundings, she observed, "Yes, I'm afraid I do see what you mean, Wing Commander."

"Well then?" he inquired hesitantly.

Apparently intent on making him grovel further, she murmured, "Well then what?"

"Well, er, perhaps you wouldn't mind having a drink with me somewhere a bit less, er, overbearing," he suggested.

"You know, against my better instincts, I believe that is _exactly_ what I should like to do, sir," she replied directly and, presenting him with her most attractive smile, she thenceforth turned and led him toward the exit.

Wharton Manor – Christmas, 1942

**Trant was delighted** to be home for the holiday. The manor was always particularly welcoming at Christmas, but this year stood out for him due to the fact that he had spent the better part of the previous two years away.

A short time later, Lord Sutherland pulled his automobile up to the entryway and his two traveling companions stepped out into the cold winter air of Christmas Eve. Felicité and Maryann were struck speechless by the pristine beauty of the manor and the surrounding countryside. Despite the fact that they had both visited there previously, it was nonetheless quite beyond belief to see that it remained just as their memories had recorded it, nearly everything else in the world having changed so irrevocably. Indeed, their arrival was as in a dream, the reality incomprehensible to the both of them.

As if on cue, the front door opened and Smithers surged down the steps to greet them both. "Greetings, ladies! Happy Christmas. Welcome!" Smithers bubbled uncharacteristically.

"Thank you, Mr. Smithers," the pair responded simultaneously, their collective mirth unmistakable.

Taking Lord Sutherland's outstretched hand, Smithers inquired, "How was the drive, sir?"

Lord Sutherland blurted, "Too much traffic! What with the holiday upon us, it seems that everyone is in a great rush to escape London, if only for a day or two."

The preambles having now been completed, the four surged into the manor to escape the December cold.

Once inside, they were met by Lady Sutherland. She embraced her husband and, thenceforth turning to the two young ladies, she volunteered, "Happy Christmas, ladies! I am delighted you could join us for the holiday," at this there were further shared embraces.

Lady Sutherland now announced, "Trant and Walter shall be along shortly. Believe it or not, they are quite engaged in a game of chess in the library at the moment. Accordingly, I suggest you accompany Smithers to your assigned rooms and join me in the sitting room when you are comfortably ensconced."

The Library – A Short Time Later

**Felicité descended the staircase and** , hearing voices emanating from the library, she made her way in that general direction. Arriving within she found Walter and Maryann chatting, the two of them apparently making up for more than two and a half years of lost time. As she came forward she heard him say, "My, Maryann, you are all grown up. You look stunning!"

Maryann blushed noticeably, responding, "Yes, well, tis because I'm no longer disguised as a barmaid."

Walter chuckled at her response, subsequently responding with lighthearted sarcasm, "I suppose one shouldn't expect such luxuries on every outing to Wharton Manor. I shall simply have to buck up and enjoy you dressed properly," thus eliciting yet further mirth between the pair.

Seeing Felicité, Lady Sutherland rose from her seat and announced, "Ah, here you are, Miss Delacroix. You of course remember Trant," and so saying, she gestured his way. At this Felicité approached him and diffidently took his outstretched hand.

"Miss Delacroix," he volunteered distantly, "I trust you are well."

"I am quite well, Wing Commander Sutherland," she replied, "And you, sir, are you as well?"

"Never better," he answered noncommittally.

Now turning toward Trant's companion, she said, "And here you are, sir, after such a long time. I trust you are also well, sir?"

"Yes, Lieutenant Delacroix," Walter responded, "And, may I say how lovely you look tonight."

"Thank you, sir. That is most kind of you," she replied and, the introductions having now been completed, she took the seat offered by Lady Sutherland.

Walter now announced, "It is such a great pleasure to be here with all of you this evening. The last opportunity I had to visit Wharton Manor was, as all of you must know, on the occasion of the masquerade party, shortly before the Battle of Britain. I must tell you, that was such a memorable party, but I for one find both of you ladies to be infinitely more attractively adorned on this joyous occasion!"

At this compliment both ladies smiled brilliantly, Trant adding, "Well, let's hope my mother has no more special events planned for our visitors," At which the group broke into uneasy twitters.

Lord Sutherland, perceiving his son's gaff, deftly diverted the direction of the conversation, revealing, "They say that a snow storm may be coming. Wouldn't a white Christmas be quite the perfect thing!"

"My, I've never seen snow at Christmas," Maryann observed, "Thank you for the invitation, Lady Sutherland. I'm so looking forward to the holiday here at Wharton Manor."

Now rising, Lady Sutherland commanded, "If you Please, we must all go to the sitting room. We've prepared hot toddies by the fire, and dinner will be served in due course. Please, follow me." At this the entire entourage made their way to the sitting room, where a roaring fire provided just the toastiest mood to take the chill away.

Everyone having received their toddy and found a seat, Maryann broke the momentary silence, inquiring, "So, what have you been up to since last we met, Walter?"

"I've moved up to Squadron Commander of the 93rd, Trant's old position, before he moved on to bigger things."

"Oh, so how does that go with you?"

"Oh, we miss him of course, but we get on just fine without Trant. The 93rd stays quite busy, you know."

"I'm curious," Maryann said, "How many boys who attended the party that weekend in 1940 are still with us?"

"Interesting you should ask that, Maryann," Walter responded. "I've somehow been made the person in charge of keeping track since the war began. We still have a total of more than fifty in the squadron, but of the original forty who were at the party, only nineteen are still in the squadron."

"Heavens!" Maryann responded. "Do you mean that twenty-one of them are now dead?"

"Oh, no, sorry, I didn't mean to mislead you. Twelve of the original forty have been killed. Four were wounded badly enough to be discharged, and five are now in positions elsewhere, including Trant, who has bounced about ever since he left the squadron."

"So most of them are at least still alive. That's good news," Maryann replied with obvious relief.

At this, General Sutherland put in, "Yes, well, the war isn't over yet, but the 93rd has done better than most squadrons in the RAF."

Lady Sutherland now interjected, saying, "And if I may be so bold, there are two honorary members of the 93rd with us tonight – Felicité and Maryann – and our own Felicité has gone over to the dark side, voluntarily joining the British Army, of all things!" And this last was put just in the right tone for everyone to get a hardy laugh from it.

Glancing mischievously toward Lord Sutherland, Felicité now added, "Trust me, kissing up to a French General is not an easy assignment," to which there was still further laughter.

There was a short silence, Trant subsequently putting in, "Tis quite impossible for me to believe that we held that weekend party here only two and a half years ago. So much has transpired since then. Somehow, it seems like it must have been decades ago." At this, the entire group sat contemplatively for a few moments, wistfully recalling that time when they were all so young and naïve.

Lady Sutherland now broke the silence, adding, "Ladies, you will surely recall when I suggested that night that you would one day understand what I was getting at. And here we are. What say you now?"

Maryann responded first, offering with endearing respect, "Lady Sutherland, I am ashamed to say that I doubted you that night, but I do understand now exactly what you were getting at." At this, the entire group turned reflexively toward Felicité in anticipation of her reaction to Lady Sutherland's comments.

"What are you looking at me for?" Felicité responded defensively. At this, Trant chuckled, but he was the only one to do so.

Lady Sutherland eyed him severely and, chastising him accordingly, she murmured, "That will do, Trant."

But her remonstration was completely unnecessary, as Trant had already realized his gaff, saying, "I'm so sorry, Miss Delacroix. Please forgive my shallow reaction. I apologize."

Felicité glared at him for a moment and, gathering herself, she thenceforth responded, "I hadn't realized it until now, but I'm afraid that I'm still smarting from the events of that weekend. I'm so sorry that I reacted the way that I did to your question, Lady Sutherland. The truth is, I have now done my homework, and my thoughts are much the same as those of Maryann."

Lady Sutherland answered her with, "My dear, I've never been more impressed with a young woman in my life than I was with you that weekend. You were and always will be my heroine for what you did for those young men, many of whom I needn't remind you are no longer with us today."

"Well, er, we should all feel a measure of satisfaction for the sake of our soldiers," Felicité replied evasively.

Maryann now interjected, reiterating to Lady Sutherland, "Subsequent events have certainly proven you right, Lady Sutherland."

At this point Walter joined in, exclaiming, "I know the men of the 93rd all feel that way."

Lord Sutherland volunteered, "I'm sorry that I cannot put forward my support, for the simple reason that I was not present. But I will say this – war has changed us all, and I believe it has somehow rather done so for the better."

The group recognizing that Lord Sutherland's comments were meant to close this subject of discussion, the interchange moved on to lighter topics, from whence the evening progressed admirably.

The Following Morning

**Felicité peeked from her bedroom window.** The dawn revealed a light coating of snow on the grounds of the manor, thus presenting everyone with the perfect Christmas.

According to Sutherland custom, the day commenced with a festive late morning breakfast, and on this occasion the manor staff members who had not been released from duty on holiday were invited to join in dining with the family and guests. It was a thoroughly enjoyable and happy event that rang in the holiday on just the perfect note.

After breakfast Trant and Walter agreed to meet Felicité and Maryann in the library for a literary discourse on an as yet to be determined subject. It developed that the young ladies had chosen the subject 'novels by Jane Austen', at which both gentlemen proved to be well out of their depth when challenged by Felicité and Maryann on such a difficult subject. Accordingly, the ladies were declared the winners in short order.

But not so fast. Walter now suggested a rematch and, the ladies having chosen the first topic of discussion, he insisted that the gentlemen be allowed to choose the topic for this second match. Accepting Walter's challenge, the ladies were apprised all too soon that the topic would be 'The World at War'. Under normal circumstances the ladies might have succeeded in challenging such an obviously unfair topic, but they after all had selected the previous one, a subject that any sane person would agree was quite over the heads of their competitors.

Accordingly, the match was forthwith begun in earnest and, though it was hard fought, the men eventually eked out a narrow victory.

Upon failing on the final question, Felicité stomped one foot in disappointment, claiming, "Tis grossly unfair. You two _cheated_!"

"Oh? How so?" Trant inquired apprehensively.

"You're both in His Majesty's service!" Felicité protested effusively.

"Ha! As are you, Miss Delacroix!" Trant rejoined rancorously.

"Yes, but Maryann isn't!" she shot back, even more offensively.

"Anything is better than Jane Austen," Trant countered dismissively.

"What! Why?" Felicité demanded.

"Why, wars are quite apropos, whereas Jane Austen is so terribly out of date," Trant observed smugly.

"Pshaw!" she spat out. "Out of date! I should think that her works are more timely than ever!"

"I'm sure I have no idea to what you are referring," he responded ambiguously.

"Have you ever examined _Persuasion_?" she suggested sternly.

"No, not at all," Trant replied patiently, "I've been quite busy fighting a war, if you must know."

"Right. In my view, you shall never arrive at the heart of the matter until you have studied those books carefully. And from my viewpoint, _Persuasion_ is especially important."

Trant responded diffidently, "Why is _Persuasion_ so important to you, Miss Delacroix?"

" _Us_!" she responded tersely.

"What? Us what?" he replied in complete confusion.

"It is important to we two!" she answered with obvious exasperation.

"I'm sure I have no idea to what you are referring," he answered abrasively.

" _Touché_!" she replied with palpable curtness.

"We're no longer playing a game, are we?" he continued, and not bothering to await the obvious answer, he added, "So let me get this straight. If I understand correctly, you believe that one or more of Jane Austen's novels describes certain attributes of our relationship or lack thereof."

Eyeing him with a mixture of both irritation and pleasure, Felicité exclaimed, " _Exactement_!"

The remainder of the Christmas holiday at Wharton Manor was anticlimactic, as nothing could compare to the sparring match that had been fought within the library. Some said it was a draw, others gave the nod to Felicité, but all agreed that it had hit the spot. Indeed, their mutually purposeful inattention to one another was apparent to everyone over the course of the subsequent two days.

Somehow, the electrified atmosphere was infectious, as Walter and Maryann commenced demonstrating entirely the opposite instinctive behavior. For her part, Lady Sutherland was so moved that she trapped Lord Sutherland in her boudoir and plied her feminine wiles voraciously upon her own husband, thus resulting in nothing less than a perfect Christmas for all involved.

When it came time for everyone to depart, there were tears shed all around. Maryann had gained the promise of adventure with a fascinating military hero. Walter had reconnected with the woman who had seduced his heart more than two years earlier. Lady Sutherland had executed another of her perfect plans. Lord Sutherland had for the first time in his memory been seduced, and by his own wife. Trant had finally succumbed to the importance of reading Jane Austen, and he was now perhaps even inclined to do so. And last but by no means least, Felicité had taken one more tiny step towards capturing the heart of what she confessed to herself might just be the man of her dreams.

London – Late January, 1943

**Felicité and Maryann** were perched at the bar in the King's Arms Pub drinking a pint of ale, when a familiar voice exclaimed, "I say, what a surprise. If it isn't Miss Fifi the Feline and her friend Amy the Barmaid."

Felicité turned to see Trant Sutherland smiling pleasantly at her. "Hello, Wing Commander Sutherland. How are you?" she responded nonchalantly.

"Fine, and you - how've you been, Felicité, or should I say, Lieutenant Delacroix?"

"I prefer Felicité, if you don't mind," she responded in an attempt to mitigate a bit of the air of formality.

"Yes, of course," he replied and, turning to Maryann, he proffered, "Nice to see you again, Maryann. What brings you to London?"

"Same as everyone else - the war effort. I'm working for the American Red Cross."

"Good show! With your newfound connections, perhaps you can inform President Roosevelt that we need more yanks over here, and quite soon, if you ask me!"

"I'll be sure and tell him the next time I see him," she deadpanned, and at this all three of them laughed convivially.

"And you, sir, how are you getting on?" Maryann put in inquisitively.

"I'm doing fine now. I'd like to get back in the air, but they're saying I have a disability, so I'm working for RAF Headquarters at the moment. How about you, Lieutenant Delacroix?"

"Me? I'm still kissing that mad French general's arse, which isn't difficult, considering how big an arse he is!" At this all three giggled yet again.

" _Alors, vous êtes très gentils, demoiselles, mais on droit sortir maintenant_ ," he now enunciated in perfect French.

" _Incroyable!_ ," Felicité exclaimed in complete surprise, "I had no idea you spoke a word of French, Wing Commander Sutherland!"

" _Mais certainement_ ," he replied politely, "At any rate, I must be going. I wish you both well," and so saying, he turned and departed.

Maryann then said, "I say, that was truly enigmatic. What's going on between the two of you, Felicité?"

"Nothing!" Felicité denied emphatically, "Nothing whatsoever."

Eyeing her suspiciously, Maryann posited, "Well, that's good because the word all about town is he's having an affair with Annabeth Fletcher."

"Oh!" Felicité blurted and, blushing ruefully, she murmured, "I hadn't heard..."

"Well, you have now," Maryann observed knowingly.

Narrowing her eyes menacingly, Felicité predicted, "She'll be sorry. That guy is a lothario, if you ask me."

"Perhaps you are right, but he is a rather cute one!" Maryann observed, "I rather think I should be quite delighted were he to lothario me!" at which the pair grasped one another and giggled uncontrollably.

At length, Maryan pulled back and announced, "Well, I've got to be going. Tis a pleasure to see you, Felicité. You take care now," and so saying she rose to depart.

"See you, Maryann. I'll ring you when time permits," Felicité called to Maryann's retreating back.

A Few Days Later

**Lord Sutherland picked up the phone** and dialed the familiar number, the voice on the other end announcing noncommittally, "Wharton Manor. Whom may I say is calling?"

"Dear, tis me," he said forcefully.

"Ah, Robert! How are you, dear? And to what do I owe this unexpected call?" Lady Sutherland responded.

"I'm fine, and I know, dear, I'm terribly busy these days, but something untoward has occurred. And I thought I should seek your input."

"Oh, my," she responded with apparent concern, "What seems to be the matter?"

"Tis Trant, Margaret."

"Why am I not surprised? And, pray tell, what has he done this time?"

"He seems to have taken up with that Fletcher girl. You recall, that chit I told you about, the one from Oxfordshire."

"Are you quite certain, Robert?"

"I saw him leave the King's birthday party with her, and last night I ran into the two of them dining at the officer's club in Piccadilly."

"Oh, my, this _is_ serious," she responded, her concern mounting.

"Yes, I thought you might think so," he replied, "What shall we do, dear?"

"You leave it to me, Robert. I shall look into it and get back to you."

"I knew you'd say that. Thank you, dear," and so saying, he rang off.

London - Early March, 1943

**For reasons that were unknown to her, Felicité** had not been called on by Trant since the holiday, despite her self-assurance that she had caught his eye at Christmas. That is, until one day she received an official communication ordering her to report to him at his office. She quickly put on her overcoat and, perplexed as to why she had been summoned in the line of duty rather than privately, she took a taxi to her appointed destination.

Arriving at his office, she was ushered within, whereupon she saluted Trant and, returning her salute, he commanded, "Please, sit down lieutenant." At this request she promptly lowered herself into the proffered chair, sorely put off by his formality. He smiled at her and said, "Tis wonderful to see you again. Let me say how sorry I am to have summoned you here so officiously. You will shortly understand why, I trust."

Uncertain exactly how to behave in the current circumstance, she responded curtly, "Thank you, sir."

"Alright then, down to business," he commenced, "I assume that you are aware of Enigma?"

"No, sir, should I be?"

"Oh, well, as I think about it, perhaps there is no reason that you should have been aware, lieutenant. So let me fill you in. Enigma is the device that the Third Reich uses to encrypt messages that are sent to and from the German High Command. The device utilizes a keyboard much like a typewriter to transform messages into gobbledygook. However, if one has the Enigma device at hand and the proper sequence of encoding, the device can be utilized to transform the encrypted message back into readable text. Clear?"

"Yes, I believe I understand, sir."

"Excellent. Well, as it turns out, the Poles broke the code in 1939, and they gave the solution to the Allies. We have since dramatically refined our code breaking skills at Bletchley Park, to the point that most intercepted messages can be decoded. Thus far, the Germans have not deduced that we have broken the code."

"Wow! That's amazing. After more than three years, we're still stealing their messages?"

"Well, up to a point - that is correct. However, two problems still remain. First, we have to actually intercept a message in order to decipher it. Second, the Germans are constantly making modifications to the Enigma device, and whenever such a modification is made we find that our ability to decipher their messages suffers a setback."

"I follow, sir."

"Right. You doubtless know that we are planning to invade France at some point."

"Yes, sir."

"Well, we are in desperate need of improving our knowledge as to what defenses the Germans are planning for us on our return to France. And we have been unable of late to decipher their transmissions to the German High Command. It seems that they have been playing games with their Enigma device in France. At this point we aren't even certain where it is, although logic would suggest that it is hidden within German Headquarters in Paris."

Suddenly clutching her throat in fear, she blurted, "Uh oh, I believe I see where this is going, sir."

Having anticipated her reaction, he retorted empathetically, "Yes, I thought that you might, lieutenant. It seems that General de Gaulle believes that your record is remarkable, so much so that he believes that you should make the perfect person to be placed in Paris for the purpose of providing a solution to our current Enigma dilemma."

"So, I am to become a spy..." she murmured, and she meant it in no way as a question.

"Yes, I am afraid so, lieutenant," he responded morosely, "I wish it were not so, for your sake and mine. However, our personal desires pale by comparison to the import of this assignment."

"When do I leave, sir?"

Observing her resolve, he responded with obvious admiration, "I would have expected nothing less from you, Felicité. I in fact said as much to the Home Office when they approached me about it."

"Why did they approach you, sir?"

"That is a question that has a very complicated answer, I'm afraid. I shall attempt to give you the abbreviated answer. I assume that you know that the government formed the SOE, that stands for Special Operations Executive, in 1940. The SOE is responsible for conducting espionage, sabotage, and reconnaissance in occupied Europe. For the past three years SOE has been deploying secret agents to perform these activities."

"I see," she put in, "How many women have been sent over?"

"That's a good question. Officially, none. However, under the direction of Flight Officer Vera Atkins, F Section has sent perhaps ten women over, as near as I can tell."

"What is F Section?"

"F stands for France. They've all been sent to France."

"What are they doing there?"

"Mostly espionage, but here is the bad news. Lately some of them have begun to disappear. We aren't quite sure what is going on, but Prime Minister Churchill has interceded in this particular circumstance. He has decided to create a small operation that is even more secret than SOE, and here is the most important part – he has designated that it be completely separate from SOE, thus providing a heightened level of security for the agents involved. Initially, there will only be three agents, and you are one of them."

"My, this is all quite overwhelming, but it nonetheless seems quite an honor. How did I come to be selected?"

"Well, of course, your record is impeccable, and the fact that you speak French and German, and that you lived in France for ten years makes you ideal. And there are other reasons that have not been divulged to me."

Apparently nonplussed by his last remark, she responded, "I understand, sir."

"Now, this is where I come in. My father recommended you for the assignment. He is involved in the planning for the invasion. As you know, I was transferred to the intelligence service after I was wounded in North Africa. When they began considering you for the assignment, my father made it known that you and I know each other fairly well. That, together with the fact that I am fluent in French, led to the decision that I should be your contact."

"I believe that I shall take that as a compliment," she responded.

"Excellent," he replied, "Now, as to your question - you leave in two months' time. In between now and then, you shall be in training for the assignment at our facility in Birmingham."

"Why is it going to take two months to train?"

"Tis quite a rigorous training program. We train all of our agents for three months, but in your case, we're going to squeeze it into two months because they want you dropped in by the middle of May."

Her anxiety growing by the moment, she responded, "I see, and when do I leave for Birmingham?"

"Immediately, I'm afraid," he responded distantly, "There is no time, you see. I'm afraid we shall not see each other again until just before you are dropped in May."

Sheer terror now overcoming her, she blurted, "Dropped? What does that mean?"

"You will be parachuted in, lieutenant."

"Oh, my goodness! That sounds dangerous."

"Yes, just so. And that is only the beginning, I'm afraid," he posited, "And now, if you will be so kind as to follow me, I want to introduce you to someone who is very important in the French resistance."

Felicité subsequently followed him down a hallway, and waited as he knocked on a door. Hearing a sound from within, he entered and she followed.

"Good morning, sir," Trant said.

The man returned his handshake, and replied in French, "Has she accepted the assignment, Wing Commander Sutherland?"

"Yes, I am pleased to report that she has," and turning to Felicité, he added, "Lieutenant, I would like to introduce you to Jean Moulin, the head of the French Resistance Forces."

Felicité's jaw dropped, but she managed to right herself immediately, saying, "I am honored to meet you, Monsieur Moulin. I've heard so much about you!"

"The honor is mine, lieutenant," he replied, "I should be leaving in a few days for France. I am so pleased that you have accepted this assignment, and I look forward to seeing you there in a few short months."

At this she stammered, "I...I shall do my best, sir."
Chapter 6

Birth of a War Hero

London – Mid-March, 1943

**Trant seemed** **to be** living up to his promise to carve out stints for their wartime courtship, arranging to see Annabeth at least once a week since their meeting at the King's birthday party in December. They met yet again on a cold and windy night.

"Where are we dining tonight?" Annabeth inquired as the cab passed Trafalgar square.

"Tis a surprise," Trant replied. "I shall give you a hint, though. Tis on Piccadilly Circus."

"I've no clue," she responded, "as I'm not from London, as you well now."

"You'll see soon enough," he responded, "But it isn't a pub."

"Here we are," the cab driver said.

Trant climbed out and, subsequently placing Annabeth's hand in the crook of his arm, he led her to a doorway and drew her within.

"Quite impressive!" she said on entering, "What is this place, Trant?"

"Tis the Criterion Restaurant, an old London standout."

"Well, give you a gold star, Wing Commander. This place is the top!" she responded enthusiastically.

"Thank you. I thought you should like it."

Dinner was a magnificent treat and, on the completion of it, Annabeth proffered, "Perhaps I may be getting ahead of myself, but I must say - you're courting quite impressively, Trant."

"Why, thank you, Annabeth. I wanted tonight to be perfect, because I have special a request for you."

Suddenly eyeing him suspiciously, Annabeth responded, "Oh, and what might that be?"

"I have leave in two months' time. I was wondering if perhaps you might like to come away with me."

"My, that IS a special request," she responded, an appreciative smile slowly spreading across her face. "Are Lord and Lady Sutherland aware of this?"

"Of course they are," he lied. "Alright, seeing as how there is no outwitting you, I confess - this was my mother's idea. But I don't mind telling you, I jumped at her suggestion. What do you say, Annabeth?"

"I'm not sure. Where did you have in mind?"

"Bath, if you must know. Tis quite lovely this time of year, you know."

"Yes, of course, I quite agree," but then eyeing him doubtfully, she queried, "What exactly are you about, you naughty boy? Do you intend to whisk me away for the purpose of making a wanton woman of me?"

"Of course not, Annabeth. In fact, I was hoping that you might consent to marry me. What say you? Shall we tie the knot?"

"Why, Trant, this quite a surprise," she fibbed, "I must think a moment. I really hadn't considered such a possibility."

"I realize that the circumstances are quite unusual but, after all, it is wartime."

"Well, I'm not certain. I couldn't possibly arrange a wedding on such short notice..." she observed thoughtfully.

"Oh, I am most sorry about that. I quite agree. But perhaps we could go on our sojourn incognito, as a sort of celebratory tryst. Thereafter, the wedding could be planned and executed as time permits."

Arching one eyebrow, she responded with feigned suspicion, "So you DO intend to make me a wanton woman!" but it was clear by her infectiously growing smile that she was all in.

Having contracted her contagious smile, he responded pleasantly, "I know, it does look rather bad, but there seems to be no alternative at the moment. I suppose we could put off the tryst for the time being..."

"That won't be necessary, Trant. What with the war and all, as you so aptly put it, it seems that the clock must be run counterclockwise, at least for the moment," and, capturing his gaze with hers, she now proffered, "Under the circumstances, I, Annabeth Fletcher, accept the offer of your hand in marriage, Trant Sutherland."

Birmingham - April, 1943

**A month into her training, Felicité** was exhausted. She had been taught, tested, trained, and tortured every waking hour of the day for a solid month, and without a moment's rest. She was having second thoughts about having committed to this assignment, but she understood all too well that there was no turning back. At the end of a month, the training regimen relented just a bit, allowing Felicité to catch her second wind.

One day she was ordered to base headquarters to meet a VIP. Having no earthly idea who it might be, she was ushered into the base commander's office, whereupon she was floored to see the prime minister himself!

"Ah, here she is," Mr. Churchill exclaimed, rising from his chair opposite the commander's desk. "Lieutenant Delacroix, I am Winston Churchill. So good to meet you at last."

"Mr. Prime Minister, I don't know what to say. This is quite an honor," she responded in embarrassment.

Grinning at her admission, Mr. Churchill responded politely, "Lieutenant, I assure you, the honor is entirely mine. The British people are indebted to you for what you are undertaking on behalf of our country. I wish you great success in your assignment, and if all goes as expected, I shall look forward to shaking your hand when we are the victors in this World War."

"Thank you, sir," was all she could think of to say.

"And now, let me introduce Flight Officer Vera Atkins," at which Felicité saluted and shook the hand of the newly introduced officer who accompanied Mr. Churchill.

"Flight Officer Atkins is here to brief you on top secret matters that are only for your eyes and ears, lieutenant. She shall supply you with a full day of intensive training regarding our clandestine operations in France. Please follow her advice implicitly in all matters."

"Yes, sir," Felicité responded.

"And now, please follow me, Lieutenant Delacroix," Flight Officer Atkins commanded, at which she led Felicité from the room.

Arriving at their destination, Flight Officer Atkins announced, "I assume that you know who I am."

"Yes, I do. My understanding is that you are in charge of the women agents assigned to F Section."

"That is correct," Flight Officer Atkins responded. "What you may not be aware of is the fact that our network has recently been compromised. Several of my agents are now missing, as well as quite a few of the male agents."

"What is going on, Flight Officer Atkins?"

"We do not know yet, but we must assume that the Germans have infiltrated our network in France. That is why your assignment is being handled under a wholly separate process. As such, you will not have direct contact with any of our other agents in France. In addition, you will only be in contact with the most secret members of the French Resistance. Our aim is to get you as close to the top of the German Command in France as possible. If all goes well, we expect you to gain entry to German Headquarters in Paris. Today I will brief you in detail regarding the facility itself, as well as the command structure therein."

"How do you plan to get me inside headquarters?" Felicité queried.

"That is the main purpose of my visit with you today, lieutenant. Let me begin by saying that it is an honor to work with you. What you are doing is dangerous but essential to the success of the invasion."

Her discomfort growing by the moment, Felicité could only think to respond, "Thank you."

"Lieutenant, we are extremely careful in selecting our agents. We know everything about you since you were a child. Based on what I have learned from your records, I have determined that you are perfect for this assignment."

"Oh, to what are you referring?"

"Aside from the obvious, such as your time in France when you were a child, there is one instance in your record that stands out."

"And what might that be?"

"My sources inform me that you spent a weekend at Wharton Manor in June of 1940, and during that weekend you were the lead in an event that involved nudity in front of an entire squadron of airmen. Is that correct?"

At this Felicité blushed crimson and murmured, "Well, er...,"

"Just answer the question!"

"I suppose there's no point in denying it," Felicité retorted.

"Excellent!" Flight Officer Atkins responded cheerfully, thus catching Felicité completely off guard. "The reason that I say that is that your assignment will likely require you to call upon such talents yet again."

"Oh, my..." was all that Felicité could think of to reply.

"My second piece of information indicates that you worked at the Windmill Theatre for a short period in 1941. Is that correct?"

"Yes, but..." Felicité interjected.

Raising one hand, Flight Officer Atkins interrupted, "No further details are necessary. In fact, I'm sure I have no interest in hearing them."

Observing her superior's stern look of forewarning, Felicité thought it better to maintain her silence.

Seeing the effect of her admonition, Flight Officer Atkins now continued with, "We have intelligence that indicates that there is quite a broad range of sexual activity going on within German Headquarters in Paris. Given your past exploits, that is why we have selected you for this assignment. We believe that with your unique skills you will find a way to penetrate headquarters and acquire the Enigma code."

Understanding at long last why she had been chosen for such a dangerous assignment, Felicité replied, "Yes, I think I see..."

"Perhaps you do, but just in case I have not made myself clear, let me do so now. Lieutenant, your orders are to use any means at your disposal, including public displays such as your previous ones, and also including any sexual activities that you find expedient, to gain access to the Enigma code in Paris. Do I make myself clear?"

All color now draining from her face, Felicité rejoined, "Yes, I understand completely, Flight Officer Atkins."

Two Weeks Later

**Felicité met Lady Sutherland for lunch**. Embracing her gently, she inquired, "What a pleasant surprise, Lady Sutherland. How on earth did you manage to arrange to meet me here in Birmingham? I've not been allowed off base in six weeks!"

Grinning broadly, Lady Sutherland responded, "My dear, let's just say, I have friends in high places," at which the pair twittered convivially and subsequently lit into their lunch.

Lighter subjects having eventually been dispensed with, Lady Sutherland finally came round to the point of her visit, announcing, "My dear, it should come as no surprise to you when I say that I did not come all this way for the purpose of idle chitchat."

Now aware that the conversation had turned serious, Felicité replied, "Of course not. Knowing you as I do, I was quite certain you'd get round to it in due course."

"And so I have, my dear, so I have," she responded wistfully. The air now having been cleared, she commenced her discourse with, "My dear, I assume you are aware that at one time I had designs on you as a potential match for my son?"

Having anticipated this line of attack, Felicité responded knowingly, "Yes, of course."

"Well, I'm afraid I must ask you yet a second time – might you still want my son?"

"Well, er..." Felicité stammered.

"My dear, it is quite an easy question. Just answer me, please."

"I'm not sure, to be honest. I thought so at Christmas. Actually, I was certain then."

"And what, pray tell, has happened since to change that certainty in any way?"

"Nothing!" Felicité blurted and, calming a bit, she added, "I mean, nothing has happened. Actually, I've hardly seen Trant at all since Christmas. Truth to tell, the last time I saw him, he wasn't very forthcoming, if you get my meaning..."

"In what way?" Lady Sutherland inquired, now clearly in her interrogation mode.

"I don't know, he was just _distant_ , I suppose," Felicité replied dejectedly.

"Aha! That's it!" Lady Sutherland exclaimed, her eyes flashing furiously.

"That's what?" Felicité responded with obvious alarm.

"What?" Lady Sutherland quipped and, clearly prevaricating, she responded evasively, "Oh, nothing. Tis nothing at all, my dear," and thenceforth patting Felicité on one hand, she repeated, "Tis nothing. Don't worry about it at all, my dear."

"What do you mean – don't worry about it?" Felicité exclaimed belligerently, "You come all this way for some ulterior motive, and when you find out what you came for, you suggest that I shouldn't worry about it?"

Rather taken aback by this sudden outburst, Lady Sutherland regrouped herself and, taking Felicité's hand in hers, she now proffered gently, "My dear, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to alarm you so. But please know that I am in this for the both of you. And I promise you, rather more so for you than for my own son. Now, I cannot at this point in time relay further suspicions to you, because that is all they are. For the moment, I ask you to be patient, and rest assured that I am working on your behalf."

At this, all semblance of fortitude having escaped her, Felicité burst into tears, exclaiming forlornly, "I'm sorry, Lady Sutherland, but I'm so afraid! I'm afraid I've gotten myself into a terrible mess. And now, Trant seems to have turned his back on me, just when I need him the most."

"There, there, my dear," Lady Sutherland responded sympathetically, "I'm sure that Trant is simply putting on his official act at the moment. You know, stiff upper lip, and all that silly nonsense. After all, he must be terribly concerned about your upcoming assignment as well."

Still staunching a flood of tears, she cried, "So you know about my assignment?"

"Yes, enough to know that it is quite dangerous," Lady Sutherland responded empathetically, "My dear, I'm so proud of you. I'm quite certain that all of England shall be very proud of you as well. Now, get on with it, as they say."

"Well," Felicité responded and, now simultaneously laughing and crying, she put in, "I expect I shall, for it seems I have no choice in the matter."

"Yes, well, one could say that, but if you go forward with the resolve that I have so often observed in you, I am quite certain that you shall win out in the end," Lady Sutherland responded sympathetically.

Having now dried her tears, Felicité responded, "I shall do my best, Lady Sutherland."

"There is one other thing," Lady Sutherland murmured diffidently.

"And what might that be?"

"Well, it has to do with the party, the birthday party in the summer of 1940."

"Bloody hell, not that again!" Felicité exclaimed.

"I know, my dear, it is painful for you, I'm sure, but please, play along with me. This is quite important."

"I'm listening," Felicité replied noncommittally.

"Tis just that, well, certain inconsistencies have recently come to my attention," Lady Sutherland proffered carefully.

"Inconsistencies? What sort of inconsistencies?" Felicité murmured blankly.

"Well, for instance, what happened to your feline mask that night, Felicité?"

"What! Nothing! Nothing at all, I carried it up to my room after the event, as you so aptly termed it."

"I see," Lady Sutherland responded and, searching for the right words, she abruptly inquired, "Was there anything unusual that occurred from your perspective, Felicité?"

"I don't understand," Felicité responded, "What do you mean by unusual, Lady Sutherland?"

"Well, I happen to have run into Maryann recently, and she tells me that the two of you refused to do the event."

"Oh that," Felicité replied, "Of course, she's right. We did, at first. But then, we changed our minds and we did indeed join in. After all, you observed me on the stage."

"And where was Maryann at the time?"

"She was playing the piano, as you well know," Felicité responded morosely, "I say, where is this leading to? Can't we just let bygones be bygones? If you must know, the memory of it is terribly painful for me."

"Yes, I can see that," Lady Sutherland offered and, patting Felicité's hand, she suggested, "You just put it behind you, Felicité. I apologize for bringing it up to you."

"Thank you," Felicité replied, now staring away into space. "Now, I'm afraid I must be getting back to work. Must keep the French General happy, and all that."

"Alright then, Goodbye Felicité," Lady Sutherland responded, at which Felicité made her exit.

In the Air over France – May, 1943

**Felicité was uncertain whether** it was the piercing noise or the fear of jumping out of the plane that terrified her more, but in any case, the sound of the air rushing through the open door of the aircraft fuselage was deafening and, regardless of the source of her fears, the moment of no return was rapidly approaching. Trant now embraced her gently, exclaiming in her ear, "You look like a real trooper all trussed up in that parachute, lieutenant."

"Thank you, sir," she responded. "I'm afraid I don't feel like one at the moment."

"Be sure to flex your knees just before impact, and roll when you hit the ground. Everything will be just fine. And send us a message when you are in the hands of the resistance."

"Yes, sir, will do."

"Now, tis time, lieutenant. The jump master will clip you onto the cable and see you out the door. God speed, my dear Felicité."

"Thank you, sir," she responded, and suddenly throwing caution to the wind, she reached up and pulled him to her, kissing him passionately. Then she released him, turned and headed aft. She stopped and turned back towards him one last time, saying, "Thank you for coming, sir. It means a lot to me," and at this she disappeared through the aircraft door.

Moments later Felicité struck the ground hard, but she was thankfully unhurt, her parachute having performed its intended purpose perfectly. Since there was little breeze on this night, she had no difficulty releasing her chute and gathering it into a heap. By the time she had completed this task the resistance fighters were coming at her from the surrounding woods. It appeared that the plan had been a success, as there were no Germans to be seen or heard at all.

Within moments she could see Jean Moulin trotting towards her. As he approached, he called to her in French, "Are you injured?"

"No. I believe that I am unharmed," she responded in her native language. After thirteen years away, she was back in the country of her youth. She would learn all too soon that it bore little resemblance to the country she had lived in for nearly ten years.

The Following Day

**Annabeth picked up the receiver,** saying, "Annabeth Fletcher speaking. Who is calling, please?"

"Annabeth, tis I, Trant, **"** the voice on the other end responded.

"Trant! How nice to hear your voice, dear. To what do I owe this unexpected call?"

"Tis not good news, my dear."

"Oh?" she responded in sudden fearfulness, "Please don't tell me that someone else has perished."

"No, tis nothing as horrendous as that, but it is nonetheless quite bad enough. I'm afraid we're going to have to postpone our celebratory tryst. My leave has been cancelled, I'm afraid."

"Oh, that IS bad news, Trant! Are you at liberty to divulge as to the reason?"

"I'm afraid not. Tis top secret. All I can say is – it may in fact be some time before this particular assignment is sorted out. In the meantime, keep your chin up, dear. I shall be in touch."

"Yes, of course. Hugs, my dear. Talk to you soon!"

"You, too," and with that he rang off.

Glaring at the receiver in frustration, she grumbled, "Bollocks! I wonder what that was all about."

Chartres - Three Days Later

**Felicité discovered that** Jean Moulin had developed an extensive network in France, and he had used it to slip through the web of German military check points along the way. They had thus arrived without incident in Chartres, where Felicité was assigned for the present to assist members of the resistance in constructing a plan for penetrating the German network for encrypting messages in France. It was determined that for the time being Felicité should remain in Chartres, where the plan would be completed and then submitted through her handler for approval by the Allies in London. Felicité therefore spent the next three months building up her understanding of the resistance in France.

Unfortunately, the Germans penetrated the French Resistance quite successfully in the summer of 1943. More than a hundred other ranking members of the resistance were captured. Jean Moulin was among them. He was captured and tortured to death in July. Some said that he was killed by the infamous Klaus Barbie.

Events that summer were a major setback for the resistance. Thus, in order to maintain security, plans for the acquisition of the German Enigma code in France were delayed indefinitely. A plan was nevertheless eventually completed and forwarded to London, two additional months passing before it was approved. Finally, word came in October that the plan had been approved, with the first phase to be initiated immediately.

Felicité was the centerpiece of the plan, one that required a team of ultra-secret resistance fighters to place her in Paris under an assumed name. Dying her hair black and disguising herself as best she could, Felicité was given forged papers with the assumed name Martine Peletier. She was subsequently transported to Paris by the resistance.

London – October, 1943

**Arriving at the restaurant, Trant came forward,** a convivial smile spreading slowly across his face. Once by her side, he leaned down and, kissing her cheek, he said, "Mother, so good of you to come. To what do I owe this unexpected visit?"

"I needed to see my son, of course. Can one fault me for that?" she responded airily, "Please, have a seat, Trant. We haven't much time, and I'm in desperate need of a first-rate meal."

Somewhat surprised by her acerbic demeanor, Trant offered, "Of course, mother."

"What with the war and all, one can hardly find an acceptable meal these days," she lamented, for some reason avoiding the underlying cause for her journey to London today.

Accordingly, the two shared a pleasant lunch together, the talk wandering aimlessly from one insignificant subject to another, but eventually Lady Sutherland got round to the crux of their rendezvous, murmuring with feigned offhandedness, "So, your father tells me you've been seeing that Fletcher girl, what's her name?"

"Annabeth," Trant responded tiredly and, totally unsurprised by his mother's probing, he added, "And, yes, I've been seeing her."

"I see," she prevaricated, "And how long has this been going on, pray tell?"

"Oh, I don't know," he replied, then suddenly recalling, he proffered, "Wait a minute, I believe I do recall. It was last winter, the King's birthday party. I ran into her there. Yes, of course, I began seeing her shortly thereafter."

"Is it serious?" Lady Sutherland now inquired pointedly.

"Oh, I don't know," he responded evasively.

"I see," she murmured, but then she added probingly, "What about Felicité?"

At this, his eyes flashing, he exclaimed, "Look here, mother, this is none of your affair. Who can say whether we shall lay eyes upon Lieutenant Delacroix ever again. Besides, I never considered her seriously."

"My, that is indeed evasive," she observed, her eyes downcast in embarrassment. "I agree, Trant – tis none of my business. But perhaps you will afford me the opportunity to ask a few questions. After all, it is a mother's right, is it not?"

"Yes, of course," Trant replied in apparent resignation, "What would you like to know, mother?"

"Oh, nothing important, I suppose," she murmured hesitantly, "What is she like, Trant?"

"What do you mean, _what is she like?_ " he exclaimed absurdly.

"Well, I've not met her, you see," she rejoined.

"But of course you've met her, mother!"

"What! Annabeth? I have? On what occasion, pray tell," she queried in confusion.

"She was one of the young ladies at my birthday party in the summer of 1940," he said suspiciously, adding, "Surely you already knew that!"

Appearing hurt, she denied, "Oh, my, Trant, I had no idea!" and then, glancing downward in embarrassment, she asked, "Which one was she, then?"

"She was the one in the blue gown."

"Blue gown?"

"Come now, mother, surely you recall all of them. She was quite the most beautiful of all of the young ladies, and quite elegant too, if you ask me."

"Oh, I see. Perhaps I do recall whom you are speaking of," she responded doubtfully, "Ah, yes, I believe I do. Didn't I in fact see you speaking with her at some point during the evening?"

"Yes, mother, you most certainly did," he responded wearily, "I in fact spoke with all of the young ladies at one point or other."

"Ah, I see," she replied distantly and, as if she were recalling events of that evening, she asked, "And how did you find her to be that night?"

"To be honest, I found her to be quite engaging," he replied brusquely and, apparently desperate to end this line of discussion as expediently as possible, he added, "I even suggested that I should call on her at some point."

"And did you?" she interjected immediately.

"No, of course not," he denied, "I was wrapped up in the war, as you well know. It wasn't until I accidentally bumped into her at the King's birthday party..."

"Ah, yes, of course," she observed, "Well, I'm sure you know what you're doing, so I shan't interfere with your private affairs."

Obviously relieved to be finished with his mother's meddling, he murmured dismissively, "Right."

Shortly thereafter the pair said their goodbyes, Trant nonetheless out of sorts due to his mother's rather invasive behavior.

The Following Week

**Trant met her at a pub in the West End and,** supplying a brief but distant embrace, he said, "So good to see you, Annabeth."

Smiling tentatively, she responded, "And you as well."

Feeling discomforted in her presence, he blurted, "So what was it you wanted to see me about?"

"Oh, nothing in particular," she put in, "I just wanted to see your face."

"And here I am, at your command," he rejoined.

"So, what have you been up to that has kept us apart?" she inquired.

"Oh, I've been supporting intelligence operations. It's quite taxing, you know."

"What sort of intelligence work?"

"Actually, I've been doing some undercover work with the French underground."

"Kudos to you, Trant. But what sort of undercover work?"

"Well, you recall Felicité Delacroix, I assume. It has to do with her."

"Oh? What is she up to, then?"

"Well, I really can't say. Top secret, you know."

"I see," she murmured, "So you've been working with her."

"Actually, I've had little direct contact with her. She's on assignment elsewhere now."

"I trust she is not in harm's way," Annabeth offered.

"Right, well, I'm not at liberty to say."

Seeing that he was not forthcoming, she changed the subject, inquiring, "And how is your mother?"

"Oh, she's doing quite well. What with the war and all, she manages to keep quite busy snooping about all the time."

"Oh? Has she asked about us?"

"Well, since you asked – yes, she has, Annabeth."

"What was it about?"

"Oh, I suppose she is just doing her matronly duty. You know, making sure that we are suited for one another."

"And are we?"

At this Trant blushed in embarrassment and blurted, "Well, er, I'm not certain, Annabeth. The truth is, perhaps I proposed to you prematurely."

"Oh, my. I'm sorry to hear that, Trant. Is it anything I did?"

"Oh, no, perish thought, dear Annabeth. You are the very picture of any man's desire."

At this she responded, "Well then, what seems to be the problem?"

"Right, I suppose it's the war and all. I am confounded by the tempestuous times."

"That is quite understandable, Trant. But surely there is more to your reticence than that."

"Oh, I shouldn't be concerned if I were you, Annabeth," he fibbed, "I'm simply distracted by the war. When this is all over, I should think that I will be more attentive. Tis quite impossible to pursue one's own desires when one's friends are dying all about."

"I see," she murmured, "It is all so distressing. Well, I suppose for the moment we must all soldier on. But I shall hold you to your proposal when the war is finally over."

"I say, that's quite sporting of you, Annabeth. And for my part, I am most awfully sorry if I've caused you pain," he offered.

Nonetheless hurt by his admission, she responded, "All's fair in love and war, as they say."

Paris – December, 1943

**Felicité was shocked** at the horrendous change in the city of her youth. Paris had changed from the city of light to the city of drab. All was grey, everywhere she visited. Not only was grey the look of the city, it was also reflected in the eyes of the inhabitants. There seemed to be no flicker of life anywhere at all. Indeed, though it still contained some two million inhabitants, much of the time the city appeared to be nearly deserted.

On her third night in Paris, Felicité was summoned by the resistance to a meeting at an apartment in the sixth _arrondisement_. On her way there, she noticed that the Jardin du Luxembourg, which had always been filled with French citizens in her youth, was empty but for a half dozen German soldiers.

Finding the address given to her, Felicité climbed four flights of stairs and knocked on the apartment door. Once inside the smoke-filled room, she was introduced to several freedom fighters, all of whom were men. Alain Lesieutre introduced himself as the head of the ultra-secret resistance group in Paris, subsequently announcing what everyone in the room already knew, "Lieutenant Delacroix has come from England to help us penetrate the German Command in Paris. Her objective, and we are to support her in this endeavor, is to gain sufficient information for us to break the Germans' Enigma code in Paris." At this pronouncement he turned to Felicité and said, "Welcome, lieutenant. I might even say, welcome home."

"Thank you, Mr. Lesieutre," she replied. "The first order of business is to get me into German Headquarters. My understanding is that you have connections that can get me in direct contact with members of the Wehrmacht here in Paris. Is that correct?"

Alain glanced around the room, and thereby assured of confidentiality, he announced, "We are given to understand that you are a competent singer. Is that correct, lieutenant?"

"Yes, I studied voice as a school girl in Paris, and thereafter at Queen's College in Oxford."

"We have arranged for you to join the show at the Moulin Rouge as a singer, lieutenant."

"The Moulin Rouge! I thought that it closed down when Paris was taken by the Germans," she responded.

"It is indeed shut down. However, for the moment it serves the German military exclusively."

"And is the show as always?"

"Yes, it is, lieutenant, except that there are performances only on one or two nights a week."

"So will I be expected to perform _en déshabillé?"_

"I'm afraid so, lieutenant," Alain responded matter-of-factly.

"Hmmm, it seems that I shall be the first officer in the British Army assigned to perform in her knickers in Paris for the German Wehrmacht."

At this the room erupted in uneasy twitters, at which Alain volunteered, "As they say, lieutenant, all things are fair in love and war."

Paris – Three weeks later

**Felicité gave her first** performance at the Moulin Rouge. Decked out in a flowing red evening gown that had been expertly designed so that it was cut to the waist in front, she sang a solo rendition of 'Lili Marleen' before a packed house of German soldiers and dignitaries. The effect was immediate and exactly as anticipated by the resistance plan. She was invited to a table of German officers directly after her number, whereupon she was introduced to General Horstmüller, who was the ranking officer in the German Wehrmacht in Paris.

General Horstmüller rose from his seat, announcing, "Ah, here she is, gentlemen. Miss Martine Pelletier, may I introduce my staff at German Headquarters," and at this admission he bowed perfunctorily, thereby exacting a closeup view of her exquisite jewels.

Felicité curtsied so as to improve the examination that the general seemed so intent upon and responded demurely, "It is a pleasure, _mon generale_."

"Please join us, if you will," the general offered, pointing to the seat adjacent to his own, his eyes continuing to bulge in evident appreciation. He then inquired gruffly, "Where did you learn to sing like that?"

"I was trained in voice at the Sorbonne, where I also studied German language, _mon generale_ ," she responded in perfect German.

"Do you know ' _Die_ _Horst Wessel_ '?" he queried doubtfully.

"Why yes, of course, _mon generale_ ," she replied matter-of-factly.

"Please, stand up," he ordered perfunctorily, at which she rose without hesitation. "Please, if you will, step up on the table and lead us in ' _Die_ _Horst Wessel_ '." At this, Felicité took his proffered hand and stepped up onto the table. The entire contingent of German Officers in the Moulin Rouge immediately rose and stood to attention and, following Felicité's lead, the room burst forth in song.

From that point things moved rather quickly so that, by the end of the evening it was clear to everyone that Felicité had become the general's personal 'possession'. During the course of the next several weeks she sang within the club on multiple occasions.

As anticipated, she was by now living with General Horstmüller at his sumptuous apartment overlooking the Seine. Each weekend she entertained the German troops, afterwards retiring to the general's apartment. The general had an extraordinary sexual appetite and, having become his personal property, Felicité was expected to fulfill his craving in any way that he saw fit.

General Horstmüller seemed to be delighted most of all when Felicité feigned resistance to his ministrations, whatever they might be. It was not long before she realized that this could well be the means whereby she could gain access to German Headquarters.

Paris – April, 1944

**Felicité met with** Alain Lesieutre on a cold grey morning in an abandoned apartment in the Marais, near the spot where Henry IV had been assassinated more than three hundred years earlier. She explained General Horstmüller's devious appetite, saying, "He seems to be sexually insecure. I believe that this proclivity could be used to gain access by me to German Headquarters."

"What exactly do you have in mind?' he queried.

"I shall manipulate him such that he will command me to put on a risqué show at German Headquarters. The show will give him the opportunity to demonstrate to his subordinates just how omnipotent he is with his personal possessions."

At this he stared at her incredulously and blurted, "Do you honestly believe that you could actually get everyone at headquarters out of the way long enough for us to steal the Enigma code?"

"Yes, I do. In keeping with the general's penchant for excess, he will expect absolutely everyone within German Headquarters to attend so that he can display his personal possession to them."

"How long do you think you can hold their attention?"

"At least fifteen minutes," she responded self-assuredly.

"Lieutenant, if you can keep the staff at Headquarters occupied for fifteen minutes, we can steal the code. We know where everything is in that building. After all, it used to be a hotel run by Parisians."

"Right, I shall contact my handler in London to obtain approval for the plan. We should be able to do this in late May. I will let you know what they say."

"Yes, I have it, lieutenant."

Felicité departed moments later, pondering exactly what she would have to do to keep the entire staff of German Headquarters entranced for an endless quarter of an hour. Aware that her very life depended on it, she understood full well that she would have to be willing to go to any lengths whatsoever to clear the building for the requisite amount of time. The thought absolutely terrified her.

The Following Evening

**Felicité had learned to recognize** when General Horstmüller arrived at the apartment in one of his particularly sadistic moods. This was one of those times. Apparently, he had been forced to deal with an unpleasant situation at headquarters in a way that was less than satisfying to him. By now accustomed to his bizarre moods, Felicité was unsurprised when after a couple of stiff drinks he unleashed one of his vulgar amusements upon her. Taking advantage of her by now complete understanding of his psychological shortcomings, she summarily convinced him to put on the requisite show, and she of course would be the headliner.

"I shall arrange it immediately," he commanded, proud that he would have the opportunity to display his most prized possession, "We shall hold it at the Moulin Rouge."

She had already planned how she would react if he suggested the Moulin Rouge, thus she quickly responded, "Yes, that would be much better than headquarters. The crowd will be small, and they will not be surprised. Besides, I would be far too embarrassed to perform for a large crowd. Oh, thank you, _mon generale_!"

"What? Why?"

"If it were held at headquarters, then surely the entire staff would turn out, thinking it to be an important military meeting. If it were held there it would also be a grand surprise. The officers would all go wild with excitement! I would be so embarrassed! I don't think that I could possibly do it if it were held at headquarters."

At this response the general puffed up and exclaimed brusquely, "I've changed my mind. It will be held at German Headquarters!"

"Oh, no, _mon generale_!"

At this he slapped her, spat on her, and roared, "Shut up, you little dog!"

Now seriously frightened, she fell silent. He glared at her for a moment and said, "For your insolence, I will expect you to give the performance of a lifetime. If you do not, I shall have you shot! Do you hear me?"

"Yes, _mon generale._ I promise, I shall make you proud of me!" she whimpered.

"The show will be in three weeks' time."

Now weeping visibly, she begged, " _Mon generale_ , may I request a bit more time to plan for the show? If you will be so kind as to let me see the auditorium in the Hotel Meurice, I shall be able to inform you as to how long it will take for me to prepare for my performance. Does that meet your approval?"

His compulsive need for absolute control now sated, he replied dismissively, "Yes, my little poodle."

The Following Morning

**Felicité accompanied General Horstmüller** to headquarters. Arriving in the hotel lobby, she exclaimed, "Oh, it is quite gorgeous, _mon generale_! Where is the auditorium?"

"Come with me. I shall show you," he replied in evident pride. They walked down a hallway and came to a door, whereupon he beckoned her to enter. She stepped inside the auditorium and, immediately putting her hands to her face, she exclaimed, "Oh, thank you, _mon generale_ , it is perfect. I shall be the talk of Paris! The stage is lovely, and the setting is just perfect!"

"Yes, I thought you would like it," he responded pleasantly.

Kissing him on the cheek, she responded, "Now, please show me where I can change into my costume for the show, _mon generale_."

The Following Day

**Felicité received an encoded message** from Trant. The message approved the plan, but it stipulated two changes. First, for reasons that she did not understand the show must at all costs be held on either June 3rd or 4th. Second, the plan should also include a disturbance at German Headquarters, perhaps even an attack if that could be arranged.

At this development Felicité immediately arranged to meet with Alain Lesieutre the following morning. She thought about this last command for the remainder of the day, and by the time she met with him she had concocted a plan in her mind. When she told him of London's requirements, she suggested that if he could plan to the minute, they might be able to actually bomb German Headquarters.

"What!" he thundered incredulously.

"You said that you know that building," she responded accusingly. "If you really do know that building, then surely you can have your resistance fighters plant a bomb beneath the auditorium. And if you can time the bomb accurately, then you can first steal the Enigma code, and then set off the bomb while the German leadership in Paris is still gathered within the auditorium. It will provide the perfect cover for our escape."

"But what about you! You will be blown up as well!"

"Let's plan it down to the finest detail," she suggested, "And if we time everything just right, perhaps I can step from the stage just before the bomb goes off, and in the subsequent confusion I can escape into the underground tunnels."

Eyeing her doubtfully, he nonetheless replied, "Alright, I will see what I can do, lieutenant. Just exactly why are the dates so important?"

"I have an idea why, but I'm not certain, so I'd rather not say. Anyway, let's set it for June 3."

"Right. I shall begin planning on my end. You get to work on the show and let me know when you need to meet with me again."

" _Bon,_ " she replied, and at this she rose to leave.

That Evening

**Felicité was prepared the moment** General Horstmüller entered the door to the apartment. Offering him a kiss on the cheek, she said, "Good evening, _mon generale_." She subsequently handed him a glass of his favorite scotch, inquiring, "May we talk for a moment?"

Patting her on the head exactly as he would a small dog, he replied, "Of course, my little poodle."

" _Mon generale_ , it seems that my costume will not be prepared within three weeks. Could we possibly stretch the date for the show to four weeks?"

"How could your costume be that important?" he queried impatiently.

"When you see it, you will understand why, _mon generale_. You have commanded me under threat of death to give the performance of a lifetime, and in order for me to do so, it is essential that my costume be absolutely perfect. I fear that you will have me shot if my performance is not up to your expectations."

"Come here, my little poodle," he said, at which she came and sat at his feet. He then announced, "You needn't worry, my pet. I could never have you shot. I just said that to terrify you. I'm sorry. We shall move it one week further, to the night of June 3. But it can be no later than that. Do you understand?"

"Yes, _mon generale_ ," and at this she crawled into his lap and hugged him tightly, murmuring, "I am so sorry that I fought you over the show. I shall make you so proud of me. You shall see. Perhaps you could serve drinks with the intention of toasting the Führer. And as soon as the men have had their drinks, I shall appear onstage and make you very proud. I promise."

"I am quite certain that you will delight them all."

"Oh, I almost forgot, there is one other thing, _mon generale_ , may we have music? I need music so that I can dance for the men!"

Patting her affectionately on the head once again, he replied, "Yes, of course, my little poodle."

The Following Day

**Felicité met Alain** and the plans were laid for his men to break in and steal the Enigma code during her performance. Additional plans were made for the French underground to stage an attack on headquarters as a diversionary measure if Lesieutre and his men were found out before they had time to escape. Finally, plans were made for the emplacement of a large bomb beneath the auditorium.

Rather than utilize an untrustworthy timer, it was determined that a resistance fighter from Alsace who spoke perfect German would infiltrate the hotel that night disguised as a German soldier, and he would ensure that the bomb was not set off until Felicité was safely away from the auditorium. He would subsequently also aide Felicité in her escape. By the end of May all was planned down to the last detail.

At her final meeting with Alain before the show they went over last-minute details one last time. Alain queried once again, "If you please, outline for me once more what your expectations are for the timing, lieutenant."

"Right," Felicité responded, "As we know, the success of this plan hinges on how well I can hold the attention of everyone at headquarters for the period of time that you will need to steal the code. It will take me approximately twenty minutes to create an atmosphere of complete depravity. I intend by my performance to cause quite a stir, thus inducing the audience to make a great deal of noise. I am confident that by that time the sheer reverberation within the auditorium will attract literally everyone within the building to my show. Thereafter, I should be able to hold their complete attention for fifteen minutes, but no more than that. Will that be enough time, monsieur?"

"Yes, that should be enough time. We already know exactly which room the Enigma machine is stored within, so it should take only a few minutes to remove it. So what time should we enter the building?"

"I'm thinking...you should time your entrance for 9:20, not a minute sooner."

"Excellent, we shall arrive within at exactly 9:20, lieutenant. Good luck."

Paris – June 3, 1944

**Felicité sat nervously awaiting** as the general's vehicle slowed to a halt in front of German Headquarters. As she had hoped, they had arrived at precisely eight P.M. He stepped out, followed by Felicité. In keeping with her status as the general's plaything, she was extravagantly accoutered in a full-length fur coat. Several soldiers had already arrived, and at her appearance they halted in midstride, gaping in admiration at the general's gorgeous possession.

The pair proceeded through the revolving hotel doors into headquarters, Felicité nervously making her way toward her dressing room, wherein she hurriedly prepared for the show.

A half hour later the auditorium was packed with four hundred boisterous and half intoxicated officers, each and every one of them wondering what had caused the necessity for such an extraordinarily large staff meeting accompanied by alcoholic beverages. At that moment the lights were extinguished and the crowd hushed. A spotlight suddenly illuminated the curtains at the far-left end of the stage, an all-encompassing voice commanding, " _Ächtung_!"

The entire audience rose as one to attention and, appearing on the platform, General Horstmüller stepped self-assuredly within the illuminated circle of light. The general paused a moment for effect, then exclaimed, " _Heil_ , Hitler!" simultaneously giving the Nazi salute. The audience followed suit, at which the general continued, exclaiming, "Please, be seated. Now, I know that you are all wondering why I've asked you here tonight. Because of the admirable reports that the Führer has received regarding the performance of the Wehrmacht in France, he has given me leave to award you all a little bit of rest and relaxation. Thus, tonight I am most happy to present to you my personal possession, Martine, the French poodle!"

At this announcement Felicité marched ostentatiously onto the stage decked out in a bogus uniform of a German officer. Incongruously, she was wearing a black mask adorned with feline ears, together with a German Wehrmacht hat and a pair of shiny ebony campaign boots. She snapped to attention and, saluting the general Nazi style, she subsequently turned and bent down with her posterior pointed at him in a mock gesture of offense. At the implication that he should kiss her behind, the crowd broke into raucous laughter and applause.

Felicité straightened and, turning to face the audience, she raised one arm in the air in mock triumph. The general said, "Men, as you can all see, I am afraid I'm outnumbered up here. What do you say, would you like to see more of Martine?" At this pronouncement the crowd broke into wild applause, prompting the general to add, "Martine, show them what you've got!" and at this point he stepped from the stage. As he did so, the curtains rose, exposing a back drop that looked curiously like a dungeon.

Felicité strutted to the middle of the stage, turned to face the audience, and saluted the troops. But before the crowd could react, she reached down, yanked with apparent determination on her uniform, and jerked it in one rapid motion entirely from her body. Beneath she wore a bawdy black outfit composed of a bustier, stockings that protruded from her boots, a garter belt, elbow length black gloves, and knickers. The effect was immediate and electrifying, the entire audience bounding as one to their feet and roaring their collective approval.

Felicité was already well on her way to accomplishing her mission, the riotous noise having begun to attract those few soldiers within the building who were not already in attendance. Booming music suddenly commenced, lending a vulgar atmosphere to her performance, and Felicité then proceeded to drive the crowd wild with a seductive show that required exactly twenty minutes for her to bring the crowd to the perfect pitch. By the time she had shed the majority of her attire, every single soldier within the building had left his post and joined in the excitement.

Felicité then proceeded to hold the audience's rapt attention for a further fifteen minutes as she both sang and strutted to and fro onstage, performing lascivious moves that drove the audience wild with excitement. In order to ensure preservation of absolutely everyone's attention, at selected intervals she threatened to remove her mask, and then halting, she raised one hand to her ear as if to imply, "If you want to see my gorgeous face, please applaud forcefully," thereby driving the troops into a raucous frenzy of hormone-laden depravity. Felicité's timing was exactly as she had predicted to Alain, as not a soul made so much as the tiniest feint towards the exits.

The show reached its penultimate moment when Felicité, on completing her rendition of the earthy hit 'Lili Marlene', coyly removed her mask, to the accompaniment of a thunderous standing ovation. The show now having come to an end, she subsequently bowed several times in response to the riotous applause, at which point the general returned to the stage and exclaimed sonorously above the still erupting pandemonium, "How about that for rest and relaxation, men?"

The troops once again roared their approval of the general's selection for the evening, at which the general announced, "Just so no one will get any ideas, Martine is entirely _my personal property_! Anyone caught with their hand in the cookie jar will have it removed!" at which the crowd guffawed in guttural unison. The general then grinned salaciously at the audience and, turning towards Felicité, he whispered in her ear, "Oh, how I am going to love toying with my little French poodle tonight!"

In response, she kissed him on the cheek, at which he for his part gently faced her towards stage left and, swatting her loudly on her behind, he bellowed for the audience to hear, "Now, go back to your cage, my little French poodle!" At which the audience screamed with further delight. Feigning pain at his wallop, Felicité grasped her bare flanks and pranced obediently from the stage.

General Horstmüller now turned back towards the audience, announcing, "As you can doubtless deduce from the show tonight, the Führer is quite proud of all of you. Now, I invite you to rise and sing ' _Die_ _Horst Wessel_ ' along with me!" All present rose and joined in singing.

Midway through the anthem an enormous explosion ripped through the Hotel Meurice, wreaking death and devastation on German Headquarters. By then Felicité had escaped down a hallway and disappeared into a basement of the hotel, whereupon she entered into the Paris sewers and made her way to safety.
Chapter 7

Despair

London – June 4, 1944

**Trant noticed that,** by contrast to the summer of 1940, the atmosphere in London was one of great expectation. Wherever one turned these days, people were whispering excitedly among themselves. While very few people were actually aware of what precisely was about to occur, nearly everyone knew that an invasion was imminent. It was indeed an extraordinarily sharp contrast to the London of 1940.

On this particular day General Sutherland and his son, Wing Commander Sutherland, were having lunch at his club. Lord Sutherland commented, "So, Trant, it appears that Lieutenant Delacroix has done it. Bletchley Park says that the code sent to them early this morning is genuine. We have thus broken the latest version of the Enigma code. We can now intercept any transmission between Paris and the German High Command. And the bombing not only killed General Horstmüller, it also killed an additional twenty-five German officers, and wounded perhaps as many as seventy-five others. German Headquarters in Paris has been thrown into an uproar at precisely the right moment for the invasion. I'm certain that thousands of lives will be saved due to her heroics. That young lady deserves a medal."

"Yes, I must admit that she has exceeded my every expectation. She is an amazing woman. Whatever she sets out to do, she seems to accomplish," Trant responded grimly.

"So exactly how did she get it? Do you know?"

"You mean the code? I'm really not quite certain. What I do know is that my contact says that she put on a diversionary show at German Headquarters in Paris."

"What sort of show?"

"I've no further information, but I think I may have an idea what it might have been," Trant volunteered.

"Well?"

"I'd rather not say, sir."

"If I am not mistaken, isn't she an accomplished singer? It must have been quite a show for her to distract the entire Command staff long enough for the resistance to break in and steal the code, not to mention setting off the bomb."

"I quite agree, sir. And to top it off, she escaped into the Paris underground and is apparently making her way westward at this very moment."

"She's quite a resourceful woman, Trant. She seems to care not a single whit for rules, if you follow me."

"Yes, of course, but the important thing to remember is what you said. Due to her efforts many lives will be saved over the coming months."

"Quite so, quite so," the senior Sutherland replied.

Rouen – June 5, 1944

**Felicité was** **secreted away from Paris** proper by the French resistance upon her escape from German Headquarters. She was first transported to a safe house in Morainvilliers, where she spent her first night on the run. Felicité took the opportunity to cut her hair short and dye it back to its original blonde color. Since the fictitious person Martine Peletier was now a fugitive, she destroyed her false papers and reassumed her true identity of Felicité Delacroix.

With further help from the resistance, Felicité was able to make her way to Rouen within twenty-four hours of the attack on German Headquarters in Paris. Although she had no idea exactly when or where it would commence, she was determined to be as near as possible to the coast when the Allied invasion finally began. Unfortunately, her vehicle was stopped at a German road block that was heretofore unknown to the resistance fighters.

Something untoward appeared to be up, for the Germans seemed to be checking everyone who was going into or out of the city. Thus, she and the other two inhabitants of her car were required to park their vehicle and enter a building, whereupon they were forced to stand in a line of about a dozen people. It appeared that all was going smoothly, as each person was allowed to pass. Thus, she and her fellow conspirators determined to bide their time and hope for the best.

"Papers, please!" the guard said to her as she reached the head of the line. Felicité handed him her papers. "What are you doing coming here from Paris, _Fräulein_ ," he inquired.

"I did not come here from Paris. I came from Morainvilliers, where I live. I am here to visit my aunt," she replied.

"And who is your aunt?" he queried.

"Madame Antonia San Michel," she replied.

"Sit down here and wait, _Fräulein_ ," he replied. Felicité was thus the only person who was held for further questioning. Under the circumstances, her traveling companions were forced to go on ahead without her.

Felicité waited for several hours, finally falling asleep. By the time she awoke it had grown completely dark. She waited a bit longer, at which point another soldier came forward and inquired, "Are you _Fräulein_ Felicité Delacroix?"

"Yes," she replied.

"Follow me!" he commanded.

She followed him through the building to a courtyard where there were several German soldiers standing adjacent to a truck with a cloth cover.

Her escort said to them, "This is the Jewess."

Taken aback, she exclaimed in denial "No! I am not a Jew!" but her captors ignored her denial.

Several of the soldiers subsequently grabbed her by her arms and feet and tossed her into the truck, as if she were a rag doll. She landed on top of several other detainees who were already crowded onboard, and though their bodies broke her fall, she heard a collective groan from the throng beneath her.

Unaware that such decorum would soon disappear altogether from her world, she murmured apologetically, " _Pardonez moi_!"

Near Portsmouth – Just After Midnight June 6, 1944

**Trant buckled himself** into the cockpit of the Spitfire in preparation for the night flight over the Channel. Although he had flown many times in the war, he had never actually piloted an aircraft over French soil. Tonight he would lead the escort wing for the airlift of the British 6th Airborne Division into France north of Caen. His challenge was to make sure that enemy fire of any type was drawn away from the transport aircraft that would drop the airborne troops by parachute.

On receipt of the deployment command the entire squadron took off from the airfield, heading directly south for the Channel crossing. The flight took just under an hour, during which time the sky was quite overcast, giving Trant the distinct impression that their mission might be of no consequence to the airborne assault by the British. However, once they approached landfall, the cloud cover became somewhat scattered, permitting him useful glimpses of the beach below. There were no German aircraft to be seen anywhere, but shortly after they passed the beach at Normandy the entire squadron was assaulted by a battery of anti-aircraft guns. Given that their mission was to protect the 6th Airborne, Trant gave the order over his radio to circle round and attack the anti-aircraft positions.

Following his own order, Trant led the assault on the ground positions. Unfortunately, the broken cloud cover was quite low, making it difficult to make visual contact with the anti-aircraft batteries. Trant nevertheless led the attack formation, but his aircraft was unfortunately struck in the tail almost immediately. He climbed as quickly as he could, gaining altitude to several thousand feet, but he realized that his tail controls were jammed, thus allowing him no alternative other than to fly straight ahead. His course was southeast, meaning that the longer he flew, the further he would fly into enemy territory. He therefore radioed in his location and course and settled in for the unwelcome challenge ahead.

He made the decision to continue flying straight ahead, thereby carrying him deeper into occupied territory. Because of his year-long handling of Felicité, he was well acquainted with the methods of the French Resistance. He was therefore aware that the German military would be concentrated along the coastline, with the resistance more likely to be found within the interior. Thus, he flew onwards, heading for Rouen. He flew directly over the city, observing the Seine three thousand feet below. Once he had cleared the city, he flew onward at treetop level, searching for a safe place to land. Eventually spotting an open field ahead, he cut his engine and landed his aircraft without injury or incident.

It wasn't his lucky night. By the time he managed to get free of his plane, a squad of German soldiers was upon him. He was immediately taken prisoner and placed in the back of a truck. Over the course of the night two other pilots were captured and placed in the vehicle with him, all three assuming that they would be transported to a prisoner camp on the morrow.

East of Rouen – Morning, June 6, 1944

**Felicité awoke from** a fitful sleep, pain wracking every joint in her body. She gingerly attempted to adjust to a more comfortable position, but the tiniest movement caused her to encroach on the suffering of the others within the bed of the truck. The truck had driven for perhaps an hour, but then it had halted for the duration of the night. Because the going was extremely slow, Felicité reckoned they had only gone a few miles southeast of Rouen before the truck had halted beside the roadway.

Shortly before dawn she began to hear the rumble of distant gunfire – the invasion of Normandy had most likely begun, and they were now being transported to the east, away from the Allied Army. Shortly after sunrise, as the truck was driving very slowly through a countryside intersection, she was gazing out the back of the truck when she saw a pair of German soldiers guarding three prisoners. Suddenly realizing that one of them was Trant, she screamed at the top of her lungs, "Trant! Bloody hell! Trant!"

That Same Morning

**Trant and his fellow** prisoners hopped down from the transport truck, which had broken down just after daybreak. They were subsequently ordered to wait on the side of the road while the vehicle was repaired. They had been standing on the side of the road for perhaps a quarter of an hour when a large truck approached them from the northwest. As it passed them by Trant stared uneasily at the captives in the back of the truck, wondering what their fate was intended to be.

Suddenly he heard a voice from within the truck scream, "Trant! Bloody hell! Trant!" And there, not twenty feet away, was the very image of Felicité. On impulse he made a mad dash for the truck, but one of the soldiers tripped him with his rifle, sending him sprawling. He managed to rise to his knees just long enough to see her fleeting face as the truck drove away. Waving with all his might, he called to her, "Felicité!" but by then the truck had disappeared round the curve.

That Same Moment

**Felicité was beside herself** with a flood of emotions. On the one hand, she was painfully aware that she was moving away from everything that she valued in this world. But on the other hand, she had envisioned her most elusive and cherished desire in all the world, and in the most unlikely of places. It seemed to be a sign to her. She resolved that she must at all costs survive. She decided that it was a sign from heaven and that she therefore simply could not let anything whatsoever destroy her resolve to live.

Eventually the truck pulled into a courtyard adjacent to a multi-story building, whereupon she heard several persons whisper in abject terror the single word _Drancy_. She now knew for certain that they had reached the point of no return. No one ever came back from Drancy. Though it was just a small concentration camp on the edge of Paris, it had become in the last year nothing more than an intermediate stop for transporting prisoners to the East.

The truck gate was lowered, and three soldiers immediately began dragging the detainees out and tossing them to the ground, oblivious to the injuries that their rough handling inflicted on their captives. Once everyone was unloaded from the truck, they were ordered to form a single line. An SS officer came forward and carefully examined each of the detainees. When he came to Felicité, he paused and carefully pushed her chin up with his riding crop. He examined her face and, inspecting her from head to foot, he uttered, " _Ja_ ," and strode onwards. A soldier immediately grabbed her, dragging her away from the cowering group of detainees. She resisted him in vain, causing her to stumble and fall to her knees. At this he simply ignored her and, dragging her roughly to her feet, he forced her to stumble onward in his wake.

She was eventually pushed into a small room where a rather large and sinister looking woman grabbed her harshly by the arm and forced her to sit in front of a small dressing table. The woman used broken French to instruct her to 'make herself look nice'. Trembling with fear, Felicité did her best to apply makeup despite her deplorable state. The woman then instructed her to remove her clothes. Recalling her vow to herself that very morning, Felicité reluctantly followed orders, after which the woman opened several drawers in a cabinet and made her to understand that she should rummage through the clothes within and find the best garments for herself. Suspecting all the while where these clothes must have come from, she nonetheless clothed herself as attractively as possible.

As she was completing her task the SS officer who had picked her out of the detainees in the courtyard suddenly entered the small room, brusquely examining her yet again. "She will do," he said to the woman, "Bring her to the dining room in precisely fifteen minutes."

"Yes, sir," the woman responded obediently.

The woman subsequently left the room, locking Felicité within. She returned a short time later and, grasping Felicité by the hand, she dragged her roughly from the room and commanded, "Now, you will follow me, _fräulein_." Felicité did her best to keep up. They raced down a hallway and halted at a door, at which point the woman turned and instructed her, "Now, _fräulein_ , you will do _exactly_ as the commandant tells you to do, understand?"

"Yes," Felicité responded meekly.

"I think that you do not understand me, _fräulein_ ," the woman retorted, "What I mean to say is, if you do not do _exactly_ as the commandant says, then afterwards I will beat you mercilessly until you are dead. Do you understand me, _fräulein_?"

"Yes, I understand."

"Good, now please enter the room, and smile!"

Attempting to smile as best she could, Felicité pushed the door open and entered. Inside the smoke-filled room she could see a group of perhaps a dozen SS officers who seemed to be finishing up what appeared to her to be a dining extravaganza. She stood in one corner frozen in fear, but suddenly noticing her, the selfsame SS officer who had previously examined her exclaimed, "Ah, here she is commandant." He rose from his seat and came towards her, inquiring as he did so, "What is your name, _fräulein_?"

"Felicité."

He turned towards the officer at the head of the table and announced, "Her name is Felicité, commandant."

The officer that he had spoken to now commanded her, "Excellent, please come here, _Fräulein_ Felicité," and, seeing her hesitation, he restated politely, "That's right. You need not be afraid. Please, come here."

She walked slowly to the far end of the room, uneasily approaching the commandant. He held out his hand to her, saying, "I am Colonel Kimmel, commandant of Drancy. Welcome to our Camp for Interns."

"Thank you, sir," Felicité responded nervously.

"Tell me, _fräulein_ , we have been discussing an important point among ourselves this evening. The Führer says that all Jewish women are asexual. This seems to make no sense, for how could the Jewish people still exist if that were the case? _Fräulein_ , what is your opinion on this subject?"

Felicité was thinking about what the woman had told her. She could guess where this line of discussion was going, and it wasn't good at all. Still hoping for some means of escape, she therefore replied evasively, "I'm not sure I understand, sir."

Commandant Kimmel immediately slapped her so hard that she almost fell down. Rising up, she held her face where he had struck her, at which he exclaimed vehemently, "I shall require your responses to improve markedly, _fräulein_. Do you understand?"

All hope having now disappeared, she responded submissively, "Yes, Commandant Kimmel."

He turned to his fellow officers and offered, "Perhaps she doesn't know the answer to my question, gentlemen. After all, she is only half Jewish." The men laughed at this, and he continued with, " _Fräulein_ , we find ourselves in a conundrum. We have discussed this unusual situation among ourselves, and we fear that only you can answer this question: which half of you is Jewish? Would you say the top half, or the bottom half?" and he said this last with a most sinister grin. Not bothering to await her answer, he queried with incongruous politeness, "Perhaps you would be so kind as to expose for us the part of you that is not Jewish, purely for clinical purposes, you understand?"

Felicité stood frozen in fear, unable to even imagine for a moment what Commandant Kimmel was suggesting. Seeing her hesitation, he struck her with his riding whip, causing her to wince in pain.

"Well?" he queried expectantly.

"Commandant Kimmel, I would be honored to do your bidding," she responded disconsolately, all the while doing her best to retain her appealing smile.

"Excellent!" he responded, thenceforth commanding, "Please, _fräulein_ , take my hand." As she took his hand apprehensively he stood up and, pushing his chair to the edge of the table, he suggested politely, "Please, step up onto the chair," and he followed with, "Now, please - step onto the table," at which she stepped timidly onto the table.

"Please, now stand in the middle of the table, _fräulein_." She followed his command, no longer in any doubt whatsoever as to his intention. "Now, I repeat, _fräulein_ , would you please be so kind as to reveal the half of you that is not Jewish!" and this time he said it much more forcefully.

Felicité closed her eyes and, taking a deep breath, she removed her blouse. "Excellent! He exclaimed cheerfully. "Now the remainder, please," at which she removed her brassiere.

"Excellent, _fräulein_. Now, if you would, please turn full circle so that everyone can observe your Aryan genetics," and as she slowly turned, he observed appreciatively, "Yes, that's good. You do learn quickly, _fraülein_! Excellent!"

And when she had completed her turn, he announced, "Gentlemen, it appears that everything is in order. It certainly appears that _Fräulein_ Felicité is not Jewish from the waist up. She is clearly a normal attractive woman from my viewpoint. What say all of you?" At this the officers applauded, signaling their macabre concurrence with his assessment.

The men continued to ogle her appreciatively, but then the commandant expounded, "But hold on, we have nothing to compare to. It stands to reason that if _Fräulein_ Felicité is not Jewish from the waist up, then we must conclude that she is Jewish from the waist down. Therefore, following the Führer's thesis, she would necessarily also have to be asexual from the waist down."

Staring maliciously at Felicité, as if willing her to guess in advance what his next suggestion would be, he then exclaimed with a sadistic grin, " _Fräulein_ , I'm afraid that in the interest of sound science, we must necessarily obtain experimental evidence in order to verify the Führer's theory. Therefore, I must ask you to please expose your Jewish half."

Having prepared herself for his latest demand, Felicité closed her eyes for a moment, in her mind's eye envisioning a manor in the English countryside, a game of tennis being played on the court, and in her mind she was clearly on her way to victory. This was the image she needed to focus on in order to give her courage to go forward, to survive anything, anything at all.

Opening her eyes, she quickly removed the remainder of her clothes. Colonel Kimmel now volunteered victoriously, " _Fräulein_ , that is excellent!" and, turning towards his dinner companions, he announced, "Gentlemen, it seems that we have within our midst the perfect sample for the purpose at hand. I for one find this specimen to be the finest and certainly the most compliant of any that we have observed here at Drancy."

Turning back toward her, he commanded, "Miss Felicité, I must insist that you hold your hands above your head and turn full circle so that the experimental results can be evaluated in their entirety." At this, Felicité closed her eyes and implemented his instructions precisely.

At length, the inspection having been completed, the commandant assessed, "Gentlemen, it appears that _Fräulein_ Felicité is quite appealing, but only from the waist up. It is imminently clear that the Führer is quite correct. While she is indeed appealing, it is obvious that she is not suitable from the waist down. What a pity. In other circumstances she might have made a fitting vessel for proliferation of The Reich." He halted momentarily and followed with, " _Fräulein_ , it seems that you are not worthy of the Third Reich. Therefore, I must ask you to lie prone on your back and raise your feet in the air directly over your head."

Now terrified beyond description, Felicité followed his instructions, fearing that she could well be executed right here on this very table. The commandant came forward, but before she had time to realize what he was about, he pulled his riding crop from behind his back and struck her viciously on both feet. She lurched and cried out in pain, but he had by then enlisted two of his subordinates to hold her feet in place. "There, there, _fräulein_. I'm sure that this must be somewhat painful, but I assure you that it is necessary," and he struck her again, and then again. Two more blows, and she was screaming uncontrollably in pain.

The commandant stepped back from her and cooed with feigned empathy, "Now you will not even consider the thought of escape, will you, _fräulein_?" and without awaiting an answer from his now whimpering protégé, he turned to his aides and commanded viciously, "Klaus, Heinrich, get this baggage out of here!" at which two of the men dragged her from the table and carried her from the room.

An hour later Felicité lay within a cell, still naked, but somehow thankful to simply be alive. Her feet bloodied and swollen from the commandant's vicious beating, she lay there hoping for little more than that they would not come back for her any time soon. Her arms were also a bit bloody from the iron cuffs about her wrists, but her feet were by far the worst. Though she was by now resigned to the reality that she was going to die, she nevertheless clung desperately to her sanity in the hope that she might avoid divulging any secret information.

As it turned out, having arrested her on the charge that her mother had been Jewish, the Gestapo apparently had no inkling whatsoever that she was a spy. Her Jewish blood had turned out to be a great shock to her and, although her father should have told her, she could understand how he had held it back from her. As she had not the energy to ponder the issue further, she drifted off into a fitful sleep.

A short time later she was awakened by the sound of a guard entering her cell. Dragging her to her feet, he commanded, "Put this on," at which she quickly put on the proffered tattered dress and sweater. He then led her from the cell, causing her to limp badly from the injuries to her feet.

The guard now removed her iron cuffs, at which she asked timidly, "Where are you taking me?"

"You are scheduled for transport to the East, _fräulein_."
Chapter 8

Journey to Oblivion

East of Rouen - June 6, 1944

**Trant's captors apprehended** two more British airmen, bringing the total to five. By now they outnumbered their captors, a squad of four German Wehrmacht soldiers. Although their truck was clearly heading southeast towards Paris, transit was hampered by occasional strafing from allied aircraft that forced the occupants to repeatedly leap from the truck and find cover within a ditch on either side of the road. The frenetic military activity made it apparent to both captors and captives alike that the invasion had begun in earnest.

By the third time that the truck had been strafed, Trant had begun to form a plan of escape. As he and one of his fellow captives lay in a ditch, he whispered to him, "What is your name, Flight Officer?"

"Wimble, sir," came the reply.

"Right, Wimble. The next time we are strafed, I want each of you to pick a German and follow him into the ditch. If one of them gets hit during the strafing, then whomever is nearest to that soldier should grab his weapon and fire on the remaining three. The rest of us shall join in and attempt to overwhelm the remaining three soldiers. Got it?"

"Right, sir, capital idea," Flight Officer Wimble replied.

"Excellent. Pass it on to the others," Trant responded.

Towards sunset they were strafed yet again, and this time the five captives followed Trant's orders. Before they made it into the ditch beside the road one of the German soldiers was fortuitously struck by fire from the aircraft passing overhead. Trant immediately grabbed the German soldier's weapon and fired on the other three soldiers. He managed to hit two of them before they realized what had happened. But before Trant could fire on the third, his lone remaining opponent began firing at Trant's fellow captives.

Meanwhile, Flight Officer Wimble had managed to grab a weapon from one of the two soldiers that Trant had shot, and he fired on the last soldier, killing him, but not before one of their fellow captives had also been shot and killed. Though the small group had lost one of their own in so doing, they had managed to kill their captors. Trant thus had made a command decision that had likely saved the lives of the remaining four British airmen.

Once the strafing ceased, Trant climbed out of the ditch, ensured that the four Germans were dead, and motioned for his fellow airmen to join him. "Men, I am Wing Commander Trant Sutherland. I seem to be the ranking officer here. I am therefore in command of this small force. We've already accomplished the easy part. Now we have to do the difficult part – stay under cover until the Allies get here."

"How soon do you think that will be, sir?" Wimble asked.

"We're a long way from Normandy Beach," Trant replied. "It could take weeks or even months for the Allies to get this far east."

At this rather daunting estimate one of the airmen exclaimed, "We'll never last that long!"

"What is your name, airman?" Trant queried.

The pessimistic airman responded forlornly, "Flight Officer Sanders, sir."

"Just be patient, Sanders. I've got a few tricks up my sleeve. We may yet get out of here, but we must all stick together."

"What tricks?" the airman asked doubtfully.

"Well, for one thing, I am fluent in French. Any of you speak French?" As no one responded, Trant continued, adding, "Well, then I suggest that you stay close to me."

"That's good, sir, but it isn't much, if you ask me," Sanders responded.

"True, but I have another trick up my sleeve. I worked with SOE for several months, and I have some connections in the French Resistance here in France. If we can connect up with them, then we shall likely be able to survive until the Allied Army pushes through."

At this suggestion, Wimble put in, "Now you're talking! I'm with you, sir. What do you propose at the moment?"

"Why don't we just take the German's truck and drive west? We can meet up with the Allies somewhere," Sanders offered vacuously.

"That is most likely the quickest way to get killed or captured, Sanders," Trant replied dismissively. "I assume that you've noticed that our own aircraft have been strafing us today. That is due to the fact that this truck is clearly German, and the Allies have complete control of the skies, as you doubtless know. Accordingly, if we get back in that truck we could well be strafed and killed by our own forces. On the other hand, if we somehow manage to avoid that, we shall likely venture into a German force that will either kill us or take us prisoner yet again. Therefore, I suggest that we all make our way from this place on foot as quickly as possible. But first, let us pause for a moment in silent prayer for our fallen airman." At this the four removed their caps and stood silent for several moments.

At length Trant put his flight cap back on, exclaiming, "Thank you. Now, I shall not stand around and argue it with you, gentlemen. I hereby order all of you to follow me. Right, grab the weapons and ammunition from those Germans and let's get out of here immediately." The other three airmen followed Trant's command, and within minutes they had made their way into the fields, heading away from the roadway as quickly as possible. After an hour Trant called a halt, ordering the airmen to conceal themselves in a copse of trees just ahead.

"Why are we stopping?" Sanders queried.

"We have put sufficient distance between ourselves and the troops that we killed, Sanders. Our objective for the immediate future is to avoid being recaptured. Given that, I think that we shall hold up here until dark. There could be German troops anywhere, and we shall be much safer if we move exclusively by night. Once it is dark, we shall see if we can locate some French partisans who can help us to remain concealed from the German Army."

"Sounds good," Wimble responded.

An hour later it had grown dark and, deciding to wait a bit before moving from their present location, Trant ordered everyone to get some sleep. While his fellow airmen slept, he contemplated their situation. Water was going to become an issue very soon, and food would be a problem soon thereafter. He determined that, in the current situation, he needed to proceed as an Army officer would, but the problem was that he'd had no Army training whatsoever. Although he felt that he was flying quite blind, what concerned him most was that he was now responsible for three other persons, something that he was not accustomed to.

Near midnight Trant nudged his three charges awake and, ordering them to their feet, he immediately pushed the group toward the south. He reasoned that since the German Army would eventually be retreating from the west if the Allies gained a foothold, that direction was far too dangerous. Since progressing east would take them further into enemy territory, and the Seine River was to their north, south was their only option. It was a long way to Chartres but, aware that there was a Resistance cell stationed there, he considered that to be their best hope.

They made about fifteen miles that night, locating some food along the way in a vehicle that had been strafed by the Allies the previous day. They crossed a stream towards morning and, since they were all in dire need of water by then, they chanced drinking the water. Seeing that no one became sick from the stream water, he concluded that all was proceeding quite well, at least for the moment.

At daybreak Trant spotted another stand of woods and, the group melting into the forest, they prepared to remain well hidden during the daylight hours. Trant ordered everyone to get some rest and, while the others slept, he scouted a bit to the south. On returning to camp, he too slept as best he could. Toward late afternoon he awoke everyone and announced that it was time to break camp and head south yet again.

Sanders asked, "Why? I thought that we were going to travel only at night."

Trant responded, "There's a river over there, and we need to cross it. It isn't too terribly large, but for reasons of safety we need to cross it before dark. So let's get going."

The others followed him, and within minutes they had come to a river. Standing on the bank, Trant announced, "I think this is the Eure. It isn't deep. So we're going to walk across it and see if it is over our heads. Is anyone unable to swim?"

Hearing no one speak up, Trant advanced into the tepid water, saying, "Hold your weapons over your heads. Let's go!"

The others followed as before and, although there was a span where they had to swim, they made the crossing without incident. Once they had climbed onto the opposite bank Trant called a halt and, the four flopping down, every one of them was totally exhausted from swimming in uniform with rifles over their heads.

"Wow, that was tough," Wimble said between puffs, "Just exactly where are we, sir?"

"I'm not quite certain, Wimble. My family vacationed in this area when I was sixteen, so tis not completely foreign to me. Plus, since I placed an agent in this area a few months back, I have a bit of an idea. I'm making for Chartres, which I think is about sixty miles south of here. There's another city not too far from here. Tis over that way, to the southwest. Tis named Evreux."

"Since it is closer, why don't we go there instead of Chartres, sir?" Wimble queried.

"The German's penetrated the French Resistance there around a month ago," Trant replied. "They rounded up everyone, and they shot quite a few of them. I'm guessing it isn't a safe bet for us. I know some of the resistance fighters in Chartres, and they're still holding on, so that seems like the best place for us to go. At the rate we're progressing, we should get there in three or four days."

"Right, sounds like a good plan to me," Wimble replied. "Let's hope we don't encounter any Germans on the way, sir."

"We'll keep traveling at night, but I expect that the German Army will be concentrating well north of here for the moment. At any rate, this direction seems as good as any to me."

Trant ordered a short rest break and, when darkness fell an hour later, they moved out, continuing to head directly south. They managed to make another fifteen miles that night, and by dawn they could see a city off to the south.

"Tis Dreux," Trant announced laconically. "I believe it isn't safe. We're going to have to go around it. We shall bed down here during the day, and tonight we shall bear east round the city and forage for food and water. There should be plenty of farmhouses on the edge of the town."

Each airman found a spot and fell asleep within minutes. When darkness settled, Trant ordered them forward, the group in frantic search of sustenance. Within an hour they came to a lighted farmhouse. Trant ordered everyone to wait while he approached the house, adding as he surged forward, "If I'm not back in a half hour, just keep heading south."

Moments Later

**Wimble watched Trant crouch** and trot towards the farmhouse, which was no more than a hundred yards distant. He could just make out Trant in the moonlight as he approached the house and, observing as Trant peered through the window, he saw him knock gingerly on the door.

A man came to the door, light spreading over Trant, at which point Wimble could see Trant hastily motioned inside. He came back outside in a few minutes, and shortly thereafter he returned to the group.

"Well, that was interesting," Trant said as he came to a halt.

"What happened?" Sanders responded.

"Here, everyone, I brought food," at which he opened a knapsack, all sorts of delicacies tumbling out. There was cheese, cooked chicken, and boiled eggs. There was even a bottle of wine to round out the meal. The four immediately pounced on the unexpected repast as if they had never seen food in their lives.

Eventually, their appetites sated, Wimble inquired, "So what happened over there in that farmhouse, sir?"

"It was a family of French farmers. They were surprised to see a British officer at their front door. Actually, that's an understatement. They were overjoyed to see me. They've heard that the invasion has begun, but I am the first member of the invasion forces that they have come in contact with. They told me that they've heard that the Allies are stalled along the Normandy coast. They're concerned. I told them not to worry - we'll push the German's out of France very soon."

"How do you know that, sir?" Sanders asked.

"I don't, Sanders, but you happen to be eating _their_ dinner because they believed me, so I shouldn't complain if I were you."

At this Sanders examined the leg of chicken that he was eating and, glancing warily back toward Trant, he apparently had enough sense to refrain from speaking further.

"So were you right, sir? Wimble asked. "Is that Dreux over there?"

"Yes, it is, and we're only about twenty miles north of Chartres. So we should be able to make it there by tomorrow evening if we don't run into trouble."

"Why don't we just stay with those folks and wait it out, sir?" Wimble queried.

"Tis much too dangerous - dangerous for them, and dangerous for us. If the Germans come through here and capture us, they might kill us all, including those farmers, and we don't want that. Instead, I should think that we need to find some resistance fighters to help us keep out of sight. They did offer us some clothes, but I turned them down."

"Why, sir?"

"We're at risk either way, Sanders. If we change out of our uniforms we won't be so obvious if we're spotted, but you will pass for a French citizen for about thirty seconds, for when they ask you a question in French, you will be summarily shot as a spy. On the other hand, if we are spotted in our uniforms, we shall at least be treated as prisoners of war. For the time being, I think that uniforms are the preferable alternative, don't you?"

Sanders glared sullenly at Trant and replied, "Well, when you explain it that way, it makes good sense, sir."

"Why, thank you, Sanders," Trant replied facetiously, "Somehow I received the impression that you thought I was not very bright." At this the other two airmen chuckled, it being clear by their mirth that they accepted his authority on grounds well beyond his seniority in rank.

The following day they halted about five miles north of Chartres, once again locating a stand of trees to conceal their position during the daylight hours. That night they set out once again, arriving on the outskirts of Chartres well before daybreak.

Drancy – June 7, 1944

**Felicité was led** to the courtyard, where a truck stood motionless in the darkness, apparently for the purpose of transporting detainees. Shortly thereafter, she was ordered to stand close behind the truck and raise her arms over her head, whereupon two soldiers within the truck grasped her by her arms and yanked her up into the truck. Her feet still causing her enormous pain, she hobbled to a corner within, doing her best to find a small spot within the crowded bed of the vehicle where she could collapse. Within minutes the truck lurched into motion, and a collective groan came from its cargo, each and every one of them infinitely aware of the dismal future that awaited them. By now it was perhaps midnight, reminding Felicité just how much inhumanity could be concealed under cover of darkness.

Two hours later they were offloaded at a rail head. It was a truly macabre scene. Floodlights illuminated numerous SS guards, several of whom sported German shepherd guard dogs on leashes. Most of the dogs were barking frantically, apparently relishing their sadistic roles. The train was already filled with detainees, many of whom were hanging their arms through gaps in the side boards, here and there a forlorn wail of anticipation emanating from within.

Felicité and her fellow detainees were hustled from the truck and surreptitiously shoved into the already cramped space within one of the cars. She had the distinct impression that the simple act of surviving the sedentary journey to the East would in itself be a major challenge.

She quickly found a miniscule spot to sit. There was not enough room to stretch out, but she was nonetheless thankful that she was at least off of her bruised and painful feet. The train suddenly lurched into motion, the trip to oblivion having now begun.

Once the train had reached full speed Felicité was freezing from the cold, having been allocated as clothing only a dress and a tattered sweater. As there were no stops, the prisoners were forced to relieve themselves in a corner of the train car, the remaining passengers politely turning their heads away when one of the detainees found it impossible to avoid the embarrassing trek to the corner. Had the train not continued to move, the resulting stench would have been overpowering.

Felicité eventually fell into a fitful sleep made possible only by her extreme state of exhaustion. She awoke to sunlight coming through one of the slits. She peeked between the slats and, observing gorgeous countryside rolling by, she caught glimpses of clear morning light glistening over dew-filled and fog-laden green pastures. Given the ghastly state within the train, the incongruous pastoral image without was somehow totally incomprehensible to her.

The procession pushed onwards, the state of misery increasing with each passing hour. The train eventually stopped at a siding around noon, at which point each of the prisoners was given a drink of water. That was all. There was no food, no facilities, nothing else whatsoever. No one was allowed off the train. Felicité noticed a sign on the siding. Noticing it was clearly written in German, she realized that they had crossed the border from France into Germany.

After a half hour the train started up again on its eastward trek. They continued throughout the day and night, and by the following morning more and more prisoners were beginning to become sick from the long trip and the lack of food, water, and relief from the unsanitary conditions onboard.

Eventually the train halted again for water and, every prisoner by now in dire need of rehydration, the stop endured for nearly an hour. Felicité could tell from the wording on a local sign that they were no longer in Germany. She wasn't certain where it was, but she suspected that they were by now in Czechoslovakia.

The train finally began to move again, Felicité once again falling into an exhausted sleep. She dreamed that it was springtime, and she was somehow back home in England. The war was over, and Trant came to see her in London.

She was just getting to the best part of her dream when she was jolted awake by a prisoner rolling on top of her. Attempting to slide out from under the person, she had difficulty due to the fact that the person was not responding at all. Because it was dark, she couldn't tell who it was, but she suspected that it was the old woman who had been sitting adjacent to her. Eventually managing to free herself, she nevertheless couldn't manage to push the body any further from her. She realized with horror that the person was by now quite likely dead.

The tormenting night continued interminably, but eventually the dawn came, the train halting yet again. This time they appeared to be at a temporary station. Once again there were guards everywhere, their assignment apparently to unlock and inspect each of the train cars.

The prisoners were summarily ordered to disembark, and as they watched in horror, bodies of those who had expired in transit were dumped from nearly every car in the long train. Just as she had surmised, the body lying next to her had been that of the old woman. She wondered with surprising detachment just how long it would be before she herself began to pray for a similar fate.

The train now sat on the siding for several hours, during which time the prisoners were allowed to sit outside adjacent to the tracks. Felicité noticed during their respite that, due to the fact that she had been forced to lie prone for three days, her feet were by now beginning to heal.

They were eventually served water, but they still received no food of any kind. Though it had only been three days since they had left Drancy, it seemed like nearly a month had passed. Unfortunately, rain began falling and, despite the fact that it was nearly summertime, it became cold and windy. The prisoners were thus forced back onboard the train to escape the elements, but for some reason the train continued to remain stationary.

They remained motionless through the night but, around mid-morning of the following day the train set off again, traveling northeast. Towards sunset the train stopped yet again, this time remaining motionless through most of yet another night. Sometime before sunrise the train set off again, and around mid-morning of their sixth day in transit they passed through a large archway bridging a long narrow brick building. Apparently, the train had reached its final destination.

The train came to a laborious stop, the terrified prisoners awaiting the next development. Suddenly the doors to the cars were opened and soldiers ordered everyone to jump from the train. Felicité followed the others in her car, hopping onto the siding as carefully as possible. She fell when she struck the ground, but she was thankfully uninjured, and in the process she noticed that her feet were by now surprisingly sturdy. She arose and, peering about, she took in the dismal scene arrayed before her. Now that she was outside and had escaped the stench of human waste within the train car, she immediately began to smell an entirely different odor, and she discerned immediately what it was. It was the smell of death.

They were burning human bodies somewhere nearby, of that she was certain. So the rumors were true. The Third Reich was killing Jews, perhaps in large numbers, and she had been transported for that purpose, of that she could now have little doubt. She prepared herself for whatever may come, but she resolved to keep her wits about her in case there was even the slightest possibility of survival.

The guards now ordered everyone to form into a single line. Felicité leaned to one side to see if she could make out what was going on up the line. She could see one story buildings on either side of the tracks, and here and there she saw skeletal prisoners in grey stripped uniforms moving about. Accordingly, she reasoned that not all of the transported prisoners were being exterminated.

Peering in the direction of the line ahead of her, she could make out on the siding a line of new arrivals that must have been several hundred yards long. She estimated that she was halfway down the line, the line obviously moving in the opposite direction from the building with the arch that they had passed through. Off in the distance in the direction that the line was moving there was a complex of buildings that had smoke belching out of smokestacks. She had little doubt as to its purpose.

Towards the head of the line, she observed an SS officer who appeared to be carefully examining each and every one of the people in the line. She watched carefully for several minutes, determining that he was sorting them into two groups. The vast majority were sorted into a group that continued towards the building with the smokestacks. The smaller group was being led away to another area. Every one of the people in this smaller group appeared to be healthy and strong.

Felicité realized that this was most likely her only chance of survival - to be selected to accompany the smaller group. She therefore determined that when the time came for her examination by the SS officer she would do her best to appear to be healthy despite her still somewhat tender feet. A full hour passed during which the line moved forward at a lethargic pace. Eventually her time came when, standing before the SS officer, he grabbed her roughly by the face and forced her mouth open, thereby checking her teeth as if she were a zoo animal. She took this opportunity to glance upwards at him as he released her face and smile ever so slightly. Something must have worked, for she was miraculously pulled from the long line and shoved in the direction of the much smaller group.

Eventually the smaller group was instructed to follow the guards and, marching hurriedly towards the archway, they passed beneath it and continued into the fields beyond. Although Felicité's feet were still killing her, she managed to keep up, realizing that the nearly six days on the train had most likely healed her feet enough that the horrendous ride had incongruously saved her life, at least for the moment.

They walked for perhaps two miles, whence they came to a second camp. They were marched into a compound that had a large metal sign over the gateway that read ' _Arbeit macht frei_ '. She knew enough German to know that it meant 'Work makes free'.

The prisoners were led into a building where they were instructed to remove their clothing. By this point in time, Felicité was completely unfazed by such callous treatment.

The prisoners were then deloused with some putrid chemical and both men and women were forced to shower together. Thereafter they were lined up, still naked, and each prisoner was examined by a doctor. A few of the prisoners were removed from the line apparently for reasons of poor health, and the remaining fortunate few, Felicité among them, were given drab grey uniforms with vertical stripes and taken thereafter to a holding area in a small courtyard between two buildings. They were detained for more than an hour for no apparent reason, until a detail of soldiers suddenly and without warning marched into the courtyard.

Each soldier bore a rifle, and there were three prisoners plodding along between them. Now that Felicité could see the detainees up close, she could see that all three looked positively emaciated. The three were lined up against a wall, and before she had the slightest notion what was transpiring, an SS officer issued an order and the soldiers with the rifles fired from close range, killing all three prisoners instantly. The SS officer then sauntered nonchalantly over to the horrified group of new recruits and announced condescendingly, "If you break so much as a single rule here at Auschwitz, their fate will be yours as well," and although it was in German, there could be no doubt to anyone as to his meaning.

He then proceeded to separate the group into three smaller groups. For some reason, Felicité was sorted into the smallest group – herself alone. The other two groups were marched away, and Felicité was ordered to wait. She sat for perhaps a half hour, whereupon a woman in a prisoner uniform came forward to her and commanded, " _Suivez-moi_." Felicité rose and followed her as best she could. They walked through the maze of buildings, eventually arriving at the door to a two story building. The woman entered and motioned for Felicité to follow her.

The woman now led her to a small room where there were six other women, all inmates. She then turned to Felicité and muttered, "What is your name?"

"Felicité," she replied.

"Well, Felicité," the woman responded, "You are alive. You may believe that is good news for the moment, but after the commandant is through with you, you will most certainly think otherwise. Say hello to the commandant's concubines. We are all here strictly for the pleasure of the commandant and his henchmen. And some of them are sadistic subhuman creatures, if you ask me."

Felicité gazed about the room, sensing immediately that the women in this room were survivors. Not a single one of them smiled toward her, each one clearly hardened by the inhuman conditions. She had the distinct impression that her fellow captives were to be feared nearly as much as her captors.

That night, as the newest member of this elite detachment, Felicité was ceremoniously dressed in the finest clothing that could be had in such a horrid place. With a mounting sense of dread, she was subsequently summoned to the commandant's dinner party. She was then ushered into a dining room, where there were perhaps twenty soldiers dining, thereby affording her a considerable feeling of déjà vu. Understanding perfectly well where it was all leading to, she reasoned that she had done it before in order to survive, and she would do the same yet again if necessary.

Upon her entry into the room the commandant stood and said, "Gentlemen, our newest guest has arrived for our party. I am told that her name is Felicité. Welcome, Miss Felicité."

" _Merci_ ," she replied submissively.

"I am Commandant Höss. And now, Miss Felicité, I assume that you know why you are here, and that your survival here at Auschwitz is highly dependent on the successful performance of your duties in this camp. Thus, I expect your entertainment tonight to be impressive at the very least." And with a wave of his hand, he added surreptitiously, "Please begin, Miss Felicité."

"Monsieur Commandant, may I have some music?" she queried respectfully.

"But of course," he replied, and within seconds an unseen record player had begun to play.

Having had just enough experience to know exactly how to proceed, Felicité asked an officer for his hand and, stepping up onto the dining room table, she strutted seductively about for a few moments and then ceremoniously removed her blouse and skirt. Pausing submissively before each officer, she bowed gracefully and presented him with her most provocative smile.

At this the commandant applauded, saying, "Excellent, Miss Felicité. You seem to be somewhat skilled at your new trade. Excellent! And now, gentlemen, what am I bid for Miss Felicité?"

An SS officer immediately cried, "Fifty marks!"

"Excellent!" the commandant replied. "It seems that our newest inmate has made her own mark."

"Anyone else? No one? Alright then, sold for the exorbitant sum of fifty marks. I hope she is worth it!"

He now grasped her hand, instructing, "Miss Felicité, please step down from the table." At this Felicité stepped down.

"You are now the property of Captain Schell for the evening. Please accompany him. Captain Schell, try not to kill her tonight! We all deserve a turn at her."

The captain grabbed her by the hand and dragged her brutally from the room, grinning voraciously towards his fellow officers as he departed. The remaining soldiers guffawed and applauded raucously as the pair disappeared.

The Following Morning

**Having returned to the concubine room only two hours earlier, Felicité** was awakened an hour before sunrise.

The woman who awakened her inquired disinterestedly, "How was it?"

"Bad," she responded listlessly, "But I'm alive."

"That's the spirit. You'll be alright in a couple of days. You'd better be, because every one of them will have you within a month. So you'd better recover fast. And from the looks of you, you're only going to last a few months around here before you'll be so skinny that they'll send you to the gas chamber. So take my advice - from now on, steal food whenever you spend the night with one of the officers."

That was the all-important lesson that kept Felicité alive, as for the next year of her life, avoiding starvation would become her singular obsession.

Chartres – June 10, 1944

**Trant noticed that the** day dawned clear, a thick coat of ground fog stretching across the fields. Off in the distance, he could make out the spire of Chartres Cathedral rising winsomely above the fog.

Noticing the direction that Trant was gazing, Wimble expounded, "That is one massive cathedral! I'd say tis just about the size of the one in York, where I grew up."

"Yes, I've actually been inside it once. I visited Chartres the summer my parents brought me here. It is quite impressive, perhaps the most harmonious of all the gothic cathedrals in France. That, of course, is why the medieval pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela commenced here. But I digress. Today we need to get into the city."

"How do you propose that we do that, sir?" Wimble queried.

"I've been contemplating that," Trant responded. "I've decided that you airmen should all remain here under cover. I shall nose around and find some civilian clothes so that I can make my way into town. From there I shall find my resistance contacts and we shall retrieve the three of you tonight under cover of darkness."

"Why not take us with you, sir?"

"For the simple reason that if we are intercepted, we shall all be questioned. I am the only person who speaks French well enough to pass for a local. So we are better off having a bit more patience. Accordingly, I am placing you in charge, Wimble. Keep everyone positive and focused. I shall be back to get you tonight."

"Yes, sir," Wimble replied.

Trant set off across the field, using the sheet of fog to cover his progress. Within minutes he came upon a farmhouse and, noticing a single aged farmer feeding his goats in an enclosure adjacent to a barn, he scrutinized the situation for several minutes. Discerning no other movement, he decided to hazard advancing. " _Bonjour_ ," he called out pleasantly as he approached the barn.

The farmer turned and, it being obvious from the look on his face that he thought that he was seeing before him an apparition, Trant determined it best to continue to approach undaunted. As he came near, the farmer blurted in French, "But who are you, monsieur? Where have you come from?"

"I am a British pilot, monsieur. My plane was shot down several days ago to the north of here."

"Ah, yes, the invasion has begun," the farmer responded with barely perceptible concern. Holding out his hand to Trant, he added, "We are all hoping for more of your countrymen to arrive very soon."

Trant took his hand and shook it, responding, "I expect them quite soon, monsieur. I am Wing Commander Trant Sutherland. Might I prevail upon you for a bit of help?"

The farmer now examined him curiously and responded, "Certainly, are you hungry?"

"Yes, very much so," Trant replied.

"Please, Wing Commander, come inside. My wife and I would be pleased to serve you breakfast."

"Thank you, it would be an honor," Trant replied graciously. An hour later he was on his way into the city of Chartres, having been loaned a complete farmer's outfit on the promise that he would return it that evening when he came back to fetch his uniform.

Attempting the appearance of nonchalance, Trant strolled into the city, making every effort to avoid the possibility of interacting with any Germans along the way. He did eventually observe a couple of officers passing by in a vehicle, but other than that the city appeared to be deserted at this hour of the morning. He eventually reached the city center, from whence he walked directly to the cathedral. Once he had arrived there he was able to locate the safe house just off the Place du Chatelet, and by mid-morning he had been ushered safely within. Although his contact was not there, he was summoned and within an hour he too had arrived within.

Upon his contact's arrival, Trant offered, " _Bonjour_ , Alain!"

"Welcome, Wing Commander Sutherland," Alain Lesieutre responded. "We heard that you had gone missing. It is good to see you alive and well."

"And you, too, Alain. I was told before my departure from Portsmouth on June 6 that the attack on German Headquarters in Paris on June 3rd went off perfectly, and that you had made your way here immediately thereafter. That is why I came here when my plane was shot down."

"Yes, the plot was executed perfectly. Felicité is quite the genius. She accomplished everything expected of her and more. And she escaped north towards Rouen that very night."

"Yes, well, I'm afraid that she was captured, Alain," Trant responded dejectedly.

"What! How do you know that?"

"I saw her. I was captured as well, and I was standing on the side of the road on the morning of June 6 when a German truck with refugees passed by heading east. She was on that truck, I'm afraid."

"Are you sure, sir?"

"Yes, I am quite certain. You see, she called out to me by name. It was her, I assure you. Can you do anything? Can you get her back?"

"No, no, I'm afraid not. Had I known immediately upon her capture it might have been possible, but it is by now far too late. She will have been either shot or transported to the east by this point in time." Alain paused for a moment and stared morosely at the floor. He subsequently glanced up toward Trant and, eyes glistening, he murmured, "I am sorry, monsieur. She was quite a soldier. She did a wonderful thing for France."

"Yes, she did," Trant replied and, reaching forward, he embraced his friend disconsolately.

Moving on to more palatable subjects, Alain inquired, "So, what can we do for you here in Chartres, Wing Commander?"

Trant chuckled and mumbled facetiously, "Well, I'd like to go home. Can you arrange that?"

Sensing Trant's lighthearted joke, Alain joined in, expounding, " _Mais certainement, monsieur_! Just wait around a few months and the Allies will liberate France. You may not even want to go home at that point, as France will by then have once again become the gayest place on earth!"

"Excellent! I shall look forward to it, Alain. In the meantime, there is the small problem that three of my fellow airmen are hidden in the woods north of Chartres. We shall need to bring them in under cover of darkness, as unfortunately none of them speaks any French at all."

"Hmmm," Alain responded in sudden contemplation, "I assume that you know exactly where they are, monsieur."

"Yes, they are camped near the farmhouse owned by a family by the name of Rabelais."

"Ah, yes, I know that farmhouse. They are famous around Chartres, claiming to have descended from the famous author François Rabelais."

"Ah, yes, _Gargantua et Pantagruel_...great book," Trant responded. "I had no idea those farmers were famous! At any rate, as they helped me this morning, I owe them. Besides, I need to go fetch my uniform."

"We'll take care of it after dark. I assume that you know we will have to walk."

"Yes, of course," Trant replied, "I have walked nearly a hundred miles in the past week. For some perverse reason I am beginning to rather enjoy it. In the meantime, could I perhaps have something to eat?"

Wharton Manor – June 12, 1944

**Lady Sutherland was lounging** in the afternoon sun in the sitting room when her telephone rang. "Wharton Manor," she replied graciously, "Who may I say is calling?"

A voice on the other end said, "Dear, tis I, I have some good news for a change. The French Resistance has radioed in to London. Trant was in fact not captured by the Germans. He apparently landed safely behind enemy lines on D-Day, eventually making his way to Chartres, where he is currently under the protection of the resistance fighters."

"Oh, that is quite splendid news, dear! I never doubted that he was alive, but to hear that he has not been captured is ever so reassuring. Surely the British Army will rescue him before long."

"Perhaps, my dear, but at the sluggish pace the Allies are breaking out from the Normandy Beaches, don't expect them to make it all the way to Chartres any time soon."

"Well, perhaps it is just as well. I assume that he is out of harm's way for the moment, and that is quite the most important thing in these uncertain times," Lady Sutherland responded optimistically.

"My dear, I'm afraid I have some bad news as well," Lord Sutherland continued.

"What is it darling? Please tell me it isn't something to do with Trant! He is not wounded, is he?"

"Oh, no, tis nothing to do with Trant. I'm afraid that Lieutenant Delacroix has gone missing. Actually, I rather doubt that she is missing at all. The resistance has radioed that the Nazi's have captured her."

"Oh, no! I say, dear, that is terrible news! What happened? Was she turned in by some spy in the underground?"

"Actually, we doubt that. It appears that her mother was Jewish. Unfortunately, Felicité seems to have been unaware of that fact. As long as she was traveling with forged documents she was safe, but when she escaped Paris it was necessary to revert to her true identity. The ever-efficient Gestapo seems to have located her mother's birth records. This is all third-hand information, of course, but if it is true, then she has likely been transported."

"Transported? What does that mean?"

"She will most likely have been tortured and beaten, and then shipped by railway to a labor camp in the East."

"To a labor camp? What sort of labor camp?"

"We're really not sure what is going on at these labor camps, my dear, but if the accounts that are beginning to come out of the East are true, then I'm afraid that we should be prepared for the worst."

"Does that mean that they might kill her?"

"My dear, while there is much that appears to be impossible in this war, there appears to be nothing that Hitler and his henchmen are incapable of actually _doing_. With each passing day we are apprised of more and more absolutely inhuman behavior within The Third Reich."

"Oh, my Goodness! She may actually perish," Lady Sutherland sobbed, "She may in fact already have perished!"

"Yes, my dear, and from this point forward, there is likely no way that we shall ever know exactly what has happened to her."

Chartres – Late June, 1944

**Trant and the British airmen** met with Alain at the safe house in Chartres. After two weeks cooped up in a local farmhouse, it was time to discuss options. "So, what did London recommend that we do, Alain?" Trant queried.

"They've suggested that you make your way to Argentan. They expect that the British Army will connect up with you there and evacuate you to England."

"Argentan," Trant responded, "Where exactly is that?"

"Tis perhaps sixty miles west of here. They think that the German Army will be pushed eastward by the Allies. My thinking is that if we go west to Le Mans, we should remain south of the battle that is raging, and as the front pushes eastward we can perhaps meet up with the British Army without incident."

Fig. 3 Trant's Route Across France

"I say, what do you think, Alain?" Trant queried.

"It's probably good advice. If you stay here, you run the risk that the German Army will get pushed into this area, thereby bringing the possibility of your capture back into the picture."

"How do you see us getting to Argentan, Alain?"

"Unfortunately, traveling by vehicle is much too risky right now. I would think that the safest way is on foot, just as you undertook to arrive here in Chartres."

"Do you have a contact in Argentan?"

"Yes, I can arrange for them to meet you south of the city and place you within a safe house so that you shall be out of the line of fire when the British Army arrives there."

"How soon will that be?"

"They predict a week to ten days, which should give you enough time to go by the roundabout route through Le Mans. It will be safer that way, and there are resistance fighters in Le Mans who can help you from there."

"Right-o. I suppose that we had better begin preparing for our journey. Can you provide us with supplies for the trek?"

"Certainly. Actually, I might go with you, if that is alright with you, sir."

"Of course it is. Why do you want to go with us?" Trant inquired.

"No particular reason. I feel that I'm wasting my time here. I want to be in on the action. The truth is, I'm bored now that Felicité is gone. She made every day exciting."

"Yes, I know what you mean, Alain."

"I hope that we shall see her again."

Not yet feeling up to being reminded of her, Trant replied evasively, "As do I...as do I. When do you want to leave for Le Mans?"

"I think that we can arrange everything within a couple of days. Let's plan to leave on the night of June 24."

"Right. We shall rest up until then."

Three nights later the group of four British airmen, now accompanied by Alain Lesieutre, left Chartres on foot for Le Mans. Whereas it had taken them five days to travel more than seventy-five miles to Chartres, it now required nearly twice as long to go the sixty miles to Le Mans. They had not counted on the increased military traffic they would encounter and necessarily be required to avoid as they moved in the direction of the battlefield. There were now Germans everywhere, thus forcing them to slow their progress considerably. They only made about eight miles per night, thus causing them to go through their food supplies by the time they had travelled little more than halfway to Le Mans.

Fortunately, as Alain knew this part of France quite well, he was able to link up with friends along the way, thus providing food, and on one occasion they were even supplied with a barn to sleep within during the day.

They arrived in Le Mans on July 2, whereupon they were informed by the resistance fighters that the British were still inexplicably bottled up in Caen. They therefore realized that they needed to adjust their anticipated arrival date in Argentan backwards by at least a week. Accordingly, they remained concealed in a safe house in Le Mans for several days before proceeding north toward Argentan.

On the night of July 10 they advanced northward on foot, this time provisioned for a full week of hiking. Unfortunately, things had now deteriorated still further. They were only able to make five or six miles each night, as the countryside was simply crawling with Germans that were apparently being pushed eastward by the Americans. Still, by remaining concealed in the daytime and traveling well away from roadways at night, they made it to Argentan on July 20, where they were met as expected by local members of the resistance.

The first question Trant asked them was, "Have the British arrived yet?"

"I'm afraid the situation has changed dramatically, Wing Commander," he was informed by Arnaud Ladeveze, head of the local resistance. "The British are still north of Falaise. Meanwhile, the American 1st and 3rd Armies are sweeping in from the south and west. The Germans seem to be counterattacking towards the west in an attempt to drive the Americans back to Avranches."

"So what does all of that mean for us?" Trant queried.

"It means, monsieur, that Argentan could perhaps be the center of the entire battlefield within a few days. We may well find ourselves in the middle of the biggest battle in the entire history of France."

"I say. That is quite disconcerting. Perhaps we should head back south," Trant suggested.

"I think not, monsieur. The German Army is pushing west just south of here at this very moment. You were extremely fortunate to make it through from Le Mans, and now there is no departure route from Argentan that is safe. I'm afraid that we must all find cover and wait for further developments. Fortunately, we have a safe house in the city that has a fortified basement. We should make our way there with all due haste and await further developments."

Accordingly, the small party made their way into Argentan under cover of darkness, subsequently arriving at the safe house without incident. The following three weeks was a nightmare as the Germans moved up in great force and built up the defenses of Argentan against the Allies. The group was forced throughout to remain concealed within their underground bunker night and day. By early August they had all become stir crazy from the heat and claustrophobia.

Then one morning they heard shooting close by. At first it was just small arms fire, but it shortly grew into a full-scale battle. Argentan had become the apex of the battlefield, and they had walked importunely directly into the middle of it. For the next three days they remained under cover within their hideout and, unable to even venture outside to relieve themselves, they ran out of both food and water.

On the morning of August 13 there was an eerie silence in the city. Fearing the worst, the group remained within their bunker. But around mid-morning there came a rapping at their bunker door and, hearing English spoken without, they opened the door to be greeted by American soldiers. After more than two months behind enemy lines, Trant had managed to lead his fellow airmen to safety.

Nine days later the German 7th Army was encircled and captured at Falaise, thereby ending the battle of Normandy. Two days later the Allies marched into Paris, in the process liberating the capital of France after more than four years under German occupation.

Trant and his fellow airmen were transported to the mulberry harbor at Arromanches on August 28. From there a launch carried them out to a waiting transport ship that docked at Portsmouth the following day.

Portsmouth – August 29, 1944

**Trant was preparing** **to go ashore** when he heard a knock on his cabin door. Tugging it open, he was surprised to see a general step into his tiny cabin. "Father!" he exclaimed, not knowing whether to salute or embrace him, but General Sutherland beat him to it, grabbing him in an enormous hug.

"Trant, son, tis wonderful to see you all in one piece. This damned war has tried hard to get the better of us, but our family seems to be holding its own."

"Thank you, sir," Trant responded, "Is everything alright here in England?"

"Yes, the Home Office is pushing along just fine, and the invasion is finally going better than expected."

"Why is it taking so long?" Trant queried.

"Right, the Germans have been putting up one hell of a fight, but our casualties have been lower than expected. When we finally closed the gap and encircled the German 7th Army at Falaise, we captured more than a hundred thousand German soldiers. And because the remainder of their forces retreated north of the Seine, the Allies now have a clear path to the Rhine. Churchill is predicting the war will be over within the year."

"Wow! And to think, I missed it all," Trant responded.

"Whatever on earth are you talking about! You were pivotal. You and Felicité pulled off the opening engagement of the entire invasion, throwing German Headquarters in Paris into complete disarray. And thereafter we intercepted all of the Germans' messages. They never had a chance. And you got shot down behind enemy lines and nevertheless managed to escape. I couldn't be more proud of you, son."

"Thank you, sir. I appreciate that, but I feel like while the greatest battle of the war has been raging, I've been hiking in the woods for the past few months. In fact, the way I feel at the moment, I never want to go hiking again!" And at this announcement both he and his father chuckled in mutual relief.

"I have a surprise for you, son," the elder Sutherland now offered.

"A surprise? What sort of surprise, sir?"

"Your mother is waiting for us down on the dock."

"Oh, my goodness. I say, we had better be going, father. We wouldn't want to keep Lady Sutherland waiting, would we!"

She was awaiting Trant at the bottom of the gangplank, something that Trant had never before experienced in his life. While he had disembarked from ships in his time, his mother had never been awaiting his arrival. Thus, the two shared the sort of embrace that can only be shared between a mother and her son on his return from harm's way.

"Mother! Tis so good to see you!" he said as they clasped one another tightly.

Grasping him within a second even more profound embrace, she responded, "My son! I am so proud of you!" When they finally released one another, she wiped away a telltale tear and slipped between her two Sutherland men. Thenceforth grasping each with a hand, she pushed them forward, exclaiming with bursting pride, "Come, my husband and my son, the two shining lights of my life, tonight we must celebrate!" And celebrate they did.

Auschwitz, Poland - October, 1944

**Felicité was awakened** one morning in October by the sound of gunfire. She was informed shortly thereafter by one of her fellow concubines that there was an uprising set off by the prisoners. The shooting continued throughout the day, but the women in the concubine barracks were guarded too carefully for them to even consider the thought of escape. As it turned out, they were lucky that they hadn't attempted to break out. All of the escapees were subsequently captured and executed.

Wharton Manor – Late October, 1944

**Trant wandered into the sitting room** and, finding his mother sunning herself, he settled within the seat adjacent to her and proffered, "I'm so glad I was given this opportunity to come home for a few days. I don't mind telling you, this war has worn me down. In truth, I can hardly remember a time when there wasn't a war."

"Tell me about it," she agreed and, glancing inquisitively toward him, she commented idly, "I should have thought you would have preferred to remain in London for your holiday, however brief."

"Why ever for, Mother? I've spent quite enough time there for a lifetime, I should think."

"But I assumed that you would want to stay near to Annabeth," she asked distantly.

Lurching within his seat, he blurted, "Annabeth? Why, I've not seen her in months."

"Oh?" she responded, one eyebrow now arched in surprise.

"Yes, well, I broke it off, if you must know."

"I see. Exactly when was that, Trant?"

"Well, I suppose technically it was just after I returned home in August. But in reality, it was quite a bit earlier than that."

"My, that is revealing," she muttered, "Why was I not informed of this, my son?"

"I don't know, I suppose I was too busy. What with the clandestine operation involving Lieutenant Delacroix, I was quite busy right up to the moment I was deployed for the D-Day invasion."

"Right," was her doubtful reply.

Eyeing her suspiciously, he responded, "See here, mother, what's this all about?"

"I don't know dear," she replied apprehensively, "Why don't you tell me? You're the one that's prancing around in circles."

Eyeing her yet again, he now confessed, "Yes, I suppose you're right..." his voice trailing off for a moment.

"Well?" she inquired in encouragement.

"Yes, well, I suppose it goes back to that time at Christmas. You know, when all of us got together the last time."

"Ah, yes, the Christmas of 1942," she put in.

"Right, well, as I'm sure you well know, despite my attraction to her I never considered Felicité a suitable match. But something happened during her visit at Christmas. I don't mind telling you, I came away from that weekend quite under her spell. Perhaps it was that snippy little argument we shared, but there is no point in denying that by weekend's close she had somehow developed a hold on me.

"So, I returned to London after the holiday, now confused by my simultaneous attraction to two different women. Annabeth and I had just taken up together, and I was now experiencing serious feelings for Felicité. I managed to keep it from Annabeth, but I determined to see Felicité as soon as possible in hopes of getting to the bottom of it all."

"So, what happened, Trant?" his mother interjected. "Why did you not follow through with Felicité?"

"Right. Well, as you know, certain military matters converged shortly thereafter, matters having to do with Felicité. In the course of those developments I was made aware of certain additional, shall we say – information – regarding Felicité. I don't mind telling you, it was quite shocking; so much so, that it caused me great consternation. And in such a state, I dithered for something onto two months, by which time I had been appointed to be Felicité's contact for her mission to France."

"I see," she prodded, "Go on."

"Well, there was certainly no way that I could bring up my personal suspicions to Felicité on the eve of her departure, as any distraction on her part might have endangered both the mission and her own life. So I determined to put it out of my mind for the time being.

"Unfortunately, once she had departed for training in Birmingham, I fell into a sort of swoon and, having continued to see Annabeth, I proposed marriage to her on the spur of the moment," and eyeing his mother forlornly, he added, "I realize it must sound immature on my part."

"War will do that to one," she put in pithily. "So what transpired subsequent to that?"

"Well, the strangest thing. When Felicité parachuted from that plane over Normandy, I suddenly felt my heartstrings breaking, as if they had somehow plummeted to the earth with her. That was the moment that I realized the meaning of what you had told me on that morning after the party. I realized that war had somehow changed me, that I no longer cared one whit about Felicité's past transgressions, that what I really cared about was Felicité herself."

"So I was right!" she cackled gleefully, adding, "I told you so!"

"Yes, mother, and I apologize for doubting you. But it all came right in the end, or at least I thought so until Felicité was captured."

"Not to divert you, but what happened between you and Annabeth?"

"Oh, nothing. I cooked up an excuse to wriggle out of a tryst that we had planned to Bath, and thereafter I was able to keep her at a distance by using the excuse that I was distracted by the complexities of my military obligations."

"And did you apprise her of the details regarding those complexities, Trant?"

"No. I was under strict orders of confidentiality."

"Did she ever inquire as to Felicité's whereabouts?"

"No, not that I recall. I did let slip that she and Maryann had visited Wharton Manor for Christmas, at your invitation of course."

"Ah, and how did she take that, Trant?"

Shaking his head blankly, he replied, "She seemed to accept it for what it was, although, now that I think about it, she did ask if Felicité was still working on assignment for General de Gaulle in London, at which I allowed that she had been transferred overseas."

"Well, that must have soothed her suspicions."

"What suspicions, mother?"

"Oh, one must have the heart and soul of a woman to understand these things. Just never you mind, dear."

"Right, well, to continue...once I returned from France, I determined to face Annabeth and inform her as to the truth."

"And what truth is that?" she inquired hopefully.

"That ours was not to be."

"And how did she take it?"

"Rather well, I suppose, although I could sense that she was devastated."

"I see. And did she inquire as to why?"

"Well, no, but I suppose that, given my feelings of guilt at her reaction, I offered that I had been distracted by another."

"Oh, my..." she murmured and, grasping her throat impulsively, she added convulsively, "That may not have been wise..."

"Why ever for? I was simply trying to let her down softly."

"Yes, well, tis water under the bridge, as they say," she opined and, now changing the subject, she suggested, "What say we go for a stroll in the garden, like old times?"

"I say, nothing would make me happier. Shall we?" and so saying, the two arose and meandered from the room.

Auschwitz – Early November, 1944

**Felicité began** **to notice** that the horrid stench from the ovens had mysteriously begun to dissipate. They were eventually told that the executions had been terminated, but they were not told why. Being the last addition to the concubines, Felicité was only too aware of the Normandy invasion six months earlier. Privately, she suspected that the Allies were finally closing in and if this was true, she reasoned that all she had to do was survive for a few more months. She therefore redoubled her efforts to keep her captors sufficiently enamored with her that she could continue stealing food at night.

Auschwitz – January, 1945

**Felicité was awakened** and told to gather whatever clothing she could, that all of the prisoners were being moved to another camp. Along with everyone remaining within the concubine room, Felicité was then forced to join the 60,000 remaining inmates. They walked through the gate of Auschwitz for the last time on January 17, 1945. Where they were headed to no one knew. The march that unfolded was beyond imagination. Despite what they had already been through, this was even worse than anything they had previously experienced. They walked for three days without food, during which nearly a third of the prisoners either died from the cold, malnutrition, or exhaustion, or they were unceremoniously executed when they refused to continue.

Because Felicité had over the previous seven months stolen food whenever and wherever she could, she was in better shape than most of her fellow prisoners. After three days she and the remaining survivors were put on a train and shipped west in an open cattle car. Had she not managed to remove a coat from one of the inmates that had perished during the forced march, she would probably have died from the extreme cold during her transport in the open cattle cars.

As it was, she arrived two weeks later at a camp in Germany named Bergen-Belsen. She and the surviving inmates were forthwith placed in an overcrowded barracks, where they were fed a tiny meal of weak soup and water. She was completely exhausted and barely coherent, but she was nonetheless alive.

Fig. 4 Felicité's Route Across Europe

Chapter 9

Women at War

London – February, 1945

**Trant sat** on a park bench in Trafalgar Square munching on a hastily purchased lunch, taking advantage of one of those rare clear winter days that beckoned one to the out-of-doors. He was idly observing a male pigeon performing a ludicrous mating dance before a slender female, she in turn pretending to pay no attention whatsoever to his ploy. Completely engrossed in this timeless courtship, Trant could not help but lament his own loss. After several months of denial, only now was he beginning to completely understand the magnitude of that loss.

As he sat contemplating pigeons, people, and the sheer incomprehensibility of life itself, a shadow passed before his eyes, provoking the flock of pigeons to flight. Irritated by this intrusion on his somber reverie, he raised his eyes to find to his great surprise that the shadow was cast by Lord Sutherland, who was standing before him, tears streaking his face. The shock of seeing his own father in such a state launched him to his feet, and without a moment's hesitation he blurted, "Father, what is it? What has happened?"

His father dropped to his knees before Trant and, emitting a wail of misery, he cried, "We've lost her, son. Lady Sutherland is gone!"

"What!" Trant exclaimed incredulously. "She's _gone?_ "

"Yes, my son. Her car blew up this morning on her way into London. She was on her way to surprise me with a visit. The authorities are saying it may have been a rogue V-2 rocket."

"Bloody hell! How is that possible, father! We who have survived a world war, and she is the one who is lost? This is not possible. This is what we fought for, to preserve our families, our very way of life. It simply cannot be!"

"But I am afraid it is, my son. I have lost my reason for being. Please, you must help me. I fear I have not the will to go on." The pair grasped one another fiercely, fused into a family embrace that was diminished forever by the loss of their mutual rock of stability.

Two Weeks Later

**Trant met his father** at his downtown club, all the while wondering why he had appeared so agitated on the phone. Strolling up to his father's table, he inquired without so much as a hello, "Sir, what the dickens is going on? Why were you in such a dither to see me on short notice?"

"Ah, Trant," the elder exclaimed despondently, "Please, have a seat, son."

Perceiving from his father's wretched demeanor that, although something was indeed awry it was not an emergency, he settled thankfully into his seat and offered, "I must say, you're looking well under the circumstances, sir."

"Ah, well, we must all put up a good show, Trant. After all, there are so many who have suffered far greater loss than have you and I."

"Yes, I suppose there is that, father, but I for one have still not gotten over the shock of it all."

"I feel much the same, son," his father responded forlornly.

"Of all the people I might have expected to perish in this war, she would have been the very last. I felt so thoroughly enveloped, even protected by her through it all, indeed, through all my life, if you must know," Trant murmured wistfully.

"Yes, as did I, even before you were born, she was my rock...." Lord Sutherland responded, his voice trailing off. But then, a memory perhaps bringing back his resolve, he proffered, "But, of course, she would have wanted us to go on, son. Indeed, if I am any judge, I suspect she is somewhere above, watching over us at this very moment, paying careful attention to how we resolve the current crisis."

"Perhaps you are right, sir, but would you really call it a crisis as such?"

"Absolutely, Trant, it is most certainly a crisis of the worst sort. Here we have the mysterious death of your mother, not to mention the disappearance of Felicité, and finally, the ongoing situation with Annabeth."

"Situation? What situation?" Trant inquired in confusion.

"Son, I didn't want to bring this up, but it appears that I am forced to. Your mother and I never trusted that young woman."

"Why ever for?" Trant asked.

"Well, I suppose one would have to say more properly, we never trusted that _family_!"

"Oh, on what grounds, pray tell?"

"Well, if truth be told, it all goes back to the great war. It seems that, while I was a prisoner of war in Northern France, I was turned in to the commandant of the camp for attempting to incite a riot."

"And did you?" Trant responded, suddenly interested in his father's war history.

"Yes, of course I did. But it was our duty, wasn't it!"

"I say, good for you, father," Trant put in proudly.

Regaining his train of thought, his father now blurted, "I've always suspected Morton Fletcher did it, you see. He was in the same camp, you know."

"I see," Trant put in, but, suddenly appalled, he followed with, "Why ever for?"

"I really don't know," his father replied matter-of-factly, "I have only suspicions. You see, the fellow makes my skin crawl, such foppish arrogance, and all that, you know."

"But there's no proof," Trant suggested.

"No, none whatsoever," his father responded thoughtfully, "But your mother and I nevertheless decided to keep an eye on things when you became involved with that chit Annabeth. You see, Lady Sutherland was unaware of my foibles concerning the Fletcher family back in the summer of 1940. Had she known of my concerns, she most assuredly would never have invited Miss Fletcher to your birthday party that summer."

"I see," Trant muttered yet again, although he really didn't.

"At any rate, when I told Lady Margaret of my suspicions, she took it upon herself to, let us say, keep an eye on the situation. And, as it turns out, she did. In fact, she did such a particularly good job of it that it may well have led to her ultimate demise."

"What!" Trant exclaimed, lurching from his seat. But then, not wanting to cause a situation within the club, he quietly slid back to his seat, whispering, "What on earth are you talking about, father?"

"Well, you see, part of the blame must be mine, son," he responded sadly, "You see, I let the whole sordid affair slip from my mind. I was so wrapped up in my duties at the Home Office that I completely forgot our pact as time went on."

"Pact? What pact?"

"You know, the one I just described, that we two, your mother and I, would keep an eye on the Fletcher family," he stammered, but then regaining his thoughts, he added, "Well, at any rate, it seems that your mother did in fact carry on in her typically efficient manner. Before she was done, she had uncovered quite a few facts that I find rather disturbing, I'm afraid."

"Oh, so she told you then?"

"No, no, nothing like that. She was never one to divulge, as you well know. On the contrary, not wanting to burden her military men, who in her view were enmeshed in far greater challenges, she withheld _everything_."

"But, if that is the case, how did you find out what she uncovered?"

"That's the damndest thing of all, Trant, she wrote it all down in a letter."

"A letter! To whom, father?"

"Well, actually, it is to the both of us, if you must know."

"You're not serious!" Trant roared in complete denial.

"I'm afraid I am, my son," and so saying, he reached forth with an envelope and placed it before Trant.

Completely undone by the entire discussion, Trant glared at the envelope as if it was the last thing on earth he could ever be persuaded to open. Then, glancing upwards, he caught his father's glistening eyes and inquired miserably, "It is going to be bad, isn't it, father?"

Reaching to expel a telltale tear, Lord Sutherland responded, "I'm afraid so. But there's no way of getting round it. This is the last you shall ever hear from your mother. So I'm afraid, there is no choice at all in the matter."

Suddenly taking it up, Trant stood and, bolting for the door, he called over his shoulder, "Alright, but I'm afraid I'm not up to it at this moment, father."

"As I suspected, as I suspected," his father murmured forlornly to the retreating figure.

A Week Later

**Trant sat within his easy chair** , a double glass of scotch placed at his side should the need arise. He had avoided it for several days, but eventually, having given over to his father's advice, he had finally decided that the time and place had come to hear his mother's last words to him. Reaching for the envelope, he tugged the letter from within and commenced reading:

To My Husband and My Son-

First, let me say that you two have been the greatest joys of my life. Nothing else comes close. Unfortunately, the fact that you are now reading this means that my life has now come to an end. I am so sorry for having left you both, but let me say that I was in your mutual service to the very end. And know this - you have both been loved, more so than you can ever possibly know.

And now, down to the business at hand. As you both must know, sometime back Robert and I developed misgivings about the Fletcher family. We therefore resolved to do whatever we might to ensure that aught unsavory might come to our only son as a result of a mutual alliance between the Fletcher and Sutherland families. Accordingly, I made it my responsibility to undertake certain clandestine activities, for the purpose of ensuring that there was nothing untoward in the way of skeletons in their collective closet.

As you are aware, our first encounter with Miss Annabeth Fletcher occurred on that fateful night in the summer of 1940, the night of the birthday party. As you also know, myself having been somewhat traumatized by events during The Great War, I was in a desperate way to put former transgressions to right on that night.

Perhaps I should have left well enough alone, but my activities regarding the Fletcher family subsequently began as a result of events that occurred on the very night of that party. Ever since that night I confess that I had remained somewhat confused about certain details surrounding the final event that night. I thought at the time that it went off rather well, with Felicité's performance exceeding anything that I could have imagined. And, of course, the other young ladies seemed to have done their parts as well, at least in my mind.

It was only much later, after Robert told me of his concerns regarding the Fletcher family that I began to wonder exactly what role Annabeth had played that night. So I began to think back, trying to recall events exactly as they had unfolded, and to my dismay, I discovered that I could only account for the whereabouts of three of the young ladies during the penultimate event of the evening. Two of them, Caroline and Barbara stood onstage, both adorned splendidly in undergarments that had been supplied to them by me. Unfortunately, Caroline perished shortly thereafter in the London bombings and Barbara later became a nurse, serving with distinction in North Africa, but also perishing in 1943. Maryann was of course the one playing the piano.

That leaves three young ladies – Felicité, Druscilla, and Annabeth, whose whereabouts could not be ascertained from the events that I personally witnessed that night. Of course, it was presumed by one and all that it was Felicité who posed for the portrait, her feline mask apparent for all to see. However, once the ethical standards of the Fletcher family were later called into question by Robert, I found it necessary to question this long-held assumption. Indeed, once I reviewed my memory of the events that night, I eventually came to the realization that when I sought out Felicité at the termination of the show, I found her not within the study, where one would have expected to find her replacing her clothing, but to my surprise, she was in the process of entering the manor from the garden.

It has always stood out to me that there is no reasonable explanation for Felicité to have stepped outside the manor to replace her clothing. To make matters more suspicious, she did not appear to have her mask in hand as she reentered from the garden. Now, this may all sound rather insignificant, but over time, it seemed more and more at the heart of the matter to me. I therefore undertook to gather more information by the only means at hand – to question the remaining young ladies. Unfortunately, by the time I could track them all down, there were as I described above only four of them left alive, one of whom I suspected of having carried off something quite deceitful.

Of course, Felicité was the first that I attempted to corner, she having by then been transferred to Birmingham for special forces training. Unfortunately, her treatment by you, dear Trant, had been so abominable after our Christmas together, that she had by that point in time retreated within her shell, fearing that you were lost to her forever. Nonetheless, she refused to confirm my implication that she was not the one within the portrait that night.

Perhaps, seeing as how she is now lost to us, we shall never know why she denied it. Indeed, the only admission that I was able to obtain from her was that she had indeed been in the garden, but only for a short period of time after she had reclothed herself within the library. So that interrogation turned up essentially nothing at all.

However, her behavior on that occasion did indeed serve to reinforce one of my suspicions - that you had by that time thrown her over for Miss Fletcher. Robert had of course suggested as much to me, but Felicité's obvious misery on that occasion was all too apparent to be disregarded. So while you, dear Trant, attempted to keep your withdrawal from Felicité well hidden from her, you failed quite miserably on the very doorstep of her transfer to France. Had I had the opportunity, I must say I'd have had a mind to scold you quite forcefully over such unforgivable behavior on your part, despite the fact that you were most assuredly under orders to refrain from disheartening her in any way before her reassignment to France.

I did somewhat surreptitiously discover what may have led you from Felicité's affections to Annabeth's, however. First of all, think back to your chance meeting with Annabeth at the King's birthday party shortly before Christmas of 1942, and ask yourself if it was indeed by pure chance. After what I am about to tell you, I suspect that you shall reevaluate that supposition.

It seems that a friend of mine at the Home Office afforded me the opportunity to meet with Flight Office Atkins, who interviewed me early last year for the purpose of determining if Felicité was in fact as qualified for her assignment as she had been given to believe. Miss Atkins informed me at that meeting that you had received an anonymous tip indicating that Felicité had once worked at The Windmill Theatre. I gleaned from my recent conversation with you that you had in all likelihood been manipulated, and by none other than Miss Annabeth Fletcher.

In fact, if you check the postmark on the anonymous letter you received disclosing Felicité's employment at the Windmill, I am confident that you shall be able to determine that it was sent from Bletchley Park, where Morton Fletcher is currently assigned to work for the Secret Intelligence Service. Oh, and by the way, as I am also an acquaintance of Laura Henderson, owner of The Windmill Theatre, I looked still further into that detail. I was able to determine that, while Felicité was in fact employed there for two weeks before Robert hired her at the Home Office in 1941, she never performed onstage, instead working as nothing more than a stage hand. Having at this point run that lead to ground, I thenceforth moved on.

Next, I sought out Maryann, who unfortunately was even more so in the dark. But she had nevertheless been observant, so that she was able to supply me with a few morsels. First of all, it seems that Maryann, Felicité and Annabeth formed a sort of pact that night with the intent of suppressing any attempts that I might undertake to enlist the young ladies in something failing to satisfy their standards of morality. One can construe that Annabeth was already at work plying her wiles on her two naïve co-conspirators.

For my part, I simply herded the young ladies into the library before the final event, outlined my plan, which you later observed enacted, and informed them that each participant would receive a tidy sum of money. I then left them to their own devices, being certain that such an inducement would surely entice all of them into action, as of course subsequent events proved to be correct.

According to Maryann, once I departed the room, the ladies fell into two groups – those who had formed the pact against me, and those inclined to follow my lead. Accordingly, the three in favor volunteered to play the parts of the two holders and the poseur, while the three in opposition reluctantly agreed to perform the prim and proper parts. Maryann being the only one accomplished at piano, she was immediately assigned to that role. That left two responsibilities, one to draw the curtain, and the remaining one to operate the lights. Felicité opted for the curtain and, promptly discarding her mask, she set off to practice at her assigned task. Likewise, Maryann set off to practice the piano. Annabeth was thus relegated the responsibility of switching the lights on and off. Unfortunately, Maryann was unable to supply further information, she having at that point left the room.

Armed with this information, I went in search of the last remaining young lady – Druscilla. Once again, Maryann was useful toward this end. It seems that Maryann had herself later taken up with The Windmill Theatre in London, subsequently enticing both Felicité and Druscilla to join her at the theatre. As I described above, Felicité worked there for only a matter of weeks. Maryann moved on as well, obtaining within the year the position she now holds with The American Red Cross. But when I finally went looking for her last year, Druscilla was still working at The Windmill.

When I tracked her down, she was quite unsurprised to see me. You see, I have been supporting the theatre secretly since 1938, my convictions regarding our soldier's needs having gotten the better of me even before the war. So Druscilla was quite pleased to see me, thanking me effusively for having somehow led her to such a rewarding career as a showgirl at The Windmill. For my part, I was both flattered and mortified by such misplaced appreciation.

So now we come to the truly revealing part. As you may by now have guessed, it seems that the person posing within the portrait was neither Felicité nor Druscilla. It was, in fact, Annabeth Fletcher. Druscilla informed me that the three young ladies who had agreed to play the lurid parts decided to draw straws, the short straw being assigned to the one destined to pose as the portrait. Unfortunately, Druscilla drew the short straw and, lingering in fear behind the others, she admitted her mortification to Annabeth.

For her part, Annabeth did a seemingly noble thing, volunteering to play the part of the portrait, thereby allowing Druscilla to serve as the one who operated the lights. This exchange having been agreed upon, the show was carried out as you observed, the only persons aware that the silhouette was indeed Annabeth being Annabeth herself and Druscilla.

This last information I was able to uncover only within the last few months and, being at first confused by Annabeth's seemingly generous actions that night, I was nevertheless uncertain of her intent. It was only after a further conversation with you, Trant, that I perceived her true intentions. You will recall our recent conversation regarding your interactions with Annabeth at the party that night. I don't mind telling you, you were sorely confused as to why I should bring up something so long forgotten. But I assure you, I had my purpose, and you provided the necessary information for me to reassure myself that Annabeth had the most despicable of motives for her display that night. You see, she had by evening's end already set her cap for you and, fearing that the only person capable of competing with her for your affections was in fact Felicité Delacroix, she set herself up in a flash of brilliant deception to appear as Felicité behind the screen, knowing full well that no future Earl of Winston could ever bring himself to pursue someone who had so displayed herself in public. Thus, being the last to depart the library, Annabeth appropriated Felicité's discarded mask, thereby sealing the deception.

I suppose we shall never know why Felicité failed to own up to the fact that she was not the one behind the screen that night, but that misconception, together with the assumption that she had also performed onstage at The Windmill, were perhaps the two most important details that led to her clandestine assignment in France. Worse still, they seem to have led to your break with her, dear Trant. And worst of all, they may have ultimately led to her death, as in a sinuous sort of way they may also have led to mine. But here is the positive from it all – though she was unwilling to become a spy, Felicité accepted her fate, and in doing so, she eventually saved countless lives during the Normandy invasion.

Unfortunately for me, I failed to realize in time just how dangerous Miss Fletcher is. To be sure, I suspected that I might be in harm's way due to the fact that I was made aware by Robert that the Home Office had opened a belated inquest into the mysterious death of Caroline, who it seems had not died in the London bombings after all. Instead, she appears to have perished due to an explosion at her apartment caused by a gas leak, a fact later uncovered by Caroline's family.

So the thought occurred to me – what if Caroline belatedly deduced that Annabeth had posed behind the screen for nefarious reasons? Might she then also have attempted to blackmail Annabeth in some way for her own gain? By this point I was quite alarmed, being aware that there were only two people who could quite innocently put Annabeth onto me. One of them is of course Druscilla, and the other is you, dear Trant.

Accordingly, I am at this writing preparing to depart for London for the purpose of divulging these revelations, being aware that if one of you has imparted anything whatsoever regarding my research into Annabeth's past to her, my life may in fact be at considerable risk. I am about to secret this letter within my writing desk with the hope that it shall never meet your eyes. Unfortunately, the fact that you are reading this letter now would tend to verify all of my suspicions.

And now, myself having exited this exceedingly messy situation, one of my own making, I might add, I can only hope that the information that I have provided within these pages will help to rectify at least in part the enormous damage that I seem to have initiated. My son, I now command you to proceed where I have left off, employing that which I taught you so well as a child.

Your Wife and Mother-

Lady Margaret Sutherland

Tears now streaming down his face, Trant grasped the glass of scotch, downing it in one vicious gulp. Staggering to the phone, he dialed a number and, hearing a voice on the other end, he sobbed uncontrollably, "Father! You must come immediately. It seems, I've killed my own mother, and I may yet do the same unto myself!"

Two Months Later

The London Times- May 5, 1945

London - Sources report that Miss Annabeth Fletcher of Oxfordshire, was found dead in her apartment in London. Miss Fletcher apparently died of natural causes. Rumors had it that she had been until recently secretly engaged to Mr. Trant Sutherland, heir to the Earldom of Winston. Funeral arrangements are pending. No other information is available at this time.
Chapter 10

Compassion Reborn

Bergen-Belsen, Germany – April, 1945

**Felicité noticed that the** weather had begun to warm just a tiny bit but by then, food becoming scarcer by the day, she could wrap her fingers all the way round the thickest part of her arm. Still, despite the death and misery that surrounded her, she redoubled her quest to survive, unwilling to fail so late in the struggle. She lived each day one at a time, hoping that it would be the last one before help arrived.

Awakening one morning in mid-April, she found that the guards had disappeared. No one knew where they had gone, but it mattered little since there was not a soul left in the camp that was physically capable of escaping. Everyone still breathing simply lay in the bunks and waited. She knew now that there would be no more food - they would either be liberated by the Allies or she would starve to death within the next couple of weeks.

On the afternoon of April 15 the British arrived. Had it not been British soldiers, Felicité might have nonetheless perished, but as it was her countrymen she was able to stand long enough to wave down a soldier, in the process convincing him that she was an officer in the British Army. After nearly a year in captivity and against all odds, she had somehow managed to survive the unimaginable.

London - May, 1945

**The phone on Trant's desk** rang, and answering it, he announced into the receiver, "Wing Commander Sutherland here."

"Trant?" Walter responded on the other end of the line, "We've found her! The boys of the 93rd pulled out all the stops. I'm sorry that it took so long, but at long last, we know where she is!"

Bolting from his chair, Trant bellowed in excitement, "I say, that is wonderful news, Walter! Tell me, is she alright?"

"That's another question altogether. She's in Bergen-Belsen DP Camp, Trant. She's still there."

Paling at this revelation, Trant exclaimed, "Oh, bollocks! I hear they're dying like flies there even now, a month after the war ended. Oh, God, she could still die. Do you know how she is doing?"

"All that we know is that she's alive. I've sent up the information to the Home Office. It should be there by this afternoon. I expect that they will cut you orders if you go round straightaway."

"Do you think that I shall be allowed to go get her?"

"Are you kidding? How could they say no? She's a war hero, Trant! She deserves a medal!"

"I say, I suppose you're right. I shall go round immediately and see what can be done. Hopefully, they will allow me air transport to go fetch her very soon."

Trant arrived at the Home Office an hour later. At first he was pushed around a bit, but eventually he had the idea to go to General de Gaulle's London headquarters. The General had been back in Paris for some time, but his second in command promised to apprise the general of developments, and sure enough, the following morning Trant received a call from de Gaulle's headquarters. "Monsieur Sutherland," the voice on the other end volunteered, "General de Gaulle has already informed the Home Office of his dissatisfaction with their handling of Mademoiselle Delacroix's extradition. I expect that you shall be hearing from them shortly."

"Thank you, sir," Trant replied. An hour later he was summoned to the Home Office, whereupon he received orders to personally go and retrieve Felicité. He was to fly by transport to Amsterdam two days hence. From there, he would receive an escort vehicle that would take him to Bergen-Belsen.

Bergen-Belsen DP Camp, Germany – Three days later

**Trant pulled the jeep slowly** alongside the gated guardhouse, the soldier at the gate saluting as he did so. "What can I do for you today, Wing Commander?" the soldier queried.

Handing him a sheet of paper, Trant replied, "Transfer orders, corporal."

The guard surveyed the sheet of paper and, handing it back to Trant, he explained, "Sir, you will need to report to the commanding officer, Colonel Branson. You will find him in the third building on the right. Please wait a moment while I open the gate." The guard moved forward and opened the gate, subsequently motioning for the Wing Commander to pass within the compound.

Once inside, Trant drove directly to the third building and, upon entering, he was escorted into the commanding officer's office. He introduced himself and gave his orders over to Colonel Branson, who read the orders and handed them back to him, saying, "Yes, I've been expecting you here at Belsen. I'll get one of my men to get her for you."

"That won't be necessary, Colonel Branson. I am well acquainted with her. Just tell me what barracks to proceed to."

"That might not be a good idea, Wing Commander. Since she is a British soldier we have placed her in a special ward that is separated from the majority of the former prisoners, but it's nonetheless pretty bad. You may want to wait here."

"No. Please, sir - this is something that I have to do. Please allow me to proceed on my own."

"Okay, Wing Commander. Barracks number 33. You are approved to proceed on your own. And good luck to you, sir."

"Thank you, sir," at which the pair saluted one another in unison. Once outside he hopped back into his vehicle and headed directly for the barracks. Arriving there momentarily, he took a deep breath, fighting off nausea from the stench that emanated from every quarter. The door to the barracks stood open, the warmth of early summer bringing a bit of fresh air to the interior of the building. He cautiously stepped inside, having little idea what to expect. The barracks was filled with people who were in every stage of duress imaginable, each and every one of them laying prone, silently staring vacantly at him as he passed them by.

For a fleeting moment he thought the colonel had been right. What if he failed to recognize his charge? What if time and suffering had distanced them to the point of no return, to the point that there was no vestige whatsoever of the two people who had once shared a weekend so long ago? It seemed to him as if a century had passed. Could it have only been five years?

And then he saw her. She was lying on a wooden bunk in the third room. What little remained of her hair was grey, and she seemed to be the size of a twelve-year-old child. She stared with undiscernible emotion at him from sunken eye sockets as he came towards her, not a word, or even a look of surprise passing between them. She lay motionless, holding his gaze, willing him to see her as she was at this, the most vulnerable moment of her entire life.

His eyes moistening noticeably, he nevertheless somehow managed to stave off further reaction. Instead he took in the moment, one that would remain with him like no other in his existence, for the remainder of his life. There would be time later for reconciliation, for the opportunity to attempt remonstration for things that could never be repaid nor restored. The moment at hand had its own self-contained universe – it was simply the act of being _._

He moved forward ever so slowly, his eyes captives of her unflinching gaze and, as he did so, he noticed the tiniest of movements. Suddenly, she reached for her head, feeling for her long-lost tresses, and then, when he was but an arm's length distant, she spoke softly, "I've been waiting for you. I hoped that it would be you. No, I actually _KNEW_ in my heart that it would be you." She continued staring at him, clearly unable to arise from her prone position. He in turn was frozen in midstride. Then, incredibly, she actually apologized, whispering, "I'm so sorry. I must look a fright."

At this, he broke into uncontrollable tears and, reaching down to her, he pulled her gently up into his arms, replying, "My dear Felicité, you are alive! That is all I need in this world at this moment," and though she was weak and frail, she embraced him meekly in return. Seeing that the effort exhausted her, he lay her back down.

For her part, she gazed up into his eyes, exclaiming in a meekly raspy voice, "One day, I shall have my match with you, Mr. Chicken. Over the last year, the struggle to simply continue to breathe, one horrendous day upon the next, one inconceivable event after another, has been very nearly unendurable. But the single thing that kept me going was the hope that one day I might have that moment. And now, unbelievably, it seems a possibility."

He gasped in torment, tears spilling down his face, and sweeping her up into his arms, he carried her tenderly from the barracks, and as he did so he whispered to her, "I promise you, my dear Felicité, you shall - you shall indeed have your match."

London – The Following Week

**Trant sat patiently** awaiting the arrival of Dr. Milletson, the doctor in charge of Felicité's recovery. As he did so, he thought back over the previous week. It had been a nightmare. More than a month since her rescue by the British, Felicité was still unable to hold down solid food. Although she had tried valiantly, most of it had come back up. It had been so long since she'd eaten significant solid food that her body seemed to be unable to assimilate nourishment when it was properly fed.

But that was only the beginning. Felicité had screamed in terror when they had boarded the transport aircraft in Amsterdam. She somehow had become afraid of the most ordinary things. After surviving only God knew what, she was now inexplicably in terror of the simple and mundane.

During her first week in the hospital in London she had slept little at all. She had explained during one of her more lucid moments that sleep had been a luxury not afforded to the prisoners over the course of the previous year. Instead, she claimed that she had naturally adapted herself to little sleep, but Trant was certain that it was much more complicated than she let on. He had stayed with her the first few nights in the hospital, and he knew that there was a much deeper explanation. During the very few times that she had actually fallen asleep in his presence, she had screamed intermittently, apparently wracked by horrendous nightmares.

At that moment Dr. Milletson came down the hallway towards Trant and, greeting him, he shook his hand and beckoned him to enter his office. Once they had both seated themselves, he said, "Well, I'm not sure exactly what to say, Wing Commander. On the one hand, Felicité has survived. Against inconceivable odds, she is alive. And I would say at this point that although it will be many months before she regains her former vigor and vitality, the prognosis for her physical health is quite good. We have a sufficient number of cases in point, persons who were subjected to similar conditions and escaped the camps as long as two years ago, and it normally takes around a year or somewhat more for them to return to their former physical stamina."

"Will her hair grow back, doctor?" Trant queried.

"Oh, yes, of course. Actually, that will likely be the first to improve. She simply needs nutrition, and her hair follicles will begin producing her formerly blonde hair. That should commence in earnest as soon as we can get her on a normal and stable diet."

"How soon will that be?"

"Oh, I expect no more than a matter of a couple of weeks. As you know, we are already experimenting with possible diets toward that end. Now, that is all good news, but the outlook for her mental health is much more equivocal at this point.

"I'm afraid that this part of her health is much less understood. Because it is a significantly longer-term problem, we have little or no data to rely on. Unfortunately, there appear to be hundreds of thousands of survivors who were subjected to similar conditions at the hands of the Nazis. As a result, we are going to be facing this problem for quite a while to come. We shall most likely become experts over the next few years with the mental illnesses associated with concentration camps."

"So you have no idea what will happen to her?"

"Unfortunately, I'm afraid that is correct, Wing Commander," Dr. Milletson replied with discernible despondence.

"Right," Trant responded dejectedly. "So, let me ask you, doctor, rather than as a highly trained professional, but instead, more so as a concerned private citizen - suppose there was a person – a person capable of sustainable forbearance in pursuit of the heart of the matter, and suppose that this person had the intention to practice patience with Felicité, perhaps to the exclusion of all else in his life," and at this pronouncement Trant halted and gave the doctor a piercing glance, "What advice would you give this person regarding how he might help Felicité to recover completely from the horrific events that she has suffered over the past year?"

Eyes glistening, Dr. Milletson peered at Trant and suggested, "I'm afraid I have no words that can improve on what you have just suggested, Wing Commander. My advice, just as you have implied, would be patience and compassion, perhaps even infinite patience, I might add. I am sorry to be the bearer of bad tidings, sir, but each person is different in this world. Even with infinite forbearance, there is no guarantee that the person that you knew will ever re-emerge. You could well invest years of your life with little or no improvement in her mental state. Are you prepared to do that?"

"Yes!" Trant responded emphatically.

At this declaration Dr. Milletson stood, held out his hand, and exclaimed, "Well then, you have my utmost admiration, Wing Commander Sutherland. Surely if there is a prescription for Felicité's recovery, your approach will provide the antidote. I wish you well in this endeavor, but I am afraid that I must forewarn you that this will most likely be the greatest challenge of your entire life."

Trant shook his hand and responded succinctly, "Thank you, doctor. I intend to succeed. She deserves nothing less."

Later That Day

**Trant decided to take his first proactive steps** with Felicité. Practicing his prepared speech before he entered her hospital room, he announced upon opening the door, "Good afternoon, Felicité!"

"Where have you been?" she responded possessively, "I've been waiting for you all day."

"Sorry," he answered apologetically, "I went to the library."

"Ah, the library. I wish I could go there."

"Well, perhaps you can before long."

"No," she responded emphatically, "That won't do."

"What? Why not? You should be able to walk well enough within two or three weeks, I should think."

She glared at him for what seemed an eternity and suddenly responded in evident irritation, "You know why."

He peered at her and blurted, "Surely you're not worried about your looks," and that was absolutely the wrong thing to say.

At this she immediately burst into tears, crying, "You have no concept of what I'm going through! Why don't you just get out of here and leave me alone, you jerk!"

At this Trant was completely taken aback, but nonetheless determined to stick with it, he exclaimed, "I'm sorry, Felicité. That was callous of me. You're right, I couldn't know what you are enduring, and what you lived through. But I do so want to help. Tis just that I see you every day, and I've become accustomed to your physical appearance, which isn't all that bad, under the circumstances. But perhaps you are correct - you might draw unwanted attention at this point in time. Still, the doctor says that your hair will grow back soon, and that you will be able to eat solid food before long. It shouldn't be too long before you can go out without drawing attention to your appearance."

Felicité pulled her skeletal arms across her withered chest and hugged herself silently, simply staring vehemently at him.

Fearful that he had only made things worse, Trant nonetheless felt it absolutely essential to continue the dialogue – silence being most assuredly the worst possible of all options. He determined to keep going, to keep on speaking, and perhaps even piling on more mistakes, until he hit upon a successful entryway back into her heart and soul.

"So," he said, attempting another tack, "I've brought some goodies from the library."

Although Felicité continued to stare doubtfully at him, she seemed to exhibit a glimmer of interest at this last comment, responding, "What did you bring?"

"I brought the complete collection of Jane Austen with me."

At this Felicité croaked, "Jane Austen! Why would I want to read Jane Austen? She's completely out of date! Her writings have nothing whatsoever to do with the world today," a complete about-face from her feelings of two years earlier.

"Why do you say that?" Trant queried with sudden interest.

"You idiot, they were after all written more than a century ago," she replied impatiently.

Trant thought for a moment and offered, "Suppose we take a gander at them and see, based on our perusal of them, if we agree that her literature is indeed out of date."

Turning to face the wall, Felicité muttered, "I don't have time for this."

Refusing to be put off so easily, he asked pointedly, "Then what do you have time for?"

She remained facing the wall for several moments, but then she turned back towards him and mumbled, "Alright, I agree. Let's read Jane Austen, anything to stop your incessant yapping."

He was forced to admit to himself that she had somehow become the master of insult, but he refused to admit defeat. Where her insulting nature had alighted from, he had no idea, but he intended to find out, all in good time. For the moment, he responded, "Suppose we pick one to start with. Which one would you like to read first – _Pride and Prejudice_?"

"No!" she responded emphatically.

Mystified by her reticence, he implored, "Why ever not?"

"Too combative," she replied, but he had no idea what she meant by that. She continued, saying, "Let's go in the order they were published. The first one was _Sense and Sensibility_."

Happy to begin anywhere she desired, he agreed, "Right, I have it right here. I shall begin reading it now, if that meets your approval."

"What! You're going to read it _aloud_ to me?" she exclaimed in stupefaction.

"Yes, why not?" he queried, "How else are we to properly debate the merits of it?"

"Oh, all right, but this will undoubtedly take forever," she replied in exasperation.

"Perhaps," he responded, but he was thinking to himself that this was precisely the point.

And so, that is how it began. Felicité having lost all semblance of her former self, in desperate need of help to rediscover that lovely young lady she had once been, and Trant seeking much-needed assistance from a woman who had died in 1817.

Due to the nearly nonstop squabbles that it engendered, _Sense and Sensibility_ took nearly three weeks for them to complete, and that was nothing as compared to the subsequent debate that their joint study of it elicited. By the end of the third page of the book, they were already engaged in conflict over this and that detail, much to the better for Trant's clandestine plan. He reasoned that the more that Felicité was drawn into the magical world of Jane Austen, the more she would be distracted from the diabolical one in which she had descended for the past year of her life.

Thus, when they argued over whether 'sensibility' really implied sensibility or sensitivity, their spirited exchange was much to the delight of Trant, despite the fact that Felicité stamped her feet in childish petulance when she was unable to convince him of her viewpoint on the subject.

And when near the end of the book Trant accused Felicité of having behaved at his birthday party in 1940 much the same as Marianne had towards Willoughby, she flew into such a profound rage that he was forced to suspend his reading for a full two days. Still, he continued to be certain that despite her childish display, his clandestine means of diverting her mind from reality was the proper antidote to her affliction.

Day after day they read, and each and every day they fought. Like two school children locked in mortal combat over possession of a brass farthing, they fought over nothing at all, she still driven by the deeply ingrained and now misplaced will to survive, and he in his turn driven by nothing more than the simple act of sustained distraction.

When after an additional week they had finally grown bored with arguing the merits of Jane Austen's first novel, Trant felt that he had shown good sense, and that she in her own turn had sprouted her first post-war signs of sensibility, although he was equally certain that she had no idea that their reading of the book had affected her in any way whatsoever.

"By the way, did you know that Jane Austen had to pay a small fortune to publish _Sense and Sensibility_?" she queried.

"She did?" Trant responded, well aware by now that he was out of his league with Felicité when it came to detailed knowledge of Miss Austen's works.

"Yes, and she made very little on it, believe it or not." Trant in his turn was now beginning to come to the conclusion that these six novels were indeed priceless.

By late June they were sufficiently exhausted from their incessant sparring over _Sense and Sensibility_ that they decided to call a truce and move on to Jane Austen's second published novel, the seminal _Pride and Prejudice_.

"So, let's begin tomorrow," Felicité suggested.

"Excellent. I must say, I've learned immeasurably from reading her first book with you. She was fascinatingly complex, wasn't she," he suggested.

"Perhaps," Felicité replied noncommittally.

"Perhaps! What does that mean, Felicité?"

"It means just that – perhaps."

Trant stroked his chin, suddenly fearing that he was once again out of his element, but before he found the opportunity to reiterate his ignorance, she rejoined with, "I would say, and this is just between you and me, that she was no more complex than the average woman. But I will grant you that she had a gift for expounding that complexity in print."

"Good God, you can't be serious, Felicité! Surely the 'average' woman is not so complex as were Elinor and Marianne!"

Felicité parried his query by asking a question of her own, "Would you consider me to be an average woman, Trant?"

"Certainly not. You are well above average in every aspect."

"Well, then, my assertion must hold. Jane Austen's writing portrays the average woman's complexity."

"Good Lord, woman. That would imply that you are infinitely more complex," he responded triumphantly, now certain that he had outdone her.

But she responded with the rather pithy comment, "Just so, just so," summarily putting him in his proper place.

Aware that he had once again been outwitted at debating, Trant nevertheless left her hospital room that evening with the assurance that his plan was on perfect course.

The Following Day

**Trant began reading** _Pride and Prejudice_ **.** They nearly came to blows within two hours of commencing their reading, as Felicité announced surreptitiously when Elizabeth cold-shouldered Mr. Darcy, "What an arse!"

"What!" Trant responded in confusion, "You mean him, or her?"

"I mean Miss Elizabeth Bennett, of course," she replied with apparent irritation.

"Why on earth do you say that?" he queried.

"Anyone in their right mind knows that the English aristocracy is loaded with arrogant fops," she replied.

"And on what do you base that supposition?" he rejoined.

"Experience!" she spat out at him, and at his confused look, she continued, adding, "Don't look so innocent, you arrogant fop, I'm speaking of you!"

"Well, first of all, I'm not a member of the English aristocracy," he responded.

"Pshaw!" she exclaimed. "You shall be! So that's a mere technicality!"

"Right, whatever," he answered defensively, "But surely you can't accuse me of being arrogant!"

"Too late, I just did," she said blandly.

"Well! I never!" he responded arrogantly, thereby proving her point implicitly.

At his rather ridiculous affirmation of his tendency towards conceit, she exploded with laughter, thus demonstrating her self-assurance that she was indeed correct regarding his personality.

Trant suddenly realized that his attempts to resurrect the long-lost woman that he had known and cherished might well be on the proper course. Unfortunately, he was also forced to admit to himself for the first time that this course of action could cause him to lose the affection of that very woman forever. It was a sobering realization of the risk that he was undertaking, but upon reflection he was forced to conclude that despite that risk there was no alternative course of action. If in the act of recovering Felicité, she was simultaneously lost to him forever, so be it.

A Month Later

**Trant had finally completed reading** _Pride and Prejudice_ **.** Unfortunately, if anything this book intensified the level of conflict between the increasingly erudite pair.

Upon completion of the book, Trant continued pursuit of his singular goal, hatching what he thought was the perfect question, "So, Felicité, which of the Bennet sisters matched your personality the most perfectly?"

"What!" she responded irascibly, "Why, none of them, of course!"

"I thought it would have been Miss Lydia," he responded deprecatingly.

"You son-of-a-bitch!" she screamed at him. "I've had to put up with things you couldn't even imagine over the past two years, but I don't have to put up with your ignorant sarcasm. Now, get your stupid arse out of my room, and don't ever come back here again. Do you hear me?"

At this, Trant arose slowly and whispered candidly, "Yes, and I'm sorry I hurt your feelings. Goodbye," and at this he turned and left her room. He sauntered down the hallway, but halted in the hope that she might follow him and recant. But as she did not, he carried on. He couldn't bring himself to believe that she had meant what she had said, but, on the other hand, he felt that a separation of sorts might be useful at this point in time. He therefore decided to stay away for a period of time.

On the fourth day of his exile the phone in his office rang. He picked up the receiver and said, "Sutherland here."

The voice on the other end of the line said, "Tis I," and it was Felicité. There was a pause, during which the silence was deafening, and then she continued, offering bluntly, "I apologize. Now get your arse back over here to the hospital. I need you, damn it!"

"Of course," he responded, "I shall be there shortly," and he was true to his word.

When he arrived at her room a half hour later, she raised her hands towards him and said, "Please, Trant. I need a hug, please!" He came forward and embraced her, the first time he had done so since that unforgettable day in Bergen-Belsen.

"This is progress," he thought to himself.

"Sooo, I've been thinking about what you said," she volunteered.

Having forgotten the details that had led her to expel him from her room, he inquired, "When?"

"The last time we spoke, when I called you a son-of-a-bitch. You know, when you said that I was acting like Lydia."

"Oh, right. And?" he queried.

"And you remind me of William Collins."

"What!" he replied in obvious annoyance.

"Just kidding, Trant. Actually, you remind me of Mr. Darcy, or is it the other way round?"

"Either way is fine, just so long as it is not Mr. Collins," he replied, surprised by her first attempt at humor, however poorly played. Buoyed by this realization, he rejoined with, "What a little worm he was!"

"So, which one of the five sisters do I remind you of?" she asked with genuine interest.

"Oh, that's obvious – Miss Elizabeth Bennet."

"Oh, that's wonderful! When I was growing up, I consumed _Pride and Prejudice_. I so wanted to grow up to be just like Elizabeth."

"Yes, and you were," Trant responded, before he realized what he was saying. Seeing the crushed look spreading across her face, he grasped her in a second embrace and whispered gently, "I'm so sorry, Felicité. I meant to say 'are' instead of 'were'."

"Yes, but it would have been a lie, wouldn't it. The truth is I am no longer the person that I was. I am painfully aware of that, Trant." And at this, she stared wistfully off into space for a moment, but then she said something quite tender and telling, "Do you suppose it will ever be the same?"

"What?" he asked, but in his heart he was certain that he already knew to what she was referring.

"Us," she responded.

Trant gazed at her longingly for a moment, and then he for once gave exactly the right answer, "I hope so, I certainly hope so, but if you must know, I shall accept you any way possible, my dear."

"Thank you. Thank you for that," she replied. "I have no idea what is possible myself, but I am trying. For the first time, I am really trying."

"That's the spirit," he replied.

"You were right, Trant."

"Right? About what?"

"About reading Jane Austen. She has magic. She has the ability to completely absorb you into her world of fiction. When we are reading her novels together, I am transformed to another world. And believe me when I say this - I so desperately need another world right now. When you disappeared for four days..." at which he started to deny that it was his fault, but she put up a hand to halt his interjection and continued with, "I know, it was my own fault that you disappeared, but anyway, in your absence, I started dredging up the horrible memories of the past year all over again. Within a few hours, I knew that there was only one way to push them away from my consciousness, and that is exactly what I did."

"What was that? What exactly did you do?"

"I started reading _Mansfield Park_. I read it all the way through in three days. Frankly, I was surprised to find that I was still able to read, that I could actually focus long enough to take responsibility for my own entertainment. But I did it, and now I can honestly tell you that I don't need you anymore."

At this, Trant stared forlornly at her, but she countered with, "Just kidding, of course. I need you more than ever, but I for one think that it is significant progress that I can actually read on my own, and even stay focused long enough to complete an entire Jane Austen novel."

"Perhaps so," he responded noncommittally, now absorbed in terror with the thought that she would want to forego their subsequent reading sessions.

"So, are you ready to begin reading _Emma_? That's her next book, you know."

"You mean together?" he asked, precipitously feeling balanced once again. Recognizing this fact, he sensed fleetingly the unexpected notion that perhaps he too was somehow undergoing restorative therapy.

"Of course," she replied, at which he actually thought that he perceived a slight smile on her face.

"Why, yes. Now is a good time for me," and in so saying, he rummaged through the stack of books and, locating _Emma_ , he subsequently opened it to page one and announced, "You have me here, Felicité. I have not read a single page of this novel."

"Nor have I," she responded with a new-found sparkle in her eye.

The next month was consumed with the exploration of what may be Jane Austen's most enigmatic work of literature. How she came to write it is anyone's guess, but it served Trant's purpose mightily, as it provoked nearly continuous debate, with Felicité vacillating between consummate adoration and absolute hatred of the book's heroine Emma.

When Emma humiliated her friend Miss Bates, Felicité was absolutely beside herself with scorn for Miss Austen's most maligned star. Trant in his turn actually agreed with her in this case, and he was surprised by the realization that it was the first time that he could conjure up wherein they had actually agreed on anything at all where these monumental novels were concerned.

And when Trant queried Felicité as to whether she thought he was at all comparable to Mr. Knightley, she denied such a possibility emphatically, saying, "Oh, you're not like him at all!" Thus restoring his reassurance that their tendency towards constant disagreement was not in jeopardy, since he secretly felt that by relegating himself to the role of her guardian, he was living the role of Mr. Knightley each and every day.

Late September

**By now Trant had completed** _Emma_ **.** Fortuitously, by that time Felicité's ability to digest food had so sufficiently improved that her blonde hair had returned in force. Even more importantly, she had regained more than half the weight that she had shed over the past year. It was now quite clear that Dr. Milletson's predictions regarding her physical health were right on the mark.

Thus, when Trant's father inquired as to her physical stamina, Trant responded that she was now sufficiently recovered to withstand the stress of a small ceremony within a few weeks' time. Lord Sutherland therefore proceeded to inform the proper authorities that they could move ahead with their plans.

Meanwhile, Felicité set about reading _Northanger Abbey_ at night, and during the day Trant read _Persuasion_ , Jane Austen's final novel, aloud to her. One day in early October, as he was reading, she commented, "This is the part I didn't get to."

"I thought you read _Persuasion_ before, Felicité," Trant replied. "Were you not reading it in the garden that day that we chanced across one another at Wharton Manor?"

"Yes, I was indeed reading _Persuasion_ , but you distracted me that day, and I never quite got round to completing it."

"So this will be a first for the both of us!"

"Yes, indeed, it will."

By midway through the book, Trant had grown a very bad premonition regarding this, the last of Jane Austen's novels. Surely Jane Austen would not have allowed her final masterpiece to end on a sour note. "Does this book have an unhappy ending?" he asked Felicité.

"I've no idea, I'm sure," she responded. "Why?"

"Surely Jane Austen would not have done such a thing in her final novel," he responded disconsolately.

"Good point, but she didn't know that, did she?"

"I don't understand," he replied. "She didn't know what?"

"She didn't know that it would be her last novel, because she was unaware that she was dying," Felicité responded. "It was, after all, published posthumously."

Trant's concern was by now bordering on sheer terror, but he nonetheless persisted, inquiring, "How did she die?"

"Well, she was only forty-one when she died. No one knows exactly what it was, but she had a slowly debilitating disease. It might have been a lymphoma, or typhus, or even something like tuberculosis. Whatever it was, it is likely that had she lived in modern times, she could have been saved, and we would now have perhaps twenty of her works, instead of only six. As it is, she is undeniably one of the greatest English authors of all time, especially given that she wrote so long ago."

With this ominous soliloquy Trant found himself searching for a way to deflect the subject onto something happier, thereby eliciting him to volunteer evasively, "Well, it doesn't matter anyway, because we two are nothing like the pair in _Persuasion_."

"What makes you say that?" she queried.

"Are we not like Elizabeth Bennet and Mr. Darcy in _Pride and Prejudice_?" he queried.

"Our tale is a sad one, whereas theirs ends happily," she offered. "We appear to be similar to Anne Elliot and Frederick Wentworth in the current novel - doomed to failure."

"How so?" he responded with dread.

"In order to regain your respect for me after the party at Wharton Manor, I took the extraordinary measure of becoming a spy, and in so doing, I managed to lose you forever."

Trant arched one eyebrow in disbelief at this disclosure and, uncertain as to exactly how he should respond, he blurted, "But you have not lost me, Felicité."

"Easy to say, but the fact is that I have lost myself, and that unfortunately amounts to the same thing, I'm afraid."

"This just won't do," he replied forlornly. "We simply must keep reading. Sooner or later we shall hit upon a duo whom we can emulate happily rather than what we have at the moment."

"Yes, but it won't be Jane Austen, will it, since _Persuasion_ is the last of her books."

A Few Days Later

**Trant peered from** the cab as it pulled up in front of the National Library and, pushing the door open, he leaned forward to pay the fare.

"Why are we here?" Felicité asked.

"Tis a surprise," Trant replied mysteriously. "We have a reservation for dinner at the Royal Inn right down the street there near St. Pancras Station, and I scheduled just enough time for a short stop here at the National Library before dinner."

"I still don't understand."

"If you will take my arm, the head librarian is awaiting us within."

At this, Felicité decided that patience demanded her to await what he might have in store for her. They entered the building, whereupon a narrowly framed man came forward and announced, "Sir, I am Neville Whiting, head librarian at your service."

"I am Wing Commander Sutherland, and this is Lieutenant Delacroix," Trant replied, taking Mr. Whiting's outstretched hand.

"A pleasure," Mr. Whiting said, in turn also taking Felicité's hand. "Now, if you will both follow me. We have the documents prepared for your inspection."

By now completely at a loss, Felicité cast Trant a quizzical glance, at which Trant returned her look with a small shake of his head, thereby implying that she must remain patient just a bit longer.

The pair followed Mr. Whiting down a long hallway, whereupon he opened a door and gestured for them to enter. "Ahem," he said, signaling the beginning of his discourse. "The documents are normally on public display. However, due to their importance to our history, and the risk of damage during wartime, these days they are still kept in a bomb-proof vault under lock and key. The Home Office arranged for you to inspect them on this occasion because of your special interest in them. And here they are. They are laid out in chronological order on these tables."

"What are they?" Felicité queried.

Mr. Whiting glanced at her doubtfully and replied, "I was given to understand that you asked to see them."

"I did, Mr. Whiting," Trant replied. "For security reasons, the lieutenant was not informed in advance."

"I see," Mr. Whiting responded, observing, "These are the original writings of Jane Austen, lieutenant."

"What!" Felicité responded wondrously, "Oh, my goodness. Let me see! Oh, but this is just too wonderful! Oh, Wing Commander Sutherland, my goodness, thank you so much," and at this pronouncement, she rushed forward and immediately began perusing the documents. Mr. Whiting summarily departed, leaving them to their study of the priceless writings of Jane Austen.

After half an hour, during which span of time Felicité kept up a continuous chatter regarding the manuscripts, Trant found himself forced to inform her that they would be late for their dinner reservation if she did not wrap up her inspection soon.

"Yes, of course," she responded. "Oh, Trant, thank you! Thank you so much!" And at this she shrugged within her overcoat, signifying that her perusal was at an end.

London – October, 1945

**Trant arrived** at the Home Office for the ceremony that morning, Felicité at his side. The pair entered General Sutherland's office, whereupon Felicité saluted smartly saying, "Good morning, sir."

Returning her salute, General Sutherland inquired, "Good morning, Felicité. How are you feeling this morning?"

"Chipper! I've gained another two pounds this week."

"Excellent! You will be back to normal before long at this rate. Are you ready for the ceremony this morning?"

"I suppose that I am as ready as I shall ever be. Are they here yet?"

"No, but you know how it is with these statesmen. Everyone has to wait on them, so they become accustomed to never being on time to anything. They shall be along shortly, I'm quite certain," General Sutherland replied.

While they waited, General Sutherland put in, "You are looking almost up to snuff, much better than you did four months ago, I assure you. Your uniform very nearly fits you now, and your hair has returned to its former color!"

Caressing her hair self-consciously as if certain that it had fallen out during the night, she responded, "Thank you, sir."

General Sutherland now volunteered, "I'm so proud of you, my dear. You have done us all proud. Who can say, but perhaps we might not have won the Battle of Normandy had it not been for your heroic efforts."

"Thank you, sir. It has been an honor to serve my country."

At that moment the door opened, and in walked Sir Winston Churchill, General Charles de Gaulle, and General Dwight Eisenhower. Felicité rose from her seat and saluted the three statesmen, and on that momentous day Lieutenant Felicité Delacroix was awarded the British Victoria Cross, the French Croix De Guerre, and the United States Silver Star, thereby becoming one of the most honored female British soldiers of World War II.

London – Late October, 1945

**Trant and Felicité were** now approaching the conclusion of _Persuasion_. Anne Elliot had somehow failed to capture the heart of Frederick Wentworth, Trant having become increasingly convinced that he and Felicité had sadly become the living embodiment of the two main characters of this morose tale of love and loss. Indeed, he feared their failures so aligned with the novel's anticipated outcome that he thought seriously of begging off reading the book before they arrived at its completion. But Felicité would not hear of it. For reasons that Trant could not fathom, Felicité seemed to revel in the misery of the spinsterish Anne Elliot.

Finally, there came a day when it was evident that the book was destined to come to its inevitable conclusion with the penultimate reading by the pair. But to the surprise of both Felicité and Trant, Anne Elliot was overheard by Mr. Wentworth paying homage to the nature of true love, and within minutes the two were betrothed, providing perhaps the most shocking yet enduringly satisfying ending to any of the Austen novels.

"Well," Trant exclaimed with a happy smile on closing the cover the final time, "I certainly didn't expect an ending like that."

"Nor I," Felicité responded. "I thought that we were doomed."

"They, you meant to say 'they'," he replied diffidently.

Felicité stared at him for a moment and murmured, "Did I?"

Eyeing her in bewilderment, he inquired, "Didn't you?"

"No, Trant. I assure you, I meant 'we' rather than 'they'."

Their eyes met and locked in passionate regard for the first time. Finally choosing to break the silence, he timidly broached the plan that he had been formulating for some time, "In that case, may I be so bold, my dear Felicité. Would the thought of going home be of interest to you?"

Abruptly contemplating a problem she had not heretofore considered, she responded, "Home? Where is that? I no longer have a home."

"From your viewpoint, that may well be, but if you will humor me for a moment, I shall attempt my brand of 'persuasion' upon you, my dear."

She glared at him diffidently, then accused, "Don't do that, Trant. Don't assume that because I gazed longingly at you, that I am suddenly the person you knew years ago."

Trant responded ever so eloquently, "Nothing of the sort crossed my mind, I assure you. Although I choose to not make light of the look we just now shared, I am also aware that we cannot simply turn back the clock. Rather, I had another quite different possibility in mind, if you will permit me."

"Right, then proceed," she responded noncommittally.

"My father and I have discussed this, Felicité. Since the loss of my mother, Lady Sutherland, we have felt a distinct loss of familial contiguity at Wharton Manor. Quite frankly, we both miss the presence of a lady. At length, we both came separately to the self-same conclusion. It is our mutual desire that you should join us at Wharton Manor during the continuation of your convalescence from your injuries."

"I...I don't know what to say," she responded doubtfully. "I've not thought about it. In truth, I'm not certain that would work well at all."

"I've spoken to Dr. Milletson. You cannot stay in the hospital much longer. As we both know, you are still suffering emotionally, but you are physically well enough to be discharged. Thus, you need to alight somewhere to continue your recovery."

"And you and your father want to take pity on me, is that it?" she murmured miserably.

"No, that is not it at all, Felicité. We have discussed this at length, I assure you most ardently, and the two of us agree that it is quite the reverse. It is we who are in need of you. We implore you to come home with us and live a quiet life with us for as long you see fit. We so desperately need the presence of a woman at the manor, and we intend you to make it your home for as long as you so desire."

"You're not serious! Tis quite improper," she responded.

"Oh, pshaw!" he replied. "I remember years ago, I said something ridiculously immature to Lady Sutherland, and she told me on that occasion that my behavior was marked by, and I remember her words precisely, 'unmitigated British priggishness and ignorance of youth'."

"Meaning what?" Felicité queried.

"Meaning, the fact that we are not possessed of the same blood does not remove the fact that over the past five and more years, you have become like family to us. God, if only Lady Sutherland could be here to explain, she was so much more eloquent than I. Felicité, please, just imagine that she were here at this very moment. Imagine what she would say to you, and then answer as you would answer to her."

At this well-played pronouncement, Felicité halted momentarily and closed her eyes. Trant, fervently hoping that she was indeed capable of envisioning his mother's supplicating invitation, waited patiently for her to come to her own conclusion. At length, she opened her eyes, now clearly glistening, peered longingly at him, and said the single word, "Yes."

Wharton Manor – November, 1945

**The vehicle halted in front of the manor and Trant stepped** down from the driver's side, racing to the other side so as to help Felicité.

"You needn't go to so much trouble," she announced as she stepped from the car, "I am perfectly capable of caring for myself."

"Please, just humor me, Felicité. Now that the war is over, I have a hard time finding a means of making myself feel useful. If you will allow me, I propose that this shall be my job for the moment, to be your aide."

"Whatever," she responded insolently. She then glanced about momentarily and, realizing that something was amiss, she expounded, "Oh, God, how shall we get along without Lady Sutherland. I simply cannot imagine Wharton Manor without her."

"I know. However, as I have myself discovered, I believe that with time you shall realize that she is still with us. Her spirit infuses the very fabric of Wharton Manor. Give it time, and you shall see."

Saying nothing in response, Felicité instead walked slowly up the stairs and directly into the house, whereupon she halted in mid-stride, apparently struck by a distant memory. "God, I can't believe it," she said to herself as she stared at the staircase.

"Believe what?" Trant queried in confusion.

"Can it have only been five and a half years? It seems like a lifetime ago. I walked through that doorway on a Friday evening dressed in a vulgar costume, and the first person I met was Mr. Robert the Robin!"

"We've lived a lifetime. It is hard to conceive of the events that have transpired since that weekend," Trant responded in agreement.

"Do you suppose we can ever find those two young people again?" she asked pensively.

Eyeing her intently, Trant exclaimed, "There is nothing in this world that would please me more so, Felicité."

"God, I don't know that I can, Trant," she responded despondently. "I want to, but I have no idea how."

"I do," he replied, "Or at least, I think I do."

"And what might that be?" Felicité asked with a perplexed look.

"I have found the road back."

"There is no road back, Trant. There can never be," Felicité responded flatly.

"Perhaps you are right, but Lady Sutherland once said to me to ' _Always dig beneath the surface layer and focus on the heart of the matter'._ If you will permit me to encroach upon your patience, I propose to do just that, my dear."

"I suppose that it is worth a try, Trant," Felicité responded apathetically.

"No, that simply won't do. You must promise me, Felicité."

"I don't know that I can," she responded irritably.

"But you must!"

"Why?"

"Because you once made me promise. You made me promise to allow you a return visit to Wharton Manor after the war."

"I did?"

"Yes, Felicité, you know very well that you did."

"Yes, I suppose I did."

"Yes, and now you must promise me that you shall give me the chance to dig beneath the surface."

"Why should I?"

"Because there is a second part to your request – a match."

"You wouldn't withhold that from me! You couldn't!"

"I assure you, my promise to you is as good as gold. You shall have your match, but not until you are completely restored to your former self. Therefore, I must also insist that you promise me that you will dig beneath the surface with me."

"I feel that I am being blackmailed, but when you put it that way, tis quite difficult to say no. If I don't play along with you, you will not give me my match. Am I correct?"

"That is perfectly correct, Felicité," Trant replied.

"Right, I so desperately want that match. I've lived so long for it, I simply must have it. I doubt that I would be alive today had I not lived for it. But you are not going to like what you discover when you start digging, I'm afraid."

"I shall take that risk, Felicité."

"Then so be it. I promise."

"As do I."
Chapter 11

The Victor's Spoils

Wharton Manor – Early June, 1946

**Felicité was shocked by the realization** that six months had passed since her arrival at Wharton Manor. There had been good moments and bad, but slowly, ever so slowly, the good moments had begun to outnumber the bad.

One day, as the two of them sat within the sitting room, Lord Sutherland volunteered out of the blue, "My dear, you must take what is yours in life."

"I'm not quite certain I understand to what you are referring, Lord Sutherland," she replied in mystification.

"I am referring to my son. He is yours, and always has been. He simply does not know it."

"What makes you think that?" Felicité responded.

"My dear, Lady Sutherland, God rest her soul, would remind you of that weekend so long ago. He was smitten with you even then."

At this Felicité raised one eyebrow and said, "And I with him, as I'm sure you well know. But I'm afraid."

"Of course you are, my dear," he replied. "But you must keep the ball in the air, as it were."

"Good God," she responded, "You sound just like her, as if life were a tennis game! But it isn't, and at any rate I'm afraid that I am not up to keeping the ball in the air."

At this Lord Sutherland gave her a knowing smile of accord and said, "But you must take action, my dear. Now that you are fully recovered, both in body and spirit, you must take what is yours."

"Alright, now that I understand to what you are referring, I still have no idea what to do about it. Can you please help me?"

"I'm afraid not, my dear. You see, my expertise is limited to military tactics. I should think that you would do far better to seek Lady Sutherland's advice."

Thinking him to be showing signs of senility, she responded idly, "Yes, perhaps you are right, Lord Sutherland."

Eyeing her knowingly, he responded, "My dear, I can see you must think me senile, but I assure you, I am not. Now, you must imagine Lady Sutherland in your mind's eye. Imagine her right here in this very room. And if you do so, I am quite certain that she shall make her presence known to you."

Closing her eyes, Felicité played along, inquiring wistfully, "And what, pray tell, would she say to me, sir?"

"She would undoubtedly say 'you shall think of something, of that I am quite certain'."

That Night

**Trant made his way to the library** , the appointed time having finally arrived. Finding she had preceded him, he strolled forward and supplied her with a gentle embrace, appending it with, "Good evening, fair Felicité. I am here, in accordance with your bidding."

"You're late!" she responded in feigned condemnation, "But I shall forgive you, as you are doubtless weary from your constant battles with yours truly."

"I never could beat you at anything," he observed in acknowledgment, "Now, shall we get on with it?"

"With what?" she inquired in surprise.

"With whatever it is that is your desire," he replied diffidently.

"Right," she replied thoughtfully, and now, appearing introspective, she stammered, "Well, er, here goes...I believe that in the interest of full disclosure, we should have a talk, in the process digging to the heart of the matter."

"Suits me," he responded good-naturedly.

"Really?" she replied in yet further surprise, "I hadn't expected it to be so easy."

"Try me," he said.

"Alright," she began, "For starters, what happened to Lady Sutherland?"

"Why, she died, of course," he responded impatiently.

"Yes, of course," she agreed and, sensing his hesitance to expand on such a painful topic, she nevertheless probed, "But what was the cause of her death?"

"Her car was blown up," he replied matter-of-factly.

"That must have been devastating for both you and your father," she blurted in horror, "Was it an accident?"

Now beginning to suspect that the moment of full disclosure might be at hand, he answered bluntly, "No, Felicité, I'm afraid she was in fact murdered."

Clutching her throat in shock, she exclaimed, " _Murdered?_ But who could have done such a thing? And how could you have possibly coped with such an event?"

"Are you quite certain that you are prepared for the entire story, Felicité? Because if you are, I am of a mind that it is high time that we laid the entire matter to rest."

Her eyes locking with his, she replied, "Yes, Trant, I assure you, I am entirely ready."

"Right. Here it is then," he responded and, having rehearsed it for many months in his own mind, he commenced with, "My father, having been devastated by the loss of the love of his life, was in a desperate way upon my mother's passing. For my part, I too was sorely disturbed but, being even more concerned for my father's welfare than my own, I sought a means of affording him a distraction, something sufficiently problematic to help him through his trying time. Try as I might, I could think of nothing nearly so engrossing as the pursuit of my mother's murderer.

"Unfortunately, my father not being the revengeful type, I was well aware that he would not be interested in pursuing my mother's killer. I therefore laid it out to him as a military matter, specifically - _the cause of your demise_ , dear Felicité.

"When I presented it to him in that way, he bit, jumping full force into the investigation. And I don't mind telling you, I breathed a heavy sigh of relief at his rejuvenation, for I too was in a very bad way, having lost both my mother and the object of my affection.

"The going was slow and sinuous, the primary war effort having moved on to more timely matters. But somehow, Lord Sutherland managed to devote a significant portion of his efforts to the investigation. He began to uncover evidence quite slowly at first, but it eventually grew into a veritable torrent of damning evidence.

"First, he discovered that the authorities investigating the explosion of Caroline's apartment in 1940 had determined that the gas main to her apartment had definitely been tampered with, ergo – Caroline had been murdered. That, of course, wasn't sufficient to bring charges.

"However, when he searched further, he was able to determine the source of an anonymous letter to me indicating that you had worked at The Windmill Theatre. Still, it was only circumstantial, but by now the trail was heating up.

"For him, the coup de grace came when he was able to ascertain that Lady Sutherland's death had been caused by a makeshift bomb rather than a V-2. And, as it turned out, the bomb had been fabricated using chemicals uniquely available in Oxfordshire. I don't mind telling you, by this point he himself was ready to explode, but I managed to persuade him to keep focused on the most important issue – you.

"And so he did. Eventually he was able to determine that someone at Bletchley Park had sent a clandestine and encoded message to German Headquarters in Paris sometime after you were parachuted into France. Undecipherable by the Bletchley Park codebreakers themselves at the time, it was later determined that the message contained evidence that your father had in fact married a Jewess, your mother. Of course, the sender couldn't have known that you were using an assumed name in France, but this piece of evidence was nonetheless the smoking gun in my father's investigation. There being no other explanation as to why your name might have been sent to the German Command at such a pivotal moment, the investigation was now complete."

"Wait a minute, I'm terribly confused," Felicité interjected, "I must have missed something. Are you saying that my arrest by the Gestapo and your mother's murder were related?"

"Yes, of course," he replied knowingly.

"How so?"

"My dear, it all goes back to that night so long ago, when you and I met right here at Wharton Manor. You see, a chain of events was set in motion that carried right down to this very moment, a chain of intrigue that was focused on the two of us."

Clutching her throat in sudden perception, Felicité uttered the single word, "Annabeth."

"Yes, quite so" he nodded, "On interrogation, Miss Fletcher's brother Morton, who had been assigned to Bletchley Park, admitted to having no knowledge as to why he had been asked to forward the encoded message to France, but that he had indeed been induced by none other than Annabeth to do so.

"Armed with this information, my father was subsequently authorized by the Home Office to handle this untoward situation in the most expedient way. You see, it was all-important that, there still being a war to win, confidentiality be maintained at all costs. Accordingly, Lord Sutherland stopped by Miss Fletcher's apartment one evening and, presenting her with irrefutable evidence, he offered her two choices: either death by firing squad for treason, thereby inducing disgrace for her family; or a graceful exit using the cyanide capsule that he had so conveniently thought to bring with him.

"Upon completing his grim task, he summarily departed her apartment. For her part, Miss Fletcher assuming by his abrupt exit that there might yet be a possibility of flight, she hastily made her way to the street, whereupon she discovered to her dismay that the military authorities were awaiting her attempted escape. Seeing no way out, she wisely chose the latter alternative proposed by Lord Sutherland."

"Heavens," Felicité responded in evident dismay, "What a horrid story!"

"Yes, Felicité," he responded, "As bizarre as it may seem, events the night of the birthday party set in motion a series of incidents that included deception, mayhem, lives driven askew, espionage, clandestine military operations, incarceration, murder, suicide, and ultimately, the near destruction of your own life."

"To be sure..." she pondered and, the silence now drawing out, she eventually found the presence of mind to inquire, "Do you think we can ever lay it all to rest?"

"Perhaps, perhaps so," he rejoined, "But let me ask you a question - why did you never disclose that you had not been the one within the portrait that night?"

"How could I?" she implored, "Having drawn the curtain, I watched from the garden, you see. The reaction of the airmen was so touching, so utterly overwhelming. I simply couldn't bring myself to suggest anything that might detract from the success of Lady Sutherland's magnificent tribute to the airmen. Surely you must see. To have done so would have undermined the joy and attendant resolve of the 93rd. In the end, I felt I had no choice."

"I see," Trant responded and, realization coming over him for the first time, he inquired, "So you weren't attempting to conceal the fallacy?"

"Yes, I mean - no," she replied in bewilderment, "On the contrary, I wish to this day I had been the one up there onstage. It would have been far better than concealing such a horrendous falsehood for all these years. And look what that lie produced! So many have died, and all because I remained silent."

"I can't let you continue with such a mistaken conception, Felicité," he replied pointedly.

"What do you mean?"

"This was not a misconception of your making. We have all been duped by a heinous liar and murderer. You, dear Felicité, perhaps the most maligned of all, somehow emerged as one of the greatest heroes of the D-Day invasion. What you suffered was not for naught, perish the thought."

"Well, thank you for that," she responded, "Perhaps now we can begin put it all behind us."

"Perhaps, but there is still a score to be settled," he responded acutely.

"Oh? And what, pray tell, is that?" she questioned in wide-eyed puzzlement.

Sensing victory within his reach, he rejoined smugly, "We have yet to complete our agreement."

"Which agreement is that?"

"Surely you recall, not six months past, we agreed that we two together should dig beneath the surface."

"Ah, yes, I do recall, now that you mention it," she murmured but, her eyes suddenly lighting up, she suggested naively, "But perhaps you shall agree – did we not just do that?"

"Well, er, perhaps you are right. Yes, it was rather a good digging," and, a look of awareness now crossing his own features, he added in realization, "I say, I believe we've actually dug quite to the bottom of it all, Felicité. Would you not agree?"

"Why, I believe you may be correct," she observed in apparent surprise, "But if that is the case, then our agreement should be concluded."

"I grant you that we've concluded the digging part," he pointed out, "But there is yet one item to be afforded within our agreement."

Still apparently confused, she responded, "Oh? And what might that be?"

"If you recall, we agreed that you must be restored to your former self," he replied and, his egotism at having won quite apparent, he added, "And – _checkmate_!"

"Oh?" she retorted doubtfully, "Tell me, Trant, exactly whom do you see before you?"

Peering at her in confusion, he responded bluntly, "Why, you of course, dear Felicité."

"Just so, just so!" she observed self-confidently.

His sense of balance slipping noticeably, he stammered, "But...wait...did you just...?"

"Yes, of course I did," she rejoined.

"Oh, bollocks, Felicité," he complained, "Why can you not let me win, just this once?"

"The stakes are far too high," she responded elusively.

"Stakes? What stakes?"

"You know, Mr. Chicken," she responded, now crossing her arms expectantly.

"Oh, bother," he blurted in frustration and, seeking to regain the upper hand, he added insolently, "Alright, _Miss Delacroix_ , I concede defeat. Having satisfied both requirements within our prior agreement, there is still the requisite tennis match to be decided."

Arching one eyebrow in disavowal, she exclaimed, " _Tennis match_?"

"Yes, of course. I am at your service whenever you are so inclined," he emitted disconsolately.

"Think back, Mr. Chicken. Think back to that morning so long ago. Did I _ever_ mention the word tennis?"

Staring at her in disbelief, the memory rushing back to him, he stammered, "I don't understand. If not tennis, then exactly what sort of match?"

Her eyes narrowing in confrontation, she declared forcefully, _"A sparring match_!"

"What? I don't understand," he murmured in confusion, "You expect the two of us to engage in a _sparring match_ of some sort?"

"Too late, dear Trant, we've just concluded it," she divulged and, breaking into a superior grin, she crowed in nauseating exultation, "And to the victor go the spoils!"

His world suddenly spinning out of control, he stared at her in abject defeat, groaning ineffectually, "I say, you _cheated_!"

" _Touché_!"

Still smarting from such a shocking defeat, he rejoined in disconsolate admiration, "This isn't fair, but somehow you seem to have won the match!"

"Nay, Mr. Chicken," she countered and, slowly enveloping him in her inexorable embrace, she stated with absolute finality, "I've not won the match. I've won _you_!"

For his part, he could only whisper, "And so you have, lovely Felicité, and so you have."
Epilogue

**She has passed on** now, but the memory of her is yet strong and deep within my soul. Thirty years ago, my mother, Lady Margaret Sutherland, wife of the Earl of Winston, said to me one day to " _Always dig patiently beneath the surface layer and focus on the heart of the matter. With forbearance, eventually the proper solution will present itself."_ And although I was far too young at the time to understand the meaning of her counsel to me, I wrote down her words in the hope that when the time came whence I should be in desperate need of her counsel, I would have by then reached sufficient maturity to understand her long ago counsel.

And so it was that when my mother passed on, she left me a letter, and within that letter she counseled me to follow that which she had taught me as a child. Accordingly, I rummaged around and located her by now tattered words whence, following her counsel, I determined to sweep away the accumulated layers of dirt. Digging ever so patiently, I eventually uncovered the heart of the matter. The heart of the matter to which I am referring is the woman who became my partner in life and, more importantly, my greatest heroine - my very own Felicité. And that, dear reader, is my story.

***~~~***

### About the Author

**D. Allen Henry** is a freelance writer who is also the author of _Hawk Banks_ , _Those Who Fought for Us_ , _Enlisting Redemption, Finding Patience, My Father the God, Merging Destiny_ and _Galileo's Lost Message_. The author welcomes comments regarding any of his novels. His website is located at <http://dayhahaha.wix.com/dallenhenry>, and his Facebook address is <https://www.facebook.com/dallen.henry> . Should you so desire, you may provide feedback to the following e-mail address: dallenhenry@hotmail.com. If you enjoyed _Of War and Women_ , please be so kind as to provide a review of it on the website from which you acquired this book.

Novels by

D. Allen Henry

**Hawk Banks** **– Founding Texas** (revised edition) – © 2014

Pairing up with Texas frontiersman Hank MacElrae, the inimitable Bostonian Hawk Banks sets off in quest of adventure on the Plains of Texas. A distinctly incompatible pair, the two manage to make their unlikely friendship work and, enduring all manner of unlikely events, they succeed in finding their way into the heart of Texas, becoming founding fathers of a new nation.

https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/448831

The Sutherland Saga

**Part I: Those Who Fought for Us** – © 2015

On the eve of World War I, Elizabeth Turnberry and her friend Margaret MacCreedy meet fellow students Robert Sutherland and Alastair Stewart in a pub in Edinburgh. And, although the future seems bright, the outbreak of war in the summer of 1914 will destroy all their hopes and dreams. Is there hope at all for those who fought for us?

https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/535009

**Part II: Of War and Women** – © 2015

On the eve of the Battle of Britain a farewell party is held for the 93rd Squadron at Wharton Manor, and though World War II will subsequently intervene, events of that night will echo down through history, changing the lives of those present forever. Unfairly maligned, one woman will persevere, but for all her accomplishments, will Felicité succeed?

https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/536530

**Part III: Enlisting Redemption** – © 2015

When twenty-one year old college student Trevor Sutherland enlists Rebecca Carey in a birthday party performance, it leads to a heinous crime. Her subsequent disappearance will ultimately send Trevor on a decade long quest for redemption, one fraught with intrigue, deception, and ultimately murder.

https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/540538

**Part IV: Finding Patience** – © 2015

When Patience Walker is kidnapped on a cold winter's night, her life is changed forever. Having met her on that very day, Brandt MacCauley takes on the challenge of finding her. Spanning fifteen years, his quest will not only change both of their lives, it will ultimately alter the course of history.

https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/543390

**Part V: My Father the God** – © 2015 (sequel to Those Who Fought for Us)

Having completed his first year at Hanford University, Scotsman Sloan Stewart begins the summer of 1941 working at The Orchard Inn with his friends James, Isolde and Sabrina. But entanglements inevitably lead to a shocking event, one that will transform each of them irrevocably through war, peace, and ultimately, the remainder of their lives. Can they ever surmount the errors of their youth?

https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/538259

**Part VI: Merging Destiny** \- © 2016

When Elspeth Moorehead's parents are killed in the Lockerbie bombing, Elspeth vows that she will someday avenge their horrendous murder. Her promise evolves into the quest of a lifetime, carrying her across continents and cultures, in the process subjecting her to numerous perilous obstacles. But, being a woman borne of exceptional intelligence and willpower, Elspeth may just be up to the challenge. Spanning a quarter of a century, her exploits will not only subject her to hurdles she could never have dreamed of, they will change the world.

https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/685934

**Galileo's Lost Message -** © 2016

An intricate mystery for those interested in the history of science. When Contessa Antonietta Floridiana telephones Professor Paul Woodbridge, she asks, "Suppose Galileo wrote a secret encoded message at the end of his life. Would the professor perhaps be able to decode it?" The quest for the solution to Galileo's Lost Message will lead the pair on a search that will alter the course of history.

https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/624146

Sneak Peek

Enlisting Redemption

By

D. Allen Henry

Prologue

**You will** **no doubt** ask how I could have been such an unmitigated jerk. My only reply is that in fact _I was_ a jerk, and that is most assuredly no excuse whatsoever. It is instead an admission, a profound confession of the foolishness and inexperience of youth that I have lived with for half of my life. Such is the frailty of the human condition, to which I of all people am certainly no exception. There can be only one means of redemption for such reprehensible actions - other than suicide - which doesn't really count, because then what is left to redeem? Accordingly, when the enormous immorality of my actions became apparent to me, there was but one course of action available for my redemption, and that path has become the singular embodiment of my life.

I was born in Gloucester, England. Gloucester was originally a Roman city, founded in the late first century, sometime after the Roman Emperor Claudius defeated the Celts and brought Britannica under Roman rule. Some say the city was originally named Glevum, but how this evolved into the modern rendition, like so many other of our modern terms, is obscured by the passage of time.

I grew up in Wharton Manor, in the Cotswolds, on the eastern border of Gloucestershire. A lovelier place than Gloucestershire you will never find on this great Earth. Although the area is certainly not the oldest settled part of England, Wharton Manor is nevertheless located in what is commonly referred to as the Old Shire, a term that is thus cultural rather than historical, in keeping with the custom of descriptive misnomers that are peculiar to nearly every human society.

The identifying geographical attribute of Gloucestershire is the River Severn. This great gash of intermittently navigable water runs right down to the sea, and as such, Gloucestershire has been subjected to conquest and warfare for as long as there has been recorded history. It was therefore inevitable that the Shire should fall at one time or another into the hands of Celts, Romans, Saxons, and Normans. And in the twentieth century, it was for a time in danger of falling into the hands of the Third Reich, along with the rest of Britain.

These then are the roots of my birthplace, a place of pride in its heritage, a heritage of constant change. I was born shortly after the Second World War, the greatest conflagration in recorded history, the grandson of an Earl who had fought in the Great War, and the son of an Earl who had fought in the Second World War. And while it is true that the wars ended before I came into the world, for the people of Gloucestershire, the memory of wartime remained a living and breathing image when I was young. Ultimately, the heritage of my upbringing is thus embedded in failure, sadness, and still more sadness. And these are the underpinnings that shaped me as I grew into manhood in the 1960's in the Old Shire.

When I was ten, my father took me on a lengthy trip to Verdun. Verdun was a battlefield in northern France during the Great War. It was ancient and decrepit, or so it seemed at the time to a boy of ten. Since, other than the eroding trenches, there wasn't much remaining of the battlefield to be seen there, I was uncertain as to exactly why we crossed the Channel and drove so far to see such a desolate place. My father patiently explained to me in route that our sojourn was necessary because there was a lesson to be learned there.

I remember that we parked the car, my father subsequently leading me to a large ceremonial building that seemed to be constructed from concrete. The structure was long and narrow, incongruously adorned with a tall spire in the middle. He halted adjacent to the building and announced, "Son, this is the site of the greatest battle ever fought on this planet. Seven hundred thousand men died here in the year 1916." He then bent down and, pointing toward the small glass window panes at the base of the building, he explained to me, "Look into those windows there. That is in fact a tomb, and if you look closely, you will see that it is filled with the bones of several hundred thousand humans."

I still recall staring into those windows with a macabre sense of fascination. The massive mound of bones in that crypt was beyond the capacity of a ten year old boy to comprehend. And today, thirty years on, my inability to grasp that humans could do such things to one another has abated not one iota.

I recall asking inanely, "I say, who won the battle?"

"Right. Neither side won," he responded succinctly.

Eyeing him doubtfully, I replied with self-assurance, "I thought there was _always_ a winner in war!"

"Nothing could be further from the truth," he patiently observed, that in and of itself apparently being some sort of profound truth.

"Then what indeed was the point, father?" I asked. At the age of ten one is supposed to know these things, but I confess that I had always been confused about the Great War.

"Simple question, quite complicated answer," he replied. Scratching his chin in apparent thought as he took my hand and commenced walking between the rows of white crosses that stretched as far as I could see, he observed dispassionately, "I suppose it was a misunderstanding. But what a misunderstanding it was."

"Which side won the war?" I asked. I had heard various answers to that question, thus I recall being terribly interested to obtain the 'correct' answer. You see, my father always had the definitive answer to every question.

"Although history records that the Allies won, I suppose that in reality it was all for naught," he replied despondently.

This was not an acceptable answer to a boy of ten. Thus, I decided to keep the pressure on, hounding him with, "Right. If neither side won, why did they cease fighting?"

"I say, this is only my opinion, mind you," he began, to which I immediately perked up. Whenever my father commenced by saying 'this is only my opinion', I understood that something important was coming next. Accordingly, I was all ears when he continued, explaining, "However, it seems to me that when the inexperienced are in decision-making positions, there will inevitably be vengeance. My son, _the singular antidote to vengeance is compassion._ "

This was another one of my father's pronouncements that came across as rubbish to a ten year old child, but somehow, against all expectation, I still remember it verbatim, now more than thirty years on. But at that moment I recall needing still further clarification, thus I queried, "Right, so who was in the wrong?"

He replied succinctly, "Son, wars are often fought for the poorest of reasons. To say that one side was right and the other wrong would be a dramatic oversimplification. What I can say is this – the Great War was not in actuality won by either side, and when the supposed victors showed little compassion for the losing side, the stage was set for a second conflagration of even more monumental proportions. But when the Second World War ended, because of the failures after The Great War, it was understood that greater compassion should be shown to the losing side. And now, ten years on, that very compassion seems to have averted a third war of global proportions. And while it may seem self-evident that compassion is the proper treatment of those who have erred, it is rarely demonstrated at the conclusion of war. Indeed, the aftermath of the Second World War seems to be the first time in modern history that such compassion has been accorded to the losing side."

Now, more than thirty years having passed, I still remember that day as if it were yesterday. Still, I confess that I had to live from that day to this, enduring much hardship and confusion, in order to understand the lesson that my father taught me on that day. And ultimately, his words led me from the enormous failures of my youth to the path of redemption. Thus here, without further delay, is my story, the story of my redemption.
Chapter 1

Reckless Youth

Charlottesville, Virginia - August, 1968

**Central Virginia lies within** that jagged and timeworn wedge of the Southeastern portion of the United States that, like an exit overlooked on the interstate highway, has gone unnoticed by much of our country. Located little more than a two hour drive from the nation's capital, Charlottesville somehow seems to the observer to have halted and indeed even thrived eternally in the era of its illustrious forefather - Thomas Jefferson.

It snows there, sometimes in great hip-deep throngs that should know better than to find their way that far south. And the snow can further enhance the feeling of isolation in winter, but when the weather is kind to the inhabitants, Charlottesville is a well-hidden jewel that is uniformly treasured by a long line of inhabitants going all the way back to the days of the westward moving settlers at the dawn of the eighteenth century.

Each fall when the University of Virginia opens its doors, the citizens of Charlottesville are inundated by a new wave of college-bound students, but by contrast to many college towns, the locals actually welcome the students back with open arms. When the student body represents a significant portion of the local population, they are an essential part of your economy. Thus, when the students return, the city blooms with activity, as if it were a butterfly emerging from its cocoon. Several generations of Virginians have grown to adulthood in this small out-of-the-way throwback to another time. And many of these young adults have gone on to scintillating careers across the state and the nation.

Thus it was that Rebecca Carey arrived in late August for her sophomore year at UVa. Rebecca absolutely worshipped UVa and everything it stood for. Accordingly, she had spent her entire summer in Danville moping about, impatiently awaiting her return for her sophomore year.

Perhaps the single greatest source of Rebecca's dismay lay in the fact that she had never had a significant boyfriend, something that was unusual for a young lady of twenty. "A sophomore in college should be worldlier," she thought to herself. But whenever she thought back with revulsion to the scant few opportunities she'd had to rectify her unfortunate situation, she had to admit that she was relieved that none of them had come to fruition. She wanted her first serious relationship to be special. She might be only twenty, but she nevertheless understood that you only come through life one time. As such, she was determined to get it right the first time, because she understood full well that in life there is no second chance at a first chance.

Finances had been tough ever since the death of her father, but she had worked through high school, and the resulting savings, together with her academic scholarship and her mother's income, had been just enough for her to afford UVa. Thus, it was no stretch to say that she understood how fortunate she was to be studying at such a highly regarded institution.

Having grown up further south in Danville, Rebecca didn't really care for the lengthy period of winter in Charlottesville, but it wasn't sufficient to detract from her affection for UVa. Most of all, she appreciated the tolerable distance college provided from her mother. "There comes a time," she observed to herself, "When one should be afforded the opportunity to live one's own life."

Although Rebecca loved her younger brother very much, he was often away at the school for the deaf. At thirteen, James wasn't very happy with his new school. He had been such a happy child before they had sent him off to the school.

James wasn't terribly intelligent. Apparently the umbilical cord had gotten wrapped around his neck when he had been born. The lack of oxygen, though brief, had caused some permanent brain damage. Still, it had not affected his joy with life, so much so that Rebecca had loved playing games with James when they were growing up. They used to sit for hours signing to one another, an ability that her mother had somehow never completely mastered.

Being away from her mother's claustrophobic ministrations was a liberating experience, and Rebecca intended to take full advantage of the opportunity despite the fact that she had not quite made the most of it in her first year of college. Still, she had almost three more years of college to affect her escape from her mother's intrusive power.

She had pledged Phi Delta that fall primarily in the hope that it would help her to meet more interesting people, perhaps even a few boys. Males were a great mystery to her, at least in part because her mom hadn't allowed her to date much before college. But now that she was in a sorority she hoped to begin to meet and get to know someone, perhaps even someone special, her fondest hope being that this might indeed be the year for it.

That Same Day

**Trevor Sutherland looked** forward to his senior year at UVa with great anticipation. Although he didn't let on to his friends, Trevor was the son of an Earl, the Earl of Winston to be exact. His father, Trant Sutherland, had been appointed the British Ambassador to the United States three years earlier, and Trevor had used his family's temporary relocation to the United States to convince his parents that it would be convenient for him to attend college near their new home in Washington, D.C.

Having spent much of his youth in London, Trevor didn't much care for the small town of Charlottesville, but he had developed friendships there, and - even better - he was in the fraternity that maintained the best connections with the sororities. Trevor reasoned that now that he was a senior, the UVa coeds would be significantly more accessible.

The Following Day

**Bryan Highsmith bounded up the stairs** to the frat house and, literally bumping into another young man on entering, he exclaimed, "Hey Trevor, sorry about that. Where're you off to?"

"I have class - thermodynamics, if you must know."

"You engineering nerds are all alike, always taking stuff no one else can even pronounce," Bryan put in facetiously, "Hey, before you cut out, want to go to the mixer at the Phi Delta house on Friday night?"

"Of course," Trevor replied bluntly, "By then I shall be desperate for any sort of distraction from coursework."

"Yeah, and we're not even a week in!" Bryan observed paradoxically.

"Tell me about it," Trevor agreed and, turning to leave, he suggested, "My room, 6 P.M. Friday night?"

"You got it," Bryan quipped, and so saying, he trotted off to his second floor room.

Bryan liked Trevor, but he always felt at a distinct disadvantage around him. The guy was far too smart, and still worse, he was easily the best looking guy in the entire fraternity. And that obsequious English accent was just the topping on the cake, affording Trevor unfair advantage in Bryan's view. Being a reasonable sort, Bryan couldn't quite come to grips with why the saints in heaven would see their way to provide such a plethora of natural endowments in one male. Still, there was no getting round it, and Bryan was forced to accept it for what it was. After all, Trevor attracted coeds like flies, and Bryan saw opportunity in proximity to such a singularly unnatural phenomenon.

Friday Afternoon

**Vanessa Markham tousled her hair** in a vain attempt to dry her blonde tresses the easy way, but to no avail. Musing as she glanced in the mirror, she thought to herself how having such an abundant array of wildly disobedient blonde locks was a double-edged sword. They were like convicts, always attempting to escape and, despite failing, they nevertheless required constant supervision so as to avoid wreaking havoc. On the other hand, such an arsenal of weaponry was, as she was well aware, a distinct advantage on the battlefield that constituted any interaction with those darling but dangerous members of the opposite sex.

At the sound of a knock on her door, she called, "Come in!" and, seeing her friend Rebecca push her way within, she responded gaily, "Oh, hi Rebecca. Just trying to get my hair ready for the mixer this evening. What an unruly mess!"

"Pshaw!" Rebecca responded jealously, "What I wouldn't give for such a problem! But my parents' genes didn't include such a possibility, I'm afraid. Instead, I got this stringy red hair."

"True, but you have your own share of attributes, Rebecca. The good lord spreads it around, you know. I'd trade a few with you if I could."

"Yeah, well, that's an exercise in futility," Rebecca responded with a snort, "Tell you what though, I'll just hang around you at the mixer tonight, and you can throw me one of your rejects. How 'bout that, you hair goddess, you?"

At this suggestion Rebecca giggled so uncontrollably that Rebecca was induced to join in and, the pair embracing in anticipation, Vanessa retorted, "Yes of course, dear girl, but mind you, hands off my keepers!"

Just Down the Hall

**Sarah glanced at her watch,** anticipation forestalling her ability to concentrate on her studies. She fancied herself a scholar of sorts but, it being Friday, her mind strayed repeatedly to the upcoming mixer. She understood that, next to many of her sorority sisters she was what was considered a 'wallflower', whatever that really meant. Still, she understood well enough that looks were not the only ingredient in physical attraction, thereby giving her hope that she might one day outshine a sufficient portion of her competitors to actually attract a member of the opposite sex. Reflecting that at that point she would be flying blind, she decided to stay close to her friends Rebecca and Vanessa, both of whom seemed to be far more experienced than she.

Pushing these thoughts away, she reluctantly returned to her studies, mumbling to herself, "All in good time, Sarah Johnson, you irrepressible twit, you. All in good time."

That Evening

**Trevor and Bryan arrived at** the Phi Delta house and, wending their way amongst the throng of hormone-laden young men, they searched out the optimum location from whence they could observe the proceedings. After several frustrating minutes, they agreed that in such an overinflated multitude there was little possibility of such. Instead, they settled on a spot in the sorority house dining room where there was at least an ample supply of drinks and hors d'oeuvres. Alcoholic beverages being prohibited on campus, drinks were limited to soda pop and punch. Thankfully, in keeping with the nefarious nature of youth, someone had seen fit to spike the punch bowl with Southern Comfort.

For his part, Trevor could not for the life of himself understand why on earth American students had a penchant for such sickeningly sweet whiskey, but he reasoned to himself that under the circumstances he was not at the moment in a position to bear qualms. Accordingly, he settled in as closely as possible to the punch bowl and, appropriating himself a cup of much-needed elixir, he opined sagely, "Sooo, Bry, I'd say hunting season is open, and I for one confess to having awaited this moment ever since the close of the spring semester."

"Man, you got that right," Bryan put in amenably, "Although one cannot avoid the feeling of being a needle in a haystack."

"How so?" Trevor inquired vacuously.

"There must be ten guys for every female in this house," Bryan observed, adding, "Those odds wouldn't even warrant a two dollar bet in Las Vegas."

"Ah," Trevor responded and, as if he hadn't even noticed the extraordinary imbalance, he shrugged it off with, "One must start somewhere, I suppose."

Bryan, resigned to the possibility of making an early departure after a couple of drinks, was within minutes surprised to see Trevor surrounded by no less than three coeds. Despite having seen it before, Bryan was in awe. Trevor possessed the propensity to do nothing more than stand motionless in the middle of a crowded room and the distribution of females within earshot would invariably be seen to gradually converge uniquely upon him. Being no fool, Bryan camped as close as possible to tonight's inexorably contracting vortex.

One admiring coed inquired offhandedly, "Where exactly did you say you're from?"

Trevor responded genially, "Gloucestershire, in the west of England, Miss, er..."

"Vanessa...Vanessa Markham," she replied and, her eyes flashing invitingly, she offered him her hand.

"I say, it is indeed a pleasure to meet you, Miss Markham," he retorted, "Trevor Sutherland at your service."

"What brings you to the United States?" she inquired breathlessly.

"My father is in the diplomatic service, in Washington. So you see, it seemed the convenient thing to do. This way, I can be near my family, and at the same time learn more about colonial life here in America."

At this, an escaping giggle causing her abundant hair to thrash enticingly, she proffered, "So I take it we 'colonists' are your subjects?"

Obviously taken with her feisty disposition, he replied, "In a manner of speaking, yes."

"Ha!" she cackled, "Well, then, Mr. Trevor Sutherland, member of the English aristocracy, we 'colonists' shall try to make you welcome here in the hinterlands!"

"My dear Miss Markham, I most certainly am _not_ a member of the English peerage," he fibbed, "But I would nonetheless be honored to avail myself of your considerate gentility."

At this, the young lady adjacent to Vanessa howled in obvious hilarity, "My goodness, I have no earthly idea what he's saying half the time, Vanessa, but isn't it just too delicious!"

Turning towards her friend, Vanessa winked and uttered, "Yes, Rebecca. I don't think I've encountered anything quite like it!" And, seeing his puzzled reaction, Vanessa announced with mock extravagance, "Oh, sorry, Mr. Sutherland, I am remiss. These are my friends, Rebecca and Sarah. Rebecca Carey of Danville, and Sarah Johnson of Fredericksburg, meet Mr. Trevor Sutherland, some sort of big mucky-muck from Glowering-Chester, England."

Smiling patiently at Vanessa's purposeful misstep, Trevor reached for Rebecca's hand, proffering politely, "So nice to meet you, Miss Carey," following this with a similar action toward Sarah.

"Goodness, I've never met a duke before," Rebecca responded condescendingly and, taking his hand, she curtsied ostentatiously.

"Me either!" Sarah interjected excitedly.

Having thus far taken in the unfolding scene in silence, Bryan interjected in absolute amazement, "Well, I'll be!"

Seemingly spying him for the first time, Vanessa queried, "And who, may I ask, are you?"

"Oh, pay no attention to me," Bryan murmured, "I'm simply auditing."

"Auditing? Auditing what, may I ask?" Rebecca interjected suspiciously.

"Why, it's a graduate level course on English courtly manners," Bryan volunteered facetiously.

"I see," Rebecca offered with feigned suspicion, "A huckster, and of the worst sort!"

"What sort might that be?" Bryan frowned in confusion.

"Why, the anonymous sort, of course," Rebecca opined sagaciously, at which Sarah burst into uncontrollable giggles.

"Oh, I say, please do pardon me, ladies. You are so right, I've been quite remiss," Trevor responded and, bowing his head slightly, he proceeded to announce with palpable formality, "Ladies, allow me to introduce my friend and fraternity brother, Mr. Bryan Highsmith," at which Bryan beamed incongruously in self-importance, as if he had just been knighted by the Queen herself.

Taking up the gauntlet at this, Vanessa put in with contrived sarcasm, "And me thinking he must be your personal valet!"

Bryan, obviously deflated by such a cutting remark, responded in like kind, "Better an English valet than a colonist commoner!" At which all five broke into uncontrollable giggles.

Their infectious good humor having by now reached distracting proportions, Trevor suddenly suggested, "I say, dear ladies, I find this line of discussion intoxicating, so much so that I am forced to conjecture – might the three of you be persuaded to step outside with we two, perhaps wending our way thenceforth to a local constabulary for the purpose of further exploring heretofore hidden subjects?"

The young ladies breaking into further giggles at this, Rebecca eyed him as she whispered in her companions' ears, thereby inducing Vanessa to exclaim, "How could we 'commoners' refuse such a well-said invitation by such a well-healed gentleman? Lead on, MacDuff!"

"Lay on," Rebecca corrected.

"What?" Vanessa quipped vacuously.

"Oh, nothing," Rebecca responded in embarrassment.

"I say," Trevor now put in admiringly, "That is quite excellent, Miss Carey. How do you come to know our Mr. Shakespeare?"

For her part, Rebecca simply glanced at him and, apparently attempting to avoid rancor, she responded, "Yes, well, what say we get out of here?" at which the five made a hasty departure.

Two Days Later

**Bryan tapped on the door and,** at a sound from within, he entered and exclaimed, "How are you, Trevor? Recovered yet from Friday night?"

"Certainly," Trevor replied pleasantly, "We did have a fine old time, did we not!"

"Beyond all expectations," Bryan observed, adding wistfully, "I confess, I didn't see that one coming at all. We seem to have started the year off on the right foot."

"My thoughts as well," Trevor volunteered.

"Sooo," Bryan stammered and, getting to the point somewhat circuitously, he inquired, "Any thoughts?"

"Thoughts? What sort of thoughts?" Trevor responded blankly.

"Well, er...what I mean is, did you fancy any one of them?"

Eyeing Bryan questioningly, Trevor blubbered, "Hmmm, I suppose I hadn't really thought about it, if you must know, Bry."

"You're kidding!" Bryan quipped in amazement.

"I'm sure I've no idea to what you are referring," Trevor shot back.

"Oh, good grief," Bryan responded, "You can be so exasperating, Trevor!"

"What? Why ever for?"

"You just take everything for granted. Young ladies like those three don't grow on trees, you know."

"Oh? I hadn't noticed," Trevor responded, subsequently adding, "I say, old boy, what exactly are you getting at?"

"What I'm getting at is – I'd like to ask one of them out," Bryan responded in exasperation.

"Oh, I say, good show!" Trevor replied distractedly.

"Well?"

"Well, what?" Trevor frowned in confusion.

" _Which one of them do you fancy_ , Trevor?"

"I'm confused," Trevor responded vacantly, "Did you not already ask me that question?"

"See here," Bryan explained, "I've no idea how things are done in your country, but in the United States, a gentleman does not trod on his friend's turf."

"Oh, I see now," Trevor replied, "You want to make sure we don't compete with one another!"

"Right!" Bryan blurted.

"Well then, by all means – ask her out," Trevor suggested.

"What! Ask _who_ out?" Bryan queried in irritation.

"Why, Rebecca, of course," Trevor observed.

"What! Why Rebecca?"

"I should think because she's the one who holds your attention, of course," Trevor supplied matter-of-factly.

"How do you know that?" Bryan inquired, one eyebrow arching in amazement.

"Why, anyone could see it, I should think. Besides, I've already asked Vanessa out for this Friday," Trevor declared.

"You can be so exasperating, you know," Bryan exclaimed in irritation.

"Right, but all's well that ends well, or so they say," Trevor opined indifferently.

Ten Days Later

**Rebecca poked her head** within Vanessa's room and, observing that she didn't appear to be busy, she inquired pleasantly, "Hey, Vanessa, how is it going?"

"Oh, fine, and you?" Vanessa responded distantly.

"Okay, I guess," Rebecca murmured, "Got a sec to chat?"

Sensing Rebecca had something on her mind, Vanessa nodded pleasantly, "Sure. Have a seat."

Taking a spot on the bed's end, Rebecca observed, "I had a date with Bryan last weekend."

"Oh, good for you! How'd it go?"

"Alright, I suppose," Rebecca prevaricated.

"That doesn't sound very upbeat," Vanessa replied suspiciously, "C'mon, girl, give over. What happened?"

"Oh, he was nice. I like him just fine, but I'm afraid I'm really not interested in him."

"What makes you say that, Rebecca?"

"Oh, I don't know. Frankly, I'm not sure I know anything at all. But, if I'm not mistaken, attraction is a necessary part of courtship."

Eyes focusing upward in apparent contemplation, Vanessa murmured, "Hmmm. Yes, I think I agree. I am terribly attracted to Trevor. So yes, I agree, definitely."

Scrutinizing Vanessa with interest, Rebecca inquired, "Did you go out with him?"

"Yes, of course I did," Vanessa replied with obvious superiority.

"Oh," Rebecca said distantly, "How'd it go?"

"Peachy, just peachy," Vanessa responded evasively.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Look," Vanessa responded facetiously, "Guys like that are all way up on the top end of the scale, you know."

"Actually, no, I don't know," Rebecca observed, "I've never had a date with a guy like that."

"Well, perhaps in some ways you're lucky," Vanessa observed condescendingly.

"How so?"

"Listen, ever been fishing?"

"Of course, folks down in Danville all fish," Rebecca responded, "What's that got to do with it?"

"My dear Rebecca, dating is like fishing. You throw out a line, and then you resolve to wait, most times interminably. Eventually, on rare occasions, you get a bite if you are lucky. So you real in that fish, and guess what – nine out of ten times you catch a tiny little minnow. But if you stick with it, one day you finally snag a whopper. At first you're feeling lucky, until that fish gives you the fight of your life. And by the time you get it into the boat, you're so exhausted that half of you wants to throw it back."

Rebecca eyed her a moment, then proffered, "So you're saying Trevor is a whopper."

"Bingo!" Vanessa quipped knowingly.

"Well, I've never even seen a whopper before," Rebecca observed, "But from where I stand, I rather believe I'd at least like to experience hooking into a whopper."

"Well, then, keep fishing. In the meantime, I have a whopper on my line, and he isn't anywhere _near_ being yanked into the boat. So stay posted and watch my back, because this could be a tough battle."

"Done," Rebecca responded, "And, just so you will know, you can count on me."

"Thanks," Vanessa replied, "Now, back to my point. Just because Bryan is a minnow in your eyes, it doesn't mean he isn't worth netting."

Eyeing her for a moment, Rebecca now blurted, "Well, perhaps you are right, but I just don't see it. I mean, if attraction isn't there from the get go, then I don't see how it can ever magically materialize."

"Well, you may be right, but I suspect that your hypothesis can only be tested experimentally," Vanessa volunteered.

"Spoken like a true psychology major," Rebecca grinned in tacit concurrence.

The Following Day

**Trevor stopped in at the coffee shop** on his way to the frat house and, spotting Bryan in the corner, he purchased a cup and sauntered over. "Hey Bryan, is there room for me within your zone of solitude?" he asked.

Glancing up from the book he was reading, Bryan responded, "Oh, hi, Trevor. Sorry, I didn't see you," and pointing to a seat, he added, "Sure, have a seat."

Sensing something was amiss, Trevor inquired, "Why so glum?"

"What? Oh, it's nothing. I'm fine," Bryan prevaricated defensively.

"Oh, surely friends such as we aren't going to hold back on one another, Bryan."

"Right," Bryan responded sheepishly, "Well, I suppose you're right. It's just that, well, I suppose I got dumped by Rebecca."

"Oh, I say, that's too bad, old boy," Trevor responded, "What happened? You two just met last week."

"Yes, well, here's the thing, Trevor. I was quite taken with Rebecca, I mean _quite_ taken. She is quite lovely, if you ask me."

"Yes, I can see how you would think that," Trevor empathized, "And?"

"And, well, we had a very nice time. I took her to a fancy restaurant and we laughed and joked, and she...well, by the end of the evening I confess she had me in the palm of her hand," at which point he gazed sadly downward and added morosely, "So when we got back to her dorm, she allowed me to kiss her. At that point I asked her if she would be willing to go out with me again, and I guess I must have gone too fast."

"How so?"

"She was really nice about it, you know, but she said no, that she didn't think that we were suited for one another. I'm not sure what I did wrong, but I must have gone too fast."

"I doubt that, old boy," Trevor replied matter-of-factly.

"What? Why do you say that?"

"Listen, Bryan, if things are headed in the proper direction, tiny improprieties do not lead to such gut-wrenching revelations."

"I'm afraid I don't understand."

"Let me put it this way, Bryan. You should feel gratitude to her for being direct and honest with you."

"Why do you say that?"

"Because the majority of the time, women do not have the civility or place of mind to be both honest and gentle with potential suitors. You, dear friend, were fortunate."

"When you put it that way, perhaps I was lucky. But what you've said makes me miss her all the more, considering that her treatment of me was apparently unusual."

"Still, I should think it would be much better if one were informed of such adversities early on," Trevor sympathized.

"Yes, yes of course," Bryan mumbled and, pushing a stray strand of hair back, he murmured, "But I seriously doubt if one such as you could know exactly how it feels, Trevor."

Well aware of Bryan's implication, Trevor responded, "Perhaps. Perhaps so, but surely it must be like going into battle. One takes some bumps, some bruises, and perhaps on occasion even a serious wounding. But, in the end, the watchword is _survival_. And each of those bumps and bruises better prepares one to stave off that death-dealing blow."

"I understand," Bryan replied pensively, "In which case, I'm headed for survival, because I have sustained quite a few bumps, bruises, and even a fair number of wounds."

"Well, then, shall we drink to that, my friend?"

Now showing signs of rejuvenation, Bryan replied, "Yes, of course."

Clinking their mugs together, the pair agreed in unison, "To survival."

Sensing their exchange had now reached its conclusion, Trevor volunteered, "The game is up with her, as they say, old boy. Time to move on. There's plenty of more game in the forest, as I'm sure you know full well."

"Yeah, well, let me know if you come upon another one like her who fails to measure up for you, because at this point I am only partly battle-tested, and in desperate need of further wounding."

"I say, well said," Trevor rejoined and, the pair rising, they made their departure.

Late September

**Trevor placed a phone call** to Rebecca, inquiring whether she might be interested in having dinner with him. As she was receptive, he arranged to take her out for a date the following weekend. On that Friday night he arrived at the sorority house in his Porsche, decked out in his best leather jacket. Observing her coming down the sweeping staircase to the lobby within, he offered, "Good evening, Miss Carey," and, eyeing her nervously, he added, "May I say, you look quite lovely tonight."

"Thank you," she replied pleasantly.

"I say, am I quite late?"

"Nope, right on time," she responded and, taking his arm with her hand, she inquired politely, "Where to?"

"Might you be familiar with a restaurant called The Courthouse? Tis south of town, heading towards Roanoke."

"No, I don't get out much. Eating out is a luxury that I normally have neither time nor money to indulge in."

"Right then, as it turns out, it is seafood. Does that meet your approval?"

"Sure, I like seafood."

"Excellent! I do believe that you shall like this restaurant," he responded pleasantly.

With the ice broken, they made their way to the parking lot, whereupon Rebecca stopped in her tracks, blurting, "Is THAT your car?"

"Certainly," he responded nonchalantly, "Tis a Porsche."

"I know it's a Porsche," Rebecca replied sarcastically. "I've never been in a Porsche before. Sooo, you must be rich, Trevor Sutherland."

"Let me simply say that my family is blessed with ample financial resources."

"My, that's enigmatic" she responded. "What year is your car?"

"Why, 1968 of course," he replied self-assuredly, nevertheless wondering what she was getting at. As he did so, he opened the car door for her and she slid inside.

Once he was seated on his side, she continued, inquiring indiscreetly, "Is the title in your name?"

"Most assuredly, my father gave it to me for my twenty-first birthday," he responded as he turned the key in the ignition.

Speaking above the roar of the engine, Rebecca expounded, "Okay, so let me see if I can define rich for you, Mr. Trevor Sutherland. If you sold your Porsche 911S, you would have more money in your hands than most people make in three years in this country. Does that kind of give you a picture of where I'm coming from, mister poor little rich boy?"

At this rather importune remark, Trevor jerked his around and glared at her. Had they not already been on the road, he would have been seriously tempted to take her back to her dorm room and drop her unceremoniously off. No one had ever insulted his affluence before. On the contrary, they were generally made more entranced by the site of his Porsche. This offensive young lady not only apparently considered affluence a sin, she'd managed to use such a ridiculous implication to infuriate him within five minutes of meeting for their first date.

Attempting to change the subject to something less contentious, he volunteered good-naturedly, "I say, enough chatter about me. Perhaps you could tell me a bit about yourself."

"Like what?" she asked vacantly.

"Right, nothing challenging. Let me think. Alright, what pray tell is your course of study?"

"History," she responded candidly.

"History! History? What sort of person studies history? What can one do with that?" he queried with evident condescension.

"I don't know," she responded defensively, "I'm going to college to try and understand the world. I'm not really thinking about a profession at this point, just the pursuit of knowledge."

"I see. That sin't so bad perhaps, but I assume that you know that historians do in fact struggle to make a decent living."

"I have low aspirations," she responded sarcastically, "Why, what's your major?"

"Mechanical engineering," he replied pompously.

"Wow!" she exclaimed with obvious incredulity. "You must be a whiz at math. I hear that engineers are good at math. I have trouble balancing my checkbook!"

Pleased that she was beginning to show some admiration for his clearly superior intellect, he replied nonchalantly, "Yes, of course, I am able to do the math."

"So I'll bet you can explain how this car runs," she volunteered absurdly.

"Of course - four speed manual transmission, 2.0 liter turbocharged flat six, 190 horsepower, rear engine, rear wheel drive. Nasty little beast."

"You talk like you think it's your personal sex toy," she blurted inadvisably.

"Excellent notion, Rebecca!" he chuckled, then added, "Sex toys are endowed with certain pieces of entirely unique equipment, none of which can be found within my Porsche."

At this offensive rejoinder, Rebecca gaped at him in absolute horror.

Observing her apparent offense, he responded, "I say, what is the problem? You yourself brought it up!" and for the moment he was unable to think of an alternative subject, thereby necessitating the spread of a discomforting silence between the two.

Fortunately, they arrived at the restaurant shortly thereafter. The pair subsequently managed to complete dinner without further discord, at which point Rebecca politely expressed her gratitude to Trevor for buying her dinner.

Mistaking her courtesy for interest, Trevor acknowledged her appreciation enthusiastically, immediately suggesting that they proceed forthwith to a bar near campus. At her concurrence, off they went to their next destination, Trevor nonetheless flummoxed by her distant attitude.

Arriving at the bar, they found a seat, Trevor querying pointedly, "I say, Rebecca, what would you like to drink?"

"I'll have a Coke," she responded unpretentiously.

Eyeing her dubiously, Trevor blurted with noticeable exasperation, "A Coke it is. One Coke coming right up."

Still irritated, he returned in a moment with a Coke for her and a beer for himself. "At your service," he volunteered, handing her the ineffectual drink.

Noticing his choice of drink, she queried with apparent interest, "You like beer?"

"Right," he responded blandly, "Normally, I'd drink something stronger, but seeing as how you are not drinking, I decided to go easy."

"Don't hold back on my account," she replied equably.

"Thanks ever so much. I say, I take it you do not drink at all?" he queried.

"Nope," she replied tersely.

"Why ever for?"

"Oh, I don't know. I suppose that I haven't really thought about it. I have better things to spend my precious little resources on."

"I say, how does one know, if one has never tried it?" he queried skeptically.

"Well, I suppose that's a good question," she replied thoughtfully, "I guess I'm open to the concept in general, but I'm not about to try alcohol on a first date."

"I should think you need to loosen up a bit," he suggested.

"Just what exactly does that mean?"

"I say, I'd lay odds that you're still a virgin, Rebecca Carey!"

Her face turning crimson, she blurted, "We can't all be experienced."

"So you ARE a virgin!" he crowed.

"Oh, shut up!" she exclaimed.

"Bollocks! I was certain you were experienced," he murmured.

"What, like you?" she responded defensively.

"What is that supposed to mean?" he replied with feigned nonchalance.

"Don't play the fool with me, Trevor Sutherland, you're playing both ends against the middle!"

"I say, in what way, Rebecca," he replied vacuously.

"You've been dating my friend, Vanessa, and now you've gone around behind her back and invited me out. I'm ashamed of you, and I'm ashamed of myself."

"Why ever on earth for?"

"Listen, you English prig, your behavior may be considered proper across the water, but in this country two-timing simply isn't done, at least not by people of conviction."

"I say...I'm not quite sure I follow you, Rebecca..." he stammered in confusion.

"Don't play me for the fool! After you asked me out, I decided to make certain you weren't still dating Vanessa. So, without informing her of our plans for this evening, I approached her and inquired offhandedly how things were progressing between the two of you. Well, surprise, surprise, she informed me that her relationship with you is going just swimmingly."

"What!" he exclaimed in shock, "I assure you, Vanessa and I are no longer dating one another, Rebecca."

"Yes, you are, you cad."

"How can I convince you that it is otherwise?"

"Listen, Mr. High-and-Mighty mucky-muck, in this country the two of you are dating _until she says you're not dating_!" she shrieked.

"I say!" he exclaimed, now also speaking much too loudly himself, "It is quite apparent that you are some sort of prude, Rebecca Carey," and it was now evident that all semblance of self-control had been lost between the pair.

Rebecca screamed furiously, "Fuck you! You fucking bastard!" At this, she swung her arm as if to slap him in the face, but, thinking better of it, she halted her thrusting hand at the last moment.

By now the entire clientele within the bar had turned to view the erupting spat, thereby compelling the bartender to saunter over and command sternly, "Okay, you two, time to take it outside. You're out of here," and, pointing toward the exit, he added menacingly, "Go on, get out of here until you've learned how to behave in a more civilized manner."

Frozen in shock, Trevor glared at Rebecca with obvious irritation, Rebecca sullenly returning his vehement stare. The silence stretched out, every patron frozen in morbid anticipation of the next outburst between the pair. But eventually Rebecca reached for her coat, the two subsequently heading silently for the exit without further conflict.

By the time they reached the car Trevor had recovered enough to say, "I say, I am terribly sorry, Rebecca. I don't know what got into me in there. Please accept my apology."

"Yeah, me too. I'm sorry, too. I don't use words like that, but frankly, you infuriate me, Trevor Sutherland."

"I don't mean to," he responded defensively.

"That may be, but the result is nevertheless not very pleasing, to say the least," she observed morosely and, eyeing him despairingly, she suggested, "Look, I'm tired. Would you mind taking me home, please?"

"What? Why? It's only ten-thirty!" he blurted.

"Look, I don't feel very well. Please, could you just take me home?"

"Alright, certainly," he responded sullenly. "Yes, perhaps you are right, Rebecca. Perhaps we both need to cool off a bit."

They drove back to the dorm in telling silence and, on arriving she immediately reached for the car door, murmuring, "I can see my own way in from here. Goodnight, Trevor, and thanks again for dinner."

"Might I see you again?" he asked furtively, now resigned to the reality that she had slipped through his fingers, but somehow nevertheless unwilling to concede defeat.

"I don't know. I don't know, Trevor," and at this she emerged forlornly from the car and made her solitary way toward the sorority house.

My Father the God

By

D. Allen Henry

Foreword

In the interest of brevity, I shall endeavor to explain my part in this matter as simply as possible, so that you, the reader, may progress as expediently as possible to the events portrayed herein.

My name is Robert Moorehead. I was born in 1942 in Boston. Shortly after the death of my wife's father, his lawyer, Mr. James Dudley, contacted me, indicating that her father had made quite an unusual bequest to me. I admit that I prevaricated for close onto a year, but eventually, my curiosity getting the better of me, I determined to contact Mr. Dudley. Thus, on a frigid morning in February of 2004, I found myself being ushered into his law office at Squires, Dudley and Millhouse, located in downtown Boston.

Upon grasping the outstretched hand of Mr. Dudley, a squat fiftyish looking man, I was offered a seat, he for his part, cocking his head in what I interpreted to be an inquisitive glance that portrayed mystification not unlike my own. After a few moments of mutual silence, he cleared his throat, emitting, "Ahem," a sort of preamble, or so I presumed, and subsequently launched into his carefully planned soliloquy, "Mr. Moorehead, I have been asked to provide you with a key - a key, I might add, that unlocks a safe deposit box at Boston National Bank, just down the street from my office. The contents of that box are not precisely known to me. However, given what I do know in this circumstance, I feel it only fair to forewarn you, sir, that the contents shall in all likelihood be quite earthshaking for you."

I recall staring pensively at Mr. Dudley and, entertaining not the slightest notion as to his meaning, I inquired doubtfully, "In what way, sir?"

"Mr. Moorehead, I am honor-bound by my charge, though he is now deceased, to divulge nothing more to you on this subject at this time. My explicit duty is to hand the key over to you, thenceforth informing you that you shall find the deposit box in question listed under your name, the passcode being your initials, followed by the numeric sequence of your birth date."

Inexplicably intrigued by this pronouncement, I accepted the proffered key, inquiring insistently, "Is there no more that you can intimate to me, sir?"

"Perhaps, perhaps, I can, sir, but not at this moment in time. At a later time, after you have had the opportunity to sufficiently digest the materials that await you, I may be able to fill you in somewhat."

"I see," I mumbled self-consciously, meaning in fact exactly the opposite and, arising from my seat, I thrust my hand forward to him, saying, "Thank you for your time, Mr. Dudley. I shall say good day to you."

"Likewise," he replied, solemnly taking my hand in turn.

Upon departing his office, I made straight for the bank in question, whereupon I was promptly admitted to the vault. Exactly as had been described to me, I was forthwith led to the deposit box in question, thereby utilizing the proffered key to open it.

Within, I found only a single item – an unbound manuscript, and though it was obviously well-worn, it was bound neatly with a piece of red ribbon, a bow gracing its frontispiece. Above the bow was the hand-written inscription – _For Robert._

Having no idea what was contained therein, I forthwith departed none the wiser. However, I must confess to you that the revelations secreted within would eventually turn my own world upside down and, although upon reading it I felt initially disinclined to publish the manuscript, the passage of time has altered my thinking, leading me to believe that there is something profound to be gleaned within these pages. Indeed, it has taken me close onto a decade to summon the fortitude to take the final step, the publication of this manuscript in fact being that penultimate step.

The manuscript before you is exactly as it was received by me a decade since. There is, however, one small alteration, a change made by me. I took the liberty of assigning the title listed on the frontispiece, as the term _For Robert_ was not in my view intended to be a title for the manuscript. And so, dear reader, I wish you a pleasant and enlightened read of _My Father the God_.
Prologue

**I was born in Cambridge, England** in 1920 and, although one could say that I am English by birth, I regard myself as a Scot, having been sired by that illustrious archeologist Sir Alastair Stewart, he who was knighted by Queen Elizabeth II in 1964.

It could accurately be said that I was born in another century, perhaps even more provocatively, another millennium. But for me, it was nothing more than the time period that I was chosen by the gods to inhabit this earth and, the fact that you are reading this now being evidence that I have passed on, I can say this – though the ride was never simple, being on the contrary endlessly circuitous and complex, I am quite satisfied with the lot that has been my life. I have recorded herein the salient events of that life, as best I can remember. I have done this for you, Robert.

You may wonder why I never attempted to relay this story to you during my lifetime. Certainly one could charge me with cowardice on this point, but I would argue to you that though this assertion may in fact be accurate, it has little to do with my motivation for choosing this method to inform you of the events portrayed herein. And while I cannot prove this to you, myself having now been laid to eternal rest, I would hope that you will believe me when I submit it to you in this way – I felt it best to leave sleeping matters lie so long as I lived, but, in your interest, to inform you of the revelations herein at such time that they might soothe your conscience without causing undue emotional harm.

So now, let me presage my account with a short rumination, an account of my own father. He was quite the character, you see. Having somehow survived the horrors of The Great War despite the loss of a leg, he subsequently married my mother, Edwina Turnberry, whom he is said to have met at the funeral of her older sister Elizabeth, she having been taken at a quite young age by the flu pandemic of 1918.

My father matriculated to Cambridge University, where he was an august member of the faculty of Trinity College for over forty years, in the process becoming a singularly famous archeologist. Due to his professional obligations, he was always off on trips to here and there about the world, indeed to anywhere that there was something quite ancient to be dug into. Unfortunately, I was not allowed to accompany him on these sojourns, being perhaps too mischievous for my own good. Thus, I grew up within the uniquely sterile atmosphere of the academic world.

That is, until the summer of 1933, when I was afforded my very first opportunity to accompany my father on a dig. And, although I myself found it quite unexciting, what a dig it was. My father was ensconced at Amarna, two hundred miles up the Nile from Cairo, Egypt, at the site of the city built by the mysterious Pharaoh Akhenaten, he who had ruled around 1350 BCE.

I don't mind telling you that for a boy of twelve, the opportunity to escape his homeland on such a lengthy journey was in those days quite unprecedented. Indeed, it was only a decade earlier that Howard Carter had discovered the tomb of Akhenatan's son Tutankhamun in the Valley of the Kings, some distance upriver from Amarna. Still, upon our arrival in the desert on a torpid day in early June, I was shocked by my first view of the vast wasteland before us, not to mention the unbearable heat.

My memory of that summer is most likely badly tainted by the lengthy passage of time. As I recall, I was prone to run about untethered, spending my days chasing after nothingness, boredom ever my staunchest ally, as my father was constantly engaged in digging obsessively for things that were simply beyond me. Still, there is one event that occurred during that sojourn that has remained vivid and fresh in my mind for nigh onto seventy years.

As memory serves me, my father's assistant came trotting my way, signaling that I should follow him forthwith. Intrigued by such a rare circumstance, I immediately dropped the handful of pebbles that I had been deploying as artillery for my imaginary army, and fell into step with him. Arriving at my father's side moments later, I halted abruptly, querying incongruously, "Father, you sent for me?"

"Aye, son, indeed Ah did," and, so saying, he took my hand and, dragging me forward, he impatiently tugged me as hastily as he could some thirty yards distant. Then, suddenly stopping at an entirely unremarkable spot, and pointing enigmatically at the abundant Egyptian sand, he announced serendipitously in that endearing Scottish accent of his, "Ye simply _main_ see thes!"

Peering downward at the appointed spot, I searched in vain for the presumably ancient discovery my father referred to and, spying nothing whatsoever, I responded doubtfully, "Uhm, Ah dorn't see anythin' a'tall, father."

"Reit, boot bide a moment," he cajoled, displaying a rare smile of anticipation. Following his command, I leaned forward, at length perceiving a tiny circular hole in the ground.

"Ye mean that wee hole there?" I inquired, pointing to the innocuous and nearly invisible shaft.

"Precisely," he responded, "Noow, simply observe," and at this he bent forward, placing his hands on his knees. Sure enough, within moments, a beetle appeared, clearly intent on some mysterious mission. "Ah, thaur he be, son!"

I stared doubtfully and, subsequently turning back toward my father, I announced acrimoniously, "Dad, Ah'm a bit auld fur bugs."

"Aye," he replied jovially, "But when ye hear why Ah sent fur ye, ye shall be fascinated with thes a body."

"Reit," I responded doubtfully, "Whit's it all aboot?"

Pointing at the beetle yet again, he pronounced, "That, mah son, be a god!"

I peered non-plussed at the innocuous insect, responding, "Ye cannae be serioos."

"Och, but Ah am – Ah most certainly am. It be a dung beetle, and in Egyptian times, it was indeed quite a god."

"Why ever on earth fur?" I replied in confusion.

"The dung beetle be the ultimate survivor. It subsists wholly oan dung."

"Och," I sneered in revulsion, "Dinnae sound godly tae me!"

"Aye, but bide an' watch. Haur he comes, an' examine if ye will exactly whit he is draggin' alang with heem."

"Looks loch some sort ay wee ball," I responded.

"Reit. It be a dung ball. An' watch, he'll be draggin' it intae his den."

"Ugh! That be indeed nasty," I recall remarking in disgust.

"Reit, boot quite soon he shall complete his ministrations, an' at that point, he shall seal himself within his den, to all appearances entombin' hisself forever. Boot bide a few days, an' suddenly a horde ay newborn beetles shall burst forth frae the selfsame spot."

"Och, I say, noow that _do_ soond interesting," and, subsequently mumbling to myself, I added inanely, "An' quite strange as well." Then, on further contemplation, I added, "Hoo does he dae it, father?"

"Simple – he be a god!"

"Reit," I murmured cynically.

"Seriously, the ancient Egyptians coods see nae other reason fur sech a mystery than that the dung beetle coods produce offspring frae the excrement ay other animals. The dung beetle is therefore one ay the greatest gods frae Egyptian antiquity."

"Interestin'," I said, still pondering, "But whit be the significance ay it all?"

"Guid question," he replied. "Let's jist say, the warld be mysterious, an' sometimes stoatin things can come seemingly frae wee or naethin', in this case – dung. The dung beetle lives its life in filth, solely fur the benefit ay its progeny."

I peered at my father doubtfully, having no earthly idea what he was insinuating, but for some reason, that event stuck in my mind. Indeed, it has remained with me for a lifetime, and little did I know then, but one day, I would begin to understand the significance of the lesson that he taught me that day.

And now, without further delay, here within these pages is that lesson.
Chapter 1

God Willing

Near Boston, Massachusetts - June, 1939

**James Moorehead lounged within** the first class section of the train, a look of supreme confidence pervading his every action. Tall, handsome, blue-eyed and well-bred, he was the picture of every young lady's fancy. He had just completed his freshman year at Hanford University, the finest institution of higher education in the United States. Not only that, having finished first in his class within the Department of Chemistry, he was now on his triumphant way home to Concord for the summer.

Although his first year at university had gone better than even he had anticipated, he was quite relieved to be away from the frenetic pace of academia, not to mention the competitive atmosphere of Hanford. The slower pace of family life being a welcome relief, however short, he looked forward to it with relish.

His first year in college had seemed to him the very epitome of the Darwinian ideal – survival of the fittest – a competition at which he of all people excelled. His adversaries, his own fellow students, were by all accounts the fittest of the fit in the entirety of North America, perhaps even the world. Nonetheless, he had thus far not only survived, he had managed to leave a fair portion of the competition in his wake. The future for him therefore seemed bright indeed and, intent on continuing his torrid pace, he resolved to complete his studies at Hanford at the pinnacle of his class.

Cardiff, Wales – Early August, 1939

**Isolde Channing observed intently** as the train pulled out of the station. Having never undertaken a journey such as this, the sheer distance of it was quite daunting, she fearing that her destination was indeed a world apart from Wales. Had her mother not passed on, she might have eventually matriculated to Cambridge, but as it stood, she would now be forced to live in the far-off United States of America with her aunt Fiona.

As the train rolled along, she pondered idly what Philadelphia must be like. Would she eventually have the opportunity to go to college, and if so, what might she study? Indeed, what were the colleges like in the United States? And for that matter, would the young men in her new homeland be attractive and cultivated, or were they a bunch of uncultured ruffians? She so desperately wanted to meet the perfect lad and settle down to marriage and children, but now it was painfully evident that, though still possible, it would most likely not be with someone from Great Britain.

As for her educational ambitions, she was enamored of all things scientific, but would the complexity of it exceed her abilities? If so, she supposed that a literary career was possible, although in truth she could not bring herself to find excitement in such a future. Still, she supposed that the proper course would present itself, all in good time, if only she could manage to be patient.

The train pressed onwards, the green hills of Wales, and thenceforth Western England, drifting silently past her window, like time itself, slipping into her past. Hopefully she would be back this way before long, but only time would tell.

Arriving several hours later in London, she subsequently caught another train for Portsmouth, from whence she would board ship three days hence, the trans-Atlantic passage thereby transporting her to the United States.

Cambridge, England – Two Days Later

**Sloan Stewart waved farewell to** his father, still wondering at the sanity of this sojourn. He was, somewhat incongruously, departing the home of arguably the most prestigious university in the world in quest of higher education. His father, an august member of the faculty of Trinity College, had hammered away relentlessly at him these two years, never deviating from his steeled decision that Sloan should attend Hanford University, in the distant United States.

Having fought his valiant best, he had nonetheless succumbed to his father's iron will, thereby leading to his departure for Portsmouth, from whence he would commence the Atlantic crossing the following day. "What will it be like?" he contemplated to himself, "Will the United States be wild, as northern Scotland is, or will it be more like the civilized nature of England, Cambridge in particular?" He supposed to himself as the train rocked along that his best course of action was to accept this unfolding chapter of his life as an adventure, no matter what lay in store for him.

Aboard Ship – Two Days Later

**Sloan came forward to the** dining table and, ogling the stunning blonde-haired young lady seated before him, he inquired politely, "Pardon me, miss, is this seat taken?"

Having observed his flagrant scrutiny of her, she responded suspiciously, "No, sir."

"Then, perhaps you would allow me to join you for dinner this evening, as it seems that you, as am I, are traveling alone."

She glanced at him and, her irritation at his effrontery obvious, she responded condescendingly, "I suppose so, if you must."

Undeterred, he pulled back the chair, promptly seated himself and, offering his hand to her, he announced genially, "My name is Sloan - Sloan Stewart - from Cambridge."

"Hullo," she responded shyly, "I am Isolde Channing, from Wales."

"Ah, Wales, is it? Tis indeed a pleasure to meet a shipmate who is also traveling alone," he responded courteously, "And where might you be traveling to, if I may ask?"

"I'm off to Philadelphia," she responded distantly, "And where might you be headed?"

"I'm for Boston. I shall be attending Hanford University beginning in the fall," he boasted.

"Hanford," she responded and, ignoring his immature outburst, she added, "Yes, I've heard of it – quite an excellent school, if I am not mistaken."

"Yes, or so they say. I should have preferred to attend Cambridge, but my father wouldn't hear of it."

"Oh! Why ever on earth for? It's such a fabulous university!"

"Yes, just so, but he says that war is coming, and best for me to be out of harm's way."

"War? What sort of war?"

"He says the Germans shall rise up again, and indeed, in many ways, it could be said that they have already commenced doing so."

"Yes, I suppose that is true," she replied absently, apparently displaying little interest in the subject.

"And why are you for Philadelphia, if I may be so bold?" he inquired, deftly diverting the topic so as to maintain her attention.

"Actually, my mother passed away. I am going to live with my aunt Fiona."

"Oh, I say, I'm terribly sorry to hear that."

"Yes, well, thank you, but there it is nonetheless," she responded disconsolately.

"And will you attend university at some point?"

"I'm afraid I don't know the answer to that question. I had hoped to attend Cambridge, from whence you have so recently departed, but my mother's death has quashed that hope, I fear."

"I say, why don't you come to Hanford? It would be ever so nice to have a friend from the home country there."

"A friend?" she asked, eyeing him apprehensively.

"Well, er, I see your point. That is perhaps a bit presumptuous of me, but if you will allow me, Miss Channing, I shall endeavor to gain that distinction by the time we make landfall in Boston."

Sneering at his forwardness, she responded derisively, "My, we are a bit cheeky, aren't we, Mr. Stewart!"

"My dear Miss Channing, if you will consent to indulge me for a moment, let me put it to you this way – I have nothing but the utmost of intentions and, it seems to me, we two are on a similar course, thrown together by the chances of fate. For the next two weeks we shall be confined nearby to one another and, should we two discover mutual friendship by the time we disembark from this ship, I for one ask you – what better way to arrive in a foreign land than on the arm of a new-found friend?"

"I see," she responded hesitantly.

"Right, then, what say you?" he responded, his face embellished with his most attractive smile.

"Sounds altogether quite intriguing," she replied and, breaking into a quite breathtaking smile, she finally succumbed to his charisma, responding, "I shall take it under advice," and at this, the pair giggled convivially.

A Week Later

**Sloan glanced toward her** from the corner of his eye and, gauging her mood, he queried, "Did you enjoy dinner tonight, Isolde?"

"Yes, quite so. We never ate like that at home in Wales. It was quite scrumptious!"

"I agree," he responded ingenuously, "Thanks for agreeing to a stroll on deck with me this evening. I realize it's quite cold out, but I confess – just the site of you warms me quite nicely."

"My, thank you, at least I _think_ ," she responded serenely.

"Twas meant as a compliment, I assure you. And I for one am much too contented to consider the thought of turning in for the night. What say, might I convince you to share a drink with me in the bar?"

"Ha!" she replied jovially, "You've asked me that each and every night since we boarded ship, you brazen lothario!"

"Right, thereby demonstrating my amazing penchant for persistence. For your part, I'd say you've amply demonstrated your virtue via your uniform rejections up to now, so what say we turn a corner and move on to geniality."

"Oh? How so?"

"Just say yes!" he responded confidently.

At this she giggled, responding, "Alright then, yes. But don't you be getting any ideas, Mr. Sloan Stewart. Just because I've agreed to have a drink with you, it doesn't mean I'm a friend of any sort!"

"Perish the thought," he responded flirtatiously, "I've still more'n a week to accomplish that objective."

Three Days Later

**Sloan and Isolde sat** convivially devouring a scrumptious breakfast, Sloan grinning impishly at her between bites. "This just might be the best meal of the entire passage," he suggested off-handedly. "What do you think, Isolde?"

"Delectable, absolutely to die for!" she replied, flashing him her most winning smile.

The air audibly rushing from his lungs, he responded directly, "Don't _do_ that!"

"Don't do what?" she inquired vacuously.

"Don't smile that way, you adorable thing. When you do so, you absolutely take my breath away."

"Oh, you naughty boy, you're just making fun of me!"

"Tell you what, Isolde, why don't you come back to my cabin with me, and we'll see who makes fun of whom!"

"Sorry, not possible," she responded impishly.

"Why ever not?"

"I've a rule. I only consort with friends. And you, sir, are definitely _not_ a friend of mine!" and this last she laced with yet another vivacious smile.

Breaking into a grin of his own, he responded, "Say the word, and we can move on!"

"What word?"

"Why, that I am your friend, of course, and then we may go in search of my cabin together."

"My, but we are in a feisty mood today, aren't we! What's got into you, Sloan?"

"Only you, Isolde, only you," he responded lightheartedly.

"You shall be the first to know when we are friends," she responded light-heartedly, "And when we are, I shall be more than happy to accompany you to your cabin. Now, if you please, take my arm and promenade me round the deck, my dear _potential_ friend."

Boston, Massachusetts – Four Days Later

**Sloan and Isolde stood** patiently at the ship's railing, awaiting the lowering of the gangplank. Sensing that their journey was finally at an end, Isolde turned to him and spoke mournfully, "It's been ever so lovely traveling with you, Sloan."

"I say, it has, hasn't it," he responded, smiling graciously.

"As I recall, that first night aboard you predicted our mutual friendship by this very point in time, rather pugnaciously I might add," she offered and, taking his hand in hers, she murmured, "I confess that I doubted both your prediction and your intentions at the time, dear Sloan."

"Yes, I was a bit forward, I confess," he replied in embarrassment.

"That you were, but all's well that ends well and, I must admit, you have succeeded, against all odds. You have been quite the perfect shipmate these two weeks. Accordingly, I for one hope that we shall be friends."

"My dear Isolde, we already _are_ friends. I expect, indeed, I _hope_ that we shall remain so for the remainder of our lives."

"As do I, dear Sloan, as do I," and, so saying, she tugged him to her and kissed him brazenly on the lips.

At this, he probed pleasantly, "What's this for?"

"Sorry, just creating a memory," she responded diffidently.

"I say, don't you think it's a bit late for that?" he cajoled, "Had you done so a day or two ago, we might have created a far more penetrating memory," and this last he said with a wink.

"You naughty boy," she responded, "I for one have just the right memories," and so saying, she leaned forward yet again, planting a friendly peck on his cheek.

Noticing a wayward tear as she pulled back, he reached forward and, caressing it askance, he suggested, "My, we are melancholy today. Let us not drown ourselves in self-pity over our parting, dear Isolde. Let us instead pledge to one another to write, and if our newfound friendship is sustained, let us also undertake to reunite when the opportunity arises. What say you, does that strike a chord of agreement?"

"Yes, ever so much so, dear Sloan. And may I say this – let us resolve, we two, that we shall live life to the fullest. And whenever and wherever we meet again, we shall always be true to one another."

"Well said, dear Isolde. I so promise."

"As do I," she responded, "I shall write, I promise and, God willing, we shall meet again before too long. Now, as the ship has now docked, suppose we get on with the inevitable." And with that the pair disembarked arm in arm.
Chapter 2

Boyle's Law

Boston – Two Days Later

**James, eyeing the half dozen young men** arrayed before him within the study room, commenced with, "Gentlemen, My name is James Moorehead. I am your tutor for freshman chemistry. I believe that we shall go round the room first so that you may introduce yourselves. Suppose we start with you, sir," he said, pointing to one rather striking lad.

The first of them offered rather self-assuredly, "Sir, I am Sloan Stewart, from Cambridge, England."

"Ah, an Englishman, I take it," James put in effusively.

"Actually, I am of Scottish descent, sir," Sloan corrected.

"Ah, a proud Scot! I see! And I take it you are fresh off the boat, sir?" James inquired with apparent interest.

"Yes, indeed I am, sir." Sloan responded proudly.

"Excellent!" James replied, his affirmative nod expressing his pleasure at having one so worldly within his own study group, "Welcome to America, and to Boston, to be more precise. I wish you the best here at Hanford."

"Thank you, sir, I look forward to it," Sloan responded genially.

Once the remaining five students had introduced themselves, James commenced his monologue, announcing, "Now, we shall meet every Thursday at this same time, except during exam weeks, whence we shall meet on Tuesdays as well. It is not my style to lecture, as I am quite certain you shall all be rather inundated with lectures from your illustrious professors. Rather, my responsibility is to provide any aid that I may toward your enlightenment on the subject of chemistry. As you are all well aware, I am but a year ahead of you at Hanford, but I hope that you shall find me nonetheless helpful to you, as I indeed completed my first year here ranked number one in my class. My goal shall be to pass on my experiences to all of you in such a way as to place each of you as highly as possible at the completion of the coming year.

"Now, I do not wish to daunt you overly so, but I should forewarn you, you are all about to embark on a career in one of the most challenging of all academic disciplines and, although I'm quite certain I need not remind you - at one of the most prestigious universities in the entire world. As such, should you not be fully committed from the get go, you shall fail miserably in pursuit of your objectives, and by Thanksgiving you shall disappear quite ignominiously from this study group, and most likely the institution as well. And when I say the phrase 'get go', I am referring to this very moment in time, indeed, the moment of your initiation into the all-consuming world of higher education. Any questions?"

Apparently undaunted by this ominous preamble, Sloan responded with a presumptuous grin, "Yes, sir, I do indeed have a question."

"Yes, of course, Mr. Stewart, what is on your mind?"

"Sir, as you so correctly point out, I am fresh off the boat," Sloan proffered rather superciliously, "Indeed, I arrived in Boston just two days since. I have therefore not had the opportunity to settle in just yet and, daunted by your comments, as I'm quite certain my fellow colleagues are as well, I feel quite the need for refreshment of a certain dubious sort, if you get my meaning."

"Ah, yes, I do indeed follow, Mr. Stewart," was James' amiable response.

"Well, as it develops," Sloan quipped in reply, "I am told that in America it is quite illegal for a young man yet below the age of twenty to purchase chemical concoctions containing alcohol. This, I take it, is correct?"

James eyed him a moment, subsequently announcing in mock solemnity, "Mr. Stewart, we are to confine our discussion within this gathering to chemistry and, as I see you have so aptly managed to make chemistry the focus of your inquiry, I find that I am quite obliged to answer your question." At this, the entire group breaking into restrained snickers, James continued sagaciously with, "You are indeed quite right – it is illegal to purchase liquids containing alcohol by those under the age of twenty. However, one may nonetheless _consume_ alcoholic liquids within the confines of one's own premises, no matter what the age, strictly for medicinal purposes, of course."

At this, gazing pensively toward James, Sloan commented tactfully, "I see. Perhaps you could enlighten us as to the proper method of acquiring the appropriate _medicinal elixirs_ without entailing the risk of incarceration, sir."

"Excellent question, sir!" James responded cheerfully, "You are clearly focused quite properly on the complex subject of chemistry. As to your question, might I ask whereabouts you live?"

"Why, I live on campus, in Hightower Hall, sir."

"Ah, I myself inhabit the selfsame dorm, Mr. Stewart. Accordingly, I shall endeavor to introduce you to an upperclassman who lives within our dormitory, one who will, I'm quite certain, be more than happy to acquire a supply of whatever potions you may require, for a small finder's fee of course," and so saying, he smiled congenially at Sloan and, forthwith turning to address his uniformly rapt audience, he inquired, "Any other questions tonight?"

Hearing none, he added, "None? Excellent! Then, we shall meet next week at this same time, and I trust by then you shall all be equipped with a veritable cornucopia of questions related to chemistry."

Turning back toward Sloan, he now offered courteously, "If you will accompany me back to the dormitory, Mr. Stewart, I shall introduce you to my colleague who engages in the acquisition of all manner of potable chemicals." At this, the entire group rose as one and fell into step with their new-found mentor.

October, 1939

**Sloan rushed into the** study room and announced, "So sorry I'm late, Mr. Moorehead."

"Apology accepted, but see that it is not repeated, Mr. Stewart," James responded officiously.

"Yes, of course, sir," Sloan replied respectfully, now properly reprimanded.

"We were considering Boyle's Law, Mr. Stewart. Perhaps you've heard of it?" James now queried condescendingly, intent on finding a means to chastise Sloan yet further for his tardiness.

"Actually, yes sir, I believe I have," Sloan responded diffidently.

"For those of you don't know," James interrupted, "Boyle's Law is named for Robert Boyle, the English professor from Cambridge who invented it in the early eighteenth century. For that achievement, he is considered by many to be the father of modern chemistry."

At this, Sloan raised his hand, inciting James to respond somewhat tiresomely, "Yes, Mr. Stewart, what is it?"

"Sir, I don't mean to disagree, but I believe that Mr. Boyle was in fact Irish, having been born in Lismore Castle, County Waterford, Ireland."

"Ah, my mistake. Thank you, Mr. Stewart," James replied dismissively.

At this admission, Sloan raised his hand yet again, interjecting pugnaciously, "Sir, I believe that the record will show that Robert Boyle was at Oxford rather than Cambridge, and that his law was discovered in the mid-seventeenth century rather than the eighteenth century."

"Oh well, we shall see about that, Mr. Stewart," James responded indignantly, "Anything else?"

"Well, er, yes sir, there is one other thing," Sloan added doubtfully.

"And what might that be?" James bellowed in obvious exasperation.

"Uhm," Sloan responded tentatively, "I believe that it is well known that Robert Boyle did not invent Boyle's Law. It was actually discovered conjointly by Richard Towneley and Henry Power. Boyle mistakenly believed that Richard Towneley discovered it, thereby terming it 'Towneley's Conjecture' in his 1662 paper on the subject. Later documentation established that Henry Power, a professor at Christ's College, Cambridge, co-invented the law with Richard Towneley."

Paling with palpable fury at this further disclosure, James now inquired arrogantly, "Is that so? What else might you add to the discussion on this subject, Mr. Stewart?"

"Not much, sir, just that Robert Boyle was enamored with the work of Galileo, even going so far as to travel to Italy in 1641, shortly before Galileo's death. Galileo is, of course, the first person to postulate the existence of material laws, sometimes termed constitutive laws and, as it turns out, Boyle's Law is the first experimentally verified constitutive law in history. It postulates that the volume of a gas is inversely proportional to the applied pressure. Boyle performed experiments demonstrating the veracity of this law, and it is for this reason that the law bears his name today. Nowadays we term materials that behave this way 'Hookean' after Robert Hooke, or 'elastic' after Isaac Newton, and the underlying physical reasons for this effect were elucidated by James Clerk Maxwell and Ludwig Boltzmann in the latter part of the nineteenth century."

"Egads, you know way too much!" the wide-eyed young man on Sloan's right now volunteered wistfully.

"Oh, I'm so sorry," Sloan responded in genuine horror at the realization of his own forwardness, "I had no intention of overtaking the conversation!"

"You managed to do so nonetheless," the young man responded gleefully, adding with fortuitous clairvoyance, "I for one am really glad I'm in this study group. It appears we have a true genius among us!"

Himself turning rubicund with embarrassment at this submission, James finally interjected, "Excellent discussion, gentlemen. Now, suppose that we move on to more challenging topics?"

A Month Later

**Sloan knocked on the door and,** given the boisterous din emanating from within, he was certain that he had chosen the correct one. The door momentarily opening, a young man poked his head without, inquiring over the now-blaring cacophony, "Password?"

"What?" Sloan exclaimed vacuously.

"What's the password, you imbecile!" he heard from behind the rapidly closing door.

"Oh, sorry," Sloan responded sheepishly, "It's uh...Newton!"

"Wrong!" and at this the door slammed close.

"Isaac Newton!" James roared at the offending door, at which the door magically reopened.

"You may enter," the young man announced superciliously, and so saying, he drew the door wide, accenting it with inane genuflection.

Peering within, Sloan could see no less than thirty young men strewn about within the tiny dorm room. Grinning appreciatively, Sloan stepped within, inquiring pointedly of the erstwhile guard, "Where's the booze?"

"Over there, on Bobby's desk," the young man pointed, as if expecting Sloan to be capable of seeing directly through a half dozen inebriated students.

Inching his way through the throng, Sloan eventually arrived at the proffered spot, pouring himself a shot of Kentucky bourbon. Completing his intended task, he turned about with the intention of seeking out someone with whom he might be acquainted.

"Hey," a voice on his right cheerfully exclaimed, "Sloan. Glad you could make it!"

"Oh, I say, hello Mr. Moorehead!" Sloan responded, projecting his voice above the noise, "Some party!"

"Yes, just the thing to mitigate the pressure from the first round of exams, don't you think?"

"I couldn't agree more," Sloan replied pleasantly.

Sipping from a glass of his own, James inquired off-handedly, "So, how did you score on your first chemistry exam?"

"I scored well, thanks to your expert tutoring," Sloan exclaimed.

His eyes narrowing, James queried, "Just how well?"

"Well, since you asked directly, I'm afraid I must admit to you – I made a perfect score."

"Oh, that is excellent!" James responded admiringly, and applying a congenial slap on Sloan's back, he exclaimed with satisfaction, "That confirms my suspicion. I was already quite assured that you were the best within the study group, but now I am certain that you shall be the best in class this year."

"You think so?" Sloan inquired.

"Absolutely!" James responded affably, "You are quite talented, Sloan. You shall make a fine chemist one day."

"Thank you, sir," Sloan replied proudly, somehow at a loss for further words.

"Although we are separated by a year in school, I hope that we shall become friends. We, the two of us, seem to have similar interests. And by all means, please call me James, as I shall henceforth address you as Sloan."

Glancing at James, Sloan responded ingenuously, "Why, thank you, James. I look forward to a growing friendship!" and so saying, he held out his glass. For his part, James raised his glass as well, the pair clinking their drinks together in honor of their newfound friendship.

Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania – Early April, 1940

**Isolde sat before** her mirror, intent on scrutinizing the image before her. Her long blonde tresses were perhaps a bit too frizzy for her taste, but she supposed there was little she could do about such a distressing shortcoming. Rising from her seat, she strutted to the full length mirror opposite and, standing before it, she examined her figure. Clad in her nightgown, she was unable to make out her shape quite clearly. Accordingly, she shrugged her way out of the left sleeve, then the right and, her nightgown slipping silently to the floor, she was afforded an unadulterated opportunity to assess her own attributes. Were her hips too big, her breasts too small? She had not the slightest idea, having been cloistered nearly her entire life within a small village in Wales. But now, having reached a certain age, she pondered incessantly whether she was indeed attractive to the opposite sex.

At that moment, Aunt Fiona poking her head within the room, Isolde blushed with embarrassment at having been caught out in her own self-examination. Discerning Isolde's purpose immediately, her aunt exclaimed wisely, "My dear, there is no need to concern yourself regarding your appearance. I assure you, there is little one can do about it. You shall be who you are for the entirety of your life."

"I know, I know, Aunt Fiona, but please, oh please, tell me truthfully – am I attractive?"

"My goodness, Isolde, you are the absolute picture of femininity. You are tall, quite well proportioned, especially your hips, thighs and breasts, and, last of all, you have a face to die for!"

"You think so? But what about my frizzy hair?"

"My dear, what with your face, no one shall even take notice of your hair. Besides, your hair is quite lovely. Though I perhaps shouldn't say as much, you are altogether the loveliest young lady I've ever laid eyes on."

"That's kind of you to say," Isolde responded doubtfully, continuing to eye herself in the mirror as if she nonetheless doubted her aunt's assessment.

"Oh, I almost forgot," Aunt Fiona put in, "There's a letter for you," and so saying, she held out an envelope for Isolde.

Grasping the proffered item, Isolde ripped open the envelope fretfully, fear of failure coursing through her every fiber and, hastily scanning the writing therein, she abruptly screamed with delight, "I'm in! Aunt Fiona, I've been accepted! I shall be enrolled at Hanford University in the fall!"

Boston - September, 1940

**Isolde extended her head** from the window as the train pulled into the station and, spotting a familiar face, she screamed excitedly, "Sloan! Sloan! Over here! It's me – Isolde!"

Reacting to the sound of his name, Sloan jerked about and, meeting her animated gaze, he waved wildly while screaming gleefully, "Isolde! Welcome! Welcome to Boston!"

Her visage momentarily disappearing from view, he waited impatiently for her to appear at the door and, seeing her emerge shortly thereafter, he rushed forward. Enfolding her in an affectionate hug, he shouted excitedly, "Isolde! It's so wonderful to finally see you again!"

Embracing him tightly in return, she responded with her brightest smile, exclaiming, "Oh, God, I've missed you, Sloan! My dear friend, it's been the longest year of my life! And I'm so looking forward to Hanford. How is it? Is it difficult?"

"Hard...very hard, dear Isolde, but together, we shall somehow muddle through. You can do it, I know you can. And now that you're here, so can I!"

November, 1940

**Isolde waded into** the tightly packed bar and, spying her intended target in the crowded space, she pushed her way through the convulsing throng. Arriving at her destination, she interrupted the two young men locked in deep conversation before her, cooing hesitantly, "Hullo, Sloan, who's you friend?"

Surprised by her unexpected appearance before him, Sloan leapt up from the table. Summarily knocking over his drink and, belatedly grabbing it up, he blurted, "Oh, hi, Isolde. Er, sorry for my clumsiness," and, clearly flustered by the unexpected sight of her, he added in apparent embarrassment, "Oh, uhm, yes, of course. This is my good friend James, James Moorehead. James, meet my dear friend Isolde Channing. She's new to Hanford."

"Ah, yes," James volunteered and, rising elegantly from his seat, he offered her his hand and added, "And here you are at last, Isolde, all the way from Wales!"

Surprised by the handsome and obviously charming man before her, Isolde took his hand shyly in hers, inquiring breathlessly, "And, pray tell, How did you come to know that, sir?"

Seeing he had made a positive impression, James responded with self-assurance, "Oh, I know all about you, Miss Channing, er, Isolde. May I call you Isolde? It seems we already know one another. After all, Sloan talks about you incessantly! He claims you are the best of friends."

Brightening at this observation, Isolde awarded Sloan a cutting glance and, returning her attention to James, she responded pleasantly, "Is that so, James? You wouldn't know by his behavior of late."

Sloan, himself obviously embarrassed by the scene unfolding before him, attempted a diffusing retort, "I'm so sorry, Isolde. But school has been terribly challenging of late. Surely you know how it is."

Softening visibly at his half-hearted apology, Isolde responded, "Yes, I quite agree," and, having thus far failed to receive the invitation she had anticipated, she added, "Well, I can see the pair of you are busy..." and so saying, she turned to depart.

Reaching for her arm, Sloan tugged her back toward them, querying, "Isolde, yet again, I must apologize. Please, sit with us. When we all get to know one another, I'm sure we shall become the best of friends."

Having now achieved her immediate objective, Isolde responded diffidently, "Well, I don't know...I'm quite busy, you know..."

Still a bit young to fully comprehend the complexity of the weaker sex, Sloan begged in earnest, "Oh, please, Isolde! I've missed you so," thereby prompting James to arch one eyebrow in surprise, a subsequent wink passing unobserved by Sloan between himself and Isolde.

"Well, I suppose I can spare a few minutes," she replied hesitantly, and so saying, she dropped her books and took a seat adjacent to her two admirers.

Having discerned how the wind blew, James offered a placating diversion, "So, Sloan tells me you are studying American Literature this semester. How are you finding it?

Brightening yet again at James' powers of deduction, Isolde responded pleasantly, "Bizarre, absolutely bizarre. Although you Americans share a common language with the English, your deployment of the English language bears no resemblance whatsoever!"

"Oh? How so?" James inquired with growing interest.

"Well, for example, one has these firebrands such as Herman Melville and O. Henry. One could say they are obsessed with the macabre. Then there are Henry David Thoreau and Emily Dickinson, both rising to the height of both the sublime and the subliminal. And finally, there is Mark Twain, who seems to have discarded the English language altogether."

"Ha! I told you so!" Sloan exclaimed much too loudly, "She is the picture of perfection, is she not? All those gorgeous golden tresses strewn about, enveloping matchless brilliance, not to mention beauty, if I do say so myself!"

At this, Isolde blushed and, gazing about in embarrassment, she murmured, "Shush, Sloan! You go too far, sir, and in public!"

At this Sloan guffawed, grabbed her in a friendly embrace, and blubbered, "Ah, my dear Isolde, I do so adore you!"

Pushing him away, she rejoined, "Stop it! Sir, if I did not know you better, I should say that you are drunk!"

"What if I am," Sloan exclaimed defensively, "It's still the truth. And you know me, Isolde, I'm always good for the truth!"

"Yes, of that I'm quite certain, and at times most annoyingly," she responded indignantly and, observing that her objective was in danger of being spoiled, she announced surreptitiously, "Well, I believe that I shall make my departure. You, sir, are in a state of inebriation that is entirely inappropriate for a lady's company," and so saying, she arose to leave.

"Aw, don't go rushing off, Isolde," Sloan replied and, seeing that she was not swayed, he called after her, "When can I see you again?"

Over her shoulder, she responded indignantly, "When you are sober, you may call on me!"

But to her dejection, for some reason he didn't.

March, 1941

**Sloan supplied the required** password, the door to the dorm room subsequently opening wide. As expected, there was quite a crowd within, the majority of them well on their way to drunken oblivion. Inching his to the bar, he thought to himself, "Exams this week must have been tougher than usual."

As he did so, he noticed a couple of rather dodgy looking young ladies, a site he had never before seen within the men's dorms at Hanford. Wondering to himself what that was about, he poured himself a drink and, turning to locate a friend to chat with, he was surprised to see Isolde ensconced in companionable discourse with a young man. Pressing forward, he reached her side momentarily and announced, "Isolde, what a pleasure!"

"Oh, hullo, Sloan. Fancy meeting you here!" she responded coyly.

Mystified by her distant attitude, he inquired, "What brings you here tonight?"

"You will see soon enough," she responded, "This is my new friend, Anson. Anson, meet Sloan." The pair shook hands, Sloan for his part perplexed that Isolde was with someone.

Leaning forward, he muttered in her ear, "I can see you're with someone tonight, Isolde, so I shall catch up with you later."

Sipping on her drink nonchalantly, she replied, "Sure...later."

At this Sloan drifted away, in search of other companionship. Almost immediately, he bumped into James, who exclaimed fretfully, "Sloan! I thought you'd never get here. You nearly missed the start of the show!"

"What show?"

"We have something special planned for tonight," James volunteered with a telling wink.

"What might that be?" Sloan queried blankly.

"It seems someone has arranged for a contest."

"You're kidding!" Sloan replied sarcastically.

"No, not at all. We seem to have a benefactor in our midst, although who the culprit is, no one seems to know. At any rate, three young ladies have volunteered to participate in a dance contest, the winner to be awarded a crisp new one hundred dollar bill."

Momentarily distracted from the topic at hand, Sloan responded, "Wow! I've never even _seen_ a hundred dollar bill."

"Ha!" James prattled boisterously, "Well, tonight you shall see one, among other things, I'm quite certain of it."

Still mystified, Sloan inquired, "Other things? What sort of other things?"

Surreptitiously taking a sip from his drink, James replied matter-of-factly, "Perhaps we shall see a mystery or two revealed, of the female type, of course."

"You're not serious!" Sloan responded doubtfully.

"Actually, there is no way of telling what will transpire. It all depends on what lengths these young ladies are willing to go to in order to win the prize."

Suddenly fearing something untoward, Sloan turned, heading directly toward Isolde and, interrupting her conversation with her friend, he blurted, "Tell me you're not entered in this insane dance contest!"

"Oh, but I most certainly am, Sloan," she replied demurely.

"Why ever on earth for? This could well get out of hand, Isolde."

"I'm sure I've no idea what you're talking about. It's just good clean fun," she responded naively.

Seeing that she had no intention of taking his advice, he exclaimed, "We shall see about that!" and so saying, he turned on his heel, seeking a neutral vantage point from which to observe the contest.

A young man now clapped his hands loudly, announcing, "Alright, guys, you all know why we're here tonight. We have three young ladies, each of whom has volunteered to dance for us. Afterwards, the winner, being selected by popular vote, shall be awarded a prize of one hundred dollars!"

At this, the crowd erupted in applause and, shortly thereafter the first young lady commenced her dance. She was attractive in an earthy sort of way and, dancing to 'Pennsylvania 6-5000', she brought the crowd to a fevered pitch. The alcohol having clearly affected the males within the room, the crowd grew boisterous, in response to which she doffed her blouse at the end of the piece. The room erupted in applause, awarding her an approving ovation.

Sloan, now certain that this was headed in an indecent direction, glanced toward Isolde, only to find her avoiding him for some unknown reason.

The second young lady now took to the floor, dancing to the more sedate 'Moonlight Serenade' but, sure enough, near the end of the number she too began removing her blouse. Goaded on by the pulsating throng, she removed her skirt as well, at which the crowd went wild.

Now it was time for the final entrant's performance, and of course it was Isolde. Stepping to the center of the room, she, now appearing quite bewildered, locked her eyes on Sloan and began dancing salaciously to the upbeat tune 'Chattanooga Choo Choo'. Sure enough, toward the middle of the tune, she slowly removed her blouse. By this time visibly distressed, Sloan gazed pleadingly towards her, but she continued dancing, all the while staring directly at him.

Sloan was by now beside himself with agony, fearing the worst as she, reaching down, began fumbling with her skirt. Suddenly lunging forward, he screamed forcefully, "Stop! Stop it, Isolde! I can't let you do this!" and grabbing her about the waist, he lifted her within his arms and lunged hurriedly from the room. Sensing the crowd's disapproval at his intrusion, he managed to hold them at bay by slamming the door shut and wedging his shoe beneath it.

Still wrapped within his arms, she cried woefully, "What do you think you are doing?"

"I'm saving you from yourself, you fool!" he bellowed.

Writhing in an attempt to escape his grasp, she screamed, "I don't need saving!"

"Dear Isolde, I adore you. I can't let you do this to yourself. Now shut up. I'm taking you back to your dorm."

Tears streaming down her cheeks, she suddenly exclaimed, "But why, Sloan? I finally got your attention, and you had to go and stop me!"

"Dear Isolde, you are much too good for this sort of thing. I'm taking you back to your dorm, and there's an end to it!"

Charging down the stairs with her in his arms, he hurried out onto the snow-covered lawn. Racing for fear that they might be followed by the outraged crowd, he carried her as quickly as he could to her dorm, she for her part sobbing uncontrollably all the way.

Once within the dorm, he handed her over to the dorm supervisor, saying, "Please, take her upstairs to her room. She's drunk and out of control."

"Where is her blouse, young man?" the elderly woman asked accusingly.

"Long story," he said, turning to leave.

"Sloan, what did I do wrong? Please, tell me what I did wrong! Come back!" she wailed as he stalked from the dorm.

The Following Day

" **Come in!" Sloan exclaimed** in response to the knock on his door.

The door opening, James poked his head in, announcing, "Hey, Sloan, I just thought I'd check in to see how things turned out last night with you and Isolde."

"I don't know," Sloan responded noncommittally, "She was mad as hell!"

"Yeah, everyone could tell, but despite that, you did her a big favor. She was headed for deep trouble, if you ask me."

"That's what I thought, too, but she wasn't very pleased when I grabbed her."

"What happened after that?"

"Oh, I just carted her back to her dorm and handed her over to the dorm supervisor," Sloan responded, "I didn't know what else to do."

"Did she calm down by then?"

"No, by then she was absolutely furious. I don't know what's gotten into her, to tell you the truth."

"You're really taken with her, aren't you." James posited.

"Yeah, I guess I must be," Sloan replied thoughtfully, "Otherwise, I would have just stood there along with everyone else and watched her strip down to God knows what."

"Yes, and God knows, it would have been her birthday suit, if you ask me," James offered candidly."

"What makes you say that?" Sloan groaned in surprise.

"Man, you should have been there!" James volunteered. "After Isolde left, the guys decided that it was a tie between Mindy and Charlotte. So they decided the two girls should have a dance-off, sort of a sudden-death contest."

"You're kidding!" Sloan replied.

"Honest to God," James said, "So these two girls, seems like both of them wanted that hundred dollar bill really badly, they got up there on the table and started dancing together, and when Mindy took off her blouse, Charlotte did her one better. Within minutes both those girls were naked as jaybirds. I tell you, it was a thing of beauty – two girls dancing naked in a boy's dorm room on Hanford University campus."

"Oh, my God," Sloan murmured. "That could have been Isolde!"

"She would have, too, Sloan. She was really drunk."

"I know," Sloan muttered, "I hope I did the right thing. I'm pretty sure I did, but who can tell with a woman, especially that woman! Man, she drives me nuts!""

"Yeah, I'd say you're pretty far gone on her," James observed.

A Week Later

**Sloan stepped up to** the counter in the girls' dorm, inquiring, "Could I see Isolde Channing, please?"

"Your name?" the supervisor responded, but suddenly recognizing him, she exclaimed, "Wait a minute! I remember you! You're the young man who brought Isolde home that night. Say, what was that all about, anyway?"

"I'm afraid you'll have to ask her," he responded noncommittally, "Name's Stewart – Sloan Stewart."

"I see," she replied, "Well, please wait a moment while I see if she is in."

Sloan stepped away from the counter, politely awaiting Isolde's arrival. After a few moments, the supervisor motioned to him and, stepping back to the counter, he queried, "Yes?"

"She's in, Mr. Stewart, but she's not seeing anyone just now."

At this, he stared at her incredulously, inquiring somewhat rudely, "Look here, could I speak to her on the phone?"

"I'm afraid not, sir," the supervisor responded and, by now clearly ruffled, she posited, "She made it quite clear that she doesn't want to speak to you."

"Can't you see I'm trying to help her?" Sloan begged.

Her eyes flashing in fury, she grumbled, "Sir, I see nothing of the sort. A young man who shall remain unnamed staggers into the women's dorm on a Friday night, conveying a partially clad and clearly unsympathetic young lady in his arms and gruffly demands that the supervisor 'take care of her', all the while refusing to respond to questions regarding his part in this unseemly affair."

At this, Sloan staggered backward and, his hand raised to his throat in denial, he gasped, "No! No, madam, you have it all wrong. I was trying to help!"

"Sir, I doubt that very seriously. Otherwise, the young lady in question would not be so vehemently opposed to seeing you. Now, if I were you, I would make haste to disappear from my sight before I change my mind and find it necessary to file a complaint recommending your dismissal from the university for lewd and inappropriate behavior!"

"I see," Sloan replied in fear, "I assure you that I did nothing wrong, madam. However, I can see how it must have appeared to you. I am truly sorry to have alarmed you so."

"Well said," she replied and, visibly calming, she suggested, "Now please leave, and never ever come to this dorm again, sir!"

"Yes, madam," Sloan responded, and so saying he made a hasty retreat.

Thusly unnerved, he wandered aimlessly across campus, at length planting himself on a park bench adjacent to the library. By then completely demoralized, he stared blankly into space and, unable to find solace, he mumbled to himself, "What's gotten into her? I save her from herself, and this is the thanks I get! After all, did we not promise aboard ship to always be true to one another?"
