Games at Deauville

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

"Petersholme, it's good to see you again," Winston Churchill said as I entered the office of the base's chief surgeon. We were the only ones there, and he was sitting at the chief medical officer's desk.

"Thank you, Churchill," I answered, pulling my thoughts from Barry's room which I'd just left.

"Your American guest—Mr. Alexander—will he be all right?" he asked.

"It depends, sir. They're waiting to see how well he responds to the drugs the doctor's ordered."

"He'll make it. He comes from good stock." He snorted. "That Irish rumrunner called me before I could leave Chartwell this morning."

"Rumrunner?" I asked, gomsmacked by the man's reference.

"The American Ambassador—Joseph P. Kennedy. President Roosevelt asked that he determine the status of the boy's health and apparently Portsmouth gave him a run around when he called here."

"President Roosevelt?" I mumbled, now completely dumbfounded.

Churchill studied me for a moment, from within a thick fog of cigar smoke. "Mr. Alexander's father heads up the stocks policing authority over there—he's one of Roosevelt's closest advisors on things financial, I hear."

I blinked, realising for the first time that the love of my life had a far more colourful background than I'd expected.

"You didn't know about his father?"

"No, I didn't. I was probably told but never thought much about it." Churchill seemed to be waiting for a fuller explanation and I hurried on. "He's related to my house servants—his mother is my housekeeper's sister."

His brows arched and his eyes widened in surprise. "Good Lord, how strange!" He waved it away then, tendrils of cigar smoke making an arc before him. "But then Americans are a strange lot—a good, strong race of course, but still passingly strange."

He stood and came around the desk to me. "Petersholme, I asked to meet you this morning because you've been singled out for a lot of German attention this past week."

"I guess that I have."

"Can you handle that?"

"I don't like to have my friends murdered—"

"It was a German operation from start to finish—" He snorted, his eyes suddenly twinkling. "Well, not the finish—we provided that ourselves, to their embarrassment."

"Do we know yet who staged that attack on my home?"

"A sergeant major in the Waffen-SS named Horst Müller was the one who killed Molloy. The other was a damned undertaker from Coventry."

"My God!" I groaned. "An Englishman?"

He nodded. "There have been a number of English lads who spent a summer in Germany the past few years."

"Bloody Hell!"

"The Foreign Secretary will be needing someone to replace Molloy, Petersholme. The position will take on more work than before, as long as Berlin keeps pushing us all towards war. It could well be more a more exposed position, as well—" His gaze fixed on my face. "Will you accept it if Lord Halifax offers it to you?"

"I—" I glanced around the room, fighting off my shock before I felt safe in answering him. "There are a number of men in the Foreign Office much better versed in diplomacy, Churchill," I said, still trying to gather my wits about me.

"And none with your connections or your knowledge. I've heard that your ward will marry Louis-Philippe d'Orléans—?" I nodded. "His being a Bourbon will open doors in southern Europe for you, doors that no one else can open. Your King is going to need your help. Will you give it, Petersholme?"

I knew I was snared. "Of course, I'll do my best, Mr. Churchill."

He smiled and returned to his side of the surgeon's desk. "Lord Molloy's funeral will be day after tomorrow—Monday. King George and the Queen will attend. It'll be a small affair, though—just enough to impress on Chamberlain that royal backing is not with him." He looked at me, his jowls slack. "Will you agree to be one of your friend's pallbearers?"

"Of course, I will," I answered instantly.

"You'll need to arrive in Easthampton-Mares Sunday evening then. Young Pettigrew will take care of getting you there and seeing that you're taken care of."

Our meeting was over. I could sense it. I knew that I had just agreed to be Churchill's man at the Foreign Office, as well.

I extended my hand. "Thank you, Mr. Churchill, for coming down to see about me—and about Mr. Alexander as well."

"I wanted to make sure that a man I'll be working closely with hadn't become a jibbering idiot his first time under the gun." He grinned. "I shouldn't have worried. The Petersholmes are made of stern stuff."

He began to study the ash on his cigar. "I won't keep you any longer. Go look after your American guest." He looked up as I turned, a smile on his face.

* * *

My heart leapt into my throat again as I arrived back in Barry's room. The base's chief medical officer was there, looking into his mouth and then his ears. Another surgeon stood attendance. Two nurses stood at the foot of his bed and watched the men. "Is he all right?" I managed, my throat full and my voice hoarse.

One of the nurses broke away from their group and came towards me. "Please leave," she said with an authority that brooked no disobedience.

I stood, staring at Barry's limp form and fearing the worst.

Barry's doctor looked up and nodded to me. "Perhaps Lord Petersholme could stand outside until I'm finished examining him, sister," he told the nurse before she could reach me.

"Is he all right?" I asked again, fear coursing through me like a rushing flood.

"His fever's broken, sir," the nurse who'd set out to expel me said as she escorted me from the room.

I swallowed. My heart allowed itself to be returned to its proper place in my chest. The flood of fears swept back from me like the Red Sea, and I felt weak as relief rushed over me like a desert wind. "He's all right then," I mumbled.

"His condition is still very grave, sir," the nurse said more gently.

I realised that she was herding me into the corridor beyond Barry's room only after we were already standing there with me looking over her head into the room beyond the open door. She stood in the door watching me.

An eternity later, the doctor stepped into the hallway with me. The attending doctor and two nurses disappeared to perform one duty or another. The chief surgeon's face wore no expression as he approached me. Again, I wondered how poor, stuttering King George survived an hour with this man without being forever left unable to speak.

"Mr. Alexander's fever has broken, Lord Petersholme," he said, repeating what the nurse had said. The young man's constitution is quite robust."

"He'll be all right then?"

"There are still a good many complications that will need to sort themselves out," he began and I felt as if I was about to hear a death sentence read. "However, I'll take a chance and tell you that he will probably survive this without having to make too many changes to his life."

Relief did flood over me then—again.

"We've taken him off his sedatives, my Lord. He'll be awake in another hour or so, but very weak for the next few days. He'll also have some withdrawal symptoms now that he won't be given morphine."

I nodded, not really hearing the words. My brain was still stuck in the euphoria that covered me like a fog now that I knew Barry was going to live.

"May I sit with him then?" I asked.

"I don't see why not. Just stay out of the way of my staff when they're attending him, sir." I watched as he walked away.

"My Lord?" the voice called softly from the door.

I turned and saw Pettigrew standing there. "You're back then?" I said standing, instantly feeling every kink that had found its way into my legs and bottom.

"Could we speak, sir?"

I nodded and crossed the room to him.

"As I flew him home, Mr. Churchill suggested that I put myself at your disposal, Lord Petersholme." He chuckled. "The admiral just now made it an order upon my return to Portsmouth."

"I'll have to thank both of them, John." I smiled. "Though, for the life of me, I can't imagine what I'll be doing with you to keep you occupied."

"Sir, I'm being permanently assigned to you," he explained. "Perhaps, it'd better to say that getting you around has been made my primary duty assignment."

I blinked. What in God's name did Churchill have planned for me? "I'm sorry, Pettigrew. Yours will be a boring lot, you'll find—"

He smiled. "I rather like this duty assignment, sir. It came with a promotion." His smile grew into a grin that covered his entire face. "I'm now officially Lieutenant John Pettigrew, Lord Petersholme." He had the presence of mind to be embarrassed by his exultation and looked down at his feet. "Thank you, sir—for everything."

I stared at him. "Surely, I had little to do with your promotion—"

"You and Brigadier Dunham, sir."

"Dunham?" I'd almost forgotten the man from the MI5 station in Paris now that I was again in England.

"When you won't be needing me, the Brigadier can call upon me, my Lord."

I did stare at him then. "So, you're no longer in the Navy? You've gone MI5? And this has something to do with me?" What had Churchill got me into?

"No, Lord Petersholme. I'm still Royal Navy Air Arm all the way." He grinned again. "Just on special assignment until further notice."

"I see." I didn't, of course. It seemed to me that the military was always doing something cockeyed and Pettigrew's situation was the perfect example of that.

"When will you want to fly to Coventry, sir?" he asked.

"To Coventry?"

"Mr. Churchill suggested that you'll want to return to Bellingham Hall before going on to Lord Molloy's funeral."

"Oh, right." I shrugged. "I'd like to be here when Barry wakes up. Let me think about it, Pettigrew."

"Rob—Lord Petersholme?" The voice was the weakest that I'd ever heard, but it was Barry's. My hand tightened around his.

"I'm not in France any more, am I?" he asked, his voice marginally stronger.

"You're in hospital at the Royal Navy's base at Portsmouth." He opened his eyes inside the oxygen tent and focused on me questioningly. "In the south of England, Barry."

"How long—?"

"You were shot four days ago. You've been here two days now."

"Are we alone?" he asked and swallowed. "I don't feel too good."

I poured him a glass of water and, reaching under the tent, lifted his head so he could drink.

"Kiss me, Robbie," he whispered as his face approached mine.

My lips pressed against his but he didn't open them. I pulled back.

"My mouth tastes like shit," he explained. He looked down at the glass in my hand. "I'll take that drink now."

Lying pack on his pillow and me sitting chastely in the chair beside him, he said: "So fill me in on what I've been missing, lover." I saw the twinkle in his eyes as they met mine and knew how much I'd missed it these past four days.

I told him what had happened in Deauville after he'd been shot, including the second attempt on my life and that Gisele von Kys was now dead. "They also attacked Bellingham Hall as well," I told him.

"What?"

"Two of them. Aunt Alice, Dagold and Max stopped them. Before they were killed, they got Max."

"Lord Molloy's dead?"

I nodded.

"And Willi's in that house where this shootout happened?"

Again, I nodded.

"You've got to go to him, Robbie. That boy needs you."

"I'll be with him soon, Barry."

There was a knock at the door and Pettigrew stuck his head in.

"Is he still out?" John asked in a loud whisper.

"Get in here," Barry called to him, his voice not much louder. "This hard-headed nobleman has things to do, Pettigrew," he continued when John had entered the room. "He's got a kid to see to and a funeral to attend. You're big and strong—kick him out of here so he does his duty for those who need him."

Pettigrew looked to me in surprise. Barry laughed. "Get him to go home, Pettigrew."

I knew when I was being dismissed. "Are you going to be all right, Barry?" I asked quietly.

"Sure I am, your Lordship. I've got all these pretty nurses who're going to be ready to play after you're gone."

"Randy bugger, isn't he?" Pettigrew asked, accepting the game Barry was playing and entering into it. I was had.

Barry looked to Pettigrew. "Could you wait in the hallway?" he asked.

As soon as young John had left us, Barry motioned me to him. I lifted the tent and kissed him.

Several moments later he pushed me back. "I love you, Robbie."

"I love you too."

He nodded. "Yeah, but you've got people to see to, buddy. Go do your thing with all of them and get your ass back here to me after Christmas. I want your undivided attention for a day or two then."

"Barry—"

He held up his hand. "Go on. Off with you, Robbie, lad," he said in a perfect midlands accent.

NEXT CHAPTER

First posted 2006
Updated 2 July 2025