As the Crow Flies

“Do you have any idea where we are going, Hoskins?” asked Daphne, as he opened the back door of the Rolls for her.

“Yes, m’lady, I took the liberty of going over the route when you and his lordship were up in Scotland last month.”

“Good thinking, Hoskins,” said Percy. “Otherwise we might have been going round in circles for the rest of the afternoon, don’t you know.”

As Hoskins turned on the engine Daphne looked at the man she loved, and couldn’t help thinking how lucky she had been in her choice. In truth she had chosen him at the age of sixteen, and never faltered in her belief that he was the right partner—even if he wasn’t aware of the fact. She had always thought Percy quite wonderful, kind, considerate and gentle and, if not exactly handsome, certainly distinguished. She thanked God each night that he had escaped that fearful war with every limb intact. Once Percy had told her he was going off to France to serve with the Scots Guards, Daphne had spent three of the unhappiest years of her life. From that moment on she assumed every letter, every message, every call could only be to inform her of his death. Other men tried to court her in his absence, but they all failed as Daphne waited, not unlike Penelope, for her chosen partner to return. She would only accept that he was still alive when she saw him striding down the gangplank at Dover. Daphne would always treasure his first words the moment he saw her.

“Fancy seeing you here, old gel. Dashed coincidence, don’t you know.”

Percy never talked of the example his father had set, though The Times had devoted half a page to the late marquess’ obituary. In it they described his action on the Marne in the course of which he had single-handedly overrun a German battery as “one of the great VCs of the war.” When a month later Percy’s elder brother was killed at Ypres it came home to her just how many families were sharing the same dreadful experience. Now Percy had inherited the title: the twelfth Marquess of Wiltshire. From tenth to twelfth in a matter of weeks.

“Are you sure we’re going in the right direction?” asked Daphne as the Rolls entered Shaftesbury Avenue.

“Yes, m’lady,” replied Hoskins, who had obviously decided to address her by the title even though she and Percy were not yet married.

“He’s only helping you to get accustomed to the idea, old gel,” Percy suggested before coughing again.

Daphne had been delighted when Percy told her that he had decided to resign his commission with the Sc

ots Guards in order to take over the running of the family estates. Much as she admired him in that dark blue uniform with its four brass buttons evenly spaced, stirrupped boots and funny red, white and blue checked cap, it was a farmer she wanted to marry, not a soldier. A life spent in India, Africa and the colonies had never really appealed to her.

As they turned into Malet Street, they saw a throng of people making their way up some stone steps to enter a monumental building. “That must be the Senate House,” she exclaimed, as if she had come across an undiscovered pyramid.

“Yes, m’lady,” replied Hoskins.

“And do remember, Percy—” began Daphne.

“Yes, old gel?”

“—not to speak unless you’re spoken to. On this occasion we are not exactly on home ground, and I object to either of us being made to look foolish. Now, did you remember the invitation and the special tickets that show our seat allocation?”

“I know I put them somewhere.” He began to search around in his pockets.

“They’re in the left-hand inside top pocket of your jacket, your lordship,” said Hoskins as he brought the car to a halt.

“Yes, of course they are,” said Percy. “Thank you, Hoskins.”

“A pleasure, my lord,” Hoskins intoned.

“Just follow the crowd,” instructed Daphne. “And look as if you do this sort of thing every week.”

They passed several uniformed doorkeepers and ushers before a clerk checked their tickets, then guided them to Row M.

“I’ve never been seated this far back in a theater before,” said Daphne.

“I’ve only tried to be this far away in a theater once myself,” admitted Percy. “And that was when the Germans were on center stage.” He coughed again.

The two remained sitting in silence as they stared in front of them, waiting for something to happen. The stage was bare but for fourteen chairs, two of which, placed at its center, might almost have been described as thrones.

At two fifty-five, ten men and two women, all of whom were dressed in what looked to Daphne like long black dressing gowns with purple scarves hanging from their necks, proceeded across the stage in a gentle crocodile before taking their allocated places. Only the two thrones remained unoccupied. On the stroke of three Daphne’s attention was drawn to the minstrels’ gallery, where a fanfare of trumpets struck up to announce the arrival of the visitors, and all those present rose as the King and Queen entered to take their places in the center of the Senate. Everyone except the royal couple remained standing until after the National Anthem had been played.

“Bertie looks very well, considering,” said Percy, resuming his seat.

“Do be quiet,” said Daphne. “No one else knows him.”

An elderly man in a long black gown, the only person who remained standing, waited for everyone to settle before he took a pace forward, bowed to the royal couple and then proceeded to address the audience.

After the vice-chancellor, Sir Russell Russell-Wells, had been speaking for some considerable time Percy inquired of his fiancée, “How is a fellow expected to follow all this piffle when he gave up Latin as an option in his fourth half?”