. 02: Dinner Is Served

The table, draped in white linen and lit by two branching silver candelabra, was by far too large to seat three people with any comfort; it was designed for at least a dozen. Lady Campbell had seated herself at what seemed to be the foot end of the table -- there was a rather more grand chair at the far end -- and had sat Fiona on her left, but a little further up the table; and Andrew, opposite Fiona, on her right.

The silence was deathly.

A maidservant, in a starched white apron over a long black dress, brought a tureen to the table, and served; a lobster bisque. Another maid served crusty bread; a butler, an older man, served a chablis, and retreated to stand in front of the sideboard, behind Lady Campbell's chair.

Lady Campbell raised her spoon, and began. Andrew, with a quick glance at Fiona for reassurance, followed suit. The soup was good.

"You're to be complimented, Lady Campbell, on the state of your larder," he said, breaching the peace. "Our naval rations ---- and, indeed, the public shops in Edinburgh -- are still not well served with good foods."

"My housekeeper knows better than to seek resupply from such provincial centres as Edinburgh or Glasgow," said Lady Campbell. "Before the late conflict we had crates brought in by steamer from Fortnum and Mason each month, while we were in residence. But we are fortunate in the food the estate provides."

There was another silence. After a few moments, Andrew again broke it.

"When we last met in Edinburgh," he said, "you anticipated that Sir Roderick would return home this summer."

"He is detained at the ministry," said Lady Campbell. "There is still a great deal of work to be done. There has been the unveiling of the cenotaph, and the peace parades. And yet, sadly, there are also still wars, as I'm sure you're aware."

"Indeed," said Andrew. "We lost two sloops -- Gentian and Myrtle -- in the Gulf of Finland only last week, to mines. Waters I know well. I had some hope, a month ago, that we might be ordered back there, but it was not to be."

"You wished to return to the fighting?" asked Fiona, surprised.

"No," said Andrew. "I loathe war, it is a very desperate business. But there is much disorder in the eastern Baltic, and the people there are suffering greatly. Some part of the duty of the warrior is to defend the innocent, and, more significantly, to enforce the stability within which peace may be re-established."

The soup was finished; the soup-plates were removed by silent servants, and plates of roast venison were produced.

"Some wars are necessary," said Lady Campbell. "The dreadful Bolsheviks must be defeated, and good order returned to Russia."

"There was not good order in Russia under Tsar Nicholas, sadly," said Andrew. "Their war effort was appallingly managed, leading to losses at least equal to our own; and their civil administration had been in chaos for decades. The Bolsheviks are not necessarily a bad thing."

"They are regicides," said Lady Campbell. "Regicide cannot be tolerated. The common people must know their place."

"The murder of the whole family was awful," said Fiona. "I cannot help but think of the children. Even Princess Olga was only two years older than I am -- she'd barely lived. Prince Alexei was a child."

"You're right," said Andrew. "All violent deaths -- and especially, deaths of the young -- are awful. But, across Europe, millions have died by violence in these last five years, and many of them just as young. Your brother Alexander must have been of an age with Olga."

"We still don't know with perfect certainty that Alex is dead," said Fiona, hollowly. "His body has not been found."

"He was lost in the fourth battle of Ypres, I believe?"

"Yes," said Fiona. "He'd been at the front for only six days. He led his men out to cut wire at night. They did not return."

"I am sorry for your loss, Fiona, Lady Campbell, but surely there is little hope?"

"There is none," said Lady Campbell. "Of those noble men who stood to face our enemies in the open field, all too few have returned. Both my sons are gone. Of those men who came to our house party here only five years ago, none below the age of fifty survive. And that is small surprise. Our guests were always the boldest of the noble, and the noblest of the bold. I think we could not hold such parties again; there are no men left of sufficient gallantry, boldness and discretion."

Her voice, for the first time, caught; for the first time, she showed emotion.

"I received a package just this morning -- letters and photographs -- from the executors of the estate of my dear friend Maurice de Valois. He served as captain in the Chasseurs Alpins, and fell on the Chemin des Dames, a cruel irony. His last letter to me -- which he had not completed, and I read for the first time today -- was dated the thirtieth of July last year."

"From Maurice? Oh, Mother, I am so sorry. That must hurt you quite dreadfully."

"All of the best of the best are gone," said Lady Campbell. "Only the lesser men returned. But this is a melancholy topic for conversation. Smith, when do you propose to journey on?"

"I asked him to stay four nights," lied Fiona, quickly. "And afterwards, with your permission, I should like to travel with him down to Campbelltown and back? A journey in a motor car would be most interesting."

"We will talk of this later," said her mother, firmly. "It is delightful weather for the time of year."