A Pearl for My Mistress. Annabel Fielding

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СКАЧАТЬ the debutantes’ society, she caught some offhand remarks, some weary sighs about the inept government officials, some distant fears of a Communist invasion. Nothing you should concern your pretty head with, darling. Better think about the upcoming dinner at the Astors’.

      Surely nothing to be concerned about. It was just her country crumbling around her. Nothing to worry her pretty head about. Better to sit in her doll’s house and write about other doll’s houses, before the hurricane comes and tears them all to shreds.

      She learnt more and more, eagerness mixing with fear, about the closed shipyards and silent factories. She learnt about the towns, counties, regions quietly going mad with desperation. She learnt about the ‘children of the Empire,’ given up by starving families and sent to the colonial farms as cheap labour.

      These tragedies didn’t play out in some far-flung land; they were only a couple of steps, perhaps a short trip away. And yet, here she was, insulated in petty Society dramas.

      And the government officials, it seemed, were just as unwilling to touch these problems as any debutante on a golden chair would be.

      Of course, she wasn’t supposed to think about such things, much less bring them into a discussion. For a lady to mention such an interest in a conversation with an eligible young man was a disaster in the eyes of any mother.

      Today’s gentlemen are quite superficial and airheaded, they said; one could even go so far as to say they tend to be quite brainless. We cannot change that. Therefore, you will have to make every effort to hide any intelligence you possess. Imagine how the poor boys might be scared otherwise! And you don’t want to scare them off, do you? Talk about weather, ghosts, and the royal family. One cannot go wrong with these topics.

      She couldn’t share her fears and thoughts with anyone of her acquaintance; she couldn’t let out the words, screaming in her mind.

      Fine.

      If they won’t listen to me, then I’ll find someone, who will.

      It was with these thoughts she slipped away one fine afternoon, plainly dressed, to hear Sir Oswald speak.

      She had heard many outrageous things about Oswald Mosley. He was a philanderer who broke his poor wife’s heart and finally drove her into an early grave. He made her younger sister Alexandra his mistress even before that.

      Of course, the innocent young debutantes weren’t supposed to hear such gossip. However, as no one cared enough to seal their ears with wax, they still did. Lucy certainly did: she was well trained, after all, to keep quiet unless spoken to and listen to what others had to say. And others had a lot to say, especially if prompted gently in the right direction.

      Thus, she heard the heart-wrenching story of Cynthia Mosley, née Curzon, and she despised Mosley the man.

      However, at the same time she couldn’t now help but admire Mosley the leader.

      It was as if they were two different spirits trapped in the same body, Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde of the new century. As Mosley rose to the tribune and addressed the crowd, Lucy didn’t see a sleazy adulterer, a patron of the resorts of the French Riviera and a tireless seducer of married ladies. Before her stood an ardent genius, a visionary leader, whose words were as clear and merciless as an Oriental blade.

      She had heard that Mosley never resorted to radio broadcasts, that he even disliked using a microphone. Now she saw why. No radio waves could have ever conveyed such a fiery presence.

      She also saw why he had initially called his movement the New Party. It was new; it was different. He was different. Who had ever heard before of a peer resigning from a brilliant career in Parliament to lead a street movement? For many, that was a reason to sneer at him in their drawing rooms.

      He is strange. He is mad. He is not like the other, normal politicians.

      And it was true – he was not. Lucy saw it now, as clearly as the light of the day. He was a fire to their marsh, a strike to their meddling, a thunderbolt to their drizzle. A thunderbolt now adorned the banners of his new movement, and the movement itself acquired a new name: the British Union of Fascists.

      Having arrived at the rally with a mixture of apprehension and curiosity, Lucy now clung to his every word with ravenous hunger. Every word filled her heart with thrill and her head with new clarity.

      Suddenly, everything she had ever heard, or read, or felt or wondered about started to make sense. These vague, disconnected patches of knowledge, rumours, and suspicions were now coming together, intertwining to form a whole picture. She saw the full extent of the danger looming over her country; she also saw the way to save it from this danger. And, above all, she saw the man who could do it.

      When, after his speech ended, the burly young men around her shouted in enthusiastic agreement, she shouted too. She must have looked quite comical – a dainty, small lady in white gloves, jumping and flushing and screaming. But she couldn’t help herself – the wave of fire engulfed her, and the fire seeped into her veins. It prodded, propelled her, driving and begging her to do something, to run, to fight, to help the cause.

      At present, the only place she could run to was to the respective stall, to sign up for the membership and receive her badge. She had to hide that one, too, as she took care to smooth her appearance over and hurry back home.

      But the thoughts didn’t leave her, and neither did the fire.

      She had never felt so alive before. She was afraid to lose that feeling, to slip into the apathy and frustration once again; but her fears proved to be unfounded. Soon, she started to fill her diary with furious drafts and excepts from yet-unwritten articles: ‘What do we keep our government for? To organize elaborate processions? What is the purpose of the government, if it stays deaf to the needs of the people it supposedly serves?’

      She tossed and turned at night, thinking of how, precisely, she could help the cause. She looked enviously at the glowing newspaper photos of tough Blackshirt girls practising jiu-jitsu. But she couldn’t join them, of course – literal fights were out of the question.

      Nominally, she was now a part of the Women’s Section, headed by the motherly Lady Maud Mosley (who was, quite literally, the leader’s mother). Really, Lucy rarely had either time or opportunity to attend their meetings.

      Several sleepless nights later, she had worked out a way she could be useful to the new movement. Frankly anyone could distribute leaflets on the street; however, not many could write them.

      If her skills looked sufficient for the proprietor of national newspapers, then, perhaps, they would prove somewhat useful for the leaders of a fledgling movement?

      At first, Lucy was too anxious to approach Mr Chesterton, the newly appointed editor of The Blackshirt. She had actually feared that her own modest title might create some difficulties, or even bar her from active participation altogether. After all, wasn’t she the very part of the enfeebled old world the new movement vowed to sweep aside?

      But her fears proved to be unfounded. Moreover, Lucy discovered that she had drastically miscalculated the situation. Yes, dashing Sir Oswald professed to despise the ‘old guard’ of traditional parties and the cautiousness of landed gentry. However, at the same time he desperately wanted to cultivate some allies among these very groups: the allies, who could lend a measure of legitimacy to his controversial Union.

      Not only did Mr Chesterton accept Lucy’s overtures – he welcomed her СКАЧАТЬ