the conversation Jack and I had during our drive to Pamela's house. He mentionedthat the Laceys had three sons and a daughter, and in Beth's letter recounting her Christmas visit to Harrods, she mentioned her brothers. “I'm positive the daughter is Beth Crowell.”
“Why the big secret?” Rob asked.
“I don't know. But there must be something hurtful in this story for her to keep up this pretense.” I wouldn't have long to wait before I found out, because Beth and Jack were coming to London.
Shortly after receiving the letter regarding Mary, Charlotte, and Anne, the Crowells wrote to let me know they would be visiting London and hoped we could get together for dinner at the Savoy, so they could meet my gentleman friend.
After we were seated in a gorgeous dining room, Beth told us that Jack and she frequently ate out when they moved to London during the winter of 1946–47. “Queuing up for food is unpleasant at the best of times, but with arctic temperatures day after day, I was willing to take advantage of the fact that we didn't need ration coupons to dine in a restaurant. And don't think I didn't feel guilty about doing it,” she said emphatically. “Now, it's three years since we defeated Germany, and yet we still have rationing and queuing, and people are still walking around town in drab clothes that have been patched and repatched.”
From what I had seen, patched clothing was a minor problem compared to finding enough coal for their homes. All over London, people were still pushing prams they filled up with coal at emergency dumps.
“The lobby of the Savoy was the scene of quite a brouhaha in 1940,” Jack said almost gleefully. “The East End, where thedocks and warehouses are, took a pounding night after night during the Blitz. The residents didn't think their situation was getting the proper attention, so a crowd of them marched on the Savoy, led by pregnant women and mothers with babes in arms. The marchers closed the restaurant and barricaded themselves in. Some of the group tied themselves to the pillars, while others ran down to the shelters where the hotel kept bunks for the likes of the Duke and Duchess of Kent. It all came to an end when the Savoy's manager wisely ordered tea to be served. That quieted everyone down, and feeling they had made their point, the protestors left.”
After dinner, we went into the hotel lobby, where Jack and Rob discussed the war and the engineering jobs Jack had worked on in India, while Beth and I sat on a sofa just out of earshot of the men. She began by asking me the same questions about Rob my mother was asking in her letters, but without the hysteria. There had never been a Protestant in our family. Beth was amused by my mother's phobia of non-Catholics and told me about Kathleen Kennedy, the Marchioness of Hartington, and the widow of the man who would have become the Duke of Devonshire.
“Mrs. Kennedy was so appalled when she learnt her daughter was going to marry a Protestant that she checked herself into a hospital. When she finally agreed to meet with the press, she was wearing a black dress as if she were in mourning. She wasn't impressed by Billy Hartington's title at all, but her father, a son of Irish immigrants, was delighted. In any event, Kick, as she is known, may lose the title because she seems to be on the verge of marriage with Peter Wentworth-Fitzwilliam, the 8th Earl Fitzwilliam. I hope she knows what she is doing. Peter has a reputation for being a player and living in the fast lane.”
Beth returned to the topic of Rob and cautioned me against doing anything hasty. I assured Beth in person and my mother by mail that marriage had not even been mentioned. However, I was thinking about it quite often, but what Rob was thinking was less clear. He knew the words to all the most popular songs, but his favorite was a Western, “Don't Fence Me In.”
“We have come to London to take care of our granddaughter while James and
“Why the big secret?” Rob asked.
“I don't know. But there must be something hurtful in this story for her to keep up this pretense.” I wouldn't have long to wait before I found out, because Beth and Jack were coming to London.
Shortly after receiving the letter regarding Mary, Charlotte, and Anne, the Crowells wrote to let me know they would be visiting London and hoped we could get together for dinner at the Savoy, so they could meet my gentleman friend.
After we were seated in a gorgeous dining room, Beth told us that Jack and she frequently ate out when they moved to London during the winter of 1946–47. “Queuing up for food is unpleasant at the best of times, but with arctic temperatures day after day, I was willing to take advantage of the fact that we didn't need ration coupons to dine in a restaurant. And don't think I didn't feel guilty about doing it,” she said emphatically. “Now, it's three years since we defeated Germany, and yet we still have rationing and queuing, and people are still walking around town in drab clothes that have been patched and repatched.”
From what I had seen, patched clothing was a minor problem compared to finding enough coal for their homes. All over London, people were still pushing prams they filled up with coal at emergency dumps.
“The lobby of the Savoy was the scene of quite a brouhaha in 1940,” Jack said almost gleefully. “The East End, where thedocks and warehouses are, took a pounding night after night during the Blitz. The residents didn't think their situation was getting the proper attention, so a crowd of them marched on the Savoy, led by pregnant women and mothers with babes in arms. The marchers closed the restaurant and barricaded themselves in. Some of the group tied themselves to the pillars, while others ran down to the shelters where the hotel kept bunks for the likes of the Duke and Duchess of Kent. It all came to an end when the Savoy's manager wisely ordered tea to be served. That quieted everyone down, and feeling they had made their point, the protestors left.”
After dinner, we went into the hotel lobby, where Jack and Rob discussed the war and the engineering jobs Jack had worked on in India, while Beth and I sat on a sofa just out of earshot of the men. She began by asking me the same questions about Rob my mother was asking in her letters, but without the hysteria. There had never been a Protestant in our family. Beth was amused by my mother's phobia of non-Catholics and told me about Kathleen Kennedy, the Marchioness of Hartington, and the widow of the man who would have become the Duke of Devonshire.
“Mrs. Kennedy was so appalled when she learnt her daughter was going to marry a Protestant that she checked herself into a hospital. When she finally agreed to meet with the press, she was wearing a black dress as if she were in mourning. She wasn't impressed by Billy Hartington's title at all, but her father, a son of Irish immigrants, was delighted. In any event, Kick, as she is known, may lose the title because she seems to be on the verge of marriage with Peter Wentworth-Fitzwilliam, the 8th Earl Fitzwilliam. I hope she knows what she is doing. Peter has a reputation for being a player and living in the fast lane.”
Beth returned to the topic of Rob and cautioned me against doing anything hasty. I assured Beth in person and my mother by mail that marriage had not even been mentioned. However, I was thinking about it quite often, but what Rob was thinking was less clear. He knew the words to all the most popular songs, but his favorite was a Western, “Don't Fence Me In.”
“We have come to London to take care of our granddaughter while James and
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