To make matters worse, five days ago, the French government had determined that fighting Germany no longer made sense and moved out of Paris to Tours, where Marshal Pétain, the “Lion of Verdun,” promptly sought surrender terms.
The next day, Marian had listened to de Gaulle address the citizenry on BBC. When he announced that the flame of French resistance would not be extinguished, she had muttered, “I hope you’re right.”
Only four days ago, she had listened as Prime Minister Winston Churchill announced to the nation, “…the Battle of France is over. I expect that the Battle of Britain is about to begin… Let us therefore brace ourselves to our duties, and so bear ourselves that if the British Empire and its Commonwealth last for a thousand years, men will still say, “‘This was their finest hour.’”
Does Britain’s finest hour mean abandoning her loyal subjects?
Today, this very day, Hitler was in a train car at a park near Compiègne in France to seal a Franco-German armistice. And our tiny Sark Island is only a short boat ride from Normandy.
With her reflections in mind and still observing the postman making his way toward the seigneurie, Marian put her hands along the sides of her temples and massaged them. “God help us,” she breathed.
As the postman approached the main door of the house below Marian’s window, he moved out of her sight. Moments later, his errand completed, he reappeared and began his return journey.
Marian waited. Minutes passed, more than anticipated. She heard footfalls on the stairs and turned, expecting to see the maid. Instead, her husband, Stephen, mounted the staircase. Even before he cleared the top, she saw that he bore an uncharacteristic expression, one that was at once grim, horror-filled, and sorrowful.
Stephen was a tall, thin man with thick gray hair. He was tanned from constant exposure to sun, sea, and wind, and known to laugh often and long. Loved by his fellow islanders for his humor and humility, he lived the irony that he was their legal ruler despite having been born in America.
Sark Island, although a British possession, governed itself under ancient Norman law. Being an only child, Marian had inherited her title upon her father’s death and had ruled Sark. Then she married Stephen.
Under the legal concept of jure uxoris seigneur, meaning “by right of wife,” Stephen had gained the title of Seigneur of Sark Island and became its senior co-ruler. Although he carried out his ceremonial responsibilities dutifully, he was content to leave the real governing to Marian and otherwise enjoy his idyllic life.
Now, alarmed by Stephen’s demeanor, Marian braced herself. Respected and admired by the populace, she was nevertheless known to be stoic. Her father had raised her to be independent, teaching her to shoot, climb the cliffs that encircled Sark Island, and think for herself; but he allowed for little emotional expression. She had once told Stephen, “I am fortunate to be unbound by the useless sense of self-sympathy.”
Stephen entered the grand landing of the second floor holding a yellow paper between shaking hands, and he kept looking down at it with tormented eyes as he advanced. When he drew near Marian, he tried to speak but could not, and then she saw that tears ran down his face.
“What is it, Stephen?”
He stood in front of her holding out the yellow piece of paper. “A telegraph from the War Office…” was all he could manage.
Marian steeled herself. Already, the war had raged long enough that such missives throughout the British Empire were things to be feared, for with increasing frequency, they brought news of a war death within the family.
“Was one of our sons killed?” she asked softly. “Which one?”
Stephen shook his head numbly. “It’s Jeremy and Lance. I don’t know if they’re dead.” His voice broke. “Jeremy was at Dunkirk. I don’t know where Lance was. They’re both missing in action.”
Marian and Stephen sat together in a small salon off the landing on the second floor of the mansion. She had taken a seat in a richly upholstered chair before a mahogany desk by the window, and he sat on a divan near the center of the room. She remained poised, unmoving. He lowered his elbows to rest on his knees and held his head in his hands.
After several minutes, Marian broke the silence. “What was Jeremy doing at Dunkirk?” she asked, a rhetorical question. “He was an engineer, not a foot soldier. He’s not like Lance, who was eager to be in the war. The army sent Jeremy to France to construct airfields. He knows nothing of combat.”
Stephen raised his head to hear his wife, and then returned his face to his hands. “As I understand things,” he said after a time, “Jeremy’s unit was thrown in with others to provide rearguard protection so that the units on the beach at Dunkirk could evacuate. That was a tiny force compared to the German divisions, so our army took every spare non-combatant soldier, including the engineers, and put them at the front.”
Marian closed her eyes and breathed in. “So, our sweet Jeremy was fed to the wolves.”
“Along with many other fine young boys.”
Marian nodded almost imperceptibly. “Do we know how many of them survived, how many were captured, or how many died?”
Stephen shook his head. “News is scant. The BBC hasn’t had much detail to report. The Germans claim they took tens of thousands of men as prisoners. I think Paul is still safe in London, and of course Claire is there, but I haven’t been able to reach either of them.”
Marian stood, smoothed her skirt with a sweep of her hands, and crossed to her husband, laying a hand on his shoulder. “Our people will want to know about Lance and Jeremy,” she said. “They love them.”
Stephen stood, and they embraced.
“The times ahead will seem impossible,” Marian said, stepping back. “But I
