The Annals of Cheskovscha: (Courtship of a Married Couple)

By Adam Dumphy

Marriage by proxy was not uncommon in England during World War I. Couples separated by great distances and for long periods of time found comfort in this real if not physical sacrament. It did, however, lead to some unlikely unions.

Among the Royals it was different. Victoria’s numerous progeny were already checkerboarded by marriage across the length and breadth of Europe that all might continue to enjoy the privileges they were accustomed to. And their marriages for political or hereditary reasons had already produced many most unlikely couples such as a nice English girl wed to a cretin with a drool and vice versa.

Also the dislocation of people and populations resulting from the war left the status of most royal families uncertain as to who were still alive and if they were still enjoying the royal life style.

In an attempt to reestablish the age-old royal lines and royal prerogatives, proxy marriages were strongly encouraged by the Court. So it was that an English Viscount on a Grand Tour and caught behind enemy lines when the war began, simply assumed his other honorary position inherited from his grandfather, that of Colonel of the Second  Regiment of the Swedish Christian Grenadiers and became a neutral and safe from internment.

He, and a Duchess by birth, also a Countess by marriage and a “Lady” in England were united at long distance in the bonds, or perhaps the bondage, of matrimony to protect her under his neutrality.

When they fictionally meet in a fictional Duchy on the Rhine a delicate situation results. It did not however interfere with their discovery and purloining of a German decoding machine for their country’s Secret Service.

And a happy marriage.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jun 2, 2006
• ISBN: 9781467096256

Adam Dumphy

Inflamed by a novel of and during the Spanish Civil War of 1936, titled, “The Kansas City Milkman”, Adam Dumphy searched out and contacted a clandestine enlistment center for the British Ambulance Corps operating there. Clandestine as it was at the time an illegal act to aid either side in the conflict. To Adam that fit the novel and made it all the more interesting to him and more Hemingwayesque. He ever after felt the British people generally to be biased and intolerant as he was rejected and simply for being only twelve years old. Still he found himself fascinated by that most peculiar of wars even as some men are towards our American Civil War. All the books and information he collected then he still has. His loyalty he has tried to maintain unbiased to either side although it has varied in degree from one side to another from year to year. Now from the vantage point of eighty years of age the only thing he can decide with certainty about the affair is that both sides got a very “bad press”. But then he believes that is true of most major events.

Book preview

The Annals of Cheskovscha

(Courtship of a Married Couple)

by

Adam Dumphy

USUK%20Logo.ai

AuthorHouse™

1663 Liberty Drive, Suite 200

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.authorhouse.com

Phone: [phone]

AuthorHouse™ UK Ltd.

500 Avebury Boulevard

Central Milton Keynes, MK9 2BE

www.authorhouse.co.uk

Phone: [phone]

This book is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or historical events, is purely coincidental.

© 2006 Adam Dumphy. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

First published by AuthorHouse 5/25/2006

ISBN: 1-4259-3157-X (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4670-9625-6 (ebk)

Printed in the United States of America

Bloomington, Indiana

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

About the Author:

For

Irene

THE ANNALS OF CHESKOVSCHA

Part One

Chapter 1 

Perhaps it was the near certain knowledge that this Benefit Ball would be the last for some time, perhaps the last ever, given by the Grand Duchy of Cheskovscha that made it seem so brilliant, so very memorable. For the tragedy of Sarajevo, only two days before, hung like a shroud over every mind. And the fear of the reaction of the Dual Monarchy of Austria-Hungary to the assassination of Franz Ferdinand and his Duchess made continued peace problematical.

For the Duchy, a little pocket of Cheskovschans, encircled by the great stretches of Serbs, must of necessity share the same fate as their Serbian neighbors. Did it matter to the Emperor of the Dual Monarchy, to the Kaiser, to the Caliphate or to the Czar that the Cheskovschans were not Serbs? They were definitely not.

What they were no one knew for certain. They were only themselves. A tall, fair race, sensitive, artistic, and intelligent but marked unquestionably by the persistent recurrence of the dark, rich, red hair so noticeable and remarkable in their women.

That unusual chestnut red which seemed like reflected sunlight as seen through a darkened mirror was such a dominant gene that it overwhelmed the numerous strains of dark haired invaders. Invaders from east and west and north and south who had at regular intervals over the centuries conquered and ruled over the Duchy briefly.

Easterners said, and were both envious and proud of the fact, that the Cheskovschans were a pocket of Ukrainian Circassians, driven west in the eleven hundreds by wars and famine to settle in the sheltered valley by the great river. And there to flourish, becoming the trading center of Mittel Europa and with the great wealth they had accrued to become the reflection of Paris in the Balkans.

Westerners said, and were both envious and proud of the fact, that they were descendants of Frankish Knights of the Second Crusade, driven north after the debacle at Acre.

Northerners, both proud and touchy, said they were, of course, Vikings from the Nordic strains that had gradually filtered up the Vistula to other lesser Prussian rivers to the Danube to become the picked troops of the Sultanate at Constantinople.

And the Turks just occupied without worrying about origin.

All admitted with regret that the Cheskovschans were independent of anyone just now and militant about the fact. And of course both Austria-Hungary and Bismarck’s Germany considered that unquestionably the Duchy belonged to each of them. The Checko’s freedoms had been so brief in the past, and so hard won, from the Turks only within the last forty years for instance, that no one but they themselves believed in it. And their flourishing so brilliantly as a result of their location on a junction of the two rivers, the Cheskovscha and the Danube, that they were a ripe plum to be picked off by any, at any time.

And how could they resist the might of any conqueror, comprising a half hundred square miles only, mainly one large valley but mostly just the gracious city of Cheskovscha-Regal ruling over its seven bridges and nine hills?

In any event the Hall of Mirrors in the Cheskovscha Summer Palace had never sparkled so brilliantly under the glow of a hundreds of cut glass chandeliers, only recently electrified, a wondrous thing. The banks of flowers along every wall matched exactly the tints of the rose and gold tapestries lining the massive stone walls. And the gilt of the painted ceilings and arches high over head were never more sultry. The music and laughter and conversation were also brilliant and gay and if there was an undercurrent of desperation to the gayety who could blame them?

The Ball, a yearly event, was announced this year as a benefit for the St. Boniface Hospital for Sick children in Cheskovscha Ducal. It was actually a benefit for the court beauties of the Duchy that they might, each year, be displayed to the world and admired. For against the background of black-suited gentleman, were the formal gowns of Cheskovscha’s beauties and pride, unquestionably the handsomest women in all Europe. Nor were they in subdued colors but to set off their own glowing skin and auburn coiffures there were no pastels, but rather gowns in scarlet and emerald and purple and gold.

The lights reflected on bare shoulders and arms white as creamery cream, décolletage to the extreme over magnificent bosoms, tiny waists, skirts so full that each had to turn and be helped to edge through the great double doors to the ballroom.

Green eyes and blue, grey and melting brown, but all through the company was the auburn tint of hair that was a hallmark of Cheskovschans. They twirled with their partners around the great room in the slow stately valsette of the country looking like bejeweled candle snuffers from the great Mosques of the East. Turning right, turning left, bending back, bending forward, but only slightly forward, that what should not be further revealed by the low cut gowns, was not.

And they were freely and unhesitantly admired. The burghers of the town had lined the streets to watch and admire the arrival of the fortunate few who were invited to dance at the Ball. The great windows of the north and east walls were still, at this late hour, lined with admirers standing and peering over one another’s heads. From the balcony the haute monde of every country in Europe and Asia mingled in elbowing ease to see and to be seen. Perched stiffly on straight chairs about the west wall were the Matrons of the Duchy. Not chaperones as the women at this affair were not children needing chaperones, but the blossoms of the regime who allowed little chaperoning. The Grand Dames were observing and enforcing the edicts that five hundred years of an almost unnatural vanity demanded. And if the Grand Dames showed some wrinkles in the still slender necks or some excessive padding beneath their tightly corseted waist they were still gowned as dramatically if not more so than the dancers.

Jewels sparkled there to cover wrinkles and cascaded from ear lobes and necks onto breasts in graceful if affected elegance. All were smiling and vivacious… Well perhaps not everyone. Seated in the very center of the row of Matrons was a slender woman with the flaming hair of her clan. Obviously although she could have displayed as straight, slender shoulders, full bosom and tiny waist as any there she did not. Her gown was of auburn to match her hair but a subdued auburn in a heavy brocade so rich as to stand alone without stays or petticoats. But it was high necked with sleeves to the wrist as became a matron and proclaiming the fact that she was married and not available to dancing and flirting.

Not that plenty of the beauties on the dance floor weren’t married in some degree or another, but she in several ways was quite different from the others. The soul of the Duchy she was its young Duchess, an acknowledged beata, a young woman married to an octogenarian for reasons of inheritance, and as a result she was held separate from the others as if by chains of sterling silver.

As she sat perfectly still, the grey eyes so calm and pleasant, who could know that beneath the stiff, widespread skirt her toes were dancing to the music, And behind those grey eyes in her mind she was twirling left, twirling right, with those before her. Still to the outward eye she sat quietly silent and alone in a crowd. Not that she was often left unattended or lacked for admirers, for earlier in the evening she had been the center of a larger circle than any one there. And these men, young and old, she had fascinated and charmed with practiced ease. But it was now late in the evening and the liaisons for the after-ball affairs, whether clandestine or legitimate, had by now been arranged. And since she could not continue the evening at one or another of the justly famous late night bistros of the city, The Cafe International, The Lido, The Chez Paris or the Leopard’s Spot, she was of necessity alone.

It might have been that a sudden surging of envy or despair was the cause that made her stand so suddenly. At any rate she turned away from the dancers to hide moisture at her eyelids and so suddenly that a German General Officer coming from the secluded corners of the Picture Gallery, slightly unsteadied by champagne and the bright eyes of an over stuffed blonde beauty, misstepped to place a great, polished, jack boot on the very hem of the lady’s gown. And with out noticing stalked off. The lady herself could hardly help but be aware of the occurrence for at that moment she heard an ominous ripping sound so loud it seemed to her to be audible across the hall even over the music and dancers. Reaching behind her she was able to feel a loose flap of material at her waist from left to center that was hanging down obliquely and she was aware of a curious, cool sensation of something being absent there. She knew immediately what had happened and needed not to turn or look. For had not Madame Hennenberg sewn her into the gown at the last moment before leaving home at that very spot? Helene who had had all her clothes made by the talented Madame since she was twelve, and who had made the Madame so popular with the Court Ladies, that as a result, Mme. Hennenberg now had hardly time to finish the dress of her patron. So busy and so late was she made by the demands of the Court ladies that it had required the last minute visit to the Government House to tuck and sew the waist to fit.

But Oh …Dear God what had happened back there and what could she do? As the panic rose into her throat she heard a soft voice from behind her, Do not turn, Madame, I beg you. And after a moment, Please do not move yet… A pin. Yes a pin is required. Hmmm. Madame does not have a pin about her does she?

At Helene’s head shake he continued. A moment please. She felt the loose fabric pulled about her, Yes a pin here and another and a third and Madame is again presentable. Nothing untoward is revealed.

Oh. Thank you. She whispered.

I do not know for certain how long these arrangements will last. It is a tenuous repair.

Oh my... her nervous fears peaking again.

If you would walk slowly to the foyer with out turning or walking too rapidly I believe you will not be noticed.

Oh yes...yes.

I shall be close behind you as camouflage and it might be well if you kept your face to the Matrons. There will be less chance of your attire being noticed that way.

Oh yes…yes of course.

But it seemed a very long walk and almost impossible to maintain a leisurely pace. Somehow she did it nodding pleasantly to the row of matrons as she passed, then unable to continue the slow pace she broke into a hurried walk the last few yards.

Standing back to a pillar she ordered her cloak. In apprehension of what might have been revealed she glanced into the hall. The dancers there were still twirling and smiling, conniving and flirting. The matrons continued to nod their approval. Nowhere did she see an amused glance or levity. She had apparently made her exit without being noticed. Only then did she realize that she had no idea who the young man was who had pinned her gown for her. For surely it was a man’s voice which had spoken to her. And then the thought came that the man could hardly help but notice her discomfiture with the lack of under slips and all. The voice had been oddly familiar as if a memory from the past.

Perplexed she looked closely at the entire corps of gentleman about her. Close by were a trio of men in black tie and tails but they were all older and deeply involved in world affairs. Across the room were several younger men but all seemed mesmerized by the dancers. The Bulgarian Ambassador was conversing with Monsignor O’Malley from the Cathedral. No, no one was interested in her. Across the room a tall officer in Palest Blue uniform was talking to a full-blown woman in a very low cut gold gown, Madame Constanza Zucop. Oh dear... the lady thought. How she hoped that the Madame of all people had not noticed her contretemps. The Madame was the most malicious gossip in the Duchy and one who loved to heap ridicule on any of the Royal Family. She would spread word of it like an uncontrolled, wild fire and embellish it with salacious and witty asides to make any event seem even more ridiculous than it was. She must get away now for repairs.

Reassured by her cloak as a cover she called for her Bugatti Cabriolet. It took some time in arriving in which she made the necessary adieus, charmingly as always, and blaming her early exit on a migraine. Still she had to wait in the hall in nervous apprehension as until Mischa arrived. He was undoubtedly with the other chauffeurs toasting any thing they could think of in brandy in the back courtyard. Any reprimand was forgotten once she was safely ensconced in the privacy of the rear seat of the limo. Then she could give herself up to the anger, humiliation and despair engendered by the evening.

The Boche. What boors they were and how often did they trod on other’s skirts, toes and feelings and never even be aware of their offenses.

Arriving home at Government House she ran up the stairs and along the gloomy hallways to her bedroom. There she could throw herself on her chastely-simple bed and give way to her tears. What a horrid evening, when it should have been so bright and pleasant. It had seemed wonderful for everyone else. But how could she join in? She simply could not. Her marriage of convenience, her position in the Duchy, forbade it. So that after the pleasure of choosing a gown and showing it, she must sit on the sideline like a seventy-year-old dowager and watch the others enjoying it so. And to top it all there was that clumsy German oaf.

The tears might have continued if Philomena, her private maid, had not entered, sleepy-eyed but loyally awake, to disrobe her mistress and put her to bed. Philomena was barely twice her Mistress’ age and attendant upon Helene since the death of the former Duchess in childbirth. Her entry stopped all thought of further tears. Tears were not proper for a Duchess. Philomena had decreed that when Helene was eleven. But if tears were not allowed confidences were.

Oh Philomena I am so... She changed the word she had in mind in deference to Philomena’s further declaration against vulgarity, so vexed.

Philomena was more strict in any matter of propriety in her own way than the Duchess herself, who was considered a beata, and she realized that it was from her maid that she got her prejudices.

Look at this gown. The young woman continued. Look what has happened to my lovely gown. She turned and pointed stopped as the motion produced a further ripping sound. Is it beyond repair?

Philomena who loved beautiful fabrics as much as her mistress but could do only the minor sewing repairs as her peasant’s fingers, thickened by heavy work as a child, could not make the tiny stitches needed for the finest work. She was quite capable of being critical, however. It is completely ripped, Madame, across the waist and down the side seam. I told that seamstress that basting would not hold.

Oh I just loved this dress.

Well it is only held together by this pin. It is completely ruined, Mistress Helene.

Oh damn. What am I to do?

Philomena bent closer. What is this? What are these pins, Madame? She unpinned something and straightened up to hold out a flat rectangular object with a pin and hook on the back but the front covered by a ribbon. The ribbon material was green with two white stripes across it.

Why I have no idea. Whatever is it?

Here is another and a third.

Is that what was pinning me together?

Yes Madame, the only thing.

The pins were all similar except for the colors. One purple and white with vertical stripes and the other green with a metallic star in the center.

Why I have seen this sort of thing before. Helene burst out. I think they are campaign ribbons or battle bars that officers wear above the left breast pocket of their uniforms. What in the world? How did they get there?

Suddenly another thought intruded into the young woman’s mind. Turning further she observed her image in her huge, three-way mirror. Craning her neck she could see where the skirt was torn loose, neat high heels in the auburn color, slender ankles and legs in auburn silk hose, and matching garters. But above that and covering the essentials was not her normal neat, black-silk ruffled pantalets but rather square-legged, voluminous, bloomer shorts in white muslin. Like schoolgirls wear in gymnasium.

Only then did the full realization of her humiliation strike her. Oh, damn, damn. Earlier in the heat of a very warm afternoon and while waiting for Madame Hennenberg she had rebelled at wearing the clingy, silk underthings and waited wearing the cool muslin. Then in all the fuss of being sewn in to her gown she had forgotten entirely that she was still in the muslin.

Philomena who took every opportunity to promote her ideas added, Young women who refuse to take proper advice must expect to... She tapered off into a grumble for she realized her mistress’ distress.

Oh...Oh...As if it hadn’t been bad enough to have a torn dress exposed, to have an unknown man who in coming to her rescue must of necessity be aware of her... ah