“Poppycock. He’s worried I’ll criticize the government. As I should. Some of our illustrious ministers fear improving conditions for the refugees would attract more of them—and horrors!—more Jews.”
Hugh had heard the same, although in politer terms.
That pugnacious Hastings chin pushed its way forward. “At its heart, this isn’t about the refugees. It’s about censorship. It’s about shutting up all who might criticize. It’s about men like young Albert Ridley making himself king and executioner.”
“Elliott.” Father frowned into his teacup. “The Ridleys have been friends of our families for generations.”
“Young Ridley would do well to remember that the nexttime he sees fit to berate me publicly as if I were an errant child.”
A stiff English silence filled the room, and Hugh searched for a change in conversation within his teacup.
Refugees ... Aleida ... Perhaps Uncle Elliott might lend insight into her dilemma. After Hugh refreshed his tea, he related the story of Aleida and Theo.
His uncle listened with fervent compassion. When Hugh finished, Uncle Elliott gave a single firm nod. “Ask her to visit my office. We might be able to assist her.”
“Thank you.” Hugh scribbled a reminder in his notepad and grinned at the thought of Aleida starting a new page in her own notepad with her pretty handwriting. She came to the Hart and Swan several times a week, adding her refreshing, nonjournalistic viewpoints to the banter.
Mother’s eyebrows lifted in feigned innocence. “May I ask about your interest in this young lady?”
Hugh raised one hand to stop her. “Mrs. Martens lost her husband not three months ago, and she’s searching for her son. I have no designs on her.”
“Yes. Well.” Father sent Mother a look as if begging for a reprieve.
Mother gave him none.
Father gazed at his folded hands. “Your situation has changed now. Now that ... you have duties.”
Hugh huffed. “To marry well and produce an heir to carry on the Collingwood name.”
Mother’s eyes turned watery, and she pressed her hand to her mouth. “You mustn’t speak so flippantly.”
His shoulders squirmed, and he released a sigh. Even in times of peace, such archaic notions deserved a measure of flippancy. But now a Nazi invasion loomed. How could his parents be preoccupied with an heir?
Father cleared his throat. “It’s time you set aside this—this—”
“This youthful nonsense,” Mother said. “You need to find a more fitting position.”
“More fitting?” Uncle Elliott’s voice rose. “Hugh is an excellent correspondent. Have you heard him?”
Father’s nose twitched. “We don’t listen to the wireless.”
Why would they? Hugh’s hands curled around the delicate porcelain cup. His former tutor, George Baldwin, had always told him he only needed approval from the Lord, not from any human being, not even his parents.
But it would have been nice.
“What would you have him do?” Uncle Elliott asked.
The eternal question Hugh had never been able to answer. A portrait of Cecil in dress uniform stood guard on the mantelpiece. But the military had rejected Hugh.
Father sat up straighter. “There are positions appropriate for a man of your constitution. The law, of course.”
He’d be dreadful in law, and his lips folded in.
“Or the government.” Mother raised a smile. “Elliott, you could find him a position.”
Uncle Elliott tapped his chin with one finger. “Perhaps the Ministry of Information, given his experience with the press.”
The danger to the porcelain grew too great, and Hugh set down his cup.
