From Fitzroy's Private Diary (Extract 16)

Teaching women to drive is not a task many gentlemen care to undertake. I have done so twice in my life and, in each case, it was my duty to the crown that compelled me do so. When Euphemia and I began to work together properly, it was shortly before the Great War and cars were far from being what they are today. As I have found myself far too frequently being shot at or having knives or other incapacitating weaponry lobbed my way, it seemed reasonable to train her as a backup driver.

At first, I thought that she was merely heavy-footed. A trait that could eventually be corrected, but as we shot forward yet again in too low a gear, listening to my poor motor grinding itself to death, she assured me ‘She had no fear of speed and if she wasn’t going fast enough I was to tell her.’ As I had just inadvertently swallowed several small flying insects, it took me a few moments to choke out the word ‘Stop!’ Apparently, the speed she attained was no match for the sensation of unbridled velocity she had enjoyed while riding in the country as a child. I tried to explain how different speeds were experienced, and how the motion of horseflesh beneath one is a headier experience than sitting in what is effectively an armchair on wheels. I had little effect.

Then there was her habit of leaning back when using the brake, which put her body into the oddest contortions. Again, there transpired to be a reason, an illogical Euphemia-type one, but a reason. She had always pulled back on the reins while riding and assumed a similar position while driving the car.

It took some time to turn her into a competent driver. I do not think she ever understood how much patience I extended to her. I had recently dragged her into the intelligence service business and so cut her far more laxity than I would otherwise have extended.

Teaching Hope was an entirely different matter. First of all, she required an explanation of how the basic mechanics of the car worked (her mother was quite happy to accept that the car worked by inscrutable means - possibly even magic - I never enquired too closely.) Hope told me she was very happy to hire a mechanic when required, but in case of the car breaking down when she was alone, or in danger, or simply in a hurry, she thought it best to understand the basics.

She listened closely as I explained, sketching out a few things on my notepad, then asked me to accompany her to her vehicle, a present from her indulgent Uncle, and opening the bonnet proceeded to repeat back to me what she had learnt. She got the majority of it right. I was pleased, and for the first time, begun to imagine that teaching her to drive might not be the same nightmare as teaching her mother had been.

I had stepped in to help her when Euphemia had offered to come up to town to do the lessons herself. Besides my being the better driver, I pointed out that Bertram still did not know she drove, and it was unfair to place the burden of that secret on Hope. It was the only appeal I could think of that stood any chance of getting my way. Euphemia still drives with gusto and great daring. I can only think the gods of motoring watch over her - and anyone else who happens to be on the road at the same time.

At first, Hope was an absolute dream to teach. She did exactly what I told her and did it perfectly. The challenge came when I ceased instructing. She obeyed me, as she has always done, without the intervention of thought, so when left to fend for herself at the wheel, it was very nearly the end of us. As I hadn’t told her to slow down, she took a bend in the road far too fast and only my reaching across to pull the brake prevented complete disaster. I recall being quite angry at the time. We had almost gone through the side of a small bridge and into a river some ten feet below. In hindsight we would probably have survived, but it would have not been without indignity and injury.

As I am never angry with Hope, her eyes filled with tears and I immediately regretted my words. When I discovered how literally she was following my instructions, and not thinking for herself, I got her to pull over to the side of the road and explained why, for example, it was imperative to slow one’s speed before a curve in the road. She listened intently, asked one or two very sensible questions, and then asked if she might try driving a little way again.

Of course, she did it perfectly. Hope has always been happy to not only take instruction from me, but to believe I am always right. Time in her company can be quite blissful. It is a stark contrast to her mother, who would challenge me on the spelling of my own name if I had put her in a temper.

Hope is now a few years older than Euphemia was when I met her and while she is the very image of her mother, their temperaments could not be more different. I always felt a duty to keep Euphemia safe, for which she mocked me. While Euphemia no longer needs my protection, my responsibility has shifted to protecting her daughter. We must all do our bit in this war, and I feel it is better Hope does so under my watchful eye. I am afraid I still think of her as that adorable, but vulnerable, eight-year-old child.