scent of fresh flowers and the sounds of newborn birds ushered in the English spring of 1920, sweeping out the harsh winter that had gone before it. Frederick Lacey thought God himself had written a symphony, rising to a mighty crescendo, all the senses in celestial harmony, and dedicated it to Aminette. On the second Thursday of May, Aminette Lacey went into labor. By most accounts, her baby was not due for another two or three weeks. Her husband had prepared well for the birth of his child, as he did for everything. His wife would deliver their child in a rosewood bed, hand crafted, made in Indonesia and shipped to England to be christened by new life in the Lacey family. It traveled around the world on the flagship of Frederick Laceyâs commercial fleet, a vessel like Godâs own spring, named Aminette .
Things did not go well. The doctor, the midwife and the attendants were helpless. Aminette hemorrhaged, uncontrollably. As the lifeblood drained from her slender body, she looked sorrowfully into her husbandâs eyes. She knew the man who could do anything, could do nothing to save her. A smile as serene as any he ever saw lit up her face as Aminette died holding tightly to her daughter. Lacey pleaded with his young wife, as if by demand alone he could keep her in this world. The last thing she saw before closing her eyes a final time was Frederickâs face, racked with misery, contorted in tears. He named his daughter Audrey.
In less than a week Djemmal-Eddin Messadou made the arduous journey from Georgia to London. Lacey waited to bury his wife until her father arrived. Lacey was devastated. He moved on instinct alone. Djemmal-Eddin too was stricken with grief, but he had seen more death than his young son-in-law and was better able to recover his senses. And recovery was necessary. Djemmal-Eddin did not have the luxury of prolonged mourning. He held the fate of his people in his hands. The Bolsheviks had sworn death to him and to the Transcaucasian Federation of Dagestan, Azerbaijan and his beloved Georgia. The unexpected death of his daughter was a terrible blow softened only a little by the birth of his newest granddaughter. Yet, it was a blow from which he would recover. Aminetteâs was but a single human life. And he, her fatherâalthough a direct descendant of the Great Shamyl, the Lion of Dagestanâhis pain, cruelly suffered at her fate, was solitary. One woman, one man, they are not that important. The death of his country and his countrymenâthose who put their trust, their very lives and the lives of their families in his keepingâwould be far worse. He told Lacey he could not stay long. When the time came for him to leave, the two men stood together. With firm resolve they shook hands, then they each broke down and sobbed on the otherâs shoulder. Those who waited on Djemmal-Eddin waited in respectful silence. No man would interfere at this moment. Two and a half years would pass before Frederick Lacey and Djemmal-Eddin Messadou would shake each otherâs hand again.
Solly Joel was in London in May 1920. He had recently returned from a lengthy visit to South Africa, to celebrate his true lovesâthe fifty-bedroom mansion he called Maiden Erlegh House, on the outskirts of Reading, and the sport of kings, horse racing. Through his ownership of the City & South London Railway, Joel knew William Lacey from Liverpool. He had heard stories of the young Lacey and was familiar with his growing reputation and the prestige that came with his victories in The Great War. But it was in tribute to Djemmal-Eddin that he sought an opportunity to pay his respects. Or, thatâs what he said. The evening before the Georgianâs return to his native land, Solly Joel was the only guest for dinner. The three men ate together in Laceyâs dining room, a setting that could accommodate three dozen comfortably, and had more than once. Condolences were in order, but there was
Things did not go well. The doctor, the midwife and the attendants were helpless. Aminette hemorrhaged, uncontrollably. As the lifeblood drained from her slender body, she looked sorrowfully into her husbandâs eyes. She knew the man who could do anything, could do nothing to save her. A smile as serene as any he ever saw lit up her face as Aminette died holding tightly to her daughter. Lacey pleaded with his young wife, as if by demand alone he could keep her in this world. The last thing she saw before closing her eyes a final time was Frederickâs face, racked with misery, contorted in tears. He named his daughter Audrey.
In less than a week Djemmal-Eddin Messadou made the arduous journey from Georgia to London. Lacey waited to bury his wife until her father arrived. Lacey was devastated. He moved on instinct alone. Djemmal-Eddin too was stricken with grief, but he had seen more death than his young son-in-law and was better able to recover his senses. And recovery was necessary. Djemmal-Eddin did not have the luxury of prolonged mourning. He held the fate of his people in his hands. The Bolsheviks had sworn death to him and to the Transcaucasian Federation of Dagestan, Azerbaijan and his beloved Georgia. The unexpected death of his daughter was a terrible blow softened only a little by the birth of his newest granddaughter. Yet, it was a blow from which he would recover. Aminetteâs was but a single human life. And he, her fatherâalthough a direct descendant of the Great Shamyl, the Lion of Dagestanâhis pain, cruelly suffered at her fate, was solitary. One woman, one man, they are not that important. The death of his country and his countrymenâthose who put their trust, their very lives and the lives of their families in his keepingâwould be far worse. He told Lacey he could not stay long. When the time came for him to leave, the two men stood together. With firm resolve they shook hands, then they each broke down and sobbed on the otherâs shoulder. Those who waited on Djemmal-Eddin waited in respectful silence. No man would interfere at this moment. Two and a half years would pass before Frederick Lacey and Djemmal-Eddin Messadou would shake each otherâs hand again.
Solly Joel was in London in May 1920. He had recently returned from a lengthy visit to South Africa, to celebrate his true lovesâthe fifty-bedroom mansion he called Maiden Erlegh House, on the outskirts of Reading, and the sport of kings, horse racing. Through his ownership of the City & South London Railway, Joel knew William Lacey from Liverpool. He had heard stories of the young Lacey and was familiar with his growing reputation and the prestige that came with his victories in The Great War. But it was in tribute to Djemmal-Eddin that he sought an opportunity to pay his respects. Or, thatâs what he said. The evening before the Georgianâs return to his native land, Solly Joel was the only guest for dinner. The three men ate together in Laceyâs dining room, a setting that could accommodate three dozen comfortably, and had more than once. Condolences were in order, but there was
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