The Woman Before Wallis

by Bryn Turnbull

  “Haven’t I got something in gold?” she said, dropping onto the daybed. The maid dove back into the wardrobe, hangers clicking as she sorted through the evening gowns. Thelma refastened the tie of her dressing robe, its cuffs showing signs of wear: Gloria would have to take her shopping soon.

  As if she’d overheard Thelma’s concerns, Gloria entered the bedroom, followed by a maid carrying an armload of evening gowns. “I thought you might want to look through a few of mine,” she said, directing the maid to Thelma’s wardrobe.

  In a strange twist of fate, Gloria’s relationship with Reginald Vanderbilt had begun just as Thelma’s marriage to Junior was ending. He and Junior knew each other casually, occasionally sharing boxes at the Belmont where Reggie ran a string of horses. At a dinner party Thelma and Junior hosted before the miscarriage, Thelma had arranged for Reggie and Gloria to sit together—she’d felt a bittersweet triumph when they were the last couple on the dance floor, turning in slow conversation as the other guests drifted out into the wintry night. If their meeting was the only good thing Thelma could salvage from the wreckage of her marriage to Junior, she would take it.

  Elise took the dresses, throwing Thelma a look of relief as she laid them out on the bed. Gloria parsed through them, pulling out one, then another, to hold up against Thelma’s chest. Marriage suited her: Gloria had always been more prone to illness than Thelma and was slender to the point of skinniness. Thelma had been sorry to miss the wedding—sorrier still to miss the birth of her niece, Little Gloria. The delivery, Mamma had told her, had been a disaster: Gloria had needed a caesarian operation, and a subsequent bout of diphtheria had laid her up in hospital for the first six weeks of Little Gloria’s life.

  Now, though, she looked healthy. She had put on some weight, the curves of her figure mirroring Thelma’s own.

  “I hope you don’t mind,” said Gloria. She handed Thelma a backless black evening gown, and Thelma slid behind the dressing curtain. “I got so excited that you were finally coming, I couldn’t resist throwing a little party. It’s all very good having Reggie and the baby, but it’s not the same without you here.”

  Thelma slipped out of her robe. She knew what Gloria meant: though they both had other girlfriends, it simply wasn’t the same as having each other. During her year in California, Thelma constantly found herself turning to address her absent sister. When Gloria had greeted her at the train station, Thelma felt something click into place: a half made whole again.

  “How are you? How is living with Reggie?”

  From the other side of the curtain, Thelma heard Gloria sigh. “It’s wonderful. Isn’t that awful? I don’t mean to gloat, but I’ve never been happier. And it’s not just the money, either. We have so much fun together, just the three of us.”

  Thelma came out from behind the dressing curtain, adjusting the neckline of the sleek outfit, biting back a sullen retort: Reggie and Gloria were never alone—not with the baby, nor with each other. Their suite of rooms at the Hôtel Ritz were full to bursting: Gloria and Reggie had brought their staff from New York, and the baby now traveled with a retinue of her own, including Thelma’s mother. By every measure, Gloria’s marriage to Reggie had been a success: when she signed the marriage document, she became part of one of the wealthiest families in America. Looking down at the spectacular dress Gloria had thrown her way like a hand-me-down, Thelma could see that her sister had quickly become accustomed to her husband’s lavish way of life.

  Gloria pursed her lips. “Not that one—you look sallow.” She pulled a cream-colored Vionnet from the pile. “Try this one, then we can go visit the baby.”

  Thelma tried on the second dress. She didn’t begrudge Gloria her good fortune, but she couldn’t help being envious. Thelma’s time in California had been an ordeal of lawyers and penny-pinching; she’d not bothered to think about her future, beyond obtaining the divorce she so desperately sought. Now with that battle behind her, Thelma couldn’t avoid the reality of her financial situation much longer.

  She came out once again. Gloria nodded her approval, and Thelma went back to change into her dressing gown, adjusting the turn at the cuff to hide a spot that had begun to fray.

  They left the maids to retrieve jewelry and walked down the hall to the nursery. Gloria knocked but before they could enter Little Gloria’s nurse stepped out, pulling the door shut behind her.

  “The baby is sleeping,” Nurse Kieslich pronounced. With her pigeon-puffed chest and broad shoulders, she looked more like a linebacker than a nanny: she stood straight-backed, her hand curled around the doorknob.

  “Mamma hired her,” Gloria had told Thelma earlier that day, “and she does seem devoted to the baby but she’s so stern all the time. The way she looks at me, I don’t think she likes me one bit.”

  Seeing Nurse Kieslich standing guard at the nursery door, Thelma suspected that Gloria was right. Kieslich stared down her nose at Gloria, with an expression that bordered on insolence.

  “You would do well to remember she is my child,” said Gloria, lifting her chin, “and I’ll decide when it’s appropriate to see her.”

  Kieslich raised her eyebrows but released her hold on the door.

  The room was lamp-lit and comforting, a cloud-white cradle in one corner. Gloria pulled aside the bassinet’s muslin curtains and reached in.

  “Who’s Mamma’s good girl, then?” she said, lifting the child into her arms.

  Little Gloria yawned, rubbing her eyes with a puffy fist. She was more toddler than infant now, her chubby legs dangling down Gloria’s front as she nestled her face in the crook of her mother’s neck.

  Gloria kissed the crown of her head. “Would you like to hold her?”

  Thelma lifted the child into her arms. “She’s so much bigger,” she said. A year ago, Thelma had made a rare visit to New York to visit the newborn. At the time, Gloria had been laid up in the hospital with diphtheria; Mamma had been caring for the baby in her absence, moving a cot into the nursery so she could sleep beside the crib. Thelma had yearned to hold her niece, but Mamma wouldn’t let her: What germs might Thelma have brought, coming from Gloria’s hospital bed? By the time Gloria had recovered, Mamma had hired Nurse Kieslich, and had moved her belongings permanently into one of Gloria and Reggie’s guest bedrooms.

  Mamma had a close hold on Little Gloria, but this evening she was out. Thelma took full advantage of her absence, holding Little Gloria close and inhaling her sweet scent, imagining, for the briefest of moments, that she was holding a child of her own.

  A deep voice behind her broke the silence of the nursery. “She likes you.”

  Reggie Vanderbilt was standing at the nursery door. He came forward, resting a hand on Gloria’s shoulder as he kissed Thelma on the cheek.

  Though he wasn’t a tall man, Reggie dwarfed Thelma and Gloria both, his square frame giving the impression that he took up more space than he truly did. “Perhaps we’ll be welcoming a cousin for Little Gloria to play with before long.”

  Thelma looked down as Little Gloria grasped her finger with an unsteady hand. “Perhaps,” she said.

  As a brother-in-law, Thelma couldn’t ask for more than Reggie Vanderbilt. Gregarious, fun-loving and good-natured, Reggie was generous to a fault, always insisting on more: more food, more wine, more laughter. He lived in excess, racing cars and horses, hosting parties for hundreds—and though Thelma disapproved of his gambling habit, he adored Gloria, and that was enough.

  “Of course she likes you,” said Kieslich as she set the folded blanket back in the crib. “She’s a baby—she likes anyone who holds her.”

  “Yes, thank you, Nurse,” muttered Reggie, exchanging a look with Gloria. She stifled a smile and took Little Gloria to settle her back in her crib.

  “Troll,” said Reggie, once they were out of earshot. “If I wasn’t so afraid of what your mother would say, Gloria, I would sack her. You ladies get d
ressed, we’re expected downstairs in an hour.”

  * * *

  The private dining room at the Ritz was bright, electric lights in chandeliers sparkling over the soft glow of candles. A dining table laden with flowers stood at one end of the room, and a three-piece band sat on a raised dais at the other, rehearsing a jerking, rhythmic piece as Gloria flitted past, setting handwritten place cards on the table. She and Thelma had come down early, instructing the maître d’ to squeeze in another setting.

  “I know it’s last minute, but Beth telephoned—a friend of hers is in town, Lord Furness, have you heard of him?” said Gloria, bending over the table with a fountain pen in hand to write a new place card. She looked up as a waiter arrived with a wicker-seated chair. “Reggie has. Apparently, he’s got more money than God. No—move that one,” she said, motioning to the waiter. Gloria picked up Lord Furness’s place card and switched it with the one next to Thelma’s seat. “Who knows?” she said. “Reggie and I met at your dinner party—one good turn...”

  Thelma picked up the place card, watching the ink dry as she played with its edges. “I don’t know,” she said. “My divorce was finalized only a few weeks ago... How would it look?”

  Gloria snatched back the card and set it down. “It’s dinner,” she said. “That’s all. You’ve been estranged from Junior for over a year. It’s time you started thinking about your future.”

  Thelma frowned but let the card stay where it was. Gloria was right—she generally was, where Thelma was concerned. Still, she felt unsettled about the prospect of meeting someone new. She had fallen for Junior in the space of an evening—and spent the next three years atoning for it.

  “It’s dinner,” Gloria repeated, and pushed a glass of champagne into Thelma’s hands. “Not the rest of your life. We ought to go. Do I need to touch up my hair?” They walked out of the dining room. “I’m not so sure about that maid of mine, she doesn’t use nearly as many pins as Joan used to. French...”

  They went into the Petit Bar, which, along with the private dining room, Reggie had rented for Thelma’s party. She couldn’t help but marvel at the deference with which people acquiesced to Reggie’s demands—but then, that was the power of a Vanderbilt. She thought back to the juvenile conversations she used to have with Gloria, the dreams they shared before falling asleep in matching cots. It had all worked out for Gloria: a fairy-tale romance with a man who adored her. How very different Thelma’s own life had become.

  Thelma felt a pang of longing as Reggie pulled Gloria close and kissed her tenderly, releasing her as the first few guests began to trickle through the bar’s painted-glass doors.

  Though part of her still felt that the night would be better spent resting, Thelma put on a good face for Gloria. She picked up her glass of champagne and joined her twin at the door, smiling at the familiar faces, allowing Gloria to make introductions to the new ones.

  Thelma brightened as a man escorting a woman in an unseasonable fur stole walked into the room. She turned to Gloria. “You didn’t tell me Harry was coming!”

  Gloria laughed. “I wanted it to be a surprise,” she said, as Thelma pulled him into a hug.

  Thelma hadn’t seen her brother since before her marriage. Back then, Harry had been readjusting to civilian life—and to a body permanently impacted by war. He had been gassed at Argonne, which had left him with a permanent tremor. Thelma looked him over, watching him blink back the tears that perpetually welled in the corners of his eyes. He’d regained some measure of control, it seemed, but he hadn’t lost that look of panic that had followed him since that day.

  She pulled back. “You look like Papa,” she said.

  Harry laughed. “A little less up here—” He rested a shaking hand on his thinning hair, then patted his waistline, “—and a little more around here. May I present my wife, Edith?”

  She grasped Edith by the hands. Petite and blonde, with a sparrowlike tilt to her chin, Edith was someone Thelma had only heard about in Gloria’s letters. “I’m so pleased to finally meet you,” she said.

  Thelma drew Harry and Edith into a corner of the bar and they began to chat, Harry tactfully avoiding any mention of Thelma’s divorce.

  Fifteen minutes later, they were interrupted by the ring of a spoon against crystal. Thelma looked over at Reggie, standing at the bar with his glass high in the air.

  “Gloria and I are so pleased you could join our little party,” he said, beaming at the crowd, “and I’m especially pleased to welcome my sister-in-law, Thelma, back to Europe. Bienvenue,” he said. He raised his glass in a toast and Thelma lifted hers in response.

  He drained his glass, then set it on the bar. “And now,” he said, “we eat!” He held out his arm to Gloria and she took it; together, they walked through to the dining salon. With a nod to Thelma, Harry and Edith followed suit, guests pairing off to walk down the marbled hall. She looked round the emptying room, worried, for a moment, that she would have to walk through alone—then a man stepped forward and held out his arm.

  She hadn’t noticed him among Gloria’s guests: he was older than her by a fair bit, of average height, with average features. His hair—strawberry blond—was parted down the middle and waxed back from his temples, his blue eyes morning pale. His only truly distinguishing feature was his suit: he wore an exquisitely tailored dress coat that cut close to his slim figure. A high collar and white bow tie; black-and-white wing tip shoes. British, Thelma thought, admiring the cut.

  He smiled. “I spoke to Mrs. Vanderbilt on my way in and she tells me I have the pleasure of dining with you this evening. May I take you through?”

  Thelma smiled back. “Certainly, Lord Furness,” she said, resting her hand on his arm.

  * * *

  “Marmaduke,” said Lord Furness, as waiters cleared plates. Despite his stiff jacket and collar, Lord Furness had visibly relaxed during his dinner: he leaned back in his chair, one leg crossed over the other, hands raised to the back of his neck. “I ask you—Marmaduke. Though,” he frowned, his northern accent strengthening, “I daresay it’s the reason I’ve been successful. Give a boy a bleeding poem for a name and he’ll have to amount to something to stop him getting his lights knocked out in the schoolyard.”

  “Duke is a dashing alternative, though, wouldn’t you say?” said Thelma. She had enjoyed Lord Furness’s company at dinner more than she’d anticipated: conversation flowed easily between them, so much so that they had forgotten the other diners around them.

  Lord Furness nodded. “Sounds better—stronger,” he said. “My friends call me Duke.”

  Thelma smiled, picturing Lord Furness as a redheaded youth, rangy and ambitious, shaping his identity with quiet conviction. “Did that happen often? Getting your lights knocked out in the schoolyard?”

  Furness chuckled. “More than a gentleman would like to admit. And you? Any childhood ghosts?”

  Thelma shrugged. “A few playground crushes—perhaps the odd encounter with a bully or two. But we never stayed long enough in one school to develop any real rivalries. With Papa’s work in the diplomatic service, we were always moving from one place or another.”

  Furness set down his glass. “How did you find that? Moving from place to place?”

  “How did you find growing up in Yorkshire? You get used to what you know,” she replied.

  “I suppose so,” he said. “And what are you used to, a girl like you?”

  Thelma smirked, casting an eye around the room. “I’d like to say I’m used to this,” she said, taking in the crystal chandeliers; the waiters, silent and attentive; the free-flowing wine and daringly fashionable guest list, “but I’m afraid my husband and I were used to a slightly different standard of entertaining. Former husband,” she clarified.

  “I’m sorry,” said Furness. “I didn’t realize—did he pass recently?”

  “He didn’t. Divorce.” She waited for his r
eaction. Oh, she recalled an American friend telling her once, her nose wrinkling with distaste, they don’t have divorce over there; they have affairs.

  Furness cleared his throat. “Any man would be mad to give you up,” he said. “I was lucky in my marriage to Daisy, God rest her soul. Not everyone is, I suppose.”

  Thelma reddened, and the room grew quiet. At the head of the table, Reggie rang a dessert spoon against his glass.

  “My friends, thank you once again for joining us this fine evening,” he said, getting to his feet. “My lovely wife tells me I am to lead us all to the dance floor with her equally lovely sister. Thelma?”

  Thelma rose, the men standing in unison as Reggie claimed her hand. The band began to play the same jilting tune they had been rehearsing when Gloria set the place cards, and Thelma and Reggie began to dance. From the corner of her eye, Thelma saw Gloria pull Harry onto his feet, and within minutes they were surrounded by other couples.

  “You’ve certainly done a number on Furness,” said Reggie quietly. “Beth Leary might be upset with you.”

  “Really?” said Thelma. She looked over Reggie’s shoulder as Lord Furness began to dance with Beth. The sight irritated her—but then Furness turned, sweeping Beth around, and met Thelma’s eye.

  Thelma looked away, pleased. “She’s welcome to him, but it might be a wasted effort,” she said.

  Reggie’s wheezy laugh quickly turned to a cough. “You and I know that,” he said, “but I’m not sure Beth does. I’ll warn you, though, you’ll have stiff competition for that one, Miss Leary aside.”

  “Whatever for?”

  “I thought Gloria told you—Duke Furness’s wealth makes me look cheap. Though at the rate we’re spending it...”

  Thelma waved off Reggie’s self-deprecation. “Well, Gloria mentioned it...”

  “Shipping,” said Reggie. “Had a near-flotilla at the turn of the century—sold them all off during the war. When prices dropped after the Armistice, he bought everything back for a fraction of what he paid. There were complaints, of course—improprieties—but still, money talks. Thirty million, I’ve heard. Pounds.”