The Woman Before Wallis

by Bryn Turnbull

  Reggie led them into a smaller, quieter dining room with a long oak bar and Thelma’s pulse quickened as she caught sight of Duke Furness at a corner table: she enjoyed the momentary, all-too-familiar look of confusion on his face as he tried to decipher which twin was which. She gave a short flutter of her fingers and Duke smiled, rising to his feet.

  She broke away from Reggie and Duke kissed her on the cheek; she rested her hands on his arms, feeling the weave of his tuxedo beneath her fingers. He wore a different, no less extravagantly cut, suit from the one he’d worn the night before, abandoning swallowtails for a single-breasted dinner jacket with peaked lapels. He looked handsome—dashing, even—in his finery.

  The same, however, could not be said for Reggie. Though Gloria had told Thelma that Reggie had had several new suits made before they left Newport two months ago, Reggie looked overstuffed, his solid belly straining at his silk waistcoat. He called for the waiter, who came with four glasses of champagne on a tray.

  “Delighted to see you again, Miss Morgan,” said Duke, pulling out Thelma’s chair. “How are the roses?”

  Thelma lowered her voice and Duke leaned in to hear her. “Truly, Lord Furness—they’re too much. Far too much.”

  Duke beamed. “Nonsense.” He tucked a hand in the pocket of his waistcoat and reached for his drink. “A girl like you ought to have flowers, and a fellow like me ought to give them.”

  Reggie motioned for the waiter, holding up his empty glass.

  Perhaps she’d chosen not to see it before, but after her conversation with Gloria it was clear that Reggie drank two cocktails for each one of Duke’s. As dinner progressed, he was gregarious to a fault, calling the waiter over whenever their drinks fell past the halfway mark, leaving a bottle of champagne reserved on ice. Despite the noise of the other diners, Reggie’s voice boomed over the rest, his barking laugh a constant punctuation to the music. When the waiter removed the remains of their main courses from the table, Reggie knocked over his water glass; Gloria rescued her napkin from the deluge, her face twisted in polite anguish.

  Thelma touched Duke on the arm. “Tell me, how is London at this time of year?” she asked as Reggie dabbed water from his front. “I’d so love to go for the season. I’ve never been.”

  “Haven’t you?” said Duke. “I’ll not lie—this is a dull month for London. Everyone’s off at their country homes—it’s why I spend so much time in Paris. But Ascot’s coming up—good fun, that. Reggie would enjoy it, eh, Vanderbilt?” said Duke, casting across the table. His voice faltered slightly as he saw Reggie and Gloria in the midst of a terse, whispered conversation.

  Reggie dropped the soaked napkin on the table. “What’s that, Furness? Ascot? Yes, well—could be a laugh. We could bring a string of ponies from Newport. Host a polo match with Nada and George, if I get my act together. Yes, why not?” He shifted in his chair to look at Duke head-on, planting his arm on the table as he leaned forward. “But that’s not for a month—plenty of time to waste on the continent until then. Could go to Longchamp, watch the races there? Horsepower rather than horses, eh?”

  Duke gave Thelma a sidelong glance. “I rather thought I’d stay through to June, if I found an excuse—hunting’s rubbish this early in the year, and Dickie and Averill won’t thank me hanging about London while they throw their parties. Longchamp sounds like a damned good time. Damned good.”

  “Excellent,” said Reggie, shifting to his feet. “That calls for—a toast, I think—”

  A fresh tray of drinks appeared as if by magic, and Reggie lifted his glass to shoulder height. Beside him, Gloria made an involuntary noise: a choked sort of cough.

  “To friendships, old and new,” he said. He drained his glass in one and wiped his mouth on a napkin, then lowered himself back into his seat and circled his hand in the air for another round.

  “A bottle of White Rock, if you’d be so kind,” Gloria murmured as the waiter picked up Reggie’s empty glass.

  Reggie glared at her when the waiter returned with the mineral water and covered his glass with a beefy hand. “Scotch,” he said, meeting his wife’s eyes with a level stare.

  Thelma and Duke sat in silence. From the other room, the music swelled louder.

  Beneath the table, Duke took Thelma’s hand, stroking the back of her palm with his thumb.

  “Tell me, Gloria, how do you find Paris compares to Newport?” he said.

  Gloria turned away from Reggie and smiled at Duke, her voice unsteady as she launched into a comparison of American and European society.

  Thelma turned her hand under Duke’s so that they were facing palm to palm and squeezed.

  Five

  The Gare du Nord was wrapped in a thick fog of steam that mingled with the crisp air carried in by the trains as they rolled into the station. Though it was still mid-August, the day held the promise of autumn to come.

  Reggie and Gloria’s train stood at the farthest platform, belching exhaust in a periodic wheeze that made it look as though it was bound to depart earlier than scheduled on its own impulsive whim. The platform was packed with people: shouts echoed as families caught sight of each other for one final goodbye; porters, lugging heavy carts and trunks, shouldered their way toward the carriages, faces stern beneath trim caps.

  After their night at Ciro’s, Duke had sent Reggie, Gloria and Thelma tickets to a show in Montmartre; two weeks later, he invited them to a villa he’d rented in a seaside town. The foursome rang in Bastille Day at the Deauville Casino, Reggie losing thousands of francs at the baccarat table, Duke quietly making up the difference; in August, they went to the racetrack and bet on the horses that Reggie, with his years of authority in the sport, had picked as the likely winners. As the summer progressed, Thelma was surprised—and pleased—to find that her affection for Duke continued to grow: so much so that, when Duke asked Thelma to come with her to his Scottish hunting lodge at the end of the season, Thelma had accepted.

  It could have been the perfect summer, but for Reggie’s declining health. Two weeks ago, Reggie had collapsed getting out of the motorcar and Gloria, finally, had put her foot down. She’d taken Reggie to Vichy for the cure, but Reggie, reluctant to miss the opening day of the Newport Horse Show, had cut his treatment short. Now, they were returning to New York with a hired doctor in tow.

  Duke saw them first, standing at the entrance to the first-class coach. He put his arm around Thelma so as not to lose her and charged forward, lifting his hat high in the air.

  “We were worried you might not make it,” said Reggie, enveloping Thelma in a cloud of cigar smoke and brilliantine as Gloria and Duke said their goodbyes. Thelma gripped him tightly, hating how weak his arms felt around her. “Best of luck in Scotland.” He released her, inhaling the last of his cigar as he stepped an extra few paces away from Gloria and Duke. “He’ll be a lucky man to have you. Lucky indeed.”

  Thelma warmed at his words. She arched an eyebrow, playacting for his benefit. “But who’s to say I’ll have him?” she replied, and Reggie chuckled.

  She sobered. “Take care of yourself, Reggie.”

  Reggie’s cheery expression dimmed. He threw his cigar stub onto the train track and took Thelma’s hand. “Promise me, my dear,” he said in a low voice, “that you’ll look after them. When the time comes.”

  The train let out a blast of steam. A conductor blew a piercing note on a whistle, and Gloria threw herself into Thelma’s arms.

  “Tell me everything—absolutely everything. I can’t wait to hear about it,” she breathed. She let go and Reggie helped her onto the train.

  “Second and third compartments, darling,” he said, and Gloria disappeared into the depths of the carriage. Reggie stepped up, but lingered at the carriage door.

  He looked at Thelma. With Gloria gone, Reggie let fall the armor of relentless enthusiasm that had carried him through the day. He looked, quite simply
, ill: the world no longer a game, but already a memory.

  Thelma nodded, and the strain in Reggie’s face lightened. He touched the brim of his hat, then turned to follow his wife.

  * * *

  Two weeks later, Thelma stepped off the train in Inverness at six in the morning, bundling herself in the thick of her overcoat as she searched the platform for Duke. She’d taken the overnight service from London, and while she hardly would have blamed Duke if he’d only sent a chauffeur to collect her from the station at this early hour, she was pleased to find him leaning against the ticket counter, dressed in his tweeds and looking every inch the country gentleman.

  He bent to kiss her. “Made it, then,” he said fondly as he led her toward a waiting car. “How was your trip?”

  “I wish I could tell you I slept, but I’m afraid I barely shut my eyes. I hope you don’t have some horrid Highland tradition where everyone wakes at seven to walk the glen—I may need a nap before I’m civil.”

  Duke opened the car door and Thelma climbed inside as her maid helped the footmen strap a hatbox onto the boot. “We aren’t much for traditions up here,” he replied. “If a warm nap and a hot bath is all you’re good for today, that’s fine with me.”

  The drive from Inverness took less than an hour, the car cutting through Highland mist as they passed rolling mountains covered in purple heather. Thelma curled into Duke’s chest, smiling at the easy intimacy between them, and at Duke’s evident pleasure in seeing her. She felt as though she was dreaming as the peaked roofline of Affric Lodge came into view: a compact gray-stone mansion with a fairy-tale turret, perched on a tree-lined outcrop overlooking a wide loch.

  “Is that it?” she said, nudging Duke in the ribs. “That old mess?”

  Duke laughed, snugging Thelma closer in a proprietorial sort of way. “It’s not as grand as you might think,” he said. “It’s not got electricity, nor a telephone. How will you stand that, I wonder? Averill’s always on about it. Says she loves the hunting but feels cut off from the world. A telegram’s not enough for her, I suppose.”

  Thelma didn’t respond; she fit her hand in Duke’s, studying his ruby signet ring.

  “What?”

  “Suppose your children don’t like me.”

  Duke snorted as the car trundled up the drive. “Why wouldn’t they?”

  Notwithstanding its size, Affric Lodge was airy, its immense picture windows coaxing in the morning light that had broken through the fog. After freshening up, Thelma came down to find Duke in the dining room, helping himself to an array of breakfast foods while being regaled by a redheaded youth telling an animated story.

  Duke cleared his throat when Thelma entered, and the young man sprang to his feet.

  “Pleased to meet you,” he said, offering his hand in a warm imitation of Duke’s manner.

  Thelma smiled. “You must be Christopher. How do you do?”

  He beamed. Christopher was a miniature of his father, Duke’s handsome features set in a round, guileless face. “My friends call me Dickie,” he said in a trimmed Eton accent, “and I hope you will, too. I’m sorry Averill isn’t here to meet you, she’s out stalking.” He sat back down and helped himself to a mountain of scrambled eggs. “One of the gillies spotted a ten pointer just the other side of the loch yesterday afternoon.”

  “Afraid her old man would nab it if she didn’t get after it first thing in the morning, eh?”

  Thelma took a square of toast, letting the conversation between father and son wash over her. She was relieved to have been afforded a few more hours’ grace before meeting Duke’s eldest child. According to Duke, Averill—only four years Thelma’s junior—hadn’t inherited her mother’s gentle charm: she was strong-willed and obstinate, and shared Duke’s passion for hunting and riding.

  “I may have made her slightly more in my image than I’d planned after Daisy died,” Duke had told her, furrowing his brow but smiling nonetheless. “She was thirteen when it happened. Old enough to understand, but young enough not to know what to do about it all. She followed me around like a damned puppy for months afterward. I couldn’t have her out on the moors with nothing to do so I gave her a shotgun, pointed to the birds and told her to have at. Rather a good way to cope, as it turned out, I think.”

  Averill returned from stalking in time for afternoon tea, which had been served on the lawn overlooking Loch Affric. Though she had saved her new trousers for tomorrow’s sport, Thelma was wearing a jacket over her afternoon dress: the sun might have been sending ripples of light across the water but, as Elise reminded Thelma while she was dressing, it was still Scotland in late summer.

  “Father!”

  A young woman, wearing tweeds that rendered her nearly invisible against the forest backdrop, walked toward them from the side of the house, her strides growing longer as she approached the tea table. She took the final few steps at a run, launching into Duke’s arms, her long auburn hair masking her features as she buried herself in his shoulder.

  Thelma stood, but Averill gripped the back of Duke’s jacket a moment longer before turning to Thelma.

  Though not conventionally pretty, Averill Furness looked strong, her face lean and freckled from the day’s hunting, ice-blue eyes beneath sharp, arching eyebrows. A shotgun on a thick leather strap rested between her shoulder blades; she unhitched it and handed it to a waiting footman.

  “It’s not loaded. Thelma, is it?” she said coolly.

  Thelma shrank from Averill’s steady gaze. It would have been helpful, she thought, if Averill had left the shotgun with the gillie.

  “I’m pleased to meet you. Duke—Lord Furness—has told me so much about you,” said Thelma.

  “Likewise,” said Averill. She glanced at Duke, then made a renewed effort at smiling. “Welcome to Scotland. No luck on the stag I’m afraid, Father,” she said, settling into the chair Thelma had vacated. She reached for a scone. “Disappeared across the burn about ten miles out.”

  “You’ll find him tomorrow,” said Thelma as Duke pulled out his own chair for her. “A big creature like that can’t be too difficult to find.”

  Averill didn’t look up. “He’s got ten thousand acres to hide in,” she said, splitting the scone in half, “but perhaps he’ll wear a little flag on his antlers.”

  “Steady on,” said Duke, chuckling. He rested a hand on Thelma’s arm. “Stalking can take days,” he said. “Sometimes weeks, even if you’re an old hand at it like Averill. We’ll go after it tomorrow, what do you say? Three heads are better than one. Four, if Thelma feels like giving it a go.”

  “Oh, I don’t think so,” said Thelma. “I prefer eating animals to hunting them. You go—I’ll be perfectly fine walking the loch.”

  “Not on your own, surely?” said Duke. “Averill can stay with you. Dickie and I—”

  “Oh, don’t be silly,” said Thelma, as Averill looked up in alarm at the suggestion of staying behind. “Besides, I’m sure you have lots to talk about.”

  Averill let out a breath. “It’s my stag,” she muttered.

  “Well—only if you’re sure,” said Duke.

  Thelma looked at Averill, who was demolishing the scone with single-minded purpose. “I’m sure,” she said.

  * * *

  Over dinner, Thelma was able to get a better measure of Duke’s relationship with his children. He treated them as friends, skimming over the formalities Thelma expected from an upper-class family: he teased them constantly, quizzing Dickie about his most recent school term, interrogating Averill about the condition of their family estates, which she’d been overseeing during Duke’s frequent absences to Paris.

  “Have you given any further thought to a new horse for Burrough Court?” asked Averill as plates of venison pie swimming in gravy were delivered to the table.

  Duke nodded, lifting the pie’s crust with his fork. “I have. We’ll have t
wo new horses—I trust you to make the selections yourself.”

  “Two?” Averill took a sip of wine, her eyes flickering to Thelma. “Should I take it that you’re looking for a gentler mount?”

  “That was my thought, yes,” he replied. “Thelma, do you ride?”

  “I’ve only tried once,” she said. “It was a disaster, I’m afraid.”

  “Really?” said Dickie. “Good gracious, you must tell us all about it.”

  Thelma set down her cutlery. “It was during my—well, my misguided career as a film actress,” she said.

  “The pictures!” said Dickie. “Did you live in Hollywood? Do you know Mary Pickford?”

  “As a matter of fact, I do,” said Thelma. “I lived in Hollywood...oh, over a year ago now. But this was before California. I was in New York, and Sammy Goldwyn introduced me to a friend of his who was directing a small film.”

  “Which one?” asked Averill, picking at a piece of fluff on her sleeve.

  “It’s called A Society Scandal. Gloria Swanson plays the lead,” said Thelma, and Averill looked up. “I thought it would be a good start to my acting career, so I said I would do it. Only, my character had to ride a horse.”

  She leaned back in her chair, recalling those first few moments on set. “I had never even touched a horse, let alone ride one, but that seemed like such a small detail so I told the director I could ride sidesaddle. We were filming in Central Park, and when I got there, I was shown to this enormous beast. I got into the saddle and managed to—to sort of nudge it under the ribs.” She gestured, recalling the horse’s stubborn refusal to budge. “Finally, it started to move, but as we went under the bridge a group of children in roller skates clattered overhead. It spooked, of course, and bolted.”

  Averill smirked. “You had no idea what to do, did you?”

  “Not a clue. All I could do was hold on to the reins and pray that it didn’t throw me off. The production assistants were running after us, waving their arms and shouting. I only hoped the horse wouldn’t trample some poor bystander.”