He had been more generous than Junior as well, not demanding a performance from her but offering himself, wholeheartedly. His skill was evident; as was his happiness at being united, once more, with someone he loved.
Thelma, too, was happy, listening to the rise and fall of his breath, feeling his reassuring heat as he shifted beside her. Despite all her first husband’s shortcomings Thelma had missed this: the simple pleasure of sleeping in the same bed with someone she loved.
Duke rolled in his sleep, reaching his arm out to pull Thelma close. She settled back down, letting the rhythm of his breath coax her eyes closed.
Nine
Three weeks later, Thelma came down to breakfast to find Duke nestled behind the pages of a newspaper, a white envelope perched on Thelma’s place setting.
“We’ve received an invitation,” said Duke. “Thought you might want to be the one to open it.”
Thelma opened the envelope and read aloud:
“‘Lord and Lady Londonderry request the presence of Viscount and Viscountess Furness to a ball...’ Oh, it is nice, to see it written out like that,” said Thelma, admiring the look of her title printed on the card.
“Read the bottom,” he said.
“‘Decorations,’” she said. “What’s that?”
“You need to bone up on your knowledge of high society, my dear. It means royalty will be there.” Duke snapped the newspaper straight, looking pleased. “Not a terrible introduction to it all, is it?”
* * *
Duke offered his arm to Thelma as she walked up the stairs to Londonderry House. From within the stern exterior of the Park Lane mansion, she could hear the sound of the ball: music echoed off the stone building, wrapping around Thelma as she walked through the front door.
Her free hand brushed across the white satin skirt of her dress, falling in thick folds from her waist to the floor. The top was form-fitted, with small mirrors sewn into the fabric that caught the light as she walked. She wore a thin, glittering tiara: a present from Duke. She’d never worn such finery in all her life. Even Gloria’s wardrobe, purchased on Reggie’s overextended credit, paled in comparison to the spectacular excess of her outfit. With no small amount of self-awareness, she knew that her outfit had cost more than the rent on the apartment she’d once shared with Junior.
Though Londonderry House had an ascetic facade, its entrance chamber was warm. It was dominated by a marble double staircase that hugged three walls, symmetrically framing a stained-glass skylight above. Thelma and Duke mounted the stairs, following the noise of the party and the steady current of guests to an immense ballroom.
While Thelma had been impressed by the nouveau riche opulence of Alice Vanderbilt’s home in Newport, Londonderry House’s grandeur stemmed not only from its gilt and marble, but from the sheer sense of permanence that it exuded. Calla lilies and white roses overflowed from five-foot vases set along the length of the ballroom, filling the air with perfume. Undercut by the smell of candles and alcohol, food and sweat, the effect was nearly overwhelming.
The room glittered with light cast by half a dozen chandeliers, crystal splashing off the gilded walls and mirrors. Hundreds of people were there, and Thelma clutched Duke’s arm, worried that if she let go he would be swept away on the tide and not emerge again until next week.
Immense marble statues stood in recessed alcoves, and Thelma nudged Duke as they passed. “Could you just imagine knocking one over?” she whispered. Duke chuckled, leading her farther in.
Thelma had only vaguely understood the reference to decorations but she could see that it was mainly an instruction for the men: they wore military medals and jeweled badges against the clean backdrop of their tailcoats. Dozens wore sparkling crosses on red ribbons that glittered just below the knots of their bow ties, complemented by magnificent red or blue sashes that cut across the fronts of their waistcoats.
For all their decorations, though, the men were nothing compared to the women. It seemed that all the safe-deposit boxes in Mayfair had been emptied for the evening: everywhere Thelma looked, she saw tiaras, diamond bangles, set-piece necklaces and gleaming rings. Women wore the most remarkable ball gowns, delicate layers of organdy and crepe de chine that floated along the ground as they moved. Some had chosen avant-garde, drop-waisted dresses with layers of thin silk or weightless lace that skimmed across their hip bones—a style that Thelma, petite and curvy, could never hope to achieve with any appropriate level of elegance.
If a woman was without a tiara, she wore peacock feathers high in her hair. Strings of pearls reached well below waistlines; long trains and oriental shawls trailed on the marble floor.
Duke took two glasses of champagne from a footman in Georgian dress and handed one to Thelma.
“Well?” he said.
Thelma beamed. “It’s remarkable.”
Duke huffed, raising his glass to his lips. “It’s a damned waste of money, but I’m not covering the bill so I’ll enjoy it just the same.”
“Can we dance?”
“I’m not much good at it,” he said, “but for you, yes.”
They moved through the crowd of revelers, Duke keeping a reassuring hand on Thelma’s back as they nudged through the ballroom. They had only made it partway to the dance floor when Duke stopped to clap a man on the back.
He was handsome, with a premature shock of white hair and his left sleeve pinned to his shoulder. He was accompanied by a woman in a magnificent gray dress—one of the few who, like the men, wore a glittering medal pinned on a sash.
“Thelma, might I introduce you to two dear friends? G Trotter,” he said, “and Lady Sarah Wilson. Lady Sarah is the first woman war correspondent in Britain—possibly in the world,” he continued, as Lady Sarah, tall and graceful, her dark hair shot through with gray, waved away Duke’s accolades. “G, Lady Sarah—my wife, Thelma.”
“I had heard you’d become an honest man once more,” said G, in a voice that sounded as though it had been matured in an oak barrel. “And given this lovely creature, I can see why.”
“G is a very dear friend,” said Duke.
“Too dear, on occasion,” said G, smiling at Thelma. “The number of times I’ve reached the bottom of your husband’s liquor cabinet—well, perhaps a story for less civilized company,” he said. “It’s a pleasure to meet the woman who’s finally tamed our Duke. We had wondered what it would take for him to settle down, but I can see you were worth the wait.” He reached for Thelma’s hand and raised it to his lips; Thelma was instantly charmed.
She turned to Lady Sarah, who looked at her with a sharp, but not unkind, gaze. “I’m so pleased to meet you,” she said.
Thelma smiled. “Duke speaks so highly of you,” she said, and it was true; Duke had told her, several times, about Lady Sarah.
Her husband had been the aide-de-camp to Baden-Powell during the Boer War and she accompanied him to Mafeking, Duke had once told her. When the Morning Post’s correspondent got himself arrested by the Boers, Lady Sarah stepped in and covered the siege of Mafeking on her own. Was decorated by King Edward for her troubles, and well deserved, too.
“Does he?” said Lady Sarah. “How kind of you to say. Has Duke introduced you around London yet?”
“No,” said Thelma. “We’ve been traveling so much I’ve not had the chance to spend much time in the city.”
Lady Sarah smiled. She looked as though she was studying Thelma for something—for the spark that had ignited Duke. “You must let me take you to tea.”
“I’d like that.”
“Well, can’t hang about all evening, old boy,” said Duke, clapping a hand once more on G’s back. “Lunch at the club tomorrow?”
G nodded, and Duke kissed Lady Sarah’s hand before leading Thelma to the dancers as the orchestra began to play a fox-trot.
Duke was stiff yet competent, rotating methodically with his
hand on Thelma’s back. He’d danced in the years since his first wife’s death, of course—he’d danced with Thelma in France, the night they met—but perhaps not with feeling. Not with the same interest, nor a partner willing to match his pace. He adopted a more fluid gait as the song progressed, and Thelma enjoyed his slowly building confidence, as though he was remembering a half-forgotten talent. By the time the band shifted into a new number Duke had visibly relaxed.
“Keep going?”
“Of course.”
Thelma tightened her fingers around Duke’s, but the band fell quiet. Around them, the other dancers paused, murmuring—then the band launched into a thrilling rendition of “God Save the King.”
As one, the room turned to face the ballroom’s entrance. The crowd shifted and reformed as a threesome moved into the ballroom.
“Lord and Lady Londonderry, and the Prince of Wales, I imagine,” murmured Duke.
“How can you tell it’s him?” asked Thelma, rising onto the balls of her feet.
“His brother’s darker.”
The procession moved slowly, stopping to greet those around them; after an appropriate interval the orchestra struck up once more.
Duke looked at Thelma, eyes crinkling. “Would you like to meet him?”
“Oh, no,” said Thelma. “I wouldn’t know what to do.”
“It’s not difficult,” he said, “and he’s a rather decent fellow, all things considered. Curtsy, call him ‘sir’—that’s about the extent of it.” He handed Thelma a glass of champagne and positioned her closer to the trio, not directly in Lady Londonderry’s path but close enough.
Thelma watched the prince with interest. He was younger than she had expected; she knew he was in his thirties, but the prince looked almost boyish, his expression youthful yet weary at the same time. She was surprised at his height: she had imagined him tall, as she pictured all public figures, but he was just a shade taller than Thelma and exceedingly slim. Exceptionally handsome, too: impeccable and fine featured, his hand darting, almost compulsively, to his bow tie as he spoke.
Beside him, Lady Londonderry caught Duke’s eye. She touched the prince gently on the arm and he followed her to greet Duke and Thelma.
“Sir, may I present Lord Furness and his new American bride?” said Lady Londonderry. “Lady Furness, His Royal Highness, the Prince of Wales.”
The prince inclined his head. Duke bowed at the neck and Thelma, recalling long-disused lessons from finishing school, curtsied.
“Lady Furness. Welcome to England,” said the prince.
Thelma rose. “Thank you, Your Highness,” she said. His eyes—pale blue—were almost disconcertingly steady. She colored: back in New York, she and Gloria had once had a magazine cutout of him on their wall.
The orchestra began to play the opening strands of “Blue Danube,” and the prince held out his hand.
“This is one of my favorites. May I?” he asked.
Thelma’s legs trembled as the prince led her onto the dance floor. She glanced back at Duke, who winked.
The Prince of Wales lifted his hand to Thelma’s upper back and stretched his other arm to one side, lifting his palm in invitation. Thelma took it, and he smiled.
“Are you ready?” he murmured.
Thelma smiled back. “Yes.”
It was as though the prince had begun to breathe. He danced naturally, confidently, with a conviction he didn’t seem to have when walking; he whirled Thelma around so quickly that, had she been dancing with any other partner, she would have thought him reckless. Couples around them moved aside, making room for them to sail across the ballroom.
Unbidden, memories flashed one by one into Thelma’s mind: Mamma, snapping a butter knife at her elbow as she and her brother learned to waltz in the living room, telling her to hold her frame; she and Gloria at fourteen years old, attempting a fox-trot in time to a rusty-sounding gramophone recording they had smuggled into their convent dormitory. A dashing young man at Consuelo’s first wedding, graciously allowing Thelma’s blunders at her first real dance, with her first real partner. She had danced countless times since then, gaining a measure of proficiency and pleasure in her movements but it had never felt so effortless as this—as though she were floating across the dance floor.
Too soon, the music ended. The prince came to a standstill, and lifted Thelma’s hand. His lips were soft against the back of her fingers; he held her gaze, his eyes twinkling as though at a joke that only he had heard.
“Thank you, Lady Furness,” he said. He straightened, and escorted Thelma back to her husband.
Ten
October 10, 1934
RMS Empress of Britain
Thelma leaned over the railing on the upper deck of the ship, squinting in the cold sunlight as she watched passengers on a lower deck. Farther down, sailors moved in twos and threes, bracing lines on lifeboats and watching clouds build in the far-off horizon. A cold wind blew off the sea and Thelma pulled her shawl close, watching the water in the engine’s wake churn in a furious, sparkling froth.
The Empress was due to dock in Montreal in one day’s time. From there, she and Harry would travel by train to Grand Central Station—a passage arranged by David’s private secretary. He would have returned to London from the Fort late last night, Thelma knew, stopping at York House before going out for dinner at the Ritz or Quaglino’s, no doubt already planning his next escape from the city. She wondered who he would invite to the Fort next weekend: Piers Legh, presumably, and the Simpsons. Perhaps the Duke of York and Elizabeth. She hoped he would find someone more enthusiastic than Ernest to help with the gardening—or maybe Wallis, with her unique combination of charm and forcefulness, would convince David to stay indoors.
She found an empty lounge chair on the sunny side of the top deck, next to a smokestack that sheltered her from the worst of the wind. Bundled in her shawl, her face upturned to the sun, Thelma was warm enough to linger: she lit a cigarette and closed her eyes, listening to the low thrum of the ship’s engine and the chorus of waves hitting the steel hull, the relentless murmur of the ocean, swelling and falling around the unshakeable boat. They had left the seagulls behind, but Thelma kept expecting to hear them nonetheless, and she let herself fall into a doze.
“Did you hear what the maid said? Three men in her bed and a woman. No wonder the family’s horrified.”
Thelma tensed. The voice was coming from the other side of the smokestack: it belonged to an American, her accent harsh to Thelma’s ear after so many months in Britain.
“I’m told it’s all true,” someone replied. “Every word. My lady’s maid, who happens to be on friendly terms with her cook, told me.”
“I certainly hope not. That poor child. Raised by wolves... Alice Vanderbilt would be spinning in her grave.”
“Gertrude may have taken on more than she bargained for,” said the second voice. “Gloria seems inclined to fight tooth and nail. But if the allegations are true, what choice does she have?”
“If they aren’t, Gertrude’s taking a mighty risk. To hear Gloria tell it, Gertrude all but kidnapped the child. The nurse took her in broad daylight—said they were going to feed the ducks, but she took her to Gertrude’s studio instead. Apparently, Little Gloria was hysterical—it took three doctors to calm her down.”
“Surely that’s not the behavior of a healthy young girl? No wonder Gertrude felt there was just cause... And if the allegations are true...”
“If they’re not...”
“I heard her sister’s on this ship.” Thelma drew her shawl up around her chin. “Can you imagine? I’m told the grandmother is the cause of the whole mess. Says Gloria planned to murder her for the inheritance. That sounds awfully far-fetched to me, but after the Lindbergh tragedy...”
“Wouldn’t wish it on anyone.”
The voices paused. For a moment, Thelma worried the
y’d moved down the deck.
“You know,” said the first voice, “the question, I think, isn’t about whether the child is in physical danger but spiritual danger. I mean—” she lowered her voice further and Thelma pictured her leaning close to her companion, glancing about for eavesdroppers “—caught in bed with a woman?”
“Can you really trust someone with predilections like that to raise a child?”
“If the allegations are true...”
“If they are,” said the low-voiced one, “and she loses, I would be on the first ship back to France. That sort of behavior may be tolerated in Europe but certainly not in good Christian society.”
The voices drifted away, and Thelma stayed buried a moment longer before she sat up, seething. She lit another cigarette, looking up and down the deck to see if anyone else had overheard.
For the next few days, at least, Thelma would have to ignore what people said about the case. It was all hearsay and baseless opinion, given by those sanctimonious enough to think that their opinions really mattered. Beyond what sparse telegrams might be received by the ship’s messengers, Thelma and Harry were traveling in the dark: whether new allegations had thrown the trial into further disarray, Thelma wouldn’t know until they landed in Montreal.
Prince Friedel Hohenlohe was meant to be coming to New York, too: Nurse Kieslich had named him directly in her testimony, claiming that he had shared Gloria’s bed in Biarritz and Paris. Well, that was to be expected—they were engaged at the time. As for the maid’s allegations against Gloria and Nada... Thelma exhaled, smoke dissolving on the salt air. If she was being honest, Thelma wasn’t surprised to hear that Gloria’s servants had talked. Subtlety had never been Gloria’s strong point.
The Woman Before Wallis Page 7
