“See, darling? G thinks she’s pretty, too.” She tapped her cigarette against the ashtray, knocking dust. “Go ask her to dance. See if she’s pretty up close.”
Duke flipped the carton open and pulled out another cigarette. “Don’t be silly,” he said.
“Spoilsport. Afraid she’ll turn you down?” She considered Duke with mock-seriousness. “Perhaps you’re too old for her. Ten pounds says that you can’t get her to dance with you.”
G raised his eyebrows; Nancy grinned. “A challenge! Go on then, Duke.”
Duke set down his half-smoked cigarette, stubbing it with delicate precision. “You don’t want to do this,” he said, smiling for G’s and Nancy’s benefit.
“Ten pounds is a princely sum,” said Thelma, her heart beating fast in her throat. Onstage, the Spanish dancers bowed and left as the orchestra returned to its regular repertoire. “Do it. For me.”
Duke looked at Thelma for a long moment.
“For you, my dear—anything,” he said.
He made his way toward the group of women and tapped the blonde on the shoulder; he said something that made her laugh, then held out his hand.
She took it and followed him to the dance floor.
The music began to play—a slow, tender tune—and the girl rested her hand on Duke’s shoulder. Duke put his arm around her waist. He looked down at her—she was several inches shorter than Thelma—and smiled.
“What d’you know—ten pounds to Duke. Well done, him,” said G.
Thelma’s heart sank. “Well done, him.”
Thirteen
Thelma’s relationship with Duke declined slowly, inevitably, after their evening at the Embassy Club, and while Thelma regretted her spiteful conduct, she couldn’t quite bring herself to apologize. The next day, Duke drove Thelma to King’s Cross, excusing himself from making the drive to Burrough Court himself because of business—and although he telephoned her diligently, every afternoon at four, he did not leave the city for two full weeks.
“I could come down to London for a few days,” Thelma suggested during one of their telephone calls.
There was a momentary silence on Duke’s end of the phone; Thelma worried that the line had cut out.
“No, darling. My commitments will keep me far too busy to give you the attention you deserve. Perhaps I’ll come up next week,” he said, his tone perfectly cordial.
Over dinner one evening in July, Duke announced that he was planning a holiday to Monte Carlo.
“Really? How exciting. Shall I bring a bathing costume? Will it be warm enough?” asked Thelma.
Duke looked up. “Actually, darling, I had thought to go on my own,” he said. “You don’t mind, do you? Only I’ll be spending the whole time at the baccarat table. Won’t be much for you to do, I’m afraid.”
Duke remained in Monte Carlo for nearly a month, and though he continued to telephone every afternoon Thelma knew it was only for show. She’d heard rumors—whispers at dinner parties, sidelong glances during evenings out—that Duke was entering the casino every evening with the same woman on his arm. Apparently, his affair was common knowledge—so much so that one of Averill’s friends, invited to the town house for lunch one afternoon, had given Thelma a sympathetic look over her cup of coffee.
“I think he’s being perfectly ghastly,” she said to Thelma when Averill stepped out of the room.
Thelma had been rattled by the realization that Duke’s life—her life—had become sitting-room gossip.
“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” she replied, but she excused herself just the same. She went to Duke’s study and sat at his desk—papers neatly organized in stacks and folders, pens scattered artfully across the leather blotter. She looked at the telephone, spooling the loose cord between her fingers, willing it to ring, then picked up the receiver and instructed the operator to connect her to Duke’s hotel in Monte Carlo.
Thelma slipped her shoe from her foot and balanced it from the end of her toes, bouncing it up and down as the operator tried the connection. She swiveled the chair, cord wrapping around her, and looked up at the painting behind Duke’s desk.
It was a Cubist piece, by an artist Thelma had heard of but didn’t know well. She had often wondered how something so abstract could appeal to Duke’s cut-and-dried approach to the world, but he would spend hours staring at it, rotating in his chair in idle moments to appreciate how the light transformed it throughout the day, time giving it the illusion of life and temperament: distant at dawn, warm at dusk.
It’s a woman, Duke had told her once, sweeping a hand across Thelma’s sightline to connote the curves of a body. She looks so sad... Can’t you see it?
Thelma couldn’t. Each time she grasped an understanding of the woman’s form—a glimpse of breast, the curve of a shoulder—the rest of the pieces would fall apart, leaving her staring at a mass of browns and grays.
I don’t, she had told him, but I can appreciate it, I suppose. If it appeals to you.
Of course, it appeals to me, Duke had replied. She looks like you.
There was a quiet click on the telephone as the operator came back on the line.
“I’m terribly sorry, Lady Furness.” Underneath the tinny tone of the connection, the operator’s tone was delicate, as though she, too, understood the implications of the exchange. “Lord Furness is not registered at the Hôtel de Paris.”
“I see,” said Thelma. “Thank you.” She let the operator ring off and dropped her hand, receiver limply trapped between her fingers, into her lap. She fitted it back into its cradle, a chill seeping into her chest.
She could hear Averill and her friend laughing in the sitting room. The clock on Duke’s desk ticked in time with her heartbeat, a noise that seemed to fill the empty space.
The telephone rang, breaking the illusion of silence. It sounded twice before someone picked it up elsewhere; moments later, the butler tapped on the study door.
“It’s Lord Furness, my lady. Shall I—?”
“I’m not at home,” said Thelma. She stared at the painting, striving to form its shapes into a coherent whole. “Williams, would you fetch my pocketbook?”
The butler retrieved Thelma’s handbag and she sorted through its contents to find her checkbook. She leaned over the desk as she unscrewed the cap of Duke’s fountain pen, nib pressing into the leather blotter as she wrote.
* * *
Thelma sat in Lady Sarah’s drawing room, knitting her fingers together.
“He’s having an affair—he’s all but admitted it,” she said. “It’s unbearable, it really is. Everyone knowing, everyone judging...”
Lady Sarah sighed. “I’m so sorry, my dear.” She called her butler over, and spoke to him in an undertone. “A cocktail, I think, for Lady Furness.”
“What do I do?” asked Thelma as the butler poured two glasses of sherry. Thelma took hers absently, resting it on the arm of the chair.
“If I could only tell you how many times I had this same conversation with Daisy, God rest her soul.” Lady Sarah took her cocktail and the butler retreated. “I’ve seen this story play out many times before. He’s used to having things his own way—most men are. Really, Thelma, you mustn’t take it so seriously.”
“How?” she replied. She set down her glass. “How can I possibly allow—”
“Thelma,” said Lady Sarah. “I’ve known Marmaduke for many years, and much as I adore him he can be a very selfish man. He will have his affairs—these women will come and go—but you’re the one he married.”
Thelma shook her head, picturing a lifetime of smiling, willful ignorance. “How can I spend the rest of my life with someone unfaithful?” she said.
Lady Sarah smiled. “My dear, half the people in Mayfair are conducting affairs this very afternoon.” She paused. “You know, it’s not seen as a stain, here, for couples t
o live separately. Many do.”
Thelma pictured it: separate bedrooms, separate social outings. Strained silences, on those rare Sunday afternoons where they both found themselves in the same house; feeble attempts to play at happiness when Duke’s career demanded it. Leaving each other, cordially, at the end of the evening with transparent excuses to cover the excitement of spending the night with someone new.
“I don’t think I can do that,” she said. “I’m considering speaking to a divorce lawyer.”
Lady Sarah raised her eyebrows. “I know divorces are common in America, but they simply aren’t done here,” she said. “Think about what you would lose. How would a divorce affect your son?” Lady Sarah’s tone was firm and unsentimental. “It would impact Duke’s business. You certainly wouldn’t be permitted in society, nor at court.” She was so matter-of-fact, thought Thelma, discussing her failing marriage as one would the weather. “In America, it might be common practice to pick oneself up after a scandal, but such things follow, here. Mayfair has a terribly long memory.”
“In America, it simply isn’t done for married men to go on public holidays with their mistresses,” said Thelma.
Lady Sarah smiled faintly. “Can’t you see that you’re married to a good man—and he is a good man, Thelma, despite his lapses. You have a child with him. You have a comfortable life. What good would a divorce do?” She placed her hand over Thelma’s. “He loves you, my dear. I know it might be hard to see it now, but he does. Give him time, and you’ll see. Marmaduke always comes home.”
* * *
The day Duke was due to arrive home from Monte Carlo Thelma lingered at the house. She couldn’t bear the thought of seeing him, yet dreaded the possibility that he might spend the night with his latest conquest. Her conversation with Lady Sarah had done nothing to calm her doubts; she’d spent the night tossing in bed, watching the clock creep closer to dawn. She wouldn’t divorce Duke—Lady Sarah had convinced her of that much, at least—but Thelma didn’t want her husband thinking she’d simply accepted his infidelity. She’d been there once before.
Duke turned up early in the afternoon, his arrival heralded by a flurry of activity from the town house servants. In the sitting room, Thelma put her book down to listen: his genial greeting to Williams in the entrance hall; the soft thump of his briefcase on the floor.
“Where’s Thelma?” she heard him ask. She stood, waiting, as his footsteps grew louder.
Thelma wasn’t sure what she had expected—that Duke’s betrayal might be visible: lipstick on his collar, a bead of sweat running down his temple. But he looked entirely himself: slightly rumpled, perhaps, in his traveling clothes, but with the same smile, the same careworn lines tracing down the sides of his mouth.
“Hello, darling,” he said, standing in the doorway. Thelma made no move to go to him, although her stomach lurched terribly when his eyes met hers. “You look well.”
She had worked hard, in Duke’s absence, to regain her figure and she felt a fierce tinge of vindictive pride as he looked at her with unexpected fondness. “How was Monte Carlo?”
Duke folded his gloves one over the other and tucked them into the pocket of his overcoat. “Same as ever. You’ve been well?”
“Very,” said Thelma. She half dreaded that he would try to kiss her; she half hoped he would.
“Well,” he said, clearing his throat. “Lovely to see you. Williams tells me Dickie and Averill are coming for dinner—good, good. Perhaps you and I might find a moment before to say hello properly, but for the moment I—”
“No, please,” said Thelma. “Go make yourself comfortable.”
“A few things I need to take care of...”
He turned on his heel and Thelma watched him go, disappointed. She sat back down and picked up her book. If that was the best he could manage after a month apart...
Duke stormed back into the sitting room, color high in his cheeks. He had a piece of paper in hand: the check Thelma had written, the day she telephoned Monte Carlo.
“What’s this?”
Thelma turned the page. “Oh?” She laid the book down. “You know, it occurred to me that we hadn’t settled up for our little bet at the Embassy Club—remember?”
Duke was rigid, his knuckles white against his tan.
Thelma smiled. “I think the verdict is fairly clear, don’t you? You won, darling.”
Duke sputtered. He tore the check once, then again. “What rot,” he said, letting the pieces drift to the floor. “It was a joke, a bloody joke—”
“It was,” said Thelma. “But the joke, it seems, was on me.”
Duke stared at her.
“I think I’ll go to Burrough Court tomorrow,” she said. “Spend a few days with Tony.”
Fourteen
Though Thelma worried that her weeks at Burrough Court would feel like a defeat, she found that the countryside gave her a rare sense of sanctuary, as opposed to the loneliness she’d felt before. Distance was a welcome distraction—and while she was not prepared to forgive Duke his infidelity, she began to consider how their marriage might look, under changed circumstances.
Thelma also found that Burrough Court gave her an opportunity to spend time with Tony. At four months old, he was no longer an indistinct newborn but an infant, his features drastically different from when she’d seen him last: his lips were thin, and perpetually upturned in a Duke-like smirk, his eyes alert and following as Thelma drew a finger across his sightline. She marveled at his laughter, his constantly changing expressions, his wild tuft of strawberry blond hair.
She had worried, those first few nights in the country, that the resentment she had felt toward Tony throughout her pregnancy would continue to grow: that he would become an unwitting reminder of her failure to hold Duke’s attention. To her overwhelming relief, though, Thelma found the more time she spent with Tony the more she loved him: the dumpling-like feel of his stomach as he slept, the shrieking laugh he gave when Thelma touched his feet. Tony had nothing to do with it all. It had been her own insecurities, and Duke’s, that had caused the rift. Thelma would have been confronted by Duke’s infidelity one day or another. At least Tony could bring her some consolation.
It wasn’t only Tony that brought Thelma joy—Averill, too, had become a real friend. She was up each morning in Wellington boots, ready to tromp through the fields and meet with the farmers who worked them. She dug the kitchen gardens and broke in the estate’s horses. She even pressed Thelma into the service, assigning her chickens to tend: each morning, Thelma was sent out to the coop to collect fresh-laid eggs, admiring the white, blue and green shells. This year, Averill was particularly busy, as she planned to show the estate’s livestock at the upcoming county fair.
“Father insists on throwing me a coming-out ball—can you believe it?” asked Averill one evening. She lifted her hand, inspecting the mud still caked under her fingernails from a day in the stables. “I can’t imagine what he thinks I could possibly get out of it.”
“It’s customary,” said Thelma. “And it would mean so much to him if you’d let him make a fuss. Who knows? You might meet someone you like.”
“What I’d like is for him to take me hunting somewhere exotic,” said Averill. “Africa—somewhere with real sport.”
Thelma laughed. “There’s plenty of sport in a London drawing room. Stand at the back and watch the young men try to pick off the weak ones in the herd,” she said. “Anyone who gets caught unawares at the punch bowl...”
“Trouble is, you can’t shoot those leopards when they get too close,” sighed Averill. “And their heads don’t look particularly fetching displayed on the study wall.”
* * *
Thelma’s time away from London gave her a chance, too, to see Gloria. Living in Paris with Little Gloria and Mamma, Gloria was more easily able to visit, but her trips were rare: on a regular basis, Gloria traveled to
America to discuss Little Gloria’s upbringing with the lawyers, which was a particularly contentious issue now that Gloria was engaged to be married.
Thelma was thrilled that, after everything Gloria had gone through, she’d found happiness once more. Tall, well-spoken and several years older than Gloria, Gottfried zu Hohenlohe-Langenburg—Friedel—was a German prince, with a family castle in Langenburg and the upright posture of a man born to privilege. The marriage announcement was made; Gloria chose a lilac wedding dress, and a dress in a matching shade for Little Gloria.
The only trouble, Gloria confided in Thelma, was Little Gloria herself.
“I’ve been back and forth from America so many times I feel like a tennis ball,” Gloria complained. She had come to Burrough Court to introduce Little Gloria to Tony; on arriving, Little Gloria had peered over her cousin’s cradle with quiet interest before asking to go outside to see the horses. At four and a half years old, Little Gloria had grown into a dark and inquisitive child, with her father’s distinctive eyes and overlarge mouth.
They led Little Gloria out to the paddock, where Averill, in her riding boots and breeches, was putting a horse named Chestnut through his paces. Thelma waved, and a groomsman came to the paddock gate to let Little Gloria in, lifting her by the waist to see the pony eye to eye. Little Gloria held out a hand—confidently, without any childish trepidation—and patted the horse softly on the nose.
“She’s Reggie’s daughter, all right,” said Thelma, as Little Gloria asked Averill whether she could sit on the horse’s back. Averill nodded, and the groom lifted Little Gloria into the saddle.
Gloria agreed. “She is—and Mamma’s, and Kieslich’s. And Gilchrist’s, and Gertrude’s. First they told me I shouldn’t raise her in Paris—now they’re telling me Germany is no place for a child. What’s the harm in Paris? She’s learning French, she’s learning manners—and the parties! I’ve never had any interest in moving back to New York, and I don’t see why they think Little Gloria would be better off there.” She smiled. “It’s all irrelevant now that I’m engaged. We’ll live in Germany—Gloria’s so excited. I told her we’d be living in a fairy castle. Mamma is furious.”
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