Thursday. It was the night of Duke’s dinner party. But an invitation to dine with the Prince of Wales wasn’t come by lightly...
She thought once more of Duke, his happiness and anger rolling in unpredictable waves. His ludicrous expectation that Thelma would allow him to set a double standard for their marriage; his petulant silence when she didn’t acquiesce. Thelma knew how the dinner party would unfold: she would sit, staring daggers at his mistress while the other guests whispered pity behind their hands.
“I would be honored, sir,” she said.
The prince smiled. He patted the rail of the judging ring once, decisively. “Wonderful. Shall we say six o’clock? York House, St. James. I’ll send a car.” He looked back at the line of cows. “Well, best get back to it.” He smiled more broadly, the corners of his eyes crinkling into crow’s feet that, despite his youthful appearance, betrayed his age. “What a pleasure to see you, Lady Furness. I look forward to better making your acquaintance.”
* * *
When Thelma left the Fair, the rain had finally given way to sun. It was late: a few final stragglers were wrangling their livestock into carts and buggies as Fair organizers pulled the bunting down from the rafters. Averill, exhausted, accepted Thelma’s invitation of a ride back to Burrough Court, leaving the estate farmers to transport her prizewinning animals home. She fell asleep within minutes, her head pressed against the window as the car trundled over dips and rises in the road. In its last gasps, the sunset strived to make up for the gray day, throwing brilliant hues of orange and gold across the rolling hills; outside, midges circled in lazy clusters, clouds against the deepening sunlight.
She nudged Averill awake as they pulled into the drive. To Thelma’s surprise, Duke strode down the front steps as the car rolled to a stop, opening Averill’s car door. “Your first Fair—your first set of ribbons, so Gordon tells me! Well done, my dear,” he said, kissing Averill’s dust-covered cheek. “I would have come for the day myself, but business...”
Thelma walked past, but he called her back.
“Not so fast, darling. Come around to the side.” He tucked Averill’s hand in the crook of his arm and Thelma followed in their wake, her jaw set.
A pony trap stood in the stable courtyard: it was a gleaming gray, its burgundy seats matching those in Duke’s Lagonda.
“A little something to commemorate your first Fair,” said Duke as Averill, forgetting her fatigue, climbed into the chassis. He gave Thelma a sidelong smile. “And for Thelma, given her riding abilities.”
“It’s beautiful, Father,” said Averill, running her hands along the body.
“It’s nothing,” said Duke. “A reward for hard work.”
Thelma walked around the carriage, quietly indignant. To her, Duke’s generosity was an insult: an attempt to buy Averill’s affections without bothering to witness her success firsthand.
She circled back. “You should have come,” she said, as Averill kneeled to inspect the carriage’s wheels. “She was something special.”
“You’ll have to tell me all about it over a drink,” said Duke. He raised his voice. “I’d say you’ve earned it, Averill!”
* * *
The evening was cordial, if not warm. Before changing for dinner, Thelma found a valet setting Duke’s bedclothes on the wingback chair in their bedroom—an indication, if Thelma needed one, that he intended to spend the night with her. Perhaps he would attempt a reconciliation; perhaps she would claw his eyes out. To her surprise, Thelma found that she didn’t much care either way.
Thelma watched Duke at dinner, smiling and laughing as though all were right in the world. He was lighthearted and charming, even reaching across the table at one point to grasp Thelma’s hand.
And everything’s fine, thought Thelma. Just like that?
As the butler served cheese, Thelma spoke up. “Webb, would you ask Elise to pack me a suitcase for tomorrow? I’ll be going into London. Let her know I’ll need something suitable for dinner out.”
Duke knocked a corner of cheese off a wedge with his knife. “Oh?” he said. “Who will you be dining with?”
“I thought Averill and I might take in Ascot—that is, if you weren’t planning to use the tickets yourself.”
“I suppose so. Who are you dining with?”
Thelma dabbed her lips with her napkin. “The Prince of Wales, dear,” she said, setting the napkin back down with delicate care. “He’s invited me to dinner on Thursday.”
Averill perked up. “Really? Goodness, I wondered! Gordon said you were speaking to him,” she said. “How exciting.”
Thelma looked at Duke. He was smiling—a horrible, fixed expression that made him look as though he had just swallowed paint.
“Thursday,” he said. “Did you forget our dinner party?”
Thelma avoided his eye, delighting in her triumph. “What could I say? He’s the Prince of Wales.”
Duke gaped for a moment, a series of expressions crossing his face in fleeting succession—anger, hurt, surprise, shock—and Thelma’s sense of satisfaction grew.
“Well,” he said. He patted his waistcoat. “That’s a rare treat for you, Thelma. Do enjoy it.”
Thelma picked up her knife. “You know, darling,” she said, “I think I will enjoy it immensely.”
When she retired for the evening, Thelma noticed that Duke’s bedclothes were no longer on the wingback chair. In a fluid movement, she took off her jewelry and unhooked the back of her dress, letting it slide to the floor. Truth be told, she preferred having the bed to herself.
Seventeen
On the evening of her dinner with the Prince of Wales, Thelma sat at her vanity, toying with the emerald necklace that Duke had given her for their second anniversary. She held the necklace against her chest, admiring how her dress—a scoop-necked Lanvin—would allow the jewelry to take prominence. Was it too simple?
Thelma found the prospect of dining with the prince intimidating. In accepting his invitation, Thelma was acknowledging an inevitable truth: that, rather than fighting for her marriage, she was giving in to Duke’s infidelity—and opening the door for her own. Live your life, Lady Sarah had told her. While Thelma hardly expected to embark upon an illicit romance with the Prince of Wales, she knew that gossip would spread: before long, it would be known that Lady Furness was accepting invitations. She clasped the necklace into place and left the bedroom.
Thelma paused at the top of the staircase, watching the servants prepare for Duke’s dinner party below. In Thelma’s absence, Averill had stepped in to perform as hostess. To Thelma’s mind, it was a preferable outcome for all involved.
The entrance hall was gloomy, dim light spilling in from the half-moon window above the front door. Sconces made little difference: if anything, their orange glow cast a sallow pallor on peoples’ faces. As Thelma walked downstairs, the front door opened and Williams, his head obscured by a bouquet of peach-colored peonies, walked in, swaying precariously under the blooms. Walking in from the sitting room, Duke stepped aside to give the butler room to pass.
“You’re off, then?” he said, looking up at Thelma. He hadn’t yet changed for dinner—guests weren’t expected for another hour.
Thelma nodded, fixing her gloves in place as she walked down. “The prince is sending a motorcar. I’m looking forward to seeing York House, I’m told it’s beautiful,” she said.
“It’s lovely. At least the bits I’ve seen,” said Duke, holding the front door open for her. “He’ll likely have you in the gallery, if there’s a decent crowd. There’s a cracking painting of Waterloo just opposite the doors.”
“I’ll look for it,” Thelma replied. She stepped out and Duke followed, the sound of traffic filling the silence between them.
“You’re all set for tonight?” she asked.
“What? Oh, yes—should be a laugh.”
“
You ought to go upstairs and change,” said Thelma. She gestured to his suit. “Can’t have you greeting our guests in that.”
They shared a polite laugh as a black Daimler pulled up at the curb.
“That’s me,” she said. It was another mild evening; she idled on the doorstep, lingering heat from the afternoon sun warm on her shoulders.
Duke hesitated, then kissed her on the cheek.
“Have a lovely time.”
The drive to St. James’s Palace was short—truthfully, Thelma could have walked if she wanted. The car turned onto Bennet Street, then again onto St. James before doubling back onto Cleveland Row, slipping into a small alleyway between the red bricks of the palace and a powder-blue building next door. They paused at a set of wrought-iron gates, where the drive rolled down the window to exchange a few words with a guard before moving on.
They stopped in front of the heavy brick arches of St. James’s Palace. A footman opened Thelma’s door, nodding as she stepped out.
“Welcome to York House, Lady Furness,” he said. “May I show you in?”
Thelma, expecting the din of guests to be audible from the front drawing room, was surprised at how silent it was in the palace. The gallery—its doors flung open—was empty, and her footsteps echoed as the footman led her up a grand staircase. As they walked along a second-story corridor, Thelma was relieved to hear the scratch of a gramophone.
She followed the footman into a large sitting room with white walls and gilt trim, windows framed by soft green curtains. It was surprisingly comfortable, decorated for daily use rather than pageantry: The marble fireplace was flanked by chintz sofas, a half-filled ashtray and a paperback on the walnut coffee table between them. An immense Empire desk stood at the opposite end of the room under an ornately detailed map of the world, and a portrait of Queen Mary presided above the fireplace mantel.
The Prince of Wales stood beneath the portrait of his mother, his hands clasped behind his back.
“Lady Furness. I’m delighted to see you.”
“The pleasure is entirely mine, Your Highness,” said Thelma, curtsying. He wore a midnight blue tuxedo over a white waistcoat, his hair slicked back in a blond coif. He touched the knot of his bow tie, tucking one hand in his pocket.
“I hope you don’t mind the informality—I thought we might have a drink here and then go out on the town.”
“That sounds ideal, sir,” she said as he led her to the sofa.
“Martini? I’m rather partial to gin, but I’m sure we can manage something else if you prefer...”
“Gin’s fine,” said Thelma, glancing at the open door as she sat, waiting for the footman to return with another guest. Her heart quickened. Would they truly be dining alone?
He began to mix drinks at a nearby bar trolley. “Correct me if I’m wrong, Lady Furness, but I believe you’re American?” he asked, peeling a twist of lemon and dropping it into a glass.
“Half-American, sir. My mother’s from Chile,” said Thelma. She looked up at the portrait of Queen Mary and straightened, perching on the end of her chair.
The prince poured gin and vermouth into a chrome shaker and swirled it, ice clattering against the metal. “Yes, that’s it,” he said. “I had the pleasure of meeting your sister in South America, oh...two years ago?” He circled back to Thelma, a martini in each hand.
“You know Consuelo?” said Thelma as she took her drink, the mention of her sister a welcome point of commonality.
“She had just married—let’s see—a chap from the American foreign office,” said the prince. He settled onto the sofa opposite Thelma. “Stationed in Oslo, if memory serves.”
“It does indeed, sir,” Thelma replied. “I must say, your recollection is remarkable.”
The prince stretched an arm across the top of the sofa and crossed one leg over the other. “A party trick,” he said. “Yet when I ought to remember something of real importance—” he held up his hand, his fingertips touching in a delicate knot “—poof. The politicians don’t think much of it. They’ve all mastered the same trick, so we stand about at parties spouting facts until someone knocks our heads together.”
“I suppose it’s better than the alternative,” she replied. “Freezing up. That happens to me far more frequently.”
The prince lit a cigarette and fitted it into the corner of his mouth. “I don’t believe it,” he said. “You’ve lasted five minutes with me—that’s more than most. You should have seen those poor souls at the Fair go rigid when I walked by.”
“Did you enjoy your time in Leicestershire?”
He tapped his cigarette in a nearby ashtray. “Where are my manners—would you like one?” he asked. Thelma declined: between the martini and the shock of finding herself alone with the prince, she felt light-headed enough.
“You know, people always ask if I enjoy those sorts of things,” he continued. “I enjoy meeting the people, but I can’t stand the formal bits. Bowing, shaking hands—give me a few hours to talk to someone, a real Englishman.” The gramophone shifted into white noise, the needle scratching gently on the vinyl. “I will say that I feel a certain affinity for Leicestershire. I used to join the Quorn regularly, you know, till Father put a stop to it.” A dark look passed over his face and Thelma, worried she’d upset him, searched for something to say.
“Why did he—His Majesty—not want you hunting?”
“Well, it wasn’t so much the hunting as the steeplechasing. The government felt it was too dangerous. Didn’t want the future king breaking his neck going over a hedgerow. They’d have me packed in cotton if they could.”
Thelma smiled. “You don’t strike me as the type to accept that sort of treatment,” she said as the prince got up to change the record. “You ought to come to Burrough Court for a fox hunt. We’ve a lovely estate, it wouldn’t be any trouble.”
The prince brightened; he put the needle down and sat next to Thelma as music filled the room. “Say, there’s a thought. I’ll see if we can arrange it.”
Thelma was surprised at how easy it was to talk to the prince. He was so very unkingly, with his self-deprecation and easy charm: he had a clipped, almost strained voice that lacked the gravitas of his lofty position, and a casual warmth that made Thelma feel as though he could be any young man she’d found in the lobby of the Ritz. He hardly looked the part, either—more a film star than a monarch. He was heartbreakingly slim and handsome, with a dreamy, winsome expression that gave her the impression that he’d stepped off a cellulose reel.
He got up to change the record again, Josephine Baker melting into Noel Coward. “One of my favorites,” he said. “A dear friend got me this album for my birthday last year—good gracious, actually last year, almost to the day. Can you believe I’ll be turning thirty-five on Tuesday?”
“I can’t,” said Thelma truthfully. Aside from the crow’s feet, he could have been in his twenties.
The prince smirked. “And yet, I have to ask permission from my parents to go riding,” he said.
“Well, when you’re such an important figure...” said Thelma.
He waved her equivocation aside. “I’m no more important than anyone else,” he said. “I’ve three brothers who could take over if I were to top it. It’s no fun, this princing business, I’ll tell you.”
“But you must have some fun, surely?”
He set down his drink. “When my schedule permits it,” he said. “On evenings like this.” He fixed his eyes on Thelma, his hand inches from her shoulder. “I’m having rather a lot of fun with you tonight, Lady Furness.”
“And the evening’s far from over,” she replied, surprised at her daring.
The prince eased back into the sofa cushions, looking pleased. “I was thinking we could dine at the Hotel Splendide—they’ve a cracking band.”
Thelma set down her glass. “Lead the way.”
&nb
sp; * * *
After dinner, the prince dropped the car off at York House and insisted on walking Thelma home. “A little fresh air might do us both good,” he said, offering her his arm as the chauffeur tailed them out of the compound.
“This has been a truly wonderful evening, Thelma—may I call you Thelma?” he asked, flicking aside the tail of his jacket to put his hand into his pocket.
“Of course, sir,” she said. “I’ve had a lovely time. You danced every bit as gracefully as I recalled.”
“Well,” said the prince, “when one spends as much time at dances as I do, one’s bound to remember his steps. I do enjoy it, though. Makes me feel part of the crowd.”
Thelma recalled how the other couples had shifted to make space for them on the dance floor, watching the prince out of the corners of their eyes.
“That’s a lovely thought,” she said.
They turned onto Arlington Street. The prince looked at the Ritz, tilting his head toward the marquee lights. “My favorite. Perhaps we could go sometime?” he said, and Thelma warmed at the prospect of another evening out.
Arlington Place was dark. No doubt, all of Duke’s party guests had long since gone home. How different a night she would have had if she’d stayed.
“Thank you again for a lovely evening,” she said.
Folding over at the waist, the prince set his lips against the back of her hand.
“Please let me call on you again.”
“I would be honored,” Thelma replied. She curtsied, the formality of the movement awkward after their casual evening.
“I’ll likely be busy until after my birthday,” said the prince, “but expect to hear from me soon.” He waved and began to walk down the street.
She walked up the stairs but paused before entering, resting a hand on the doorframe as she looked back.
The prince had already begun to make his way down Arlington Street, his hands tucked once more in his trouser pockets, the cut of his tuxedo jacket giving him the illusion of bulk he didn’t truly have. His chauffeur walked several paces behind him, holding an umbrella in case of a late-evening downpour; his car followed, its headlights extinguished.
The Woman Before Wallis Page 11
