The Woman Before Wallis

by Bryn Turnbull

  The prince reached Bennet Street, then changed course for the Ritz Hotel, disappearing through the side-door entrance.

  Williams was waiting inside. He collected Thelma’s shawl, folding it over his arm. The rest of the house had already gone to bed but the front hallway was still lit, dimmed sconces sending dark shadows across the marble floor.

  “How was dinner?” Thelma asked.

  “Very successful, my lady. Lady Averill was well received,” said Williams.

  “And Duke?” asked Thelma, removing her silk gloves.

  “He’s gone out, my lady,” said Williams.

  “Well,” she replied, “I’m glad to hear he had a pleasant evening. Good night, Williams.”

  “Good night, my lady.”

  Eighteen

  Thelma descended the next morning and found Duke in the breakfast room, his face hidden behind a newspaper. Emblazoned on the front page was a large photograph of the prince, looking off into the distance.

  “Good morning,” said Duke. He set down the paper and tapped the photograph. “His birthday is next week.” He sounded amused. “I hope you don’t forget.”

  “Good morning,” said Thelma. Williams poured her a cup of tea and set down a bowl of fruit. “How was your night?”

  “Very decent,” said Duke. He lifted the newspaper once more and twitched it straight as he reached for an apple. “Betty Lawson-Johnston was asking about you. Very excited when she heard your news. How was dinner?”

  “Lovely,” said Thelma.

  The newspaper twitched again, and Thelma heard the blind sound of Duke biting into the apple. “Who was there? Any of our lot?”

  “It was a rather small guest list.”

  “Oh? How small?”

  There was a long, tense silence. “Just me,” she said.

  Duke lowered the newspaper. “Oh. Will you be seeing him again?”

  Thelma hesitated. “I believe so.”

  “I see.” Duke took a piece of toast from the rack and scraped butter across it. “Well, I’m pleased for you. From what I hear he’s a good sort.”

  Thelma looked up. “You’re pleased?” she said.

  “Of course. Look, my dear, I’ve been thinking, and I’ve decided that if I’m going to be stepping out on my own it’s only fair that you do as well. Beats ghosting about Burrough Court.” He finished his toast and reached for a napkin, knocking crumbs onto the tablecloth. “Besides—not a terrible thing, making friends with the Prince of Wales.”

  Thelma raised her eyebrow. Whatever she’d expected from Duke, it hadn’t been this. “We met once for dinner. I hardly think that makes us friends,” she said.

  “No, but he’ll see you again. The prince and I agree on one thing—you’re too beautiful to ignore.”

  “You’re not upset that he wants to see me again?”

  “Not at all,” he replied.

  “And you aren’t afraid he might fall in love with me?” she said, only half joking.

  Duke smirked. “You don’t know the Prince of Wales as well as I do. He’s very much in love with Freda Dudley Ward. Touchingly devoted to her—circles back like a homing pigeon.” He stood and circled the table. “So, you see, I know you’re quite safe in his hands. Shall we invite him to the country?” He set a hand on Thelma’s shoulder and kissed the top of her head. “Must dash, business to attend to. Dinner at Café de Paris? G will be there. I’m told they’ve changed the lineup in their cabaret.”

  * * *

  Thelma set out from the town house later that morning to meet Lady Sarah for luncheon, the motorcar’s wipers beating furiously against the rain.

  She hadn’t expected Duke’s reaction to her dinner with the prince—nor the revelations he’d seen fit to share. Though she knew that Duke’s flippancy was hiding more than a little hurt, she knew that there was some truth in what he’d said.

  The prince never held on to women for long. His penchant for romantic conquests was common knowledge among Thelma’s set. He paid particular attention to married women—that much was common knowledge as well. Perhaps he thought they would expect less from him.

  All right, she told herself. If she was nothing more than a temporary interest to the prince, was that so bad? As Duke said, friendship with the Prince of Wales could only bring advantages. And Duke had given his blessing, more or less.

  In terms of the drawbacks, Thelma could only see one true danger: that she might develop feelings for him. The prince was, undoubtedly, attractive. And he was the Prince of Wales—that was an overwhelming consideration, and one she couldn’t ignore.

  The motorcar pulled up in front of Selfridges and a doorman with a wide umbrella came out to open her door. She followed him toward the store’s entrance, glancing with amusement at the window display.

  It showed a pastoral picnic: an afternoon at Ascot, perhaps, or a day in the Lake District. Several mannequins, dressed in white, were arranged in the window, faceless men in top hats, blank women in lace gowns, holding parasols or toy animals. Some were standing; some sat on red-and-white checkerboard tablecloths. Standing on a small easel amid the picnic was a painted portrait of the Prince of Wales in an oval gilt frame.

  The bottom third of the window was dominated by a hand-painted sign.

  Selfridge & Co.

  Congratulates His Royal Highness On His 35th Birthday.

  Thelma scrutinized the portrait of the prince. It was a good likeness, though his hair was thicker than the portrait made it out to be. She touched the back of her hand, where his lips had lingered at the end of the night. His eyes, too, were a different shade of blue. The color the artist used was a touch too artificial.

  Thelma walked inside.

  She went past the displays of perfume and makeup, rows of red lipstick lined under glass countertops, powder puffs balanced against open jars of rouge. She looked over the latest offerings as she passed: new hats, with fuller brims than last season. Ostrich feathers, for court presentations. Thelma had been presented last year—a triumph for Duke, as divorcées were rarely received. Silk shawls, hand-painted in the Orient.

  She drifted into the men’s section, walking past colorful displays of bow ties and cravats, gleaming loafers and ivory-topped canes. A glass case of cuff links caught her eye and she studied them, gold and silver, winking like coins beneath the glass.

  An elegant man behind the counter rested his hand on the case. “Good afternoon, madam. Can I help you?”

  Thelma pointed at a set of gold cuff links depicting a horse and rider, frozen in the act of jumping a hedgerow. “I’ll take those, please,” she said, and arranged for them to be delivered to York House.

  Nineteen

  Thelma could hear the strains of the evening’s entertainment from the cloakroom at Ciro’s, a high feminine falsetto accompanied by the house orchestra, the combination of woodwinds and strings providing the musical depth that, Thelma thought, the singer lacked. Still, it was an evening out, and despite Thelma’s reservations about the singer, Ciro’s boasted the best cabaret in London.

  She draped her fox fur over one shoulder. Her dress, a sequined, backless shift, was too light to go without the added weight of the fur, although she knew she would regret wearing it the moment she entered the overcrowded restaurant. She pulled a compact out of her handbag and powdered her nose before returning to the front room where Duke was waiting.

  “I was beginning to think you might have gotten lost between the coats,” he said, taking her arm as they walked toward the sound of the orchestra. Unlike the Embassy Club, Ciro’s was light and airy, decorated in greens and golds, immense white pillars supporting a second-story gallery. Onstage, the house orchestra played a lively waltz, accompanying a trio of sequined dancers brandishing fans made of peacock feathers.

  The maître d’ led them to a small table near the orchestra, a bottle of wine alread
y chilling in an ice bucket. “With our compliments, Lord Furness,” he said.

  “Very good,” said Duke, reaching for the bottle. He handed a glass to Thelma, and raised his own in a toast before shifting his chair to watch the cabaret.

  They had worked their way through half the bottle before a break was called and couples flooded the dance floor. Duke and Thelma stood, Thelma draping the fox fur over the back of her chair as she followed Duke to dance.

  The floor was full to the point of bursting, couples turning in tight circles as the band played a slow, easy rendition of “Indian Summer.” Thelma and Duke were content to stay near the edge, their movements an ebb and flow that responded to the footsteps of the couples surrounding them. Duke wrapped a hand around Thelma’s waist, the claustrophobic atmosphere of the dance floor a fitting excuse for intimacy.

  “It’s been far too long since we’ve spent time together,” said Duke. “Properly, I mean—no complications.”

  “It’s nice,” said Thelma. “Thank you.”

  Duke smiled. “For what? Taking my wife out on the town?” He lifted his arm, inviting Thelma to twirl under; she laughed as he pulled her close again, his movement looser, more carefree, as he led her in a fox-trot.

  In the midst of the song, Thelma felt a warm hand on the back of her shoulder.

  “May I?”

  Thelma turned. The Prince of Wales standing behind her, the maître d’ hovering at the edge of the dance floor.

  Thelma sank into a curtsy and Duke bowed at the neck.

  “Lord and Lady Furness. How wonderful to see you both.”

  “Your Highness,” said Thelma, concealing her happiness behind a gentle smile. “We weren’t expecting you for another hour.”

  The prince offered his arm to Thelma and they drifted back to the table. “I was able to slip away after cigars. The official bits were all said and done with.” The maître d’ jogged forward to pull out Thelma’s chair as the prince sat down. “Three gins,” said the prince, folding one leg over the other, “and a bottle of that cabernet franc you served me last time, it was a corker.”

  Duke followed, picking up his half-finished glass of wine. “It’s an honor to have you join us, sir,” he said.

  The prince smiled. “Oh, the honor is entirely mine.”

  Thelma had expected Duke to drift away once the prince arrived—to melt into the crowd, handing Thelma over without a proper conversation, but he settled in to his chair and turned his attention to the cabaret dancers who had resumed the floor, a cigarette dangling loosely between his fingers.

  The prince leaned closer to Thelma. “It’s wonderful to see you,” he said in a low voice. “You aren’t angry with me? You must have been waiting ages.”

  “Not at all,” said Thelma. “We’ve been dancing.”

  The prince winked and turned his attention to Duke. “Busy season in the shipyards, Furness?”

  Duke looked over. “It’s always busy in a shipyard, sir. We recently received a new contract to build a set of freighters, which should keep the workers happy for a few more months.”

  “What more can one ask for? It’s always a pleasure to speak to a man of industry who’s generating jobs for the common Englishman.” Under cover of the tablecloth, the prince shifted, his leg brushing against Thelma’s. “I understand there’s something of a rivalry between shipbuilders on the Clyde and Newcastle—would you say there’s a substantial expertise in one region over the other?”

  Duke shrugged, tapping his cigarette against an ashtray. “Depends on the day—depends on the contract,” he said. “My shipyard is in Hartlepool, so I’m partial to English talent as a matter of principle.”

  Thelma knew she ought to feel stung by Duke’s blasé attitude, but she was relieved. Had she been with Junior, he would have made a scene, but Duke simply smiled. He finished his drink and, quite ostentatiously, yawned.

  The prince reached for the bottle of wine. “One for the road, Furness?”

  Duke shook his head. “Very kind, but I ought to be moving on,” he said. He looked at Thelma. “Terribly rude to make you leave as well, my darling. Don’t feel you need to come on my account.”

  Under the table, the prince set his hand on Thelma’s knee. “I’m quite happy staying,” she replied. “I’m sure His Highness will see me home.”

  “I would consider it a privilege,” said the prince.

  Duke looked from Thelma to the prince and back. His expression changed; whether it connoted pleasure or sadness, Thelma couldn’t tell.

  “Well,” he said. “That’s settled. Have a lovely evening.”

  The prince smiled as Duke melted into the crowd. “Good sport,” he said. “Shall we have a dance?”

  * * *

  The sun was rising over Mayfair when the prince called an end to the night. He wrapped Thelma’s fox fur around her shoulders as they left the club, offering her a lit cigarette.

  “Jolly good band,” he said. The prince’s gleaming Daimler, its heavy black bonnet muted to a soft gray in the predawn, pulled to the curb, and Thelma stepped in, the prince’s hand on the small of her back.

  “Nice to sit down,” she said as the prince slid next to her. “Have you got a busy day tomorrow?”

  “Not in the morning, thankfully,” he said, running a hand through his hair, “but I’ve a few engagements in the afternoon. And I’ve got to find time to speak to Sibyl Colefax at some point—she’s helping me renovate my country estate.”

  “Is she? That’s exciting,” said Thelma.

  The prince chuckled. “Perhaps if you’ve an aptitude for that sort of thing. I’m useless, I’m afraid—one wallpaper looks much the same as another to me.” He stretched an arm along the top of the seat and Thelma nestled against his side.

  “It can be fun,” she said, resting her head against the lapel of his overcoat. She threaded her fingers through his, closing her eyes. “I enjoyed decorating Tony’s nursery—seeing how it all comes together in the end.”

  “Perhaps you could help me,” he replied. “It’s not going to be anything fancy, mind. A place to bring friends.”

  “I would be honored,” said Thelma. “I’ll be in Cannes next month with my sister but otherwise—”

  “Not a problem. I won’t be able to get much done for quite some time regardless. When you return, I could take you there to see it yourself. It’s an old pile, really, no indoor plumbing, no swimming pool. I may have bitten off more than I can chew.”

  Thelma pictured herself wandering through empty rooms with him, thrilled he was picturing life with her so far in advance. “If I can help at all, sir, I’d be delighted to,” she said.

  The car pulled up in front of Thelma’s town house and the prince’s chauffeur stepped out, leaving the engine idling while he turned to face the road. He lit a cigarette.

  The prince clucked. “I think we can do away with the formalities, don’t you, Thelma? ‘Sir’ and all that. Terribly stuffy.”

  Thelma smiled. “Oh? So, I’m to call you Edward?”

  The prince brushed a lock of hair away from Thelma’s face. “I go by David.”

  “David,” said Thelma. It sounded solid: a workaday name that drew back the curtains on who he really was. “It suits you.”

  He looked at her, his expression earnest. “I hope you know, Thelma, how much I enjoy spending time with you. Would it be too forward if I asked to see you again tomorrow?” Before she could answer he kissed her softly, hesitantly, as though worried she would push him away, but she didn’t.

  When he looked up at her expectantly, she pulled her hand from his and reached for the handle of the car door. She stepped out, looking over her shoulder, smiling as she held his gaze, taking a petty sort of pleasure in keeping the Prince of Wales waiting for her answer.

  Twenty

  August 1929

  Cannes, Fran
ce

  The sunlight in Cannes shone brighter than it ever seemed to do in London, casting glittering light across the thousand blues of the Mediterranean and lending Thelma’s pale arms a brief golden glow. The Croisette, a meandering promenade dividing the city from the beach, pulsed with movement: musicians played on street corners, vying for the attention of diners eating on patios along the sidewalk, the scent of grilled fish stronger than the petrol fumes from automobiles carrying people to and from the waterfront. Beyond the beach, small fishing boats darted between gleaming white yachts anchored in the harbor, matchstick men and women just visible on the decks. The houses, too, were prettier—as were the women, their flowing, patterned slacks giving them a languid glamour that reflected the stunning backdrop of the French Rivera.

  “They’re called pajamas, darling—aren’t they a scream?” said Gloria, modeling a set of the wide-legged trousers in Thelma’s bedroom at the Mountbattens’ villa. She swept a hand along the top of her thigh, upsetting the tropical flowers painted on the silk. “So comfortable—it’s as if you’re walking around naked. Everyone here wears them.”

  Though Thelma had just arrived, Gloria had been living with George and Nada Mountbatten for two weeks in a spectacular flagstone villa with ten bedrooms and long, flowing curtains that breathed in and out with the breeze. Thelma’s room overlooked a large backyard patio with steps that curved down to a rectangular swimming pool, beside which a five-piece band was setting up for the evening.

  “They’re very elegant,” said Thelma, as Gloria sat on the bed and lit a cigarette. “They suit you.”

  “They’ll suit you just as well. I bought six pairs—the Surrogates will be furious at the cost, but there you are. I was tempted by a set similar to these in greens...they’d look divine on you,” said Gloria, sitting up and curling her legs beneath her. “And the best part is—you can wear them to bed. Truly! Nada and I—”