The Woman Before Wallis

by Bryn Turnbull

  “Nada and I what?” The bedroom door opened and Nadejda Mountbatten, Lady Milford Haven, walked into the room, wheeling a trolley laden with bottles and glasses. “Don’t go telling all our secrets, Gloria—life’s no fun without a bit of mystery.” She turned to Thelma and enveloped her in a hug, kissing her on both cheeks. “Welcome to Cannes.”

  Nada pulled back, a smile playing on her delicate features. Though she was Russian by birth, Nada was closely related to the British Royal Family, and was a prominent fixture in both court life and high society as a result. She was extraordinarily pretty, fine-boned and small, with arching eyebrows and full lips. She wore her hair loose, thick copper curls framing her round face.

  “We get into rather a lot of trouble, your sister and me. It’s been so exciting having a girlfriend about—I expect we’ll have twice as much fun now that you’re here.” She had a husky, heavy voice entirely at odds with her appearance, but somehow the contrast suited her. She returned to the trolley and picked up a cut-glass decanter. “I thought we might begin early, seeing as it’s a special occasion.”

  “What are we celebrating?” asked Thelma, fixing an earring in place.

  Nada emptied the decanter into a cocktail shaker. “Your arrival. Gloria’s spoken of nothing else for days. We’re throwing a little party after dinner, I hope you don’t mind.”

  “Of course not,” said Thelma. She glanced at Nada’s outfit—another set of silk pajamas. “But I worry I might be overdressed.”

  Gloria and Nada laughed in unison—one high, one low. “Oh, don’t worry,” she said, pouring the contents of the shaker into three glasses. She handed one to Thelma and the antiseptic tang of vodka hit her nose. “I’ll find you something in my wardrobe. Gloria and I wear the same size. Now—” she settled on the bed next to Gloria, draping an arm around her “—a toast.” She lifted her martini and tipped it back, finishing it in one. Gloria followed suit and Thelma took a sip, coughing slightly as the drink singed her throat.

  “Welcome to Cannes,” said Nada, rising from the bed. “I’ll go see what I’ve got in my closet.”

  Thelma looked at Gloria, who pulled herself upright as Nada left. “She’s something, isn’t she?” she said, shifting nearer to the trolley. She knelt on the bed and began to mix a second set of drinks, ripping the foil from a fresh bottle of spirit. Thelma watched her, amused, and reached for a package of cigarettes.

  “Is she always like that? I worry I won’t be able to keep up.”

  Gloria smiled. “Nada’s such fun—you’ll love her,” she said. “She’s been an absolute angel to me, particularly since Friedel...” She drifted off, the smile fading from her face.

  A few weeks after Gloria’s last visit to Burrough Court, her engagement to Prince Friedel had fallen disastrously—spectacularly—apart.

  After saying goodbye to Thelma, Gloria had returned to France, her daughter in tow, to find Mamma in the living room of their Paris town house, pacing and throwing pillows, accusing Gloria of conspiring to steal Little Gloria’s inheritance.

  “She was deranged,” Gloria said, telephoning Thelma the day after the incident. “There’s no other word for it. I haven’t a clue where she came up with this—this fabrication, but we all know it’s lunacy. I spoke to Friedel and he says I shouldn’t let her upset me. Reggie’s mother has given her blessing to our marriage, and the Surrogates have consented to allow Little Gloria to move to Germany. We’ll be fine.”

  Several weeks later Thelma received another devastating telephone call: Mamma had repeated her accusations against Friedel to Mrs. Vanderbilt, who immediately withdrew her support for the marriage and notified Little Gloria’s Surrogates of Mamma’s concerns. Gloria had sailed to America to deal with the crisis in person, certain that she would be able to make Mrs. Vanderbilt see sense; however, when she next spoke to Thelma, her voice was dull.

  “They agree that Little Gloria isn’t in danger,” she said, “but they’ve raised questions about how I’m using the income from Little Gloria’s inheritance. Apparently, I’m spending too much on myself, and they’re worried I’ll use Little Gloria’s money to finance my marriage to Friedel. They’ve given me an ultimatum. If I marry Friedel, I lose all rights to spend the interest from the inheritance.” She paused. “That’s all the money I have in the world. That’s all I have to provide for my daughter.”

  “Can’t Friedel support you?” asked Thelma.

  “He can’t afford the expense. He lost quite a lot during the war... He can’t support us without some help, at least, from the interest.” Gloria exhaled, tinny and resigned. “If I marry Friedel, I can’t afford to keep Little Gloria. If I refuse to give up the money, I lose the man I love.”

  “What would happen if you married him regardless?”

  “The Surrogates would take Little Gloria to live with her Vanderbilt relatives. It’s what they wanted all along, really. They never approved of me raising Gloria in Europe. But how would it look if I foisted Gloria off on her relatives?”

  “What about Mrs. Vanderbilt? Surely you can appeal—”

  “I tried,” said Gloria. “She won’t consent to the marriage, not if there’s any question about Little Gloria’s safety—no matter how unfounded those questions are. If I marry Friedel, I doubt I’d be allowed to even see her.”

  Gloria had acceded to the Surrogates’ wishes, breaking off the engagement with an announcement shamefully buried in the society pages.

  Gloria looked up, recalling Thelma’s attention to the room. “Nada was a rock throughout the whole mess. An absolute rock.” She poured Thelma a martini and set it down on the vanity, then returned to the bed.

  “How is Friedel?” asked Thelma.

  Gloria shrugged. “Doing well, I think. We write.”

  Nada reentered the room, carrying a set of tangerine trousers and a silk blouse. “They’ll look perfect. Gloria’s worn them more times than I can count,” she said. She sat down, lifting Gloria’s cocktail out of her hand to take a sip. “Now...a little birdie tells me you’ve been making friends with my cousin David. You wicked girl. Tell me everything.”

  * * *

  When the party started shortly after dinner, men and women flooded into the villa in languid beachwear—silk caftans and linen suits, anything to combat the relentless coastal heat. Thelma, dressed in Nada’s pajamas, was thankful for her hostess’s generosity: dotted here and there was the odd dark suit, the occasional evening dress, but those wearing them looked stiff and out of place amid the casual elegance of Nada and George’s set.

  Thelma recognized some familiar faces—a few friends of Duke’s, several acquaintances she’d met in passing at the Embassy Club—but for the most part she was content to watch Gloria and Nada, who were, jointly, the undisputed life of the party. Together they mixed drinks, passing bottles and shakers with familiar ease; they flirted with everyone, including Thelma, and Nada’s husband, George Mountbatten—however George, preoccupied as he was with a young artist in a paisley cravat, didn’t pay much attention to their advances. When the party began to slacken, Nada pulled Gloria into the garden to dance the Black Bottom on the edge of the swimming pool, ending their performance by jumping, fully clothed, into the water.

  Thelma watched Chips Channon and Cholly Knickerbocker fish Gloria out of the swimming pool. Floating on her back, Nada kicked into the center of the pool, demanding that the water be swapped out for champagne.

  “They’re quite the pair, aren’t they?”

  Thelma turned to find George Mountbatten, Marquess of Milford Haven, holding two cocktails.

  Thelma smiled. “They certainly are,” she said.

  George offered her one of the drinks. “Is it odd?” he asked.

  Thelma understood what he meant. For the past several years, Thelma and Gloria had been separated more often than they were together; and while they did their best to keep in touch, Thel
ma worried that she and her sister were growing apart. They had always been a pair—two sides of the same coin—but now Gloria had found a new half. While Thelma had struggled with this same question of intimacy when Gloria had first married Reggie, it was different knowing that Gloria was confiding in another woman. Could their lives become too separate to pair again?

  Chips wrapped a blanket around Gloria as she attempted to coax Nada out of the pool. “I’m pleased she’s found such good friends,” said Thelma. “She’s told me how much you and Nada mean to her.”

  “We get on, Gloria and me,” said George, “but it’s she and Nada who are thick as thieves. Some nights they get to talking and I can’t get a word in edgewise.” Behind him, Gloria discarded her blanket and, spurred on by cheers from the assembled onlookers, dove back into the swimming pool to drag Nada to shore. “Of course, those nights I’m obliged to go find more entertaining company.”

  Thelma arched her eyebrows. “Indeed?” she said.

  George laughed and glanced back at the artist. He set down his empty glass and winked. “Enjoy the party.”

  Chips and Cholly had finally succeeded in pulling Nada from the pool. She wrapped herself in a towel and linked arms with Gloria; together they walked into the villa, leaving a dark trail of matching footprints on the flagstones.

  Thelma smiled. Despite her ambivalence, it was good to see Gloria laugh.

  Someone by the pool shouted: several partygoers—women, mainly, no doubt hoping to bask in Nada’s reflected glory—had jumped into the swimming pool, shrieking with laughter and attempting to shield their hair from errant splashes as their beaux prowled the patio, catching unsuspecting victims and tossing them in the water. Thelma, not keen to ruin Nada’s outfit, turned to go back inside.

  “Whoops!” A young man, his eyes rather bloodshot, bumped into Thelma as she came through the doors, knocking her arm and sending her cocktail cascading down the front of her shirt.

  “Oh, bugger—terribly sorry,” mumbled the young man as a nearby footman came forward with a napkin. “So clumsy, can’t believe—”

  “It’s all right,” said Thelma, dabbing at her front with the napkin. She climbed the stairs, the young man still making apologies behind her. Perhaps Nada would have a clean blouse handy.

  Thelma knocked on the door to Nada’s bedroom and heard a scuffle of movement from within before Nada called out for her to enter.

  Nada’s bedroom was larger than Thelma’s, the four-poster bed covered by pink-and-gold pillows. A Chinese dressing screen dominated one corner of the room and a vanity, its top littered with tubes of makeup, trinket boxes and jewelry, dominated another.

  Nada was slouching over the vanity mirror, half-dressed. She had changed into a new set of silk trousers, but her bare stomach folded in small rolls beneath her brassiere.

  “Thelma,” she said, straightening up. Gloria walked out from behind the dressing screen, toweling her hair; like Nada, she was half-dressed, her thin arms covered by a loose-fitting dressing gown. She smiled, her cheeks flushed, and dropped the towel on the bed.

  “What happened?” said Nada.

  “Someone spilled a drink,” said Thelma.

  “So they did. Gloria, there’s a caftan somewhere in there. How are you enjoying the party?” asked Nada, opening a tub of rouge as Gloria began to sort through the wardrobe. The window was open; noise from the party floated into the room, shouts and laughter and music.

  “It’s wonderful,” said Thelma.

  Nada lit a cigarette. “Good,” she said. “We have an awfully nice time here. One sometimes forgets London entirely.” She tapped the lid of a small enameled box on the vanity. “Although, if you are finding the night a bit dull, I’ve got a little something to perk things up.”

  Gloria pulled a mauve dress out of the wardrobe, the fabric so light that it floated as the dress settled back on the hanger. “This one?” she asked.

  “That’s it,” said Nada. “Just leave the blouse on my bed, Thelma, my maid will see to it.”

  Thelma took the hanger and ducked behind the dressing screen.

  “Did you see Cholly?” asked Gloria.

  Thelma slipped out of the blouse and draped it over the top of the screen. “I did,” she said. “He seems to be in good form—over for the season.”

  “He says society dies in New York this time of year. Nothing to write about for his column,” said Gloria.

  “Not much to write about,” Thelma agreed, removing the silk trousers and folding them over a chair. She pulled on the dress, adjusting the neckline as she walked out from behind the screen. “Did you hear what he said about Millicent Hearst? Apparently, she—”

  She stopped in her tracks. Nada’s enameled box was open, revealing a pillow of fine white powder; Thelma looked at Gloria, whose hand was raised to her face, a line of powder balanced on the bridge of her thumb.

  She inhaled delicately.

  “Yes? What about Mrs. Hearst?” she asked, dabbing her nose.

  Thelma missed a beat. “You know—I can’t recall,” she said. Nada held the box out to Thelma, smiling politely.

  “No—thank you,” said Thelma. “I’ll see you back downstairs.”

  She wasn’t sure why it shocked her so much, thought Thelma as she left the bedroom. She had used cocaine before, but not since marrying Duke—not since long before Reggie died. She had never seen Gloria bother with that sort of thing before—but perhaps she had. If anyone deserved something to help them unwind, surely it was Gloria.

  No, it wasn’t the cocaine that had troubled Thelma. It was that Gloria had been sitting on Nada’s lap when she’d taken it.

  Twenty-One

  The next afternoon, Nada and George went to the casino while Thelma and Gloria commandeered a set of lounge chairs on the back patio. Thelma had only just gotten warm when she was called back indoors to take a telephone call from David.

  “You’re enjoying yourself?” he said. “It’s been so very dull here, hardly anyone to talk to. How do you like Nada and George?”

  Thelma hesitated. Gloria hadn’t said a word about last night and Thelma didn’t feel right asking—not when the answer could open a box that was better left closed. Perhaps Thelma had misunderstood: it might have been the result of overindulgence, or maybe it was simply their rapport. Maybe Nada was just that affectionate with all her girlfriends.

  “They’re great fun,” said Thelma. “And so generous. They threw quite the party last night.”

  David laughed. “I can imagine. Thelma, darling, I must dash—tea with Bertie and Elizabeth in an hour. I can’t wait for you to meet them, they’re jolly good fun.”

  Thelma rang off and walked to the patio where Gloria, reclining on a lounge chair next to a tea table, rubbed coconut oil into her arms. “Chanel says a tan is the index of chic,” she declared, her face half-obscured by a pair of sunglasses. Like Thelma, she wore a knit bathing suit, cut low over her thighs.

  She held out the coconut oil as Thelma settled into a second lounger. “I can’t imagine you get many chances to tan in London, so best to take advantage while you can. Who called?”

  “The prince,” said Thelma.

  “Really? He’s keen, isn’t he?”

  “Maybe a little,” said Thelma, rubbing oil into her legs.

  “I can’t believe it. An affair with the Prince of Wales! How exciting.”

  “It’s hardly an affair,” said Thelma, though she enjoyed hearing Gloria say it. “Nothing’s happened yet, we simply—”

  “Go out dancing. Almost every night, from what I’ve heard.”

  “That’s the trouble—you’ve heard,” said Thelma. “That’s one of the reasons it hasn’t gone beyond dancing. London’s far too small for anything exciting to happen.”

  “Do you want it to?” asked Gloria.

  Thelma paused. “You know, you’
re the first person to ask me that.”

  “Could you go away with him? A country house party?”

  “His country house is undergoing renovations, and I couldn’t possibly bring him to Burrough Court without Duke,” said Thelma. “My husband may be tolerant, but I doubt even he would be able to stand that.”

  Gloria removed her sunglasses, tapping them against the side of her mouth. “Where did you say his country house is?” she asked.

  “Windsor Great Park,” replied Thelma.

  Gloria nodded. “I’ve been thinking about where I’ll go after Cannes,” she said slowly. “I’d like to be in England, I think, closer to Nada... Little Gloria’s doctors are constantly going on about her health. Perhaps they would sanction a few months in the countryside. I could rent a house.”

  “And if David and I were invited for a weekend...”

  “Entirely innocent,” finished Gloria. She rolled onto her side and stretched across the lounge chair, looking pleased at the idea. “Think about it. It would be nice to see more of you this autumn. Nada and George have a beautiful home in Berkshire.”

  The idea had merit. It would allow Thelma to see David on more intimate terms, without the potential for scandal. And the prospect of spending more time with him: two whole, uninterrupted days...

  Thelma sat up.

  “Oh dear,” she said. “We’ll have to find a way of keeping Mamma’s mouth shut.”

  “We lock her in the nursery at Burrough Court and throw away the key,” said Gloria as she reached over to share Thelma’s cigarette. “She’s coming over, by the way. Going to bring Little Gloria for a visit.” She inhaled. “She’s such a doll. Brown as a berry with all this sunshine, and so sweet. She’ll be delighted to see you.”

  “And I her,” said Thelma. “It’s a shame I couldn’t bring Tony along for her to play with.”