“I like this,” he said, rubbing the negligee with his thumb. “So elegant. You look like Marlene Dietrich.”
“You look like—Nils Asther,” she replied.
He looked genuinely pleased. “Do I really?” he asked, and Thelma laughed.
“No,” she said. “You look like the Prince of Wales.”
He leaned in. Thelma could smell his cologne—a musky, heavy smell that contrasted with his sharp features. Pulse quickening, she closed her eyes as his lips brushed against her cheek. “I’ve been told there’s a passing resemblance,” he murmured, and she lifted her chin to meet his kiss.
He ran his hand up her thigh; she could feel the skin beneath his fingers, electric, as if he were waking her one touch at a time. The silk bunched into waves as he raked the gown higher; her breath caught in her throat as his hand came to rest on bare skin, and he shifted, pulling Thelma beneath him.
She grasped the lapels of his dinner jacket, meeting his even blue gaze as she pulled him closer still. There was something intoxicating in his practiced touch that made her feel as though she was invincible: the simple fact that he was here, and wanted her. He was the subject of a million fantasies, the man women pictured to escape their dull lives—and tonight, he was hers.
He traveled down her neck, her collarbone, her breasts, her stomach. Sinking into the bedsheets, Thelma moved toward the pillows as he shrugged out of his waistcoat and evening shirt. He was slim yet strong, his arms roped with wiry muscles, his torso taut as a board; his chest slightly caved, as though he hunched over the memory of an old wound. He was as fluid as dancing, his movements an effortless ebb and flow. She recalled the first night they met, marveling at the impossibility of it all. Who could have thought it would have ended up here?
Twenty-Three
The next day, Thelma and David set off for Fort Belvedere, David’s half-finished country home, after breakfast.
“It was originally built for the Duke of Cumberland,” said David, raising his voice over the sound of the motor as he took bends in the road at top speed. “You know, Bonnie Prince Charlie and all that lot. It had been sitting vacant for years when I found it.”
Thelma kept a secure hand on the scarf she’d tied around her hair. She and David had woken at first light, David collecting his collar studs in the early glow before slipping back to his assigned bedroom; last night could have all been a dream, but for her overwhelming happiness. “How long have you been working on it?” she asked.
“Father gave me the place in March. It’s been tremendous fun. I’m looking forward to doing a bit of work on the grounds myself once the house is in order.”
They turned down a drive marked by moss-covered gates. “I’ll be attacking those soon,” David muttered, nodding at the crumbling stone—and the crenellated walls of Fort Belvedere came into view.
Fort Belvedere wasn’t pretty: it was all blocks and austerity, too-small windows in sparse frames. Its main feature was a looming six-sided turret, so tall that it threw off the proportion of the rest of the building. A heavy brick wall obscured most of the first floor; newly planted ivy attempted to soften the masculine lines of the facade. The circular driveway was overlarge, paving stones in the middle of the pea-gravel forming a six-sided crest around which David drove and parked.
He pulled the hand brake, then rested his hand atop hers. “What do you think?”
Thelma was touched by his evident joy. “David, it’s lovely,” she replied.
He opened his door and jogged around to the other side of the motorcar to let Thelma out. “Wait until you see what I’ve done inside,” he said. “The builders tell me I’ll be able to move in by the New Year.”
He took Thelma’s hand and led her through the front entrance. As David had planned their visit there were no workers on-site, but buckets of plaster and drying paintbrushes had been left on canvas cloths lining the courtyard and front hallway. Fresh lines of mortar were visible between the bricks; David opened the door and the smell of dust and fresh-cut wood drifted out.
Thelma tucked her hand into the crook of his arm as they walked down the hallway. “Sibyl is helping me with the interior,” he said, “And Freda, of course. And you, if you’ve a mind to.”
Thelma smiled, her chest warming at the thought of helping David with the decorating.
He led her into the dining room, which was sharp with the smell of drying paint. “I had them do a faux-wood finish,” he said, leaning close to the wall to examine the handiwork. “I’m told it’s the latest thing. Freddie chose the wall sconces, what do you think?”
Thelma glanced at him, but his expression didn’t change as he mentioned Freda Dudley Ward a second time. She turned her attention back to the room. It was small: once a table and buffet were brought in it wouldn’t have much room for additional pieces.
“It’s cozy,” she said.
David beamed. “That’s entirely by design,” he said. “I don’t want to conduct official business here. No courtiers, no blasted politics. This is going to be a room for friends.”
“Excellent idea,” she replied.
“I can’t take credit. Freddie dreamed it up.”
Thelma nodded carefully, recalling her conversation with Duke about David’s beloved former mistress. He’s touchingly devoted, the walls seemed to whisper. “And the furnishings?” she asked, taking David’s arm as he led her through to an octagonal sitting room overlooking the back of the estate. “You must tell me about those.”
“Burgundy in the dining room, mustard in the sitting room. Again, I can’t take credit.”
“Freddie?”
“Freddie,” said David, as a numbness settled in the pit of Thelma’s stomach. “Come take a look out these windows. Freddie says it’s the best view from the ground floor.”
David led Thelma through the rest of the Fort, showing off the renovations borne out of his dream of bringing the house into modernity. He showed her the kitchens, which had been outfitted with top-of-the-line cast-iron stoves, and the steam room, which he intended for use after tennis matches on the court he planned to build in the eastern part of the grounds. He dug out the blueprints for the central heating.
“Freddie recommended showers,” he said, unrolling the papers across a table in the kitchen. “Plumbing in the bedrooms, now, that was my idea, but she thought a steam room—”
“Did she?” said Thelma carefully.
“Yes,” David said. “She was most insistent on central heating. Says there’s nothing less comfortable than a drafty bedroom.”
“Freddie’s had so many ideas for this place,” Thelma replied, “I wonder you need my help at all.”
David looked up. “I beg your pardon?”
She laid a hand over the blueprints. “I think you and Freda have this house entirely in order,” she said. “You asked for my help, but given Mrs. Dudley Ward’s involvement I don’t see how I can be useful.”
David’s eyes widened. “Oh—you mustn’t be jealous, darling,” he said. “Is that what this is? Is it jealousy? Oh, dear...”
“David, she’s in every room,” said Thelma. In the city, David’s relationship with Mrs. Dudley Ward was easy enough to put aside—the Fort, though, felt uneasily like a declaration of her prominence.
His face creased into well-worn worry lines as he rolled up the blueprints. “Oh, dear,” he repeated. He sank into a nearby chair, the cane seat creaking.
“You must understand,” he said. “Freddie and I—we’ve been through an awful lot together. An awful lot.” He sighed, looking down. “And I won’t lie to you. Yes, at one point I was in love with her.”
Thelma nodded, but held her silence.
“It’s difficult to explain. We—we share a bond, Freddie and me. I sometimes think she understands me better than I do myself. She has this knack, you see, for voicing what’s already rattling about in
my head.”
He met Thelma’s gaze, his expression strained.
“That’s not what you want to hear,” he said, “but it’s the truth. There’s nothing between Freda and me now but friendship. You have nothing to worry about, my darling, nothing at all.”
Thelma sat down, not yet convinced. “After last night I thought... And then to see all this... It made me wonder, where does it leave me?”
David knelt and took Thelma’s hands, raising one, then the other, to his lips. “It leaves you very high in my affections,” he said. “Freddie will always be an important part of my life. And she is very much non-negotiable. But believe me—there’s enough room for both of you in my heart.”
Thelma sighed, feeling some of her frustration melt away.
“I’ve something to show you,” he said.
He led Thelma upstairs and along a narrow hallway lined with oak wainscoting. They stopped in front of a door; David pushed it open to reveal an unfinished bedroom, the floors scuffed and worn, the four-poster bedframe covered by a dust sheet. The far wall was dominated by a lead-paneled window that overlooked the wild expanse of the Fort’s back gardens, and a new wall cordoned off a section of the room—Freddie’s en-suite bath, Thelma suspected.
She walked in, resting her hands on the window frame as she looked out at the cracked flagstone path in the garden below.
“This is your room,” said David. “I want you to have a free hand—do what you like with it.”
Thelma looked around. “Really?”
He smiled. “You must think of the Fort as your own. I want us to spend many happy days here, together.”
For a moment, Thelma was speechless: she looked around the room again, taking in the wood trim, the plasterwork on the ceiling.
Her final feelings of bitterness toward Freda Dudley Ward melted away. Thelma was touched by David’s gift—but even more so by the look of intense vulnerability on his face, as though he feared that Thelma would reject this grandest of gestures.
She crossed the room and put her arms around him. “It’s too much,” she said. “Thank you.”
“Well, it’s entirely selfish, really,” said David, running a hand down Thelma’s back. “I need a hostess to arrange my little parties. I wouldn’t possibly make a good job of it on my own...”
Thelma slapped his arm, taking pleasure in David’s happiness—his broad, sincere smile; his hands drumming a beat against her sides. Motes of dust caught in the light spilling in from the window, dancing in the small expanse between their bodies.
“I’ll set up a meeting between you and Sibyl to start discussing what you’d like,” he said, “but before we leave, I’ve one more room to show you.”
He led Thelma back downstairs, to a room off the main hallway.
“Why the first floor?” Thelma asked, guessing at their destination.
David tapped a knuckle on the door’s handle. “You ought to have looked closer at the blueprints. It’s closest to the steam room. Given all the gardening I plan to do, it seemed like the sensible thing.”
The room was fully furnished, large and lined with white wallpaper. Matching lamps sat on night tables next to a four-poster bed; an immense radio box stood in one corner, its design mirroring the smooth, modern lines of the teak dresser opposite. The room had clearly not been used: it was devoid of the clutter that generally accumulated in such places. The piles of books and the grooming products, the cuff links and collar studs that she would have expected to see were absent, giving the space a temporary polished glow.
“I had them finish this one first,” he said, leading Thelma to the window and wrapping his arms around her as they looked out onto the back grounds. It was a similar view to Thelma’s room but it looked more complete, somehow, framed by indigo satin curtains—more intimate, seen on the equal footing of the main floor as opposed to the lofty perspective of the second. She pictured what the grounds would look like in the winter, the treetops dusted with snow; how stark the view would be in the fall, when crisp air seeped through the windowpanes. “I wanted the first room to be my own. It’s a funny thing. In York House, it feels like you’re living with history—a very finicky housemate. It’s difficult to make your mark on such a place—you’re afraid to change anything at all lest it ruin the effect.” He nestled his chin in the hollow between Thelma’s neck and shoulder. “I think that’s why this old place appeals to me. It’s a blank canvas. I can make it entirely my own, exactly as I want it to be. Nothing to preserve—nothing to protect.”
Thelma leaned her head against his, thinking about Freda Dudley Ward’s influence on the living rooms; about her own bedroom, to be decorated as she liked. If the Fort was to be a reflection of David, what, exactly, did it say about him that the women in his life had such a role in building it?
* * *
Thelma returned to Arlington Place late Sunday afternoon, hoping, somewhat shamefully, that Duke would be out of the house—attending a late luncheon, perhaps, or early drinks at the club—but when Williams opened the front door he informed her that Duke was in the sitting room.
“Of course,” said Thelma, avoiding Williams’s gaze as she removed her hat. She loathed the thought of a confrontation with Duke; she wished she’d lingered at Harrods on her way home. “Let Lord Furness know that I’ll be in as soon as I’ve had a chance to change.”
She went upstairs and opened the bedroom door to find Elise sorting through her weekend valise, Thelma’s gray negligee folded over her arm.
“Haven’t you finished that yet?” said Thelma, and Elise looked up in surprise.
“I’m sorry, my lady—you only just got in, and—”
“I don’t want excuses. I need something to wear.”
Thelma sat at her vanity and Elise, her hands full of Thelma’s effects, looked down at the valise.
“Now, please,” snapped Thelma and Elise jumped as if she’d been bitten; she rushed out the door, but not before Thelma saw her hurt expression. Thelma immediately regretted her tone—Elise had been with her since New York.
Thelma unzipped the back of her day dress, letting it fall in a heap to the floor.
Would Duke know—would there be some tell, perhaps, like in a card game, to advertise Thelma’s infidelity? She looked down at her wedding ring, the overlarge diamond shining an accusation, and she twisted it around so the stone bit into the flesh of her palm.
She wondered whether she ought to admit to the affair, and hope that Duke’s blasé attitude toward his own transgressions would extend to her—but then she recalled the belated roses. Perhaps Duke would have the tact not to ask.
Thelma turned the ring back around as Elise came back in, a fresh dress draped over her arm.
“That’s fine, Elise, thank you,” said Thelma. She put the dress on and Elise tugged it straight, fussing with the hemline.
“I’ll find you the right shoes, my lady, and perhaps you might consider the pearls...”
“Elise—I’m sorry,” said Thelma.
Elise met Thelma’s gaze in the mirror, bright and guileless.
“Whatever for?” she said.
* * *
Duke stood as Thelma entered the sitting room and went to the sideboard to mix a drink. “Back, then, are you? How was the party?”
“Lovely,” said Thelma. “Gloria says hello.”
“Does she?” said Duke, as he poured her a glass of sherry. He’d turned on the radio; the six o’clock news was playing, the announcer’s voice tinny and jarring. “I’ve been thinking we ought to plan a country party of our own, up at Burrough Court. I was shooting there the other day with G—Tony’s well, by the way—and it seemed so empty. Couldn’t put a guest list together, could you? Ten or so, maybe, sometime next month?”
“Of course,” said Thelma. “I didn’t realize you went to Leicestershire. How was it?”
Duke lit a cigarette. “Last-minute plan,” he said. Late afternoon light spilled into the room; if they opened the window, Thelma knew they would be able to hear couples walking through Green Park. “Averill was there. Berated me for not coming more often—hasn’t seen either of us in a while. Dickie came down from Oxford, his term’s started. Said to say hello.”
Thelma sipped her drink. “I’m pleased to hear it,” she said. “I wrote him last week and he mentioned that his tutor was ill. Has he recovered?”
Duke frowned. “I hadn’t thought to ask,” he said, knocking ash into a chrome ashtray.
Thelma opened her cigarette case and Duke rummaged in his jacket pocket for his lighter. She leaned forward as Duke struck the flint.
Smoke rose in a thin column between them.
“Did the prince enjoy himself?” asked Duke.
Thelma held her cigarette aloft and looked out the window. “I think so,” she said, watching couples walk arm in arm along the park pathways.
“With you?”
Thelma exhaled. She knew she could avoid the question—but a lie by omission was still a lie. “Yes.”
Duke stubbed out his cigarette and eased out of his chair. He walked across the room to the radio and turned a knob. The announcer’s voice grew louder, crackling sharply across the couch cushions, the books, the paintings, the bottles.
Twenty-Four
October 10, 1934
RMS Empress of Britain
The first-class lounge was a large, opulent space with an illuminated stained-glass ceiling and overstuffed damask armchairs. A pianist, seated at a glossy Steinway, played music that muted the voices of the other passengers. Across the room, Thelma watched a trim woman in a tweed suit lean forward, raising her eyebrows as she whispered something to her dining companion; a few tables over, a couple faced the window, clasping hands on the tabletop as they watched the water.
She glanced at the empty seat across from her, thinking of David and Gloria. They did get along, the pair of them—how many people could say that about the two people they loved most? Like Reggie, David found it amusing to take Gloria and Thelma out together, one on each arm. Even at thirty, with marriage and children behind them, they could still turn heads, Thelma thought with quiet satisfaction—though recently she’d noticed a set of fine lines, thin as spider’s silk, tracing through the soft skin under her eyes.
The Woman Before Wallis Page 15
