After her rental on Three Gables ended Gloria had hoped to stay on in London but there had been some complication or other that had sent her back to the States. Thelma pursed her lips, attempting to recall...she had been called back to New York to discuss Little Gloria’s education with the Surrogates—of course that was it.
If Thelma had chosen to let Tony muddle along with a piecemeal education, no one would have stopped her from doing so. It was her right as a mother, to choose how to raise her son. Gloria hadn’t proposed anything nearly so drastic: she’d planned to enroll Little Gloria in a French boarding school. But the Surrogates, as usual, had had their own ideas.
Gloria had managed to convince them to allow her to remain in Europe for another year, and quietly began to explore the possibility of taking full guardianship over Little Gloria’s estate. She was of age, after all, and the Surrogacy had only been intended as a stopgap until Gloria turned twenty-one. If Gloria had managed to secure control over Little Gloria’s estate, she would have had full authority over her daughter’s life, just the same as any other mother in America. She would never have been subjected to the tyranny by council that had led to this courtroom farce.
The pair of women across from Thelma burst into laughter. They quietened immediately, stifling their smiles as they dabbed their mouths with napkins. The one in the tweed suit scanned the room and met Thelma’s eye; her smile broadened further as she turned back to her companion.
Mamma should have let Gloria marry Friedel.
She had destroyed Gloria’s chance at happiness—she would have done anything to preserve her own brittle grip on her granddaughter’s kingdom, would have driven away any of Gloria’s suitors, European or American alike. With Nada, at least, there was no question of marriage, nor of Nada influencing Little Gloria’s inheritance. Nor was there much of a question of scandal, in the right circles—half the aristocracy, Thelma knew, carried on extramarital affairs, many of them homosexual, including David’s brother George. It was only here, under these circumstances, that the friendship between Gloria and Nada was seen as abhorrent.
Thelma looked out at the sea, iron waves churning endlessly, and wondered whether Nada would come to Gloria’s aid. Come to America and deny it all, she thought, sending her plea back across the water. Hold her hand in private but deny it all for Gloria’s sake. For your own.
Thelma left the lounge and walked down the narrow hallway toward her stateroom.
She rounded a corner and bumped into Harry, who slumped back against the wall.
“I’m sorry,” said Thelma. The collision had brought on a bout of tremors, and Thelma held his arm as he shuddered into stillness.
Thelma never felt entirely at ease with Harry: they didn’t share the same easy camaraderie that Thelma had with Consuelo, nor the intense intimacy she had with Gloria. Throughout her childhood, Harry had been largely absent: away at boarding school, training for a career in the diplomatic services like Papa. Perhaps they might have gotten closer but for the war, which had left Harry with permanent nerve damage. It grated on him, she knew, to be so affected by his injuries. It was the reason he refused to accept weekend invitations.
“I was just going to my rooms,” said Thelma.
“Yes, I know—I was looking for you.”
“Would you like to come in?”
“Thank you, but no,” he said. “I’m meeting Edith for a turn around the deck, but wanted to stop in on my way. I met someone on board with an interest in the case.”
“Not a reporter?”
Harry shook his head as Thelma opened the door to her berth. “An attorney,” he said. “Nada sent him. He’s asked if we’ll meet him after dinner.”
Thelma’s heart lifted. “Really? I knew she was sending someone but didn’t dream he was on the same boat. Did you tell him to meet us here? Best to keep these things private.” She smiled. “Did he say whether Nada’s coming?”
“He didn’t,” said Harry. “I really must run, Edith will be waiting. Eight o’clock? I think...” He paused. “I think he might be useful.”
Thelma unpinned her hat. The news had given her renewed hope: Gloria wouldn’t be fighting alone. She thought of Nada’s spirited demeanor and smiled. “If Nada sent him,” she said, “he’s bound to be.”
Twenty-Five
November 1929
York House
Thelma’s motorcar pulled up outside York House, chill rain streaming in heavy curtains from the overhanging arches of the portico. She straightened her hat as Finch, David’s butler, emerged in the gloom, his breath clouding in the cold.
She stepped out of the car and ducked under his umbrella. “Good afternoon, Lady Furness,” he said.
Thelma had come to York House at David’s invitation so many times now that she knew his apartment blindfolded. She needed no assistance from Finch as she walked the familiar route past the palace’s formal rooms to its cozy private quarters, toward the sound of the perpetually playing gramophone.
She found David immersed in a book at his desk, the wordless peace of a classical record playing softly in the background. He was dressed in dark bagged trousers and a cable-knit sweater over a collared shirt and cravat. Surrounded by stacks of paper at the desk, he looked like a student at Cambridge aiming for a first.
“Goodness,” she said. David looked up, folding down the edge of his page. “I can see why you telephoned—you must be bored to tears. What are you reading?”
“A biography of Charles Lindbergh. Rather a good read, actually.” He stood. “How are you, darling?”
“I’m well. What happened to your appointment?” asked Thelma, and David moved to sit next to her on the couch. “I didn’t expect to see you.”
“An outbreak of typhoid. I was meant to be opening a new hospital wing,” he murmured, his lips brushing against her neck. “Didn’t want to risk it. Can’t say I’m sorry...” He crept a hand up Thelma’s front.
There was a knock at the door and David started, cursing.
“What? What? Blast it, man—the bloody nerve, damn it!”
Thelma giggled, lifting a hand to her mouth to hide her amusement. In his fury, the prince looked like a terrier.
“Terribly sorry, sir,” said Finch. “But it’s Mrs. Dudley Ward on the telephone. You were most clear in your instructions, sir, to put her calls through—”
David’s anger melted. He went to the desk, nearly knocking over a side table as he picked up the telephone.
“Freddie?... Yes, it got canceled. Thankfully. You know how much I loathe... What? Yes, I am.” He gripped the receiver and glanced at Thelma. “No, as a matter of fact, I’m—yes. Yes, exactly.” He listened. “Of course. Jolly good. Yes, I will. Shall we say three o’ clock? Good. Righto, see you soon.” He hung up and smoothed back his hair.
“That was Freddie,” he said, circling back to the couch. He grabbed a gold cigarette case on the coffee table and flipped it open. “She’s going to come for tea in an hour.” He lit a cigarette, avoiding Thelma’s eye. “She’s awfully keen to meet you, I hope you don’t mind.”
“Of course,” said Thelma, who was curious herself.
“Good,” he said. “I hope you like her. She’s—” He stopped, his ear cocked. The record had shifted into a slow, mournful song, a string-and-piano combination, and he shook his head. He pulled the record off, tossing it aside to hit the baseboard with a thud. “She hates this sort of music,” he murmured, and bent down to search through a collection of records on the bottommost shelf of a bookcase. “Prefers more modern stuff...so do I, truth be told...”
“David, she’s not coming for an hour,” said Thelma. “Why change the record now?”
“So I don’t forget,” he replied, his cigarette clamped between his teeth.
Of course, David would know the sort of music that Freda Dudley Ward enjoyed. Freda, no doubt, also knew the path
to David’s drawing room blindfolded—and to other rooms besides.
Thelma wrapped her arms around his waist, kissing the back of his neck.
“If Freddie isn’t coming for ages,” she said, “I think we might find a better way to pass the time.”
David stilled. “Oh?” He turned; she trailed her fingers down his shoulders, her hand coming to rest in his. She nodded and he pulled her out of the drawing room, down the hallway and into his bedroom—where, for a short while, Thelma knew she could put Mrs. Freda Dudley Ward out of David’s mind entirely.
* * *
When they returned to the drawing room the butler had turned the record over and set up the bar, crystal decanters and chrome shakers lined up like chess pieces behind rock glass pawns. David walked to the window, resting a hand on one of the decanters as he stared out, though Thelma wasn’t sure what he hoped to see: rain continued to fall in thick sheets. He moved to the fireplace, then back to the window, his hands clasped behind his back.
“You’ll wear a hole in the floor,” said Thelma. “Stop worrying.”
He exhaled. “I hope you will—it’s just—you both mean so very much to me. I don’t think I could stand it if you didn’t get on.”
Thelma smiled. She would make an effort with Mrs. Dudley Ward, for David’s sake—but she worried about the influence that Freda had already wielded over the afternoon, without even being present.
David looked up at the sound of footsteps.
A small woman walked into the room, preceded by Finch who announced her. Freda Dudley Ward, however, needed no introduction: her familiarity with York House was obvious in the way she dropped her handbag on David’s desk and swept into a perfunctory curtsy, rising with an amused expression on her face.
“Your Royal Highness,” she said.
David stuffed his hands in his trouser pockets. “Come now, Freddie, let’s not stand on ceremony.” Mrs. Dudley Ward rose and kissed his cheek, resting her hands on his shoulders.
Though Thelma had seen Freda Dudley Ward at a distance many times before, she was struck, up close, by her delicate beauty: she had extremely fine features, as if they’d been drawn on the head of a pin. Even standing next to David, Mrs. Dudley Ward was small. She looked proportionate to his slender figure in a way that most women, with their heels and hats, their bulky shawls, did not.
“David,” she said. “I’m so glad you could make time for me on such short notice. How are you? Have you been eating?”
David guided Mrs. Dudley Ward toward Thelma. “Freddie, I’d like to introduce you to Lady Thelma Furness.”
Thelma hadn’t expected to find warmth in Mrs. Dudley Ward’s smile. “Lady Furness, I’m so pleased to meet you. David speaks of nothing else these days.”
Thelma inclined her head. “Good things, I hope. Shall we?” She and Mrs. Dudley Ward sat down as David went to the bar.
“Cocktails, at this hour... David, have you ordered tea? You’re looking peaky, I do hope you ate breakfast. Finch,” she said, raising her voice for the butler, “A tea tray, please, with a plate of sandwiches. I don’t know whether you’ve noticed, Lady Furness,” she said to Thelma in a confidential tone, “David eats like a bird. I’ve seen him go an entire day on nothing more than an apple. He’ll collapse of exhaustion if he’s not careful.”
“Any collapse would be purely the result of my public duties, not my diet,” said David, handing martinis to them both. “I’m fit as a fiddle. I do my—”
“Your exercises every morning, yes,” She winked and his smile broadened in the light of her approval. “Lady Furness, David tells me you visited his work-in-progress in the countryside.”
“From what David tells me, it’s as much your work as it is his,” said Thelma.
Mrs. Dudley Ward waved off Thelma’s compliment. “I provided a few small suggestions—it’s all him, really. But Lady Furness, I hear you’ll be making a few changes there yourself. How exciting. Thank you, Finch,” she added as the butler returned. “David, please have a sandwich. For me.”
Mrs. Dudley Ward leaned forward to take a sandwich from the tea tray and David leaned back in his chair as if in response, their movements an unconscious dance—a muscle memory born of years of intimacy. Thelma was struck: she had expected familiarity between them, but Mrs. Dudley Ward’s complete and utter comfort in David’s world was unsettling.
“David tells me you’re American?” Mrs. Dudley Ward was saying.
“American and Chilean, Mrs. Dudley Ward.”
“Call me Freddie, please,” she responded.
“Thelma has a son, and an estate in Leicestershire,” said David. He sank back into his chair and smiled at Thelma.
“Perhaps you know my sister Consuelo Thaw?” asked Thelma.
“I’ve not yet had the pleasure, but I’ve heard of Gloria—she’s become a dear friend of Lady Milford Haven’s, hasn’t she?”
“Thelma’s sister was kind enough to have us stay with her in the country sometime ago. I look forward to returning the favor,” said David. “And Mr. and Mrs. Thaw will be joining us in London in the New Year—Benny’s taken a position with the American embassy.”
“Has he?” said Freda. She sipped her cocktail. “The entire family. How charming.”
The telephone rang once more and the butler came in. “Major Metcalfe, sir,” he said, “asking for a moment of your time.”
David stood. “I’ll take the call in the library, I think.” He strode out of the room. “Won’t be a minute.”
“He seems very taken with you,” said Freda, after the door clicked shut. “I must say, I’ve not seen him smile like that in a long time.”
“Quite simple, really,” replied Thelma, with more edge than she’d intended. “Just a matter of knowing how to make him smile.”
Freda laughed—a low, soft noise, delicate and deliberate. “I’ve upset you,” she said, setting down her drink.
“I don’t know what you mean,” said Thelma.
Freda raised her eyebrow. “Of course you do,” she said. “David and I... We’ve known each other a long time. We were practically children, then.” She folded her hands in her lap. “He proposed to me once—did he tell you that? I turned him down.”
Thelma let out a breath and looked up at the portrait above the mantel: David’s mother, resplendent in her court dress.
“He’s not an easy man to love. The pressure of his station weighs so heavily on him...and his temperament.” Freda raised her eyebrows. “And then there were the implications for me. What sort of life would it be, being married to a king?”
“And you were already married,” said Thelma.
“Yes. I was,” said Freda. She touched the soft gold of her wedding ring, a slight smile playing on her lips. “I’m not telling you this to upset you, or to put you off, but to give you a better idea of where David and I stand. I love David—I always will—but I couldn’t sacrifice my own happiness for his.” She sat back. “So, you see. You’ve nothing to worry about on my account.”
Twenty-Six
Christmas 1929
Burrough Court
Thelma removed her overcoat, feeling a childish sort of pleasure at seeing Burrough Court’s front hall decorated for Christmas—Averill’s doing, no doubt, she thought, brushing a hand against a pine bough adorning the staircase. Cedar garlands hung from the chandeliers, spicing the room with a woodsy perfume; on side tables, nestled amid pine cones and dried pomegranates and oranges, stood white taper candles, unlit but ready to suffuse the foyer with a soft glow.
Webb, Burrough Court’s ancient butler, took Thelma’s coat, sodden around the hem from the slushy rainfall. “Miserable weather, this, my lady, miserable...”
“Is Averill in?” asked Thelma.
“She’s in the stables with Rattray,” said Webb. Several weeks ago, Duke had returned from a Kenyan safari wit
h two wild zebra foals, hoping they could be trained to pull Averill’s pony trap. He’d convinced Andrew Rattray, his white hunter, to come to Burrough Court to break the creatures in properly; to no one’s surprise, Averill had taken to the project immediately.
She passed the butler her gloves. “And Tony?”
“He’s in the nursery, ma’am. I believe he’s woken from his nap.”
Thelma went upstairs to find Tony in his nurse’s arms, grizzling for a bottle. The nurse obliged, nudging a bottle of milk gently between the child’s lips, singing a nursery rhyme under her breath.
“He’s gotten so big,” said Thelma.
“My lady! We didn’t expect you until this afternoon,” said the nurse. “I’d hoped to have him all fed and rested for a visit at teatime.”
Thelma smiled at Tony, who was gripping the glass bottle with pudgy fingers. The nurse held him out but Thelma stepped back.
“I wouldn’t want to interrupt,” she said, thinking of the mess he might make of her dress, but she watched him nonetheless, admiring the subtle changes since she’d seen him a month ago.
“He’ll be livelier in a few hours, my lady,” said the nurse. She set the bottle on the nursery table and hugged Tony to her chest, patting his back. He blinked heavily, twice, three times.
“Did you receive my parcel?” said Thelma, thinking of the new clothing she had sent last week: sailor suits and pajamas with sewn-in feet.
“Indeed, we did, ma’am. They’re a bit too big, but he’ll grow into them soon enough.”
Tony burped and the nurse wiped his mouth; he scrunched his face in a look of intense concentration and nurse laughed as the room began to smell.
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