“I’ll take care of this, my lady,” she said.
Thelma slipped out the door. Though she tried to come to Burrough Court frequently, she worried she didn’t see Tony as often as she should—surely she should have known the clothes would be too big for a nine-month-old? But the constraints on her time—particularly now—meant that she was in London more than she anticipated.
She wandered back downstairs, admiring Averill’s handiwork. Nearly every room had received its share of Christmas decorations: sprigs of holly and hothouse flowers adorned almost every surface, tables and mantels creaking under the weight of greenery. Thelma paused in the drawing room. For the last four years they had opened presents under a magnificent Christmas tree decorated with electric lights and colored ornaments, but this year presents sat in a pile by the fireplace. Had Averill moved the tree? She did a second circuit of the rooms.
* * *
Thelma hoped that Averill might have come in from the stables during her visit to the nursery, but the house was quiet. She changed into Wellington boots and an old mackintosh of Duke’s at the back door and made her way toward the stables.
Though Thelma wasn’t much of a rider she appreciated the stables at Burrough Court as a masterpiece of overengineering. With a footprint nearly as sprawling as that of the main house, the stables had stalls enough for an entire cavalry, paved with level flagstones hidden beneath trampled hay and sawdust. Horses nickered as she passed, hoping, no doubt, for attention, but Thelma ignored them and walked through to the training ring.
In the center of the ring, Averill held a long rope attached to a zebra’s halter. Beside her, a man in a dust-covered khaki shirt—Rattray—watched the zebra’s progress, his fingers wrapped around a long leather riding crop. Afraid of breaking Averill’s concentration, Thelma didn’t call out. She rested her elbows on the top of the gate and watched the zebra thunder past.
Small and bow-backed compared to the Arabian horses Averill kept in the stables, the zebra put up a fight, straining against the halter, running as far as the length of lead would let him. Averill pulled on the lead and the zebra reared, whickering in protest, but Averill stood her ground. She yanked on the rope and the zebra dropped its head, kicking up a cloud of dust from the sawdust-strewn floor.
“Good lass,” said Rattray. He tucked the crop beneath his arm as Averill, cheeks flushed, passed him the lead. Thelma couldn’t hear what he said but Averill laughed, the sound ringing off the rafters. Though she was as dusty as the zebra itself, Averill seemed to shine. She was in her element: entirely unguarded, completely at ease.
“Averill!”
Averill looked up, her expression cooling as she began to jog to the edge of the training ring. Rattray nudged the zebra’s hindquarters with the end of the crop and it started trotting.
“Good afternoon,” said Averill. She took off her gloves, looking down as she shook dust out of her newly bobbed hair.
Thelma nodded at Rattray. “Is that whip really necessary?”
“Have you ever been kicked by a zebra?” said Averill. “Rattray’s seen them trample lions to death. Why are you here so early? I didn’t expect you for another hour.”
“I was able to sneak out on an earlier train. I thought we might have tea before the men arrive, what do you think?”
Averill hesitated. “I was hoping to spend the afternoon here,” she said. “We’re only halfway through this zebra’s paces, and then we really ought to take some time with the other...”
“Oh—of course.” Thelma tapped the edge of the training ring. “How are they getting along? That one looks magnificent.”
“They’re fine. Rattray’s been wonderful. We’re hoping to have them pulling the coach in a month or so.”
Behind her, Rattray had brought the zebra back up to a trot, flicking at its hooves with the whip. “Will he return to Africa once he’s done?”
“I suppose so.”
She didn’t elaborate. Something as exciting as horse-breaking ought to have provoked an uninterrupted stream of conversation from Averill, but she was quiet—almost sullen—as she watched the slush fall from the stable windows.
‘You’ve done a magnificent job with the decorations,” Thelma tried. “Really, the house looks wonderful. Thank you so much for taking it all on, I’m so pleased—”
“Mum used to do the Christmas decorations. I just copied what she would have done,” said Averill. “Can we talk later? Rattray looks ready to get back to it...”
“Oh—of course,” said Thelma but Averill had already begun to jog away.
* * *
Duke arrived later that afternoon with Dickie in tow, the pair of them identical in long overcoats and hats.
“Ho, ho, ho,” said Dickie, unfurling a scarf from around his neck. Averill ran into his arms and he wrapped her in a hug that lifted her off her feet. “Miss me?” he said.
Averill laced her hand through Dickie’s and led him through to the sitting room. “You’ll be glad to know you’ve already gotten me a Christmas present, I couldn’t count on you choosing the right one yourself. It’s in your room...”
“Terrible ride up from London,” said Duke, handing his hat to Webb. “The rails were nearly washed out with all this sleet.”
“Sunshine tomorrow, perhaps?” said Thelma.
“Perhaps.”
“Averill’s been working with the zebras,” said Thelma. “She was in the stables all afternoon.”
“Was she?” said Duke. “I’m glad to hear she’s taking an interest.”
“Rattray’s been good to let her help. She needed a project.”
“I was thinking Rattray might join us for dinner,” said Duke. “We’ve not got anyone coming, do we? He’s an interesting fellow.”
“I’ll ask Webb to set him a place.”
Duke cleared his throat. “Good. Tell Nurse to bring Tony down for tea, would you? Must go change.”
* * *
When Rattray came in for dinner, Duke welcomed him as an old friend.
“We’ve hunted together—oh, ten years, now?” said Duke. It was a quiet dinner, by Burrough Court standards. Most evenings they were joined by friends and fellow fox hunters—tomorrow, Thelma’s family would descend upon the house—but this evening the dining room felt empty. The five of them—Duke and Thelma, Averill and Dickie and Rattray, wearing a well-worn suit—sat in the middle of the long table.
“Ten years, maybe more,” said Rattray. He was a slender Scotsman with a trim mustache and sun-seasoned cheeks. Though not quite as old as Duke, he’d amassed a fine collection of lines around his eyes: the result, no doubt, of squinting through binoculars. “Since the war, no?”
“He’s the finest white hunter I’ve had the pleasure of working with,” said Duke, raising his glass.
Rattray reddened. “That’s very kind of you to say, Lord Furness,” he replied.
“It’s true,” said Duke. “I never want for a thing when I’m on safari with you. Guns, food, wine...”
Rattray tugged at his collar. How often did he wear black tie in the Serengeti? Thelma disapproved of Duke’s insistence on having Rattray dine with them: he would be more comfortable, surely, eating with the help, rather than sitting up here as some sort of oddity.
Dickie leaned back as Webb filled his wineglass. “Tell me, Rattray, how did you come into your line of work?”
He shrugged, resting a wiry arm on the table. “I suppose by chance,” he said, with an air that suggested to Thelma he’d told this story many times before. “I grew up with nine brothers. There was never enough space for us all on the farm, so I suppose that gave me a restless side. I served in South Africa during the Boer War, and fell in love with the continent. Knocked about a bit afterward, made a living breaking horses here and there, but I was posted to Kenya during the Great War and stayed.”
“I’ve always
wanted to go to Africa,” said Averill. “Father keeps promising to take us.”
“I hope you do,” said Rattray. “It’s a profound place.”
“If I were to go, I suppose you’d be our guide?”
Rattray smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “I suppose so, my lady,” he said.
Averill glanced at Rattray, her expression almost daring. Really, thought Thelma, it was unkind of her to tease him.
“Tell me, Rattray,” she said. “How long do you plan to stay in England?”
Rattray shrugged. “As long as it takes to break in the zebras—assuming, that is, they take to being broken,” he said. “Not all of them do, as I warned you, Lord Furness.”
“Is there anything you can do to increase the odds?” said Dickie.
“Be consistent,” Rattray replied. “I’ve done it before, but failed half as many times as I’ve succeeded. They’re wild animals—can be very aggressive when they feel threatened. Building trust is the key.” He nodded at Averill. “I’m lucky to have such a competent horsewoman helping me.”
“She’s certainly that,” said Duke, and Averill beamed.
“Do you plan to visit home while you’re here?” said Thelma.
Rattray set down his glass. “Perthshire?” he said. “I doubt it. I’ve not been back since my father died. Ten—twelve?—years ago.”
Thelma recalled the light at Glen Affric, and the long, slow days spent by the loch when she and Duke were first engaged. What might have happened to Rattray, had he not given in to his restless side? He might have ended up a banker: she could picture him behind a brass screen at an Edinburgh bank, his worn khaki replaced by a crisp suit, holding a check to the light to inspect for a watermark.
“Do you miss it?” she asked, her tone softer than before.
Rattray considered. “The thing I used to resent as a boy were the walls,” he said. “We lived in a small farmhouse—too cold in the winter, too warm in the summer. Damp, always damp. Oh, you could go outside, breathe the fresh air, but it was always for a purpose—muck out the stables, collect the eggs.” He winked at Averill. “Now, don’t go thinking, my lady, that I resent a bit of hard work—but in Kenya it’s my work. I’ve space there, and friendships. It’s modest enough, but it’s all I need.” He looked at the stag’s head, hung in place of pride over the head of the table. “Kenya’s my home. It has my heart—one day it will have my bones.”
* * *
After dinner, they moved into the drawing room. Someone had set a roaring fire in the hearth, and Rattray knelt to add another log.
“I’d rather hoped you and I could go sledging tomorrow, Averill, but I think we might be in for a green Christmas,” said Dickie.
Averill looked out the windows onto the dark ground. “A gray one, more like,” she said. “Coffee, Rattray?”
“We’ll find other ways to keep busy,” said Duke. He took Averill’s offered cup and passed it to Thelma. “Perhaps a ride, if the ground isn’t too soft.”
“You ought to find a tree,” said Thelma, balancing the cup and saucer on her knee. “Averill’s done such a lovely job decorating but we’re missing the tree. Tony would love the ornaments.”
“Mamma didn’t like having one in the house—not after the war,” said Averill, pouring another cup. “She thought they were a German tradition. Said she felt disloyal, having one in the parlor. We only started doing them again for your benefit.”
Though Averill’s tone had been light enough, Thelma felt the edge. “They’re an American tradition as well,” she said. “I’ve had one my whole life.”
Averill leaned against the sideboard, smiling. “Well,” she said quietly. “We know how all things American are in vogue these days.”
Thelma blushed. She looked at Duke, who was staring intently at his coffee cup; beside him, Dickie’s perpetual smile faltered. Rattray placed another log on the fire, sparks hissing up the chimney.
“Particularly among high society,” Averill continued, her tone hardening. “Why, I’m told the Prince of Wales admires just about anything American. Cars, music, even women—”
“That’s enough, Averill,” said Duke. He stared into the fire, his expression clouded.
“But surely you should put up a tree,” said Rattray. He straightened, the joints in his knees cracking as he stood. “We put them up in Kenya, even, at the Mugaitha Club. It isn’t Christmas without a tree, really, is it?”
His words fell heavily on the quiet room and he glanced at Thelma, pity in his smile. Was that it, then? Rattray, the only one willing to stand up for her?
Dickie cleared his throat. “Webb, I think I’ll have a splash more, if it’s not too much trouble,” he said quietly, and the butler came forward with a bottle of port, wine splashing up the sides of the glass as it filled.
Twenty-Seven
With its wide windows and cream-colored walls, the morning room at Burrough Court was Thelma’s favorite, better suited to the summer months but pleasant in December nonetheless. With plaid blankets on the backs of all the chairs and a fire in the grate, the light streaming through the fogged windows was gentler than Thelma expected, the fields beyond looking a little less cold.
Gloria was at the chess table, its ivory playing pieces replaced by magazines and small boxes, a pair of small scissors and a pot of glue resting on a linen napkin. She and Mamma had arrived on the first train from King’s Cross along with Little Gloria and Kieslich, now ensconced in the nursery with Tony. Mamma, in an armchair by the fire, read a cloth-bound book; Thelma didn’t need to look at the worn spine to know it was an anthology of Napoleon Bonaparte’s correspondences, the pages well-thumbed over years of perusal.
Thelma joined Gloria and picked up a half-cut-out illustration of a rose. “What’s this?” she said.
“Decoupage,” said Gloria. She took the rose from Thelma and finished cutting it out. “Nada taught me. I’m decorating cigarette boxes as Christmas gifts.” She affixed the rose to the top of one of the boxes with a swipe of glue.
“Very clever,” said Thelma. Gloria had finished two already: a mahogany box pasted with flowers that curled down the sides and under the base; one with a magnificent geometric starburst in shades of yellow.
“It’s a wonderful hobby,” said Gloria. “Very relaxing. I’ve got all sorts of different designs—horses for Averill, steamships for Duke. It’s not that difficult. Cutting the pictures is the tricky part.”
From her seat by the fire, Mamma huffed. “You ought to give proper gifts, not handicrafts. I hope you aren’t sending one to Mrs. Vanderbilt.”
“Oh, you don’t know the first thing about it,” said Gloria. “Everyone loves my gifts.”
“They’re unsuitable,” said Mamma. “You’re the mother of an heiress. If you don’t give proper presents, people will talk.”
Gloria shook her head “I can’t win, can I?” she said. “Either I’m spending Little Gloria’s inheritance recklessly, or else I’m too tightfisted. What should I do, Mother? Spend her money on presents instead of food?”
“Don’t be childish. It isn’t your money to spend. You’re giving these gifts on behalf of your daughter. What will they think, if you can’t afford to give nice things? It makes sense, to give proper presents to the people who care for her.”
“Ignore her,” said Gloria. “She’s sulking because I rented a new house in Paris. A house with fewer bedrooms,” she continued, raising her voice, “Not enough space for you, Mamma—but that’s an economy, isn’t it? I’m saving Little Gloria’s money.”
“And yet, you always have room for friends,” said Mamma. “I don’t approve of you using her inheritance to host parties—but a few gifts here and there, an investment—”
Thelma smirked. Mamma would have spent Little Gloria’s inheritance ten times over, if she’d had the chance.
“I ought to enjoy t
he parties while they last, Mamma,” said Gloria. “The Surrogates want me to return to New York for Gloria’s school year. After I signed a three-year lease in Paris, no less.”
“Can’t you put them off until the lease ends?” asked Thelma. “Surely she could attend an academy in Paris.”
“I’ve already tried to persuade them,” said Gloria, “but they feel that, as an American—”
“She ought to have an American education. And I quite agree,” said Mamma. She set down her book, saving her place between the pages with her finger. “It’s a better schooling system.”
“You’ve changed your tune,” said Thelma. “When we were young you had us at schools in London, Paris, Switzerland...”
“I couldn’t afford to send you to America,” said Mamma. “Not on your father’s salary. And then the war...”
“All the same,” said Gloria, “I don’t understand why Little Gloria wouldn’t benefit from an education in Paris.”
Mamma pointed at her. “You want to stay in Europe for your friends.”
“Of course I do,” said Gloria, without missing a beat. “Why wouldn’t I? My life is here—my friends are here. I don’t want to go to New York and be Reggie’s widow again.”
“It’s not your life that matters,” said Mamma. “She is a Vanderbilt. She should be treated like one—not living in the attic of a rat-filled flat in Paris—”
“Rats,” scoffed Gloria, pressing a paper doll onto another box.
“And how would you know there aren’t any rats in the nursery? You never go there!” said Mamma.
Gloria brushed glue onto the lid. “You know, Mamma, I don’t think it would be healthy to move. In America, Gloria will be treated differently for being a Vanderbilt.”
“Of course she should be treated differently,” said Mamma. “She’s wealthy—she has an American pedigree—”
The Woman Before Wallis Page 17
