Bertie walked across the green, his shoulders slumped. For a moment, Thelma thought he had broken into tears—but then he turned, and she could see he was lighting a cigarette.
“Should you go to him?” she whispered.
Elizabeth’s expression was inscrutable. “No,” she said. “Best leave him alone.” She marked her place in her book. “In fact, the baby’s kicking. Would you be kind enough to walk with me?”
Thelma nodded, avoiding David’s eye as she helped Elizabeth to her feet. To one side, Bertie threw his cigarette on the lawn and returned to the croquet game.
“I’m sorry,” said Thelma as they walked down the green.
“Why? It’s not your fault,” she said.
They walked along the stone rampart that separated the lower garden from the upper terrace, a sweeping lawn punctuated every few feet by decommissioned cannons on a crumbling battlement, relics from some bygone redcoat feud.
“He’s awfully hard on Bertie,” said Elizabeth. “They’re the best of friends, until something puts David out of sorts. He’s so like his father.”
Thelma glanced at Elizabeth, noting, as she had last night, how drawn the duchess looked. Under the guise of pulling a stone from her shoe Thelma sat on a nearby cannon, the iron gone red with age. Elizabeth lowered next to her with a sigh, her hand on her belly.
“I love David, but he can be so terribly self-indulgent,” she continued, staring off into the grounds. “He labors under the assumption that if Bertie—if any of his brothers—has something he doesn’t, he’s been cheated. Never mind that he’s never shown the slightest interest in wanting a family.”
Thelma’s mind turned to David’s proposal. “I think he does, one day,” she said.
“He might,” said Elizabeth, “but on his own terms. On the one hand, he wants a family, children, a wife—on the other, he wants to continue going out with his friends until all hours, flitting to Europe every month for a holiday. He’s a bit of a fantasist, I’m afraid—he wants what he can’t have. He’d live twelve different lives if he could.”
Thelma pictured twelve different Davids, living twelve different lives, sitting one inside the other like nesting dolls: in one, he had a wife, comely and gracious like Elizabeth, clutching four happy children; in another, he lived as the country gardener he always claimed to be, felling trees with a dog at his side. David as the night owl, dancing his way from club to club with a different woman for each night of the week; David as an RAF pilot, flying the fighter plane his father would never permit him to have.
And the life that superseded all the others—the one at the heart of it all—David as king.
“That’s the trouble,” she said softly. “Bertie’s got the freedom David doesn’t have. He isn’t...predetermined. Not like David. That’s what he envies.”
Elizabeth nodded; wincing, she tightened her hand over her stomach and Thelma knew the baby was kicking, turning like a butter churn. “I know he struggles,” she said. “Particularly with Papa.” She got to her feet, her palm pressed against the cannon for support as she straightened.
“David’s got his merits,” she continued, “I’m sure you’ve found them or you wouldn’t be with him, but he has a tendency toward crippling selfishness. Perhaps he thinks it’s his due—or perhaps he hasn’t found someone to help him improve upon his shortcomings. I wonder—did he tell you why Harry couldn’t join us?”
He hadn’t; Thelma hadn’t given much thought to the Duke of Gloucester’s absence, though he was the only one of David’s brothers not present.
“He had to attend an opening of a new shipyard in Clydesdale. It was David’s responsibility, originally, but he passed it off to Harry. It’s not the first time he’s shirked his duties—there’s always an excuse, some sudden illness. Bertie and I are usually the ones to pick up the slack.”
Thelma wasn’t altogether surprised. How many times had he rung her claiming that his evening engagement had been rescheduled? She only hoped Elizabeth didn’t see her as the genesis of David’s bad behavior.
They had wandered the length of the cannons and were now on the far side of the Fort, looking down on the muddy pit that, David said, would soon become the swimming pool.
“I worry about him,” said Elizabeth. “He needs someone strong by his side. Someone to help him live the life he’s got, not the one he wishes he had.”
Thelma squinted into the gray sky. “You think I should give him up?”
“Quite the contrary,” said Elizabeth. “I think you’re rather good for him. He has a heavy burden, and one can hardly blame him for wanting someone to help him carry it. Bertie and I, George and Harry—Piers, even—we all help, in what way we can, but David needs a partner.” She looked up at the Fort, its gleaming windows blanked by reflected clouds. “David’s done so very well, but I worry about him.”
* * *
Thelma and Elizabeth waited in the drawing room for the men to come in, listening for the stomp of boots as the men came to the back door. Thelma looked out the window: Bertie was still near the croquet set, another cigarette between his lips.
David opened the door, laughing. He had removed his sweater and knotted it about his shoulders, making him look as if he’d come in from punting on a river.
“I’m for the steam room, I think... Anyone care to join? Legh? George?” He set off for his bedroom, and Thelma followed.
“I want you to apologize to Bertie,” she said, once they were out of earshot.
David opened his bedroom door. “I know,” he said as Thelma walked in. “I was out of line. I always seem to be, when it comes to him.”
“It was cruel,” she said as David tugged his sweater free. “I wouldn’t be surprised if they packed up and left.”
He tossed the sweater in a corner and unbuttoned his shirt, looking up at Thelma with sudden concern. “You don’t really think they would?”
“Why? Afraid they’ll ruin your party?”
“Of course not.” David sat on the bed. “I don’t know why I fly off the handle. Not enough sleep, I suppose.”
“Whatever the reason, you were a bully.”
David winced.
“I know,” he said. He laid back on the bed, one hand beneath his head as he stared at the ceiling, eyes deep with remorse. “I feel terrible but I can’t help myself. Flaunting his marriage, his children in front of the rest of us... Perfect Bertie. He can be so frustrating...”
Thelma sat down. “So can you,” she said, more gently, as his hand found hers across the coverlet, “but you’re brothers, and you owe it to him to be kinder.”
He sat up. “You don’t really think they’d leave?”
“I wouldn’t blame them. Think of what Gloria would say if I mocked her the way you did Bertie.”
David sighed. “I suppose.” He ran his hand up her arm, kissing her neck—but Thelma stood.
“Apologize, David,” she said, and left the room.
* * *
Thelma was the last to come down for cocktails. David and Bertie were at opposite ends of the drawing room, Bertie next to Elizabeth by the fireplace, David by the phonograph, leafing through a wooden box of records. At the cocktail table, Piers and George mixed drinks, George’s idle conversation louder than usual in the absence of music.
“Gin and Dubonnet, Thelma?” said Piers. David looked up, his expression wary, and Thelma knew he hadn’t yet asked Bertie’s forgiveness.
“Whiskey and soda, please,” said Thelma. She sat next to Elizabeth. “No music tonight, David?”
David pulled a record from the box, frowning as he turned the jacket over to look at the cover.
“Did you know these are meant to be unbreakable?” he said. “I had this entire box sent from London. It says on the label they’re indestructible.” He pulled the record from its sleeve, inspecting the vinyl up close. “Remarkable,
what they can do with technology.”
Bertie puffed on his cigarette. “Well, are they?” he asked, and David looked up in surprise. “Unb-breakable. That’s a b-bold claim.”
David held Bertie’s gaze, his fingers playing with the edge of the record. Suddenly he whipped the record across the room; it whizzed through the air and hit the wall, then fell to the floor with a clatter.
George picked it up, inspecting it for signs of damage. “The record’s survived—can’t say the same for the wallpaper,” he said.
Bertie snatched the record and threw it back. David reached for it, but it veered off course, hitting a lamp on a nearby table.
The lamp teetered once, twice, then toppled from its perch and shattered to pieces.
Elizabeth gasped. Bertie looked up, horrified—but then David nudged a shard of lamp with his shoe. “I always hated that one,” he said. “One of Father’s, I think.”
“Perhaps we ought to continue this experiment outside?” said Piers.
David hefted the box of records into his arms. “I’ve a better idea.” He walked through a small, wood-paneled doorway and Thelma followed, George grabbing the bottle of gin as they tailed David up the spiral stairs of the Fort’s tower.
They came out at the top, laughing as they spilled into the cool evening air. David’s dogs were barking ecstatically at the commotion, nipping at heels and running in circles. The view was spectacular: Thelma inhaled deeply, looking out along the sloping grounds to Virginia Water. The clouds had lifted, leaving low, rolling fog along the water and the sun finally, spectacularly visible as it descended into the trees.
David set the box down and pulled out a handful of records, the lapels of his jacket lifting in the wind.
“Ten pounds to the first person to break one?” suggested George, as David handed him a record. He tossed his record like a discus and it spiraled into the empty air, catching on an updraft before arcing slowly toward the ground.
“You’re not giving it enough force,” said Elizabeth. She went to the edge of the tower and whipped her record straight down; Thelma ran over, watching the record’s progress as it knocked against the side of the tower and shattered on the flagstones below.
They all cheered.
“Ten pounds to Elizabeth!” shouted David.
“You’ll have to write to the record label—false advertising!” said Piers, and he threw his record, not bothering to watch its progress as he reached for more.
David took a stack in his arms and threw them one by one. They watched, laughing, as the records caught the light, gleaming leaves in autumn, before falling to earth.
Thirty-Two
November 1930
London
Thelma walked out of her flat, nodding to the doorman as she stepped onto the sidewalk. Across the road, gray branches formed a latticework canopy above Grosvenor Square; though still early in the day, people wandered through the park, shoulders rounded against the chill. She crossed the street, quickening her pace as she made her way toward Claridge’s Hotel.
Seven months had passed since Thelma had left Duke, and the freedom afforded by having her own apartment had fundamentally changed the nature of her relationship with David. The move served, for all intents and purposes, as a public declaration: whereas before, Thelma had to be content with the few hours David could spare between his royal duties, now she was hosting dinner parties on his behalf.
The weekends, David insisted, were to be spent out of the city. Nearly every Friday night, Thelma met David at Fort Belvedere or Burrough Court, which Duke continued to let Thelma use when he was away. As promised, Duke hadn’t fallen out of Thelma’s life completely. They met for luncheon and telephoned most weeks to discuss the houses and the children.
Thelma and Averill, too, had patched up their differences. Now that Thelma had moved out of Arlington Place, Averill had withdrawn her opposition to David. She had even agreed to be at Burrough Court for a weekend party, where Thelma was hosting David and George for the Belvoir Hunt.
The party was, Thelma supposed, the reason Consuelo had asked her to lunch. Though Thelma and David were, for all intents and purposes, a couple, appearances had to be maintained: accordingly, Consuelo and Benny had agreed to chaperone the weekend, as they had done at Three Gables over a year ago.
Thelma stepped into Claridge’s, crossing the checkerboard lobby into the foyer.
Consuelo was at a table near the entrance, dressed in a tweed suit and matching hat, a tiered tea tray in front of her.
“I ordered already. I hope you don’t mind,” she said. “I can’t stay long.”
Thelma sat, and Consuelo poured her a cup of tea. “How are you?” asked Thelma.
Consuelo transferred a tea sandwich onto her plate. “Bad news first, I’m afraid. Benny’s mother is ill,” she said. “I’ve got to go to Paris tomorrow to take care of her.”
“Tomorrow? For how long?” said Thelma.
“As long as I’m needed,” said Consuelo. She finished the sandwich and dabbed at her lips with a cream-colored napkin. “Benny can still come—he’s in the midst of some entanglement at the embassy and doesn’t dare leave the country until it’s finished. But he’s so anxious about her, I know it would be a comfort if I were to go.”
“I understand, of course I do—but that does leave me in a fix,” said Thelma. “Where will I find another couple on such short notice?”
“I’ve already thought of someone,” said Consuelo. “You recall Maud Kerr-Smiley?”
Thelma did: Maud was a friend of Lady Sarah’s. A bit austere, but gracious enough on the few occasions that Thelma had met her.
“Her brother and his wife have become friends. She’s American—he pretends not to be, but everyone knows he was born in New York.” Consuelo smirked. “They’ve lived here nearly two years but I only got to know them a few months ago. Maud tells me they’re looking to make friends. I’ve lunched with the wife. You’ll like her, I think. They’d be happy to take my place. I can’t imagine they’ve any other engagements.”
Thelma hesitated. “I don’t know,” she said. “David can be so particular about strangers.”
“I know it’s not ideal but it’s the best I can do,” replied Consuelo. “They’ll be fine—Ernest Simpson is terrifically dull, but you can count on him not making a scene. As for Wallis...well, I’ll let you draw your own conclusions. I really do think you’ll get along.”
Thelma hesitated a moment longer, then reached into her handbag for her address book. Consuelo wrote down the number for the Simpsons, who, when Thelma telephoned later that afternoon, said they’d be delighted to join.
* * *
David fiddled with his tie in Thelma’s dressing room, inspecting the red silk against the gray check of his unbuttoned waistcoat.
“I live in suits,” he grumbled, frowning at his reflection in the mirror.
David was in a black mood. Thelma had arrived at Burrough Court on Thursday, and while David had planned to join her Friday morning, an impromptu summons from Buckingham Palace had pushed back his departure to noon. To David, Thelma knew that the delay alone was reason enough to frown, but his meeting with the king had pushed him even further into a sulk.
“But you look so handsome in them,” said Thelma. She resisted the temptation to look at her watch: they were twenty minutes late for tea at Craven Lodge Club, but she knew better than to say so. She pulled at the clasp of a pearl bracelet, attempting to look busy while David finished dressing.
He grunted, pulling the knot of his tie apart. “Who are these people you invited?” he said, letting the tie fall to the floor. His valet stooped to catch it before handing him a different one.
“The Simpsons. They’re friends of Consuelo’s. Americans—Connie tells me they’re good fun.”
David passed the second tie back to the valet with an irritable shake o
f his head. He looked over the drawer of ties and pocket scarves the valet had brought in, indicating the one he wanted with a flick of his wrist. “And I suppose you’ll want me to be charming to them, do you?”
“What do you mean by that?”
The valet gave David the tie and he fashioned an asymmetrical knot, over under.
“Nothing,” he said. He folded his collar down and fastened the buttons of his waistcoat.
“David, please,” said Thelma. “They’re friends of Consuelo’s.”
David put on his jacket and Thelma tucked the pocket square into his breast pocket, smoothing the lapels of his jacket. Craven Lodge Club wasn’t far away; if they left in five minutes and stayed for forty, they would be back by the time the Simpsons’ train came in. She hoped David and George weren’t feeling too chatty—she didn’t want the Simpsons to feel snubbed. Thankfully, Averill was here: if they didn’t get back on time, she could keep them entertained.
“I just don’t see why you had to invite strangers,” said David as they walked down to the car. The sky was a deepening blue-gray, clouds rolling heavy over dull fields. Before getting into the car, David lit a cigarette, its glowing end the only spot of color in the drab landscape. “I’ve had an exhausting week—has anyone ever heard of the Simpsons? I doubt anyone we know has even met them.”
“They’re friends of Consuelo’s,” Thelma repeated as David settled beside her. He let out a breath, filling the back of the car with smoke. “Do you really think Consuelo would send boring people?”
David shrugged as the car pulled out of the drive. “I wouldn’t know,” he said. “What’s to say they’re not here to...”
“To what?”
“To gawk,” he said. He looked away, his face sharp in profile as he stared out at the passing hedgerows. “It happens all the time, you know. Hangers-on. Social climbers.”
“That’s not fair. You’re being terribly snobbish,” Thelma replied.
The Woman Before Wallis Page 22
