“Aren’t I allowed to be? I spend all my days meeting strangers, shaking hands...is it too much to ask that I spend my weekends with friends?”
Thelma ought to have expected this. David did well when things went according to plan, but he loathed surprises. “You might make new friends,” she said.
“I don’t want new friends.” He reached across the seat and put his hand on Thelma’s thigh. She considered slapping it away—it would serve him right—but he moved closer. “I want to be alone. With you.”
The motorcar turned onto a laneway flanked by brick pillars and a modest wrought-iron gate. He kissed her neck, his breath warm against her chest.
“David...” Thelma could see Craven Lodge Club through the trees: a two-story brick building with warm light in the windows. She shifted away, tucking a loose lock of hair back into place.
David slumped, and Thelma wanted to scream: How would it look, arriving entwined like sixteen-year-olds? He could be so petulant... But he squeezed her hand all the same.
All he wanted was to spend time with her. Was that so terrible?
The car rolled to a stop and a footman came forward to open David’s door. Framed by the mullioned picture windows at the front of the Club, Thelma could see people milling about, laughing and talking.
“All right,” she said. David brightened; he kissed Thelma on the cheek, then on the lips, and the footman lifted his hand from the handle and turned his back to the door.
Thelma smiled, amused by how close David’s emotions were to the surface. He was predictable, really, in a charming sort of way: easy to put out of sorts, and easy to please. She opened her door to slip out of David’s grasp and leaned down, resting her arm on the frame of the motorcar as David shifted out. “But I won’t have you being rude to my guests. All right?”
He touched the knot of his tie and held out his arm. “Of course,” he said smoothly. “For you, my darling, anything. Anything at all.”
* * *
Thelma stared out the window, tapping a finger against her crossed arm. She set down her teacup and walked to the front hall, glancing at an austere grandfather clock. She and David had only planned to be at Craven Lodge Club for an hour but the weather, it seemed, had different plans: minutes after they arrived fog had rolled through Melton Mowbray, thick as cement, obscuring the laneway and the line of cars in the drive. She asked a footman to find her chauffeur and he disappeared down the drive, his tailcoat flapping as he plunged into the mist.
Unless the fog delayed their train, the Simpsons would have long since arrived at Burrough Court. They would be in the front room with Averill and Benny—excited and nervous at the prospect of meeting the Prince of Wales, and wondering, no doubt, at their hostess’s absence.
The footman rematerialized with Thelma’s chauffeur in tow.
“Is there really no way we can leave?” she asked.
The chauffeur touched the brim of his cap. “Begging your pardon, my lady, not without risk. Best to let the fog slacken a bit. Go back inside before you catch a chill.”
Frustrated, Thelma retreated to the sitting room, where David was sitting with George and Piers Legh.
“We’re stranded a little while longer yet,” she said to David, trying to sound as though the timing was nothing of consequence. “Safety first, Mills tells me.”
“We ought to have a cocktail, then,” he replied, and beckoned for a footman. “We’ve moved long past teatime.”
Forty minutes later, the butler told Thelma in an undertone that the chauffeur had deemed it safe to go.
“Finally,” said George. Thelma and David stood, but George slipped between them to take Thelma’s hand. Laughing, Thelma let George lead her toward the front door.
“Tell me you’ve a decent cook,” he said as he helped Thelma with her overcoat. “And a decent bar.”
“Georgie, you’ve been eating sandwiches all afternoon,” said David as he followed them into the deepening night. “Any more and we’ll have to roll you to Thelma’s house.”
George released Thelma’s hand as she climbed into the motorcar; he slid next to her, sitting a shade too close, and murmured into her ear. “My dear, have you any American bourbon? I’ve a cocktail I want to try. It’s got bitters and orange peel and I got squiffed on the stuff in Malta...”
“It’s called an old-fashioned, and yes, I do,” said Thelma. “Provided the Simpsons haven’t finished the bottle by the time we arrive. I wouldn’t blame them...”
They arrived at Burrough Court at seven o’clock and Thelma, flinging her coat at the butler, rushed to the drawing room as David and George, idly unwrapping their scarves, continued an animated discussion they’d begun in the car about the upcoming fox hunt.
“I’m so very sorry,” said Thelma, clasping her chilled hands together as she met Averill’s expression of evident relief. She smiled at the dark-haired couple on the sofa sitting next to Benny. “We got stranded in this awful fog.”
Though Mrs. Simpson had little in the way of natural beauty, Thelma was impressed by her striking sense of style: she was rail-thin and impeccably put together, her sharp features smoothed under a layer of porcelain makeup. Like Thelma, she was dressed in day clothes—a blue-gray tweed dress and a tidy gray hat over thick, glossy curls.
She stood, arms outstretched, and pulled Thelma into a bony hug. “No matter,” she said, her Baltimore accent warm. “You’re here now. It’s lovely to meet you, Thelma. Thank you so much for including Ernest and me in your little soiree.”
Ernest Simpson nodded. He held out his hand, bending forward to kiss the backs of Thelma’s fingers with Prussian decorum. “Lady Furness,” he said, “What a pleasure to meet you.” He had a British coloring to his voice, and Thelma could see what Consuelo had meant about him trying to hide his American roots.
Mrs. Simpson laid a hand on Thelma’s arm. “I must warn you, I’ve the most terrible cold,” she said. “I do hope you don’t mind if I pop upstairs before Their Highnesses arrive, to pull myself together. Your stepdaughter has been the most wonderful hostess, I couldn’t bear to pull myself away before now.”
“I’m afraid you’re too late,” she replied. “Their Highnesses are already here, just in the hall.”
Mrs. Simpson’s composure slipped for the briefest of seconds and Thelma saw, despite her heavy makeup, how chapped her nose looked. She recalled her first date with David—how nervous he had made her; how determined she’d been to present herself at her best.
“I tell you what,” said Thelma. “I’ll take David and George upstairs to change. You and Ernest can run up after us for a quick lie-down.”
“Oh, would you?” said Mrs. Simpson. “You’re an angel. I can see why Consuelo thinks so highly of you.”
“It’s no trouble,” she said, enjoying the moment of friendly collusion. “I’ll go out now.”
She returned to front hall, where David and George were still arguing about the fox hunt.
“Darling, let’s change for dinner. We’re running late, and our guests will be arriving soon,” said Thelma. “You best come, too, George, if you want that old-fashioned before midnight.”
Thelma chivvied the brothers, still arguing, up the stairs, and Mr. and Mrs. Simpson hurried forward as the princes drifted away.
“You’re an absolute doll,” said Mrs. Simpson, gripping Thelma’s arm as she passed.
“Really, Mrs. Simpson, it’s no trouble,” said Thelma.
Wallis’s voice floated back down the stairs. “Call me Wallis. Mrs. Simpson is Ernest’s mother.”
* * *
The next day David and George left the house early to join the hunt. Ernest and Benny, neither of them sportsmen, remained at Burrough Court, but Wallis was too restless to sit.
“Show me the grounds?” she asked as Benny and Ernest began to read through a stack of newspapers. Thelma lent Wal
lis a pair of Wellington boots and they set off.
Although the fog had lifted, the countryside was muddy and brown, and a light drizzle misted onto Thelma’s woolen coat as they walked along the hedgerows.
“You’re so lucky, to have all this,” Wallis said. Rather than venturing into the fields behind Burrough Court, Wallis had suggested wandering toward town and Thelma agreed—the hard-packed ground on either side of the road was easier going than the muddy pathways Thelma and Averill usually took. “This air—what a change from London.”
“Do you like living there?” asked Thelma.
Wallis smirked. “The drafty house, the perpetual drizzle and the cold company? It’s a scream. When I think of all those times I complained about Washington summers... I’d take the humidity any day of the week. How do you stand it?”
Thelma shrugged. “London has its merits,” she said.
“So says the woman romancing the Prince of Wales.” She wrapped her arm through Thelma’s. “Really, though—how do you stand it?”
“It was an adjustment,” said Thelma. “I’d been living all over the place, before I met Duke—Paris, Los Angeles, New York...more than anything, it was nice to make a home. A real home.”
“How romantic,” said Wallis, looking across the field.
“It was, at the time,” said Thelma.
Wallis nudged her. “But now—the prince! What a thrill. You know, he’s shorter than I thought he’d be. You see all these photographs and would swear he’s ten feet tall. Do many people tell you that? Goes to show, I suppose.”
“I suppose,” said Thelma, “though I don’t particularly notice anymore. He’s just David.”
“To you,” said Wallis. “To the rest of the world, he’s something else entirely.” She looked up and Thelma followed her gaze: there, tiny on the rise of the hill, a cluster of horsemen galloped out from a copse of trees, preceded by a contingent of hounds. They looked like something out of a painting, their scarlet coats bright against the gray sky.
“That will be the Belvoir?” asked Wallis.
Thelma nodded as the thin sound of a hunting horn broke through the still air. One of the horsemen pulled away from the rest, galloping toward the running hounds. As they watched, his horse faltered; Thelma screamed as it somersaulted, the rider flying from its back and hitting the ground with sickening finality. Unable to rein in, several riders thundered past the fallen man.
Thelma gripped Wallis’s arm.
“Oh, God,” she whispered.
The riders came to a ragged halt. One small figure jumped down from his mount as the fallen horse struggled to its feet and bolted, leaving its rider motionless on the muddy field.
“Is it him?” said Wallis, her voice hushed.
Thelma felt sick. “I don’t know,” she said. “Oh, God, what if it’s him?” She was trembling: Hadn’t David’s father prohibited him from riding for this very reason?
Several other riders were off their horses now, crouching next to the fallen man. Thelma could have counted the space between seconds as she willed the figure on the ground to move.
Wallis started. “He’s up,” she said, as the figure rose unsteadily to his feet. “Oh, thank God, he’s up.”
He bent double and vomited, then straightened once more, assisted by two others.
Thelma let out a shuddering breath.
“There we go. Whoever it was just had the wind knocked out of him.” Wallis sighed, and patted Thelma’s back. “The dangers of the sport, I suppose—it’s a blessing Ernest isn’t outdoorsy. Should we go back to the house? If it’s one of ours, he’ll be wanting a brandy.”
Thelma allowed Wallis to steer her back toward Burrough Court. If it was David—if he’d seriously hurt himself—she wouldn’t have known what to do. What would have happened, if the future king had crippled himself in her company? The papers, blessedly, kept quiet about their relationship. But even putting aside the consequences to her reputation, to her heart, to Duke...if something had happened to David, it would have been disastrous.
Only once they got back to Burrough Court did Thelma realize that Wallis had been gripping Thelma’s arm just as tightly as Thelma had been gripping hers.
Thirty-Three
October 12, 1934
Grand Central Station
The train came slowly to rest. The journey from Montreal had taken nearly twelve hours: night had fallen once more, and the lights of Grand Central Station provided a welcome refuge from the evening gloom. In her compartment, Thelma rubbed a finger across the windowpane, hoping for a clear view, but steam obscured the platform and the reporters crowding it. She could already hear what they were shouting—they were waiting for her. She turned to Mathew.
“I shan’t come with you. I’ll have enough trouble finding my driver without the commotion of your arrival,” he said, sharing a thin smile between Thelma and Harry. “Remember what I told you—it will be you, Lady Furness, that the reporters want. You mustn’t allow them to provoke you into making an unwise statement. Don’t say a word beyond ‘no comment.’ Not until tomorrow—not until you’ve spoken to Mrs. Vanderbilt’s lawyer.”
Thelma wound her fur around her neck.
“Thank you, Mr. Mathew, for your advice,” said Harry. He held out his hand and the lawyer took it, nodding.
“Good luck to you,” he said, and opened the compartment door.
Noise from the platform grew louder as Thelma walked down the corridor. Her heart hammered at the thought of them so close, but she couldn’t turn back; not when Gloria needed her. She gripped Harry’s hand, then moved into view.
“Lady Furness! What do you think of your sister’s troubles?”
“Were you aware Mrs. Vanderbilt is a lesbian?”
“Lookee this way, Thelma! Smile for the camera!”
Thelma blinked as dozens of reporters, holding notepads and cameras, pooled around the carriage door, jostling for position, obstructing other passengers who were attempting to disembark from the train. Flashbulbs popped left and right, filling the air with a sulfurous stench.
Two policemen stood at the carriage steps, and one held out his hand with a reassuring nod.
“With me, Lady Furness,” he said, and she took his arm to step down onto the platform. He began to push forward and Thelma looked back to see the other officer assisting Edith and Harry into the fray. She worried for a moment about Elise, but the maid was staying behind to help with the luggage—grateful, no doubt, that she wasn’t subject to her mistress’s troubles.
The reporters followed Thelma through to the main concourse, shouts echoing through the cavernous space. The noise was such that Thelma pictured it bringing down the marble pillars, startling the serene constellations painted on the ceiling above.
“No comment,” she said, attempting to quell the noise. A sleepy attendant jumped up as she passed the ticket desk, startled into action. “No comment,” she repeated, vaulting up the staircase as the crowd seemed to multiply below.
With the police officer forging the path, Thelma exited the front doors at a run. The reporters poured outside, too, forming a scrum past which Thelma could see a gleaming Rolls Royce, its driver at the ready.
The reporters seemed to lose heart as Thelma neared the automobile, their questions slackening as the cameramen ran short of flashbulbs. She was still a few yards away from the car when a reporter attempted one final bait:
“Lady Furness! Do you think your sister ought to lose custody of Little Gloria? Is she as unfit as your ma says she is?”
Thelma halted. Perhaps it was the exhaustion of travel, but the reporter’s words stopped her in her tracks. Panic turned to indignation—she let go of the policeman’s arm and looked back, attempting to find the man who had asked the question. Gloria, unfit?
“The charges are ridiculous,” she said. “It’s all lies. It’s a gross in
justice.”
Encouraged by her answer, another reporter raised his arm. “What do you think of your mother testifying for Mrs. Whitney?”
“I have no idea what she is doing,” Thelma replied, louder. “I’m positively amazed that she has sided with Mrs. Whitney.”
The reporters scribbled furiously, heads bowed as though in reverence. Thelma took a breath and moved forward, the crowd parting before her as she made her way to the idling motorcar.
“Do you think your sister should have charge of Little Gloria?”
“Certainly she should,” said Thelma. “Little Gloria should be with her own mother. I’m a mother myself, you know—I dare anybody to try to take my baby from me. It’s too outrageous to talk about.”
“Will you testify to that?”
“I certainly will.”
They reached the motorcar and the driver opened the passenger door. Thelma was on the verge of getting in when a final reporter pushed his way forward.
“Your mother thinks you’re crazy,” he said, his eyes darting to meet hers.
Thelma’s ears rang with sudden fury. In her mind’s eye, she could see Mathew, urging her to remember what they had practiced in the train. She could laugh at Mamma’s shameless hypocrisy; she could lash out—but what would that accomplish?
You’re here for Gloria. She settled the fox fur more snugly around her neck and faced the crowd once more.
“It is beyond my comprehension,” she said, shaking, “how people in glass houses can sling mud.”
She entered the car and slammed the door behind her.
* * *
“That was quite the performance,” said Harry, craning to look past Edith, who was sandwiched between them in the back of the motorcar. He didn’t look altogether pleased; his face was pale, fingers twitching against Edith’s like the legs of a pinned spider. “I hope you knew what you were doing.”
Thelma looked out the window, though there wasn’t much to see: the lamp-lit bottoms of illuminated buildings; dark figures walking past parked automobiles.
The Woman Before Wallis Page 23
