“Of course I did,” she said, still shaking. She wished she hadn’t ended on such a nonsensical note, glass houses and mud-slinging. “It’s unconscionable, really. The nerve...”
“I don’t think Mr. Mathew will be impressed,” said Edith.
“Mr. Mathew doesn’t have Gloria’s best interests at heart,” said Thelma. “You heard him. He’s here for Nada.”
She continued to stare pointedly out the window, and Harry held up his hands in defeat.
Thelma closed her eyes, the space between her and Gloria shrinking smaller. It had been too long; Thelma ought to have been here weeks ago. She would have come, if Gloria hadn’t kept the gravity of her predicament closeted away for so long.
“I want you to promise me something,” said Thelma. “When we arrive, don’t tell Gloria about Mathew. I’ll tell her about Nada, but the rest of it—it’s not relevant. Not now. She has enough of us coming to speak to her character—it won’t matter that we don’t have David and Nada.”
“Won’t it?” said Harry. “She ought to have the facts. As unpleasant as they might be.”
“You weren’t with her when she lost Reggie,” Thelma replied. “She’s not strong enough to hear it all at once. Mathew’s right—David doesn’t need to be brought into this, but Nada chose not to come. She chose that.” She sat back, arms crossed.
Harry and Edith exchanged a glance but said nothing more.
Brick apartments became limestone buildings as they crawled into the Upper East Side. Gloria’s brownstone was on Seventy-Seventh Street, just past Park Avenue. She’d been so pleased with it when she first signed the lease: she’d chosen it because of its proximity to Central Park, how easy it would be for Kieslich to take Little Gloria to feed the ducks when they moved home from Paris—but mere days after arriving, Kieslich had walked Little Gloria out to Central Park and into a waiting car that took them to Gertrude Payne Whitney’s art studio in Greenwich Village.
Gloria hadn’t seen her daughter since.
The car stopped half a block from Gloria’s house and the chauffeur let out a low whistle. “Will you look at that?”
The lamp-lit street was filled with reporters camped out on either side of the narrow town house; some were standing in small clusters next to Gloria’s front steps, while others crouched on the steps of the houses opposite or sat on the curb. Clearly, they had been waiting for some time: one man, lolling against a lamppost, started into wakefulness as the people around him surged up from their roosts.
They poured into the street, pushing each other aside and shouting as the car inched forward. Thelma held a hand over her face as a flashbulb burst outside her window; Harry swore, putting his arm around Edith’s shoulders.
The car moved another foot. “I’ll get you within spitting distance,” said the chauffeur, pushing his cap up on his forehead. Thelma felt a small pressure on her leg and looked down: Edith was holding out her hand, palm open like a clamshell. Thelma took it and squeezed.
“I’d recommend, perhaps, that we keep quiet this time,” said Edith. “They’ve more than enough to write about for the morning’s papers.”
The car finally stopped its slow progression. The chauffeur dove out of the car, fighting against the sea of bodies; Thelma could hear him pleading for space, and the crowd grudgingly moved to form a narrow pathway.
Harry was closest to the door. “Are you all right?” Edith whispered.
“Yes,” he replied, his face shiny as he brushed dust off the brim of his hat. He jammed the hat on his head and nodded to the chauffeur.
Ignoring the cameras, he stepped out, then turned to assist Edith.
Striving to match Harry’s courage, Thelma smiled as she stepped out, looking blindly above the crowd. Even if she wanted to make a statement Thelma doubted anyone would be able to hear her over the noise. In the town house beside Gloria’s, curtains twitched in the parlor windows: she felt a moment’s pity for the family trapped inside, caught up in Gloria’s circus for no reason other than proximity.
The commotion died down as they were shuttled inside by a waiting butler. The front hall was dim and comforting, mahogany trim and violet wallpaper, sconces casting yellow light up the staircase. Thelma squinted as her eyes adjusted to the dark; Edith let out a nervous giggle and Harry removed his coat with a curse.
“Sorry about all that.” The butler, a broad young man built like a wrestler, gave Thelma a fleshy-cheeked smile. Thelma wondered whether he doubled as Gloria’s bodyguard or whether he’d been hired simply to give the impression of bulk at the door. “Things are a little wild around here. Lady Furness, may I take your coat?”
Thelma unbundled herself from her coat and furs, handing them to the butler who flung them over his arm. “You’ve got some letters, Lady Furness—I had them taken up to your room.”
Thelma’s heart lifted. She followed Harry and Edith into a drawing room where Consuelo stood waiting.
“Thank God,” she said, wrapping Thelma in a hug. She stepped back, unsmiling; beside her was a man Thelma didn’t recognize. “I hope it wasn’t too much trouble getting in. We’ve asked policemen to keep them from the front doors, but it’s proving more difficult than we anticipated. Harry, Edith, thank you for coming.” She gestured to the man at her side. “This is Gloria’s solicitor, Nathan Burkan.”
Burkan was small and gray and sensible-looking, dressed in a single-breasted suit. Thelma recalled how highly Gloria had spoken about her lawyer in the past; taking his hand now, Thelma could see why. Behind his wire-rimmed glasses, Burkan scrutinized Thelma with a sharp, unwavering gaze.
“Lady Furness, we’re so pleased you’ve come,” he said. “Your sister needs all the support she can get—and from what she tells me, you’re the strongest support of all.”
“Well, she’s lucky to have good representation,” Thelma replied. She looked at Consuelo. “Where is she? Surely she hasn’t gone out?”
Consuelo lowered her voice. “In bed, poor thing,” she said. “I’m worried about her health. Her former butler testified in court today, and she’s in a complete state about whether the rest of her staff has been bought by Mrs. Whitney, too. She hardly eats a thing. The strain of it all... It’s nerves, of course, but something else, too, I think.”
“She’s distraught—absolutely distraught,” said Burkan, nodding with fatherly concern. “Who can blame her? It would be a strain on anyone, let alone someone with her disposition.”
* * *
The last time Thelma had visited, Gloria’s bedroom had been at the front of the house.
I love watching the street go by, Gloria had told her, opening the curtains and curling up in a window seat. Together, they watched nurses walk by with babies in oversized perambulators; suited businessmen, walking too quickly because they’d lingered over their morning newspaper. Women like Thelma and Gloria themselves, in fashionable outfits.
Tonight, Thelma strode down the second-floor hallway toward the back of the house, to the bedroom farthest from the street. The door was shut, but light spilled a sliver onto the hallway floorboards. She knocked, then turned the handle.
Gloria was lying in bed, her hair bound up in a peach turban.
“Thelma,” she said, halfway between a laugh and a sob. She held out her arms and Thelma sat on the bed, collecting her into a hug.
Gloria pulled away. “I knew you’d come. Harry and Edith?”
“They’re here, too. We all made the trip together,” said Thelma.
“I knew you would. Mamma’s going to be furious, but Nathan is so pleased. He says it will be a real show of force, all of us together. It’s going to be a real boost, he says.”
Thelma nodded, her hand on Gloria’s back. Beneath the robe, Thelma could feel Gloria’s bones: spine and shoulder blades and ribs. “How are you?” she asked.
Gloria sighed. “They took my baby,” she said i
n a hollow voice. “I don’t understand any of it. Nothing... I keep running over it all. Gertrude offered to take Little Gloria to Old Westbury so that I could close up the Paris house. I thought, why not? Gloria could stand to spend some time with Reggie’s family—better, surely, than coming back to Europe with me to pack boxes...”
Thelma wondered how many times she’d circled through the same sequence of events in her head—whether the story was as Gloria truly understood it or whether, even now, she was reciting what she would tell the judge.
“...so I returned to New York and leased this place, but then Little Gloria got tonsillitis and the doctors recommended that she stay with Gertrude in the country for fresh air—and who was I to argue? Then she started her schooling, and the doctors didn’t think I should upset her by moving her back to New York when she’d met new friends. It was so gradual, Thelma. A little piece here, a little piece there...”
She trailed off and Thelma looked around the room, seeing further evidence of Gloria’s decline: jars of heavy makeup; cigarettes scattered across a table. An empty medicine bottle, missed by the maid, under the armchair.
“When I finally demanded that Gloria come home, she threw a tantrum...such a tantrum.” Gloria looked older than her thirty years. “They say I only want her for the money, but what kind of mother would do that? I’d want her with me if we were penniless... We will be penniless if this continues.”
The expression on Gloria’s face was such that Thelma regretted thinking, even for a moment, that her story was anything other than true. She stayed silent, letting Gloria speak her fill: perhaps it was good for her to let it out. To excise it, like a tumor, from her mind.
Gloria lifted her chin, genuinely bewildered. “I haven’t been any less of a mother than Mamma was to us,” she said. “And she’s saying I’m irresponsible? I’m neglectful?”
Your mother thinks you’re crazy. “She’s unstable,” Thelma replied. “We’ve always known that.”
“That’s just it,” said Gloria. She reached for a bottle of mineral water on the bedside table, unscrewing the lid with trembling hands. “I’m her daughter—we’re her daughters. What if I’m just as unstable? What if they’re right, to want to take her away?”
“You can’t start thinking like that,” said Thelma. “It’s not helpful—not to you, and certainly not to Little Gloria.”
“Perhaps.” Gloria retreated into silence once more; Thelma extricated herself from the bed and picked up a pair of cigarettes from a pile on a nearby table. Gloria waved away the offer and Thelma found the carton, replacing the spilled cigarettes back in their box one by one.
Gloria leaned back against Thelma’s shoulder once more and Thelma stroked her forehead, surreptitiously feeling for a fever; Gloria shifted, reaching for the mineral water and a dish of tablets.
“What are those?” asked Thelma, as Gloria swallowed the pills one by one.
“For nerves,” she said, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “It’s been exhausting. But Nathan says it will all turn around when we start our defense. I’ll be able to respond to these horrible—” She shook her head, as though reorganizing her thoughts.
“Nathan says it’s important to focus on our defense,” she continued. “With you and Harry and Consuelo, I’ve three witnesses. Connie Bennett said she’ll come—and Friedel and Nada, of course. Have you spoken to Nada? I’ve so much to tell her. She must be horrified, I really must apologize for all the confusion...”
Thelma’s heart sank. Gloria looked so hopeful, going on about how people could, of course, misconstrue a close friendship; that she and Nada would simply explain to the judge that their friendship was entirely proper; that Nada’s relationship with George was, thankfully, strong enough to withstand the rumors of impropriety.
Thelma looked at Gloria’s shaking hands.
“Nada isn’t coming,” she said gently.
Gloria’s veneer of composure cracked with a delicate, miserable upturn of her lips. She let out a single, empty laugh, running her fingers along the hem of her coverlet. “Did—did she give you a letter for me? A message?”
Thelma shook her head. “Friedel’s coming,” she said. “He’ll support you, you know he’ll say anything.”
Gloria pulled away, dabbing her eyes as tears fell down her cheeks, unwanted, uncontrollable.
“Silly, I know. I can hardly blame her for wanting to keep out of this mess. Her reputation—”
“You loved her,” said Thelma.
Gloria looked at Thelma sharply; Thelma was heartbroken at the suspicion on her face.
She took Gloria’s hands in her own once more, and Gloria’s eyes filled with tears.
“I loved them both,” said Gloria. “May God forgive me. I loved them both.”
* * *
“How is she?” asked Edith, when Thelma returned to the sitting room. Harry, perched on the edge of an ottoman, looked up.
“Much the same, I expect,” said Thelma. “She took a sleeping pill. Hopefully that will do her some good.”
“The best thing for her right now is sleep,” said Burkan, handing Thelma a glass of sherry, “but it’s imperative that we work together in her absence. Gloria’s best chance is if we present a united front—a party seeking nothing more than the return of a child to its mother.”
“That’s exactly what we’re doing, isn’t it?” said Thelma.
“Certainly,” said Burkan, “but we can’t be the only ones who know it.” He placed his drink on the fireplace mantel. “I don’t know what Gloria has told you about me, Lady Furness, but I’ve built a long and successful career on one simple fact: knowing that what goes on outside the courtroom is as important as what happens inside it.”
“The public?” said Consuelo.
Burkan nodded. “Precisely,” he said. “I won’t lie to you. Right now, Gertrude Whitney has the upper hand. Lady Furness, Mr. Morgan—I know you’ve not been privy to the past few days in court but the Whitney lawyers have been merciless. They’ve called just about everyone in Manhattan to testify to the fact that Gloria is a lying, selfish woman with loose morals.” He held up a hand, as if to tick off the witness one by one. “Nurse Kieslich—an openly hostile witness, even the judge agreed to that. She named Prince Hohenlohe as Gloria’s lover, and said that Gloria kept dirty magazines in the house. I believe the judge recognizes the nurse’s antagonism and will take it into account, but her testimony raised questions about Gloria’s conduct, which were later corroborated.”
Thelma and Consuelo exchanged glances.
“Gloria’s maid testified that she found Gloria in bed with Lady Milford Haven. Now, I think I’ve done a fair job refuting that evidence, but publicly, the damage is serious. Very serious. Your brother, Lady Furness, tells me that Lady Milford Haven won’t be coming to testify.” Burkan frowned. “That’s unfortunate, but we’ll have to move forward without her. I’m working on a strategy to control the damage.”
“Which is?” asked Thelma.
Burkan smiled grimly. “Let’s just say that Justice Carew would be very interested to know the sort of company that Mrs. Whitney keeps in her art studio.”
Thelma raised her eyebrows. “You mean...?”
“Lovers,” said Burkan, nodding. “She prides herself on living a bohemian life—as bohemian a life as a trust fund can give you, but bohemian in the essentials. There’s little enough we can do with that information right now, though, until Whitney’s lawyers have finished presenting their case.”
“But that’s it, isn’t it? If their case against Gloria relies on the fact that Gloria had a—a liaison...”
“You forget, Lady Furness, that Mrs. Whitney is well respected and well-known,” said Burkan. “She has a great deal of money and influence. You can bet her lawyers have already developed a counterstrategy.”
Burkan took out a cigar; he held it up, eye
brows raised, in deference to Thelma, Edith and Consuelo; Edith nodded and Burkan trimmed it, marshaling his thoughts.
“Mrs. Whitney may be a bohemian but she’s a Vanderbilt, first and foremost. She has power and influence on her side. We, on the other hand, have public opinion.”
The room was silent, but for the hissing of condensation off a log in the fireplace.
“Public opinion.” Harry sat up, pinching the bridge of his nose between two fingers. “Forgive me, Mr. Burkan, but this seems to be a David and Goliath scenario to me.”
Thelma couldn’t help sharing Harry’s disappointment. For a moment, she thought they had found the key—if extramarital relationships were the reason Gloria was considered unfit and Gertrude engaged in extramarital relationships herself, the judge could hardly grant her custody.
But then, if both Gloria and Gertrude were ruled unfit, who would take guardianship of Little Gloria? Mamma? Kieslich?
Thelma?
“Consider this.”
She returned her attention to Burkan, leaning against the fireplace mantel.
“You’re a housewife in rural Ohio,” he said. “Two kids, a husband who works in a factory—not his own factory, mind, he makes the widgets that fire the thing that makes the machine run. It’s not a good job but it’s a job—it pays enough to feed the kids, but not much else.” His eyes flicked, almost involuntarily, to Thelma: she was in a tweed traveling suit, custom-made on her last trip to Paris; diamond earrings, a matching necklace.
“Your husband comes home one day and tells you he’s lost his job. Well, so have all the other men in town. There’s little enough to be done for it but tighten your belt and hope that little garden patch in the backyard keeps you all fed until good times come again. He’s on the dole, out every day knocking on doors, looking for work. He finds a newspaper in the bin and brings it home. You start to read the front-page story: Vanderbilt sues widow for custody of child.
The Woman Before Wallis Page 24
