“A wealthy woman—wealthy beyond your wildest dreams, money enough to keep not only you, but your whole town, in the black for the rest of your lives—is trying to take a baby from a widow. A widow. Nothing left of her beloved husband but the child in her arms. And Mrs. Whitney isn’t just any rich old lady—she has children of her own! She’s had her share of motherhood, and here she is, trying to take a widow’s only child—her one tie to her dead husband, her only source of happiness in this grim, cold world that has taken your husband’s job, your kids’ food off the table...”
Burkan bit the cigar between his teeth. “Now tell me,” he said. “Who do you think that woman’s going to support?”
Consuelo leaned forward. “I see,” she said.
“I don’t.” Edith looked from Burkan to Consuelo. “It’s the judge who needs convincing—not the public. Why would their opinion matter?”
Burkan’s briefcase was resting next to Thelma’s seat; he opened it, pulling out a handful of letters. “These are from mothers across the country—letters of support. We’ve already got public sympathy on our side, and you can bet that if these women are writing to us, they’re writing to the judge as well.” He pulled one of the letters out of its envelope and read aloud: “I think it’s appalling what Mrs. Whitney is doing to you—she ought to leave well enough alone. A child belongs with its mother.” He folded the letter back in its envelope. “I’ve got hundreds more.”
“And have these letters continued to pour in since Gloria’s maid accused her of improprieties with Lady Milford Haven?” asked Edith.
“They’ve slowed,” Burkan admitted, “but it’s all slander, which works to our benefit. We need to shape how people see this story. We need to keep public sympathy on our side. We need them to see that Gloria’s being unfairly treated by a woman with a lot more money and a lot more influence.”
“And how, exactly, do we do that?”
Burkan seemed energized by Edith’s relentless questioning. “We make Gloria into a symbol. The only way to counteract personal accusations is to make her into a public figure. We turn her into a rallying point. That mother in Ohio? She’s mad as hell at the wealthy businessman who’s shut his plant, who’s laid off her husband—she’s furious that she has to scrimp to get by. You can bet she’ll feel the injustice of some rich bitch taking away a mother’s God-given right to her child.”
Thirty-Four
January 1931
London
Thelma walked through the front steps at York House, trying to look unhurried as she discarded her overcoat in one fluid motion and handed it to the butler. He passed it to a footman, quickening his steps to match hers as she vaulted up the staircase.
“He’s in the drawing room, my lady,” he said.
“Is he upset?” asked Thelma.
“His Royal Highness has been terribly busy,” he said, escorting her through the double doors at the top of the stairs and along the corridor. She could hear rustling in the rooms on either side, maids and footmen darting back and forth with clothing and books, dust sheets and gramophone records. David was leaving on a four-month trade mission to South America in two days’ time: reluctant as he was to go at all—and doubtful of the amenities he’d find there—he’d flatly refused to travel without the modern conveniences of his day-to-day life. The newspapers were reporting that David planned to take ninety-six pieces of luggage: watching a footman push past with a trunk-laden hand trolley, Thelma was inclined to believe it.
The butler paused outside the drawing room and knocked before Thelma entered. David was sitting in an armchair beneath the austere portrait of his mother, a half-finished piece of embroidery in his lap.
“You’re late,” he said. He jabbed his needle into the fabric and stood, setting the hoop on a side table.
“I’m so sorry,” she said. “The morning got away from me.”
“As mine so often do.”
“I really am sorry,” Thelma said, sinking into the seat beside him; David waved away her apology as he lit a cigarette. His hand shook, making the flame dance before he flicked the lighter shut. “Have you finished packing?”
The prince tapped his cigarette against the ashtray. “Have you seen the place? It’s Paddington bloody station out there, and I know they’ll forget something important.” He frowned. “I ought to remind Finch to put in the bagpipes. After all the practice I’ve put in...”
“I’ll tell him,” said Thelma, taking his hand in hers.
“I know I’m being difficult,” he said, resting his head against the back of the couch. “It’s just the effort of it. I couldn’t begin to tell you why they’re sending me for such a long time—Father’s keen to get rid of me...”
“A mal tiempo, buena cara,” said Thelma, At bad times, put on a good face. David chuckled. Thelma had been helping him practice his Spanish for weeks, and he’d become surprisingly proficient.
“Well, quite.” He picked up the needlepoint and scrutinized a stitch. “It’s going to be a bore without you. Weeks and weeks of speeches and shaking hands... I so wish you were coming.”
Thelma wished she were going, too, if only to lift him out of the moods he so often sank into. He was sinking now: she could see it in his creased forehead, his hunched shoulders.
This time, at least, Thelma could handle it. She reached into her handbag and pulled out four miniature teddy bears. She’d been shopping at Claridge’s when she saw them: they stood two inches tall, with wired limbs. She’d bought two sets, one in pink and one in green, thinking they could sit on Tony’s windowsill—but David looked so forlorn she changed her mind. “Well, I can’t fit in your suitcase, but perhaps these might. They’ll keep you company,” she said.
He brightened. “How charming!” he said, taking the bears in hand. “Lovely little chaps, aren’t they? The green ones are mine and the pink ones are yours, how about that?” He held the bears up, two in each hand. “I’ve an idea. When I’m gone, I’ll take your pink bears with me, and you’ll keep my green ones. That way we’ll have a little something of each other even though we’re apart.”
He handed her the green bears and Thelma smiled, pleased at her stroke of inspiration. She hadn’t expected him to be so charmed by the silly things, but it was touching to know that he’d have her bears sitting on his nightstand before he went to bed.
David picked one up, lifting its arms before setting it on the arm of his chair. He looked at Thelma, beaming, and she laughed. Together, they arranged the bears on the top of the couch where they surveyed the room with glassy eyes.
“There,” she said. “Now we’re a proper party.”
David put his arm around Thelma and she leaned in, closing her eyes to better relish the warmth of the fire on her face, the feel of his chest against her back.
“I’ll miss you terribly, you know,” he said, lifting his free hand to curl a tendril of her hair around his finger. “Four months is such a long time to be on one’s own.”
“George will be with you,” Thelma murmured. She thought of the two of them getting into trouble, charming the South American elite. The newspapers wouldn’t be able to resist them.
David ran his hand along Thelma’s shoulder. “George is all well and good...but he’s not you. Not to sound crass, but he lacks certain qualities of yours that I will sorely miss.”
Thelma savored the feel of his fingers, watching the fire dance in the grate. “I want you to know,” she said slowly, “that I don’t mind if—if you—spend time with other women. While you’re gone.”
He paused. “Truly?”
He asked as though Thelma was leading him into a trap. She’d given the matter a lot of thought over the past several weeks, swinging between principled outrage and reasoned calm, but she knew David: his appetite would not withstand four months of abstinence. Although she recoiled at the thought of him with other women, she knew, w
ith a sort of twisted logic, that her blessing—and his honesty—would stand them in better stead on his return.
He stilled. Resisting the urge to turn and look at him, Thelma frowned, thinking she might have misjudged him—but then he pressed his lips to her forehead. “That’s awfully considerate of you, darling. I had no idea you were so modern.”
He continued kissing her, traveling downward from her lips to her neck, knocking the bears from their perch.
He stopped. “What’s wrong?”
Thelma sat upright, pulling her blouse straight, not trusting herself to speak. David exhaled, the root of a smile playing at his lips.
“They won’t mean a thing,” he said, ducking to meet Thelma’s lowered gaze. “It’s—it’s a need, you understand. Purely biological. There’s nothing in it—there will be nothing in it,” he corrected himself swiftly, and Thelma pretended not to notice. “It’s—” he stopped. “What you and I have is so much more than anything I could find with someone else. And you know I’ll be so damned busy with the tour. Do you really think some dalliance could come between us?” He took Thelma’s hands in his, and she attempted a smile.
“I know,” she said. “But even so.”
David sighed, flicking his cigarette into an ashtray. Even in this delicate moment, Thelma couldn’t help feeling that familiar pull of attraction—other women felt it, too: she saw it every night they went out together, in the sidelong glances, the whispered conversations hidden behind the stems of wineglasses. How could either of them fool themselves into thinking he could resist?
“You know I don’t want to go—it’s my father. It’s the damned government, thinking I can boost tea shipments or some rot by charming the locals. A silly idea, and a complete nuisance. And it’s upsetting you to boot.
“I love you, Thelma—you know that, don’t you?” He said it lightly; when she didn’t reply he took her chin in his hand, gently turning her face to meet his.
He hadn’t said it before. She almost laughed at the absurdity of it, David professing love while admitting he planned to sleep with other women. But didn’t she know, full well, the man he was when she’d first met him? Wasn’t the fact that he hadn’t, yet, strayed, more than she’d asked for from the start?
He smiled, stroking her cheek. “I mean it, you know. What you and I have—it’s love. You must know that.”
He didn’t wait for her to respond but pressed against her, and she didn’t care that the house was full of people packing David’s trunks, preparing the speeches he would give to the applause of thousands; she kissed him with an intensity she hoped he would remember when he was surrounded by beautiful women, tall and glittering, their eyes full of the promise of what they would do, given an evening alone with the Prince of Wales.
The smell of burning fabric, so thin at first that Thelma thought David’s cologne had gone off, distracted them, growing stronger by the second. David grunted and pulled away.
It was his needlepoint: his cigarette had rolled off the ashtray onto the folded fabric of his half-finished rose. With a cry, David leaped up and grabbed the smoldering fabric. He threw it onto the fireplace surround, crushing the embroidery hoop as he stamped it out the flame with the heel of his shoe.
Gingerly, he picked it up. It was utterly destroyed: the embroidery hoop clung in listless pieces to the fabric, an unsightly hole marring the edge of the flower David had so painstakingly sewn. As though declaring defeat, the pieces of hoop fell with a clatter, leaving the prince holding little more than a crumpled napkin.
Thelma stifled a giggle; David looked at her and, unable to control herself, she burst into laughter. David smiled, tucking a hand in his pocket.
“Well,” he said, tossing the remains of the needlepoint onto the fire. “Seems I’ll have to find a new project for the trip over.”
Thirty-Five
Thelma felt oddly bereft after David’s departure. She hadn’t realized the extent to which she had come to depend on his company—she had hours now, days to spend on tasks she’d neglected. In February, she traveled to Paris to purchase a new wardrobe and visit Gloria, who was locked in another feud with the Surrogates.
“They keep telling me to move back to Manhattan,” said Gloria as Thelma, standing on a pedestal in Maison Vionnet, was pinned into a new dress. “and I keep putting them off, but I don’t think I can hold out much longer. Now that Little Gloria is seven they’ll want her in school. But I hate the thought of leaving.”
Thelma felt for Gloria, but she left Paris somewhat downcast. They had spent the entire trip talking about Little Gloria and Mamma. On the Channel crossing back home, Thelma realized Gloria hadn’t even asked about David.
Without David demanding her weekends at the Fort, Thelma reestablished herself with her London friends: she lunched with Lady Sarah and Betty Lawson-Johnson, met with Consuelo and Benny for tea. In March, she brought Tony down from Burrough Court, marveling at his growth into a sturdy, sure-legged two-year old.
He had begun to speak, Thelma realized, on a muddy afternoon excursion to St. James’s Park: nonsense and snatches of nursery rhymes, but words nonetheless. She smiled at the sight of him squatting beside the pond in his sailor’s suit, his coattail trailing in the mud as he splashed his hands in the brown water.
Thelma recoiled, exchanging a glance with Tony’s nursemaid. It was a wet day, fresh wind lifting the air with the promise of spring; she handed her gloves to the nurse and crouched down beside Tony, wrapping her arm around his solid middle and pulling him back from the pond’s edge.
“‘Mary had a little lamb, little lamb, little lamb,’” she sang, throwing a chunk of stale bread into the pond. Several ducks flapped over, throwing up tiny wakes in the water. Tony shrieked with laughter, crumbling bread between his fingers.
“‘Whose fleece was white as snow.’ I’ve always considered myself more of a black sheep. More exciting to stand out, don’t you think?”
Thelma looked up: Wallis and Ernest Simpson were standing arm in arm on the wet path, Wallis’s red coat bright against the muted browns of the park.
“Wallis! What a surprise.” Thelma handed Tony to the nurse, wiping crumbs from her coat. “You recall my son, Anthony. Come say hello to Mr. and Mrs. Simpson, Tony.”
Tony buried his face in the nursemaid’s chest, and Wallis laughed.
“I have that effect on most men, I’m afraid,” she said. “How have you been? You look lovely in that fur collar.”
“Thank you, Wallis. I’ve been well.”
“A bit lonely, I’d imagine?” said Wallis, leaning closer to Ernest.
“We’ve heard His Royal Highness is abroad,” said Ernest. “Doing a cracking good job of it, too, so say all the newspapers. Chile, now? How proud you must be.”
“Chile,” said Thelma, “yes, of course. He’s so good with crowds.”
“We have such fond memories of that weekend we spent at your charming country house,” said Wallis. Her jaw jutted out as she smiled, and Thelma thought of a bulldog, all jowl and underbite. “Will you be hosting much this season, do you think?”
“I hope so,” said Thelma. “You and Ernest must join—we had such fun together.”
“Aren’t you sweet?” Wallis beamed, clasping her hands over her husband’s folded arm. “Isn’t she sweet, Ernest? You must come for dinner. You must be awfully lonely without your prince to keep you company. In fact, I’m having a few friends over on Friday. You ought to join. Nothing fancy. Just a little get-together.”
“I’d be delighted,” said Thelma.
“Shall we say five o’clock? I’m determined to teach these British the wonders of an American cocktail hour.” Wallis waved and Ernest turned; they walked on and Thelma lifted Tony into her arms.
A snippet of nursery rhyme, not quite faint on the wind, floated down the pathway to Thelma: “‘And everywhere that Mary went...’”
Thelma sang back, lifting her voice so that Wallis could hear: “‘...the lamb was sure to go.’”
Tony threw a chunk of bread into the pond and the ducks raced to reach it, splashing and flapping their wings in a frenzy of movement.
* * *
The Simpsons’ flat was in Marylebone, in a redbrick building that was nearly indistinguishable from the homes surrounding it. Looking up at the limestone columns that flanked the front door Thelma felt a strange sense of disappointment: she’d expected something more unique, somehow, from Wallis. But then, she thought as she stepped over the lintel, she didn’t know the Simpsons all that well.
She rang their doorbell, listening for the sounds of a party, but she could hear nothing more than the usual rustlings of a lived-in building. She looked round, hoping to see other guests drifting up the stairs, but then Wallis, in a vibrant blue dress, opened the door.
“Our butler doesn’t come for another forty-five minutes,” she said. “People stand so much on ceremony here, but I pay my staff by the hour.” She smiled. “It’s lovely to see you.”
“Am I the first to arrive?” asked Thelma, removing her coat. Wallis passed it to a waiting maid and led Thelma in.
“I’ve a little confession,” she said. “I invited you here early—you don’t mind, do you? I’ve been looking forward to an opportunity to get to know you better. Burrough Court was all well and good but it can be tough finding the time for a chat between girls. Don’t you agree?”
She walked quickly, her steps brisk as she led Thelma into a mint-green drawing room. Two sofas, upholstered in pale pink, flanked the unlit fireplace; between them, a vase of white lilies sat on a mahogany coffee table. The sofas were laden with pillows, plumped and ready to receive guests, but Wallis led Thelma to a pair of chairs by the window.
Wallis took a seat, crossed her legs at the ankle and leaned back, playing with her red-lacquered nails as though hoping a cigarette would appear between them.
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