Gloria’s case was being heard on the sixth floor, in a courtroom down a narrow hallway jammed with reporters. After the maid’s testimony had nearly caused a riot, the judge presiding over Gloria’s case had barred reporters from entering the courtroom but that hadn’t stopped them from milling in the hall, ears pricked for raised voices or indiscreet disclosures. In his bid to keep the case private, Justice Carew had papered over the small window in the courthouse door but the press kept finding ways in: only yesterday, a reporter had rappelled down the side of the courthouse on a rope, camera in hand, to take photographs through the window.
Once again, the detectives cleared a path. The reporters backed up against the wall but clamored for Gloria’s attention all the same, shouting questions and raising their hands in hopes of being noticed.
Gloria lifted her hand from Thelma’s arm. She set her shoulders, replacing her weary expression with a bright smile, and waved, careful to greet them all without answering their questions. She was ingratiating herself, Thelma realized: playing nice with the reporters who would be publishing articles in tonight’s newspaper. Now, they would include a sentence or two about Gloria’s confidence, her grace under pressure as she glided through the courtroom’s double doors.
Thelma, too, steeled herself.
“Your mum’s testifying today! You nervous, Lady Furness?”
A photographer pushed forward and took a picture. The flashbulb exploded in Thelma’s face, sprinkling her overcoat with glittering glass dust.
Thelma laughed at the sudden snowstorm. “Now, now—play nice,” she said. Burkan held the courtroom door open, its small window obscured by green blotting paper.
Thelma walked through, brushing flashbulb fragments from her arm. “I don’t know how you stand it,” she murmured.
Out of sight of the reporters, Gloria wilted once more. “Nor do I,” she said.
Thirty-Seven
June 1931
London
Wallis emerged from Thelma’s dressing room, letting her arms drop to her sides as she faced Thelma, Gloria and Nada.
“It’s too short, isn’t it?” she said, looking anxious. “I thought so. I’ve got two inches on Connie, at least.”
Thelma bit her lip. The dress was, in fact, ill-fitting overall, but Wallis had only hours before she was due to be presented at Buckingham Palace—an honor that would formally launch her into London’s high society.
Upon receiving her invitation, Wallis had telephoned Thelma in a panic. Thelma agreed to lend Wallis her train and ostrich feathers, her simple tiara—mandatory accessories she’d worn for her own presentation years earlier—but she’d asked Consuelo, who was closer to Wallis’s size, for a dress.
Looking at Wallis now, Thelma felt she might have been better seeking help from other quarters. Whereas Consuelo had filled out the satin dress like a bride, Wallis—entirely devoid of curves—was engulfed by it, fabric gathering around her hips and bust.
“Come now, it’s nothing we can’t fix.” Gloria rummaged through the vanity, pulling out a small box filled with safety pins as Thelma positioned Wallis in front of a full-length mirror.
Thelma pinched the excess fabric together along the pearl buttons that snaked up the back of the dress and folded it flat. Gloria handed her pins, and Wallis’s face smoothed as she watched the dress pull tight across her front.
In the long months of David’s South American tour, Thelma had become quite friendly with Wallis, and while she was happy to have gained a new friend, she hadn’t realized just how much Wallis had come to rely on her company until today. She’d half expected Wallis to refuse her offer to help her dress for the ceremony, but Wallis had arrived at Thelma’s house shortly after breakfast, her hair sculpted into glossy waves, her face impenetrably smooth and white. Despite her composure, though, Thelma could see she was nervous—and less than pleased at Nada’s unexpected intrusion into the morning’s activities.
“I hope you don’t mind,” Gloria had whispered to Thelma when she arrived with Nada in tow. Taking her time over the move to New York, Gloria had come from Paris to help Thelma host a party for the debutantes after the presentation ceremony. “She was so eager to meet Mrs. Simpson. So was I—you’ve told me so many stories.”
There did always seem to be a story worth telling about Wallis. Although David had returned from his trip, Thelma continued to see Wallis several times a week. What she lacked in looks, Wallis made up for with outrageous wit and self-assurance. Beneath a cool exterior, she was warm and candid—at least with those she liked.
Moreover, Wallis was interested—genuinely interested—in Thelma’s life. Other than Gloria, Thelma didn’t have many friends with whom she could speak so openly. And Wallis spoke openly in return: she sought Thelma’s advice on disputes with her domestics and disagreements with Ernest; how to make friends in London and how to make a pound stretch far enough to entertain properly.
“You’re a wizard,” said Wallis, watching Thelma work. “I used to do a lot of sewing myself when I was young, but it’s a lot more difficult when you’re the mannequin.”
“Not me,” said Nada, lying on a daybed in the corner of Thelma’s bedroom. “My father always had people for that sort of thing.”
“Well, bully for your dad,” Wallis muttered.
Gloria, handing Thelma another safety pin, grinned. “We made our own clothes when we lived in New York, remember, Thelma? That green dress you made for Millicent Hearst’s ball?”
“Goodness, that seems so long ago. I don’t know I’d be much use with a sewing machine today, I’m so out of practice.”
“So long as you remember how to close a safety pin,” said Wallis. “You truly are a wonder. I don’t know what I would have done without you.”
“You would have spent a fortune on a new dress,” said Nada, as she lit a cigarette.
Wallis twisted, upsetting Thelma’s pinning job. “Would you put that out?”
“I remember my own presentation,” said Gloria, as Nada stubbed out the cigarette. “I was so nervous. Nada lent me the most beautiful tiara, with diamonds and pearls... And then there she was, behind the king and queen when it came time to curtsy...”
“Why’s that?” said Wallis.
“Part of the family,” said Nada.
“And then you winked...”
“Well, you looked so nervous,” said Nada, “and then you nearly laughed—”
“Because of you!” Gloria handed her pins to Thelma and collapsed on the daybed, wiping tears of laughter from her cheeks.
“Well, so long as there’s no winking when I’m being presented,” said Wallis, exchanging a glance with Thelma in the mirror. “I’d like to conduct myself with something resembling dignity.”
Nada took a breath, her laughter subsiding. “I wouldn’t worry,” she said. “None of them know you well enough to bother making a joke.”
It wasn’t surprising to Thelma that Nada and Wallis weren’t getting along. Big personalities, the pair of them—but Wallis let the comment pass as she studied her reflection in the mirror.
“Could you imagine, if I’d started laughing in front of His Majesty?” said Gloria, resting her head against Nada’s shoulder.
“He wouldn’t have liked it,” said Nada. “He’s a cold fish. He collects stamps.”
“He’s so hard on David,” said Thelma. She set down the last of the pins and picked up the heavy satin train. “You ought to hear the stories David tells.”
“Will he be there? The prince?” asked Wallis, as Gloria got up to help once more.
Thelma handed Gloria one side of the train. “Of course,” she said, pinning the train into place on Wallis’s shoulders and hiding evidence of the alterations. “He has to be there, although he hates it.”
“All those women? I would have thought he’d like it best,” said Nada.
“It’s the standing. He’s by the king’s side for hours. He says his knees are stiff by the end. That’s one good thing about becoming king: he’ll have a chair for these sorts of things.”
She and Gloria stood back and scrutinized their handiwork.
Their efforts had paid off: though the dress still didn’t quite fit, its beautiful simplicity suited Wallis’s sharp features. In keeping with the custom for a court presentation, the dress was low cut, made of ivory satin that gathered at Wallis’s waist and now, thanks to Thelma’s pins, sat smoothly across her bust.
“No one will notice the hem. Half the women will be in borrowed clothing,” said Gloria.
“Sweep the train around the front for the photograph,” advised Nada, and Wallis pulled the train forward. Unlike the dress, the train was elaborate, shot through with gold and silver thread snaking up in whorls toward Wallis’s shoulders.
Wallis went to her valise and pulled out a brilliant aquamarine cross on a long chain.
“I need to wear at least one thing that’s mine,” she said, pulling the chain over her head. Personally, the cross wasn’t to Thelma’s taste: it was too heavy against the elegant satin dress, too blue for the subtle colors of the train.
Wallis turned to face Thelma. “Perfect,” she said. “You know, it’s nicer than my wedding dress. Truly. Men have it so easy—slap on a tuxedo and there you have it—but we need a different dress for every day of the week.” She tucked in a stray pin. “It’s good to have friends that are nearly the same size, it trebles your wardrobe.”
“It’s nothing,” said Thelma. She had been presented at court two years before, and it had cost Duke a fortune. Without her help, Thelma knew, Wallis wouldn’t have been able to participate in the rite of passage at all.
“I mean it, though,” said Wallis. “It’s not everyone that would help a girl prepare for something like this. It means a lot to me, to have girlfriends like you. I left all mine in Baltimore.”
Thelma closed the pin box, suspecting that Wallis had a smaller group of friends in Baltimore than she let on.
“Well,” said Thelma, “you’ve got us now.”
Along with the train, Elise had brought Thelma’s tiara and ostrich feathers out of storage; they were sitting in two boxes, one on the bed, one on the vanity. Nada opened the smaller of the two and lifted out Thelma’s tiara.
“It’s lovely,” she said.
Thelma smiled. “A gift from Duke.” It was modest, befitting Duke’s status as a minor aristocrat: a circlet of round diamonds, small but brilliant, glittering as they caught the light.
“Lovely,” Nada repeated. She stepped forward as though to place it on Wallis’s head, but Wallis moved back.
“It took me far too long to set my hair properly. At least if I make a mess of it, I’ll have no one to blame but myself,” she said. Nada shrugged.
Wallis took the tiara in both hands and faced the mirror. Slowly, she placed it on the crown of her head; they all seemed to exhale as one as she took her hands away and the tiara rested atop her shellacked curls.
Wallis studied her reflection. For the first time that day she looked serene.
“Wallis in Wonderland,” she said softly. She looked at Thelma, breaking the spell. “I won’t say this isn’t special. My mother was a landlady.”
Gloria took the ostrich feathers out of their box. Together, she and Thelma pinned three feathers to Wallis’s hair so that they curled, like smoke, above her head, and handed her a fourth to carry during the ceremony like a bouquet. Nada found Thelma’s long white gloves and Wallis put them on.
“You really do look lovely,” said Gloria, sounding almost apologetic. “I don’t think we could have done much better, even with a different dress.”
* * *
Thelma’s party started later that evening, and while many guests had changed into evening-wear, several had come directly from Buckingham Palace in their court attire—hoping, no doubt, to prolong the magic of the evening. Even with the addition of a few modern touches like Wallis’s aquamarine, presentation outfits hadn’t changed much since Queen Victoria’s time, and Thelma enjoyed the pageantry of the ancient clothing coupled with modern music issuing from the gramophone. She watched one young woman—she might have been a Mitford, Thelma wasn’t sure—lift her hand to ensure her feathers were still firmly attached.
Thelma recalled the wide-eyed wonder she’d felt at her own presentation—and at those first few society parties she’d attended with Duke, gripping his sleeve so as not to lose him in the glittering fray. Was there anyone here who was as new to it all as she had once been? Thelma didn’t think so. The women here tonight were born into wealth; their parents entertained royalty on a weekly basis. Still, she hoped to make an impression on some young person who wasn’t yet so jaded by privilege.
She edged her way toward the far end of the room, waving at Betty Lawson-Johnston by the window, and sidestepping Emerald Cunard, seated next to the fireplace with a group of hangers-on. By the buffet in the dining room, George Mountbatten’s brother, Louis, had just told a joke, and Fruity Metcalfe laughed so hard he nearly spilled his drink. Thelma saw Wallis at the far end of the room—she had usurped the bartender at the cocktail table and was mixing drinks while Ernest sliced lemons. As though she’d felt Thelma’s eyes on her, Wallis looked up and smiled, brandishing the cocktail shaker.
What was the phrase Wallis had used? Wonderland. This was a world most people dreamed of, and tonight it belonged to Thelma.
She looked in the study and saw Piers Legh and G Trotter seated at a low table, playing poker with a man Thelma hadn’t seen before.
“Who’s winning?” she asked.
“G. He’s a terrible cheat,” said Legh, throwing down his cards. “Where’s David?”
“Arriving shortly, I expect.”
Piers reached for a bottle on the bookshelf. “Another, Khan? I don’t know if you two have met. Thelma, His Highness, Prince Aly Khan.”
Aly Khan stood. Thelma knew of him—apart from David, Aly Khan was the most eligible bachelor in London. His father was the spiritual leader of all the Shia Muslims in the world, but Aly himself was famous in his own right. He was enormously wealthy, known for his string of prizewinning racehorses—and for being a notorious philanderer. According to David, Aly Khan had seduced more women than any man alive.
“I hope you don’t mind my coming along tonight,” said Aly, raising Thelma’s hand to his lips. “I’ve heard about you from so many people, I wanted to make your acquaintance myself.”
“And yet,” she said, “I had to find you. I don’t know whether that’s poor manners on your part, sir, or mine.”
Khan smiled. He hadn’t released her hand; he held it lightly, a grip she could easily break if she wanted to.
“Not that one, Khan,” said Piers, lifting his glass. “She’s spoken for.”
“So I hear.” Khan had a calm, measured voice. Though it wasn’t deep, it was soothing—steady, no doubt, after years of working with horses.
“Are we dealing you in?” said Piers.
Khan released Thelma’s hand. “Yes,” he said. “I’ve a few pounds to win back. If you’ll excuse me, Lady Furness.”
* * *
Though Aly Khan was an interesting addition to the party, David, when he finally arrived, was truly the guest of honor. He made a slow progression through the room, stopping every few feet to greet a familiar face. Piers trailed behind him, finishing up the tails of conversations he left in his wake.
David caught Thelma’s eye and smiled apologetically as he made his way over. He had changed out of the scarlet military uniform he wore for the ceremony, and was dressed in white tie and a blue sash.
She glanced at the Order of the Garter, pinned low on his chest. “A formal occasion, I see,” said Thelma.
David patted the medal. “Well—one must keep s
ome decorum at these sorts of things,” he said. “Any chance of a drink? I’ve earned one...who are all these people?”
“Friends of yours,” said Thelma, handing him a glass of champagne. “At least, the older ones are. I haven’t a clue about the young ones, I assume they’re connected to you somehow.”
David looked around, finishing the champagne in two quick swallows. “I suppose they are. Could have used a quiet night, but I’m to go on to Lord and Lady Londonderry’s.”
“You’re only stopping in?”
“I hate to say so, but I must. I’ll come back afterward, if you’re not already in bed.” He looked past Thelma’s shoulder, pasting a smile on his face that he generally reserved for people he didn’t know.
She turned. Piers stood behind her, accompanied by a pretty young woman in a white dress and a walrus-like man with his hands clasped behind his back.
“Your Royal Highness, pardon the intrusion. Might I present Mr. Cecil Palmer and his daughter? Mr. Palmer is with the Canadian High Commission,” said Fruity.
“Canada? What a lovely place. I’ve a ranch in Alberta,” said David.
“Do you? Tell me, sir, do you get out riding while you’re there? My daughter has a talent for it.” Mr. Palmer rested a hand on the small of his daughter’s back, coaxing her toward the prince.
Blushing, the girl stepped closer to David—too close for Thelma’s liking. She really was pretty, with dark hair and fair cheeks. She looked at the prince as though she’d never seen someone so handsome.
“Charming,” said the prince moments later, as Mr. Palmer and his daughter retreated.
“You think so?” murmured Thelma, handing him a second glass of champagne.
“You didn’t?”
Thelma raised her eyebrow. “They were a little forward.”
David smirked, casting his eyes around the room. “Now, don’t be jealous... Say, haven’t I met that woman before?”
The Woman Before Wallis Page 27
