Thelma followed his gaze. “Yes, darling, that’s Mr. and Mrs. Simpson. They joined us at Burrough Court the weekend George had his hunting accident.”
His features cleared. “Quite right. Husband’s in the Grenadier Guards, isn’t he?” Wallis met Thelma’s eye; she took Ernest’s arm and they made their way over.
“Ernest, yes,” said Thelma. She raised her voice as Wallis and Ernest came within earshot. “David, you recall Mr. and Mrs. Simpson? Wallis has been such a gem in your absence, keeping me out of trouble while you were gone.”
“Not too daunting a task, I hope?” said David, touching the knot of his tie as Wallis curtsied.
“Well, now, life wouldn’t be fun without a little bit of trouble, sir, don’t you think?” said Wallis.
“Quite,” said David. “Mrs. Simpson, I must compliment you on your gown. You look lovely.”
It was rote flattery. He’d said it to every woman at the party: a gallant, formulaic bit of charm.
Wallis raised her eyebrows. “Really, sir? I was under the impression that you thought we all looked ghastly.”
Thelma looked up sharply; Ernest coughed into his drink.
David frowned. “I beg your pardon?” he said. Thelma could hear the censure in his voice. Could Wallis?
She smiled. “Your comment to the Duke of—Connaught, I believe? About the lighting at the ceremony.” She turned to Thelma, inviting confidence. “Apparently, it made us women look like death warmed over. And after all the effort we put in.”
It wasn’t often that Thelma found David at a loss for words. Wallis had no clue about how prickly David could be, particularly at the end of a long day. She opened her mouth, searching for a way to gloss over Wallis’s rudeness—but then David laughed.
“That’s me told. I had no idea my voice carried so far,” he replied. “I hope you were the only woman with ears sharp enough to hear me.”
She leaned close. “Your secret’s safe,” she said confidentially, “though you might want to consider a system of note-passing for future editorials.”
“I just might.” David smiled broadly. “Mr. and Mrs. Simpson, it’s truly lovely to have met you again. We must see each other soon.”
Recognizing the dismissal, Wallis dipped her head and Ernest bowed. They moved on and Piers, once again, came forward.
“Sir, might I present Mr. Jonathan Seare and his wife, Patricia?”
Mr. Seare was short and tanned, with graying hair at his temples; Mrs. Seare was round and beautiful, with a figure so curvy it made her white gown look almost indecent.
She curtsied; David started.
“Your Royal Highness might recall making the Seares’ acquaintance in—”
“Valparaiso,” said David.
“Your Highness is kind to remember,” said Mrs. Seare. “I’m sure you meet so many on your travels that all the faces run together.”
“Not yours,” said David, with a note in his voice that made Thelma uneasy. She lifted her chin and smiled at Mr. Seare with dazzling insincerity. “Ah, may I present Lady Furness? Lady Furness, I met Mr. Seare and his wife in—”
“Chile,” said Thelma. “So I understand.”
Mr. Seare beamed, with such obvious pride that Thelma pitied him. “His Royal Highness was so very attentive toward us. He danced with my Patricia three times at the Governor’s Ball.”
“Did he really?” said Thelma. Jealousy, thick and bilious, rose in her throat. “And what brings you to London, Mr. Seare?”
“Jonathan had some business concerns to see to, and it just so happened to coincide with a court presentation,” said Mrs. Seare, addressing Thelma but still looking at David. “I wonder, Your Highness, whether I might be so bold as to request another dance tonight.”
David flushed. “I would be delighted.”
Mrs. Seare rested her hand in his, and looked at Thelma beneath lowered eyes. “Thank you, Lady Furness, for such a lovely party.”
* * *
Thelma stepped out onto the sidewalk, breathing in the night air. Laughter and music and light spilled out from the open windows onto the tops of the trees in Grosvenor Square.
She’d felt such pride, seeing her drawing room so full of people—many she knew and liked, and if there were a few unfamiliar faces, what did it matter? But as the evening went on, the friendly faces had melted away. Thelma’s apartment, now, was brimming with strangers eager to bend the Prince of Wales’s ear and throw their unmarried daughters into his arms.
She ought to have expected it. She looked up at the busy windows, knowing that the party could easily continue all evening without her. Wonderland, indeed: she doubted half her guests knew who she was.
The other half dismissed her as nothing more than a mistress.
Thelma hugged her elbows closer as goose pimples rose on her arms. She’d forgotten a shawl, but she wasn’t prepared to go inside to see David dancing with some young girl in a white dress. Thelma knew how they saw her: the bed warmer, to be pushed aside when someone legitimate came along. So many women hoped to be the one to catch his eye. What did they care about Thelma? What did they care that she and David shared long years of love and affection?
But not devotion—not on David’s part. She knew about his infidelities in South America: she’d read the reports in the society pages about the women he’d chosen to dance with, night after night. Young women. Beautiful. Married and discreet.
“Aren’t you cold?”
Thelma looked up. Aly Khan was at the door.
“No,” said Thelma, dropping her arms to her sides. Khan raised his eyebrows and removed his jacket. Before she could protest he’d draped it over her shoulders.
Thelma pulled it close. “Thank you. Did you win your game?”
“If you look in the pocket, you’ll find cigarettes,” he said. “I didn’t win. It was well fought, though.”
“I’m sorry,” said Thelma, pulling out a cigarette. “What was the damage?”
Khan flicked open his lighter. “A horse.”
“You bet a horse?” Thelma leaned in and allowed Khan to light her cigarette. The smell of his aftershave rose from the jacket. “A bit grand, don’t you think?”
Khan shrugged. “I’m not pleased, but it will teach me to be more prudent.” He sat on the front steps, squinting into the dimness of Grosvenor Square.
“Seems like a good way to lose a horse,” said Thelma, sitting next to him.
Khan smiled. “It isn’t fun if the stakes aren’t high. There’s no thrill in winning trinkets.”
“What constitutes high stakes?” She nudged his shoulder with hers. “Life and death?”
He chuckled, his black eyes crinkling; his arm rested against Thelma’s, as though by chance. “Nothing quite so dire,” he said. “Love and money.”
Thelma smiled. He did have a certain charm, she supposed—but it was so very contrived. She doubted very much that Aly Khan had ever loved anyone in his life.
“Is love really such a poor commodity, that you’d risk losing it over a game?”
“On the contrary.” He looked at her out of the corner of his eye, his face half-hidden by the shadows cast from the lamppost. “As I said, I only gamble when the stakes are highest.” He finished his cigarette and flicked the butt into the street.
“Are you always so serious?”
Khan grinned. “That depends on the company. Why are you down here on your own?”
Thelma stubbed out her cigarette and Khan handed her another. “I’m not on my own.”
“No,” he said. “You aren’t.”
They sat together a few minutes more, enjoying the secondhand noise of the party and the trundle of motorcars.
The door opened again and Thelma started, shifting away as though she and Khan had been caught in the middle of something indiscreet. Khan, though, remai
ned where he was, leaning back on the step with a cigarette between his lips.
“David.” Thelma got to her feet, aware that she was still wearing Khan’s jacket. “You know Prince Aly Khan, don’t you, darling?” She spoke too quickly. “He came with Piers. He was telling me about a game of poker—”
“I know Khan,” said David.
Khan stood, so slowly it felt like an insult. He inclined his neck, his lips curved in a half smile.
Thelma looked from David to Khan: David’s light eyes boring into Khan’s dark ones. David looked furious, and perhaps with good reason—but there was a small part of her that enjoyed his jealousy.
“It’s late,” said Thelma. “Lord and Lady Londonderry will be wondering where you are.”
“I was looking for you,” he said. Khan leaned against the lamppost, finishing his cigarette. “Legh said he saw you go outside, I couldn’t get away before now. Why are you wearing his jacket?”
“It was cold,” said Thelma. She took it off, folding it over her arm. “Are you leaving?”
David glanced at Khan. “No,” he said. “Lady Londonderry can do without me tonight.”
“She’ll be so disappointed.” Khan threw the second butt to the ground; with one hand on his chest he bowed, first to Thelma, then to David. “I ought to return upstairs. Lady Furness, it was a pleasure keeping you company.”
Thelma handed Khan his jacket and they followed him up the stairs. To Thelma’s satisfaction, David didn’t leave her side for the rest of the night.
Thirty-Eight
One week later, Averill called on Thelma in London.
It wasn’t uncommon for Averill to visit. Since her separation from Duke, Thelma had made a point of maintaining friendships with Averill and Dickie both, exchanging letters with Dickie at university, visiting Averill at Burrough Court. That said, she hadn’t seen Averill in over two months: Averill had taken Thelma’s place on safari with Duke, and had only just returned to England. Thelma had sent the divorce papers to Duke shortly after their dance at the Embassy Club, and though she still felt twinges of guilt at their last encounter she thought it was fitting that Duke had taken Averill instead of her.
Averill’s time abroad seemed to have done her well: she looked healthy and freckled from her time in the African sun. Thelma was used to seeing Averill at Burrough Court where, despite her efforts, she often came into dinner with grime under her fingernails from working with the horses. Today, she looked ladylike in a moss green dress, her cropped auburn hair hidden under the upturned brim of a cloche hat.
Averill pulled Thelma into a hug, enveloping her in a cloud of perfume.
“Goodness,” said Thelma. “Did you really miss me that much?”
Averill smiled. “I hope you don’t mind the intrusion.”
“Not at all,” said Thelma. “Have you eaten, or should I ring for tea?”
“No, thank you,” said Averill. She sat, knitting her hands together. “I’ve something to tell you, and it won’t take a minute.”
Thelma waited, wondering at Averill’s reticence. Normally, Averill was restless, only ever happy under open skies. It was one of the reasons she rebelled against the city: it was an unnecessary retreat into civility, time that could be better spent in the gardens or the stables.
“I wanted to talk to you about something that happened on the safari,” she said.
“What happened? Your father?”
Averill’s formal demeanor softened. “He’s all right.”
“It really is for the best...” said Thelma.
“I know it is—truly, I do,” she said. “Father will be fine. The finality of it, I think, will take some time getting used to.” She paused, and Thelma could see that, for all that Averill resembled Duke in character, she had the look of her mother.
“I’ve fallen in love,” she said finally. It was the same tone of voice she used when purchasing a new horse: dispassionate, yet entirely self-assured.
Thelma’s heart lifted. She’d expected something grave—that Duke had fallen ill, or Dickie had dropped out of school. “That’s wonderful! Is it anyone we know? A friend of Dickie’s?”
Averill took a breath. “Andrew Rattray,” she said.
Thelma’s smile faltered. She recalled Rattray indulging Duke’s and Averill’s passing fancy in zebras, telling stories about Kenya in his quiet Scottish brogue.
“Does Duke know?”
Averill lit a cigarette. “Of course not,” she said.
Thelma could imagine Duke’s reaction: Rattray was entirely unsuitable from a social—a geographical! a financial!—standpoint. “How long?”
“Since he came to Burrough Court,” said Averill. “I know it’s a surprise—it came as a shock to me as well. When we saw each other again on safari we realized our feelings hadn’t changed. I’ve never felt this way about anyone. To tell you the truth, I was starting to think I never would.”
Thelma closed her eyes. Averill wasn’t the sort for hearts and flowers, grand gestures—she was stubborn and thoughtful, and if she’d decided that she loved Andrew Rattray, Thelma knew better than to doubt her feelings.
“I see,” she said. “What do you plan to do about it?”
Averill smiled—clearly, she took Thelma’s acknowledgment as acceptance. “We’re going on another safari at the end of the year. Once we get to Africa, I’m going to marry him.”
“I see. And Rattray agrees with this plan, does he? To elope?”
Her expression chilled. “We discussed it,” she said. “He thought it was madness, too, at first, but now he agrees that it’s the only way forward.”
Thelma leaned forward and took Averill’s hands in hers. “Please, don’t do this,” she said. “You don’t know anything about him. He’s part of your father’s staff—”
“And that makes him worthless?”
“That makes him different. What do you know about him, really? You don’t have a thing in common.”
Averill pulled her hand away. “I thought of anyone, surely you would understand. You didn’t come from money. Should Father have ignored you?”
“It’s an entirely different situation,” said Thelma. “Rattray lives in a hut, Averill—a literal hut—”
“How, exactly, is it different? Because you’re a woman and Andy’s a man? I don’t care how he lives—I’ve got enough money, if that’s what you’re concerned about, but I can’t imagine we’ll need it. We’re going to live in Kenya.”
Thelma stared, shocked. For all that Averill prided herself on her hunting, her riding, she was still a peer’s daughter—and an incredibly privileged girl. She’d never wanted for anything: she’d never had to budget for clothing or cook dinner. Did she truly think that she could drop everything to live in the Kenyan wilderness with a man twice her age?
“I don’t doubt your feelings, but I do worry about the destruction they might cause,” said Thelma gently. “You would break Duke’s heart. Is it really worth risking your relationship with him?”
Averill exhaled. “And you think I would be risking it?” she said, although now she sounded as though she was seeking guidance. “Father might come round, once it’s all said and done... He’ll put up a fight, of course, but he’ll forgive me in the end. He can’t stay mad forever.”
“He could,” said Thelma. Averill’s temper was no match for Duke’s—nor her stubbornness. Thelma didn’t see any future in which Duke would forgive his daughter this gravest of betrayals. “Please think about it,” she continued. “You’ve got time. Think very hard about what you’re proposing to do, and what you’re planning to give up. Is everything—everything, Averill—worth this?”
Averill blinked hard and wiped her cheek. Did she still have dirt under her fingernails, Thelma wondered sadly—dust from the African desert, mud from Burrough Court?
She stood. “Don’t breath
e a word of this to Father.”
“I can’t promise that,” Thelma replied. “Not unless I have your word that you’ll not do anything rash. Speak to me first. Please, Averill.”
Averill’s eyes turned to flint once more. “You won’t tell Father?”
“Not unless I have your word.”
She stood. “Very well,” she said, and left the room.
Thirty-Nine
October 18, 1934
New York, USA
Thelma entered the courtroom, scanning the backs of heads in the viewing gallery for Mamma or Nurse Kieslich, but they hadn’t yet arrived: Gertrude’s side of the courtroom was almost empty, but for two men conversing with Smyth, Gertrude’s lawyer, at the front bench.
The trial had been ongoing for weeks now, and still the judge hadn’t yet called the defense. Gertrude’s lawyers ran out the days calling witnesses—doctors and lawyers and nannies—in an unrelenting line, all willing to testify to Gloria’s incapacity to care for a child. The delay infuriated Thelma. With each passing witness, it seemed, the screws were tightening around her sister, with little in the way of defense. Burkan was earning his keep in the cross-examination: a rebuttal here, a well-argued point there, but for the moment, his activities lay outside the courtroom, in interviews and pictures for the press. While Gloria was buoyed up by his activities, Thelma was uneasy with the delay. How could Gloria withstand the mounting barrage of evidence?
On the other side of the viewing gallery, a tall man turned and greeted Thelma with a wave: Prince Gottfried zu Hohenlohe, his dark-haired wife tucking gloves into her handbag beside him.
“Good morning,” he said as Thelma slid next to him. Friedel was stern and distinguished, with black hair slicked back on a high forehead. He had arrived two days after Thelma. Along with his wife, Margarita, Friedel staunchly supported Gloria, speaking to her good character and spotless reputation. Already, he and Margarita had held a press conference on Gloria’s behalf, explaining European customs with an easy confidence that implied the whole to-do was simply a misunderstanding.
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