The Woman Before Wallis

by Bryn Turnbull

  Henry looked profoundly disturbed. “There’s the caretaker. He might—”

  “We must see Little Gloria,” said Consuelo. “It’s a court order—”

  “I know,” snapped Henry. He looked at Gloria, still in his arms. “Can you stand?”

  Gloria nodded and he set her back on her feet, gingerly, and set off down the hall, Consuelo close on his heels.

  Gloria stood for a moment then swayed, blood draining from her cheeks. Thelma caught her before she fainted dead away.

  Thelma found a vacant room opposite Little Gloria’s. She pulled Gloria onto the bed, and eased off her sister’s hat. Gloria’s eyelids fluttered, beads of sweat forming on her forehead as she came to.

  “What happened?” she mumbled, and Thelma squeezed her hand as she returned to consciousness.

  “You fainted. Nothing to worry—we’re in Old Westbury—”

  “She hates me,” said Gloria, closing her eyes once more. “Oh, God. Why would she think—”

  Thelma smoothed the hair from Gloria’s forehead—another nervous attack and they would be returning to New York in the back of an ambulance. “She doesn’t hate you,” said Thelma. “She’s confused.”

  Gloria didn’t have the energy to argue; she lay back against the pillow, her hair coming loose from its chignon. Across the hall, they could hear the small tempest of Little Gloria’s cries reach a crescendo, her pleading audible through the door.

  “Don’t let her kill me! Please! She’s going to kill me...”

  Thelma went back into the hallway. They couldn’t stay at Gertrude’s house all afternoon, but returning to New York City without seeing Little Gloria was entirely out of the question. Burkan would have to demand another court-mandated visit; the newspapers would run breathless headlines. Carew, certainly, would see it as strong evidence against Gloria’s suit, and Gloria herself would lose what little confidence she still had in getting her daughter back.

  Thelma knocked again, softly.

  “Gloria,” she said, “It’s your aunt Thelma. Will you let me in?”

  She pressed her ear against the door.

  “It’s just me out here, Gloria. Your mother isn’t feeling well. Will you let me in?”

  There was no response. She stepped back, defeated, as Consuelo and Barklie Henry returned with a scruffy caretaker in tow, a ring of keys hanging from his belt. Henry knocked on the door as the caretaker began to sift through the keys.

  “Gloria? It’s your uncle Barklie. You’re being very childish,” he said, as the caretaker tried the first key into the lock. “Your mother’s come all this way. You must let her in, otherwise you’ll be in trouble. Aunt Gertrude will be very, very cross.”

  The caretaker fit a second key into the lock. It turned, and Henry fell silent. The caretaker opened the door and Thelma stepped into the silent room.

  It was a child’s bedroom, comfortable and airy. The walls were painted white; there was a single bed in one corner, its iron head-and footboards tracing curlicues against the walls. A dollhouse sat on the floor, its back open to reveal the rooms within, and beside it stood an armchair, its seat cushion comfortably squashed with age. Was that where Kieslich told Little Gloria nightmare-stories about her mother, sowing panic in a child’s impressionable mind?

  A fire, close to dying, burned in the grate. A young woman, her straw-colored hair bound up beneath a nurse’s bonnet, stood before it, her eyes wide.

  Thelma couldn’t see Little Gloria. Again, panic rose in her throat. Had the child locked herself in the closet?

  Wordlessly, the nurse gathered the folds of her long skirt and stepped to one side, revealing Little Gloria crouched behind her, gripping the nurse’s hem.

  Thelma looked at her niece, her anger turning to shame. Little Gloria looked much younger than her ten years: she was as skinny as her mother, her face almost as white beneath listless dark hair. Thelma was thankful, now, that Gloria was across the hall. The sight of Little Gloria clinging to the nurse was enough to break her heart.

  “I’m sorry, Gloria, for sounding so upset,” said Thelma. “What’s all this about? You’re not frightened of me, are you?”

  Little Gloria looked up. “No,” she whispered.

  Thelma knelt. “Of course, you’re not. I’ve not done anything to hurt you, have I? Are you afraid of Mummy?”

  Little Gloria glanced up at Consuelo and Barklie Henry, standing in the doorframe. She shook her head.

  “There’s nothing to be frightened of,” said Thelma. “We’re here because we love you, Gloria—your mummy, your aunt Consuelo and me. Will you come and give me a kiss?”

  The nurse prized Little Gloria’s fingers from her dress, and Thelma hardly dared to breathe as Little Gloria came forward with stiff, reluctant steps. She’d always been an odd child, influenced by her odd nurse, her odd grandmother—but here, locked away in the woods, surrounded by policemen and lawyers, Little Gloria had become something else entirely.

  She kissed Thelma’s cheek, her lips a cold, brief pressure before she pulled back.

  Thelma smiled. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

  “You know, you’ve made your mummy very upset,” said Consuelo. “Will you say hello to her?”

  Little Gloria paled; Thelma, fearing another outburst, clapped her hands together. “Gloria, I see you’ve got a ribbon on your dresser. What did you win that for?”

  Consuelo quietened with a look of consternation but Thelma pointed at the rosette, a little blue bundle of satin sitting next to a lamp. Little Gloria smiled faintly.

  “Riding.” She picked up the rosette, stroking it before holding it out to Thelma. “I got first place.”

  Thelma raised her eyebrows. “First place?” she said, accepting the worn ribbon. “You must be a very good rider.”

  Little Gloria nodded. “I won a cup, too, but it’s in Newport.”

  “A cup and a ribbon? You must be the best rider in Old Westbury. Do you remember riding horses with Tony in Leicestershire?”

  Little Gloria nodded.

  “And what sort of horse do you have here?”

  “I have two. One’s named Black Beauty.”

  “Two? Oh, my...”

  Thelma let Little Gloria talk about riding for a few minutes’ more, struck by how young she seemed. Thelma didn’t have much experience with children, but it felt as if she was speaking to Tony. She shouldn’t have been surprised: Mamma and Kieslich had infantilized Little Gloria from the outset, and the trial clearly hadn’t helped. A return to Gloria’s household—a return to a normal life, filled with friends rather than nursemaids, would surely help the child thrive.

  When Little Gloria went back to her dresser to retrieve more treasures, Thelma glanced back at Consuelo, who stood, arms crossed, in the doorway.

  Little Gloria returned with more trinkets: a photograph of Reggie Vanderbilt in a gilt frame; a blue stone and a piece of lace that Thelma thought might have been off one of Gloria’s dresses.

  “This is Daddy,” she said, holding the frame out so that Thelma could see. “I talk to his picture every night before bed.”

  Thelma looked at the portrait: he looked young and calm, serene even. She recalled Reggie’s last few days: his bloated neck, spilling over the stiff collar of his dress shirt; his relentless, weary smile.

  Look after them.

  Thelma laid her hand across the frame. “This is very nice, Gloria,” she said, “but what about your mummy? You know your father loved her very much.”

  Little Gloria stiffened, but Thelma pressed the advantage.

  “Your mummy loves you, too, Gloria. She’s come all this way to see you, but she’s feeling unwell right now. Would you go and give her a kiss?”

  Little Gloria looked solemnly at the photograph. “He loved her?” she said, her voice quiet but no longer shaking.


  “He did, my dear. Very much.”

  Little Gloria set the frame down, smoothing the glass as though it might wrinkle. “All right,” she whispered.

  Thelma held out her hand and Little Gloria took it. Consuelo and Barklie Henry stepped aside as Thelma led Little Gloria into the hallway.

  Gloria was sitting up in the bed. She’d attempted to pin her hair back into place, and had wiped the trails of mascara from under her eyes. How could Little Gloria think she posed a threat?

  “My baby,” she said, holding out her arms.

  Little Gloria cowered but Thelma patted her on the shoulder; she took one step forward, then another—but before she got close enough for Gloria to embrace her, she stopped.

  “What’s the matter?” said Thelma. “It’s your mother—she wants to give you a kiss.”

  Little Gloria began to shake; she looked up at Thelma, her face twisting. She wrenched her hand from Thelma’s and fled back into her room, slamming the door behind her.

  * * *

  When they returned to Gloria’s town house, Burkan, Harry and Edith were waiting.

  “Well?” said Burkan, coming into the front hall with a half-smoked cigar in his hand. He looked at Gloria and his face fell. “It didn’t go well, did it?”

  Consuelo pulled off her fur collar. “I’ve never seen anything so outrageous in my whole life,” she said, crossing into the sitting room. Thelma and Gloria followed, and Harry made room for them on the couch. Someone had drawn the heavy curtains across the front window: it gave the room a funereal air, the chandelier casting an artificial glow.

  Consuelo poured a drink. “The child is completely delusional,” she said, as Gloria slumped into a chair, her head in her hands.

  “She hates me,” said Gloria. “She thinks I’m going to kill her.”

  Burkan lowered himself onto the couch. “Was it some sort of joke?” he asked as Consuelo poured glasses for Thelma and Gloria.

  “I don’t believe so,” said Thelma.

  “She couldn’t stand to be near me,” said Gloria. “What sort of child thinks her mother’s a—a murderer...?”

  “Was she delusional in any other way?” asked Burkan, staring at Gloria as though hoping she might be pulling a prank. “If it’s a symptom of some greater illness...”

  “I’m afraid not,” said Thelma. “She was very much herself until she saw Gloria.”

  “Outrageous,” Consuelo muttered. “I don’t know what they’ve been telling that girl, but she was hysterical.”

  “You think they coerced her?” said Harry.

  “They told her something. No child behaves like that without reason. Someone’s been saying that Gloria means to hurt her,” said Consuelo.

  “Who would do such a thing?” said Edith. “Not Gertrude, surely. I can’t imagine she’d stoop so low.”

  “Not Gertrude, perhaps—but Mamma? Kieslich?” said Thelma.

  Burkan shook his head. “It doesn’t matter if Gertrude Whitney isn’t saying these things herself—clearly, she’s not stopping it. I’ll bet her lawyers have advised her to do nothing. It’s their best chance of winning. What judge would force a child to live in terror?”

  “It’s a cowardly trick,” said Consuelo.

  “It is,” said Burkan, He removed his glasses and pulled out a handkerchief to clean the lenses. “The nurse spends more time with Little Gloria than anyone else—except perhaps her grandmother. She’s someone Little Gloria trusts—if she’s telling her that Gloria means her harm, Little Gloria has no reason to doubt it.” He put the glasses back on, wrapping the arms around the backs of his ears. “But to encourage the child’s delusions—to sit back and allow Kieslich to spread her poison—it all feeds into their strategy. A dirty, cheap thing to do.”

  The room fell silent. Thelma stared at the floor.

  Mamma was part of this fantasy. It sickened her to think of Mamma and Kieslich, chipping away at the foundations of Little Gloria’s life: her trust in those who claimed to love her. What would be left of the child once the trial was over?

  “You know the worst of it?” said Gloria. “I’m an unfit mother because I’ve done exactly the same thing Gertrude Whitney does in her studio.”

  No one responded. Thelma thought of Nada: impossibly beautiful, changeable.

  “And it’s all a big, terrible secret. Gertrude has her fun, same as me... And I’m the unfit mother.”

  Burkan sighed. “We agreed to civility in the proceedings because we thought it would be better for the child.” He stood, stubbing the end of his cigar in an ashtray. “If they’re turning Little Gloria against you, I think it’s safe to assume that civility is off the table.”

  “What do you mean?” said Gloria.

  “First thing tomorrow, I’m telephoning all of Mrs. Whitney’s so-called ‘art acquaintances,’” he said. “Let’s see what Carew has to say about unfit parenting then.”

  Forty-Two

  March 1932

  Fort Belvedere, Great Windsor Park

  Thelma’s motorcar slowed as it reached the gates of the Fort. She glanced at her watch, then pulled down the divider that separated her from the driver.

  “Once around the Park, please,” she said. Her driver nodded and Thelma leaned back in her seat, watching the leafless forest blur past.

  She had arrived at the Fort earlier than she’d anticipated, and while David always encouraged her to use the Fort as her own, it felt wrong to walk the marble floors of his beloved home unsupervised, a cuckoo roosting in a gilded nest. Most weeks, she arrived at the Fort late—David arranged his weekly schedule of ribbon-cuttings and speeches so he could leave London as early as possible on a Friday morning—but last night he’d received an early summons to Buckingham Palace.

  “Do you know why?” Thelma had asked the night before, as David accepted the summons from his butler.

  He read it, his face closing into a frown.

  “It’s Father’s doing,” he said. He dropped the card onto the table and returned to his meal, segmenting a piece of roast beef on his fork. “He’ll want to upbraid me for something or other.” He lifted the fork, examining the piece of meat before lowering it to his plate untouched. “D’you know, I’ve completely lost my appetite.”

  Thelma watched the manicured brown of Windsor Great Park pass by her window. She hoped David had behaved himself—and that His Majesty hadn’t provoked him.

  She ran over the guest list for the weekend in her head. It would be quiet, just friends and family—what family remained in London, with Duke and Averill gone on safari and Gloria embroiled in an argument with the Surrogates. Thelma hadn’t yet received word from Nairobi: she wasn’t sure whether silence was cause for relief or concern.

  Family, then: Consuelo and Benny, along with Piers Legh. The Duke and Duchess of York, newly installed with their daughters in their own country home across the park, would pop in for dinner and drinks; the Simpsons, however, would be staying overnight.

  They slowed at the gates of the Fort once more and turned down the drive as a weak sun struggled to break through the low clouds. Osborne was waiting at the front door, with two footmen who jogged forward to unstrap Thelma’s luggage from the boot.

  “Good afternoon, my lady,” he said. “His Royal Highness is in the garden. Shall I let him know you’ve arrived?”

  “No, thank you,” she replied, stepping out of the motorcar. “Point me in the right direction and I’ll find him myself.”

  Osborne led Thelma through to the back lawn. The forest surrounding the Fort was a mess of branches; rooks, stark against the gray sky, circled the tops of trees.

  “I should warn you,” said Osborne, “that His Royal Highness is in something of a temper.”

  Thelma straightened the sleeve of her coat to better block the chill. “The summons?”

  Osborne nodded. “I und
erstand the meeting didn’t go quite to plan.”

  “Well, that’s no surprise.” Thelma looked down the long garden but couldn’t see David; she could hear, however, a rhythmic hacking in the laurels to the east of the lawn.

  “Are you sure I can’t persuade you to wait here?”

  “Thank you, but no,” said Thelma, “I’d like to stretch my legs.” She set off down the sloping ground, her heels sinking into the rain-softened lawn.

  The forest was gloomy and overgrown, bare branches reaching toward the late winter sunlight. The trees were nearly silent, lacking the birdsong that Thelma had expected to hear—too early in the year?—but she followed the sound of work. Her shoes would be ruined, but she pressed on through the undergrowth, breathing in the rich, sweet smell of decayed leaves uncovered by frost. David had done well: the path was narrow but clear, flanked by piles of debris.

  She picked across a hollow and came to the rise of a small valley, following the swish-whoosh of human endeavor. Through the gloom she saw him, dressed in plus fours and muddy white socks, shirtsleeves rolled up, his jacket and overcoat discarded on a nearby log. He was bent nearly double, hacking at the roots of a small thornbush with a machete. After a final thwack, he tossed the machete aside and tugged the bush free, throwing it aside with a crash.

  “David,” said Thelma. She walked closer, glad to see he was wearing heavy gloves, but his forearms were scored with bright scratches.

  She raised her voice. “Darling!”

  He looked up, chest heaving with exertion. He waved limply at Thelma and pushed his hair, fallen out of its usual pomade stiffness, out of his eyes. “Hello, darling,” he said. He chopped at another bit of brush, the machete passing through the thinner branches like water. “You didn’t have to come down. Osborne would have come.”

  “I wanted to,” said Thelma. “You’ve made quite a dent. It looks wonderful.”

  David nodded, still short of breath, and indicated his intended path with the machete handle. “I’ll be taking it through. There’s a Roman ruin to the north of here, I suppose it will end up there sooner or later.” He gripped the trunk of a slender beech sapling in one hand and swung the blade; it cut through and David lifted the beech easily, throwing it like a javelin atop the discarded thornbush.