She kissed Aly once more, lingering as long as she dared, willing herself to remember all the details: his cologne, the feel of his hands on her; her carefree joy.
They broke apart.
“Goodbye, Aly,” she said.
* * *
Though Thelma hoped she might be able to slip into Gloria’s house unnoticed, she had no such luck. When the butler opened the door, he nodded toward the sitting room, his youthful face solemn. Thelma, with no small amount of trepidation, looked in.
It was clear that Gloria hadn’t slept: she was sitting in the same chair she’d occupied last night, legs curled beneath her, a bird’s nest of cigarettes in a nearby ashtray filling the room with a tobacco stench. Someone had covered her feet with a quilt but Gloria was still wearing last night’s dark dress, rumpled creases scoring the fabric from top to bottom, her hair falling from its pins. She looked at Thelma, an anesthetized stillness in her expression.
“I wasn’t sure you were coming back,” she said.
Thelma came closer. “Neither was I.”
Gloria eased out of the chair, her hands heavy on the armrests as she pushed herself upright. “Coffee?”
Thelma nodded and Gloria left, padding toward the dining room barefoot. Thelma wondered at the silence: no noise from upstairs, no voices from the kitchen.
Gloria returned, coffee in hand. She handed the cup to Thelma and sank back into her chair, making Thelma feel as though she’d been granted an audience.
“You must know how sorry I am.”
Gloria looked down, her fingers curling around her coffee mug. “Me, too,” she said.
“If it weren’t for me, you could have stood a chance. Mathew wouldn’t have gotten involved—”
Gloria shook her head. “You know that’s not true. It would have happened sooner or later. Nada’s too close to David. Even if you’d never met him, Mathew would still have intervened.”
“I can’t help feeling like it’s my fault,” said Thelma.
Gloria shrugged. “We could go over it all, but what would it solve? I chose Nada. And Friedel. The blame lies with me.”
They sat in silence for a few minutes; upstairs, Thelma could hear footsteps.
“Why Nada?” she said finally. She couldn’t stop herself from asking: she’d been wondering it for years, from the moment she first met Nada Mountbatten, when she realized the bond between Nada and Gloria was almost as strong as the one between Gloria and Thelma. At its root, it was a question born of jealousy: the ugly, childish assumption that no one had the right to such intimacy with her sister, a question asked by a six-year-old screaming at the parental directive to share.
Gloria set down her coffee. “She made me happy,” she said. “It’s as simple as that. She made me feel like I was the only other person in the world who mattered. Like I was as exciting as she was.” She looked down. “Isn’t that silly? She made me like what I saw—what she saw in me. Perhaps that’s all I was looking for—someone who made me like my own reflection.”
She drifted off, pulling a lace-trimmed handkerchief from a drawer.
“It’s all still there, you know,” said Thelma. “Everything Nada saw in you. Everything Reggie saw in you, God rest his soul. People don’t see what isn’t there.”
Gloria shrugged. “Maybe it is,” she said. “The good and the bad. Nada wasn’t perfect—she never pretended to be. Neither did I.” She looked up. “I don’t blame you, Thelma. My mistakes were my own—my mistakes as a mother. But my biggest mistake was in trusting the wrong person with my secrets. Not when she had secrets of her own to protect.”
Thelma was helpless in the face of facts: helpless against Gloria’s calm, Burkan’s impotence, Mathew’s firm, merciless grip. “We can fix this,” she said. “I’ve got the money to continue fighting. An appeal. I’ll support you and Little Gloria both, you’ll never need to touch a penny of her inheritance. I’ll act as an assurance—I’ll adopt Little Gloria if necessary—”
She could picture it, the scene blooming in her mind like a morning glory. Why hadn’t she thought of it before? Duke had given her enough money, if she was careful, to support Gloria and Little Gloria both: a larger flat in London, or something in the country if the Surrogates preferred it, a house with a nursery and garden large enough for Tony and Little Gloria to grow up together. Thelma could take over the finances but she would share, with Gloria, the task of motherhood—
Gloria smiled, and the picture died as quickly as it lived. “If only it were still about the money,” she said. She leaned back in her chair, balancing her coffee cup on her lap, looking into space as though contemplating something as trivial as the weather. “She was always going to get Little Gloria. I wonder when she first started plotting—probably before the ink was dry on Reggie’s death certificate.”
“Gertrude?”
“Mamma.” Gloria looked at Thelma. “She wanted a pretext, and I gave her one. She wanted an ally, and Gertrude was willing. She’s not thought it all through, though, if she thinks Gertrude will allow her to dictate Little Gloria’s life.”
Had Gertrude realized how much control Mamma would expect to continue wielding over Little Gloria? Chances were, Mamma was already measuring up for drapes in the spare bedroom at Old Westbury. Gloria had put up with Mamma’s toxic influence because of filial duty, but Gertrude owed Mamma no such courtesy. They might win the courtroom battle, Mamma and Gertrude, but how long would their alliance last, once the practicalities of raising a child began to grate on them both?
“Poor Gertrude,” said Thelma.
“She won’t be as easily handled as I was. And once Gertrude starts making her own decisions on Little Gloria’s behalf...” Gloria drifted off, her features sinking into melancholy once more. “The thing I regret most is that she believes all the lies. Gertrude was so good to me when Reggie died. We were friends. Did she think of me as an unfit mother the whole time?”
Gloria looked up, and Thelma knew the question had pained her since the start of the trial—the question of reputation, of dignity. What would Little Gloria think of her, once she was living in another house, with a woman who’d fought to keep her from her mother?
“Gertrude’s relying on Mamma’s lies,” said Thelma. “One day, she’ll realize that—if she hasn’t already. And when she does, she’ll see you for who you really are. So will Little Gloria, when she’s old enough to understand.”
Taking Gloria’s hands in her own, Thelma leaned forward; Gloria leaned, too, their foreheads pressing together like they used to do when they were children, each the reflection of the other, two sides of a coin.
“Until that day comes,” she continued, “you’ve got me.”
Forty-Eight
The car turned onto Lexington Avenue, and Thelma, Consuelo and Gloria, wedged together in the back seat, began the traffic-clogged journey to the courthouse. Gloria, seated next to the window, closed her eyes and leaned against Consuelo’s shoulder.
“You might be called to testify today, Thelma,” said Consuelo. Disapproval hung over her tone: according to Gloria, Consuelo and Burkan had stayed up late into the night discussing the trial. Thelma couldn’t blame her older sister for thinking she was the only adult left in the room.
“You’re to speak to Gloria’s good character,” she continued. “Her morality, her church attendance. Her devotion to Little Gloria. Nothing else, you understand?”
“Yes,” said Thelma. She looked out the window, watching green slivers of Central Park appear, two blocks away, as the street names dropped from the Seventies to the Sixties. She was glad they were taking Lexington rather than Fifth, where the palatial Vanderbilt mansions, delicate as spun sugar, took up entire city blocks.
As Lexington merged into Park Avenue, they passed the Commodore Hotel, named for Reggie’s great-grandfather, who’d built the family fortune in railroads. If she were to walk a
few blocks from the Commodore, Thelma would find Vanderbilt Avenue, a slim little street named in honor of the family—as though not enough of the city already bore their name, in statues and buildings and boardrooms and parks.
How had she never noticed the stamp that the Vanderbilts had made on the city before? She’d seen power in that name, once, but now she saw only an obsessive insecurity in their need to paper their surroundings with reminders of their own prominence; to cement their hold on authority by crafting the city in their own gilt image.
There was little Thelma could do, now, to change fate. She’d not missed the implication behind Consuelo’s instructions: Thelma was being hurried onto the stand so that she could be hurried off it again. She was a liability now, to Gloria as much as to David, to David as much as to Nada. And she was a liability to Gertrude as well, for wasn’t the threat of David’s connection the only reason Burkan wasn’t pulling Gertrude’s skeletons out of the closet, too? No, when Thelma got on the stand Smyth would play nicely. It was in everyone’s best interests.
She closed her eyes for a moment as the motorcar, snagged in traffic, slowed. She hoped she would testify today. She feared that if she waited any longer, anger would spill out of her in a screaming condemnation of Gertrude and Mamma and Nada Mountbatten, of sheer hypocrisy; of the fact that Gloria’s only crime was not having a pile of coins large enough to hide her sins.
Beyond the autumn leaves in Foley Square, Thelma could see the courthouse, gray and austere, morning sunlight catching on the pillars and sending the portico into ribbons of light and shadow. Consuelo nudged Gloria awake and she sat up, pinching color into her cheeks as the car stopped.
The crowd was overwhelming: hundreds, it seemed, had come to witness the arrival of the Vanderbilt Widow. Along the courthouse steps, police officers had formed a barricade. They waved the car forward as the crowd shouted words of encouragement and condemnation in equal measure. Newspapermen pushed against the police cordon as they raised cameras, lenses flashing in the sunlight like beetle shells. A few hefted heavy newsreel cameras onto their shoulders, waving their hands to attract Thelma’s attention as a policeman opened her car door. Thelma searched the crowd, and met the eyes of a woman in gray. She shifted closer to her husband, unsmiling, staring at Thelma’s fur coat.
Consuelo followed Thelma onto the pavement, ignoring the noise as she bent to help Gloria out of the car. Gloria lifted a gloved hand and waved to the crowd, her red lips the only color on her pallid face, and the crowd roared in response.
“You tell ’em, Mrs. V!”
“Go get your baby back!”
“Sinner! Sinner!”
Gloria drifted toward Thelma as Consuelo consulted her watch. “Burkan and the rest should be arriving shortly,” she murmured, glancing up Lafayette Street.
Wordlessly, Gloria slipped her hand in the crook of Thelma’s arm, their shoulders touching. She tilted her chin, turning her face to the sun, and smiled.
Gloria would lose the trial, yet here she was, ready for another day of scandal. Thelma tightened her grip on Gloria’s hand, willing herself to hope. Carew might yet grant Gloria partial custody of her child; at the very least, he would allow visiting rights. Over the years to come, Gloria might yet salvage her relationship with her daughter.
Consuelo let in a sharp intake of breath and Thelma looked up: a dark Rolls Royce was coming down the road. Gloria’s grip on Thelma’s arm tightened but she stood her ground, watching the car make its way to the break in the police cordon, coming to a stop only feet from where they stood.
Mamma Morgan was the first to get out: she stood with her dark eyes fixed on the courthouse, her jaw jutted forward like a pugilist. She didn’t acknowledge her three daughters, but walked past as though they were nothing more than faces in the crowd.
Thelma couldn’t help pitying her. Mamma had lost all four of her children in this fight. Of course, she would have said she was acting out of love. One day, Thelma hoped, she might realize the tragedy of it all.
Gertrude, at least, had the decency to nod to Thelma, Gloria and Consuelo as she exited the car. Like Gloria, Gertrude was dressed entirely in black—she seemed determined not to let Gloria’s presence ruffle her, turning her full attention to the car and its final inhabitant.
Little Gloria slid across the car seat, her legs—white stockings and black Mary Janes—hovering, too short to reach the ground from the height of the seat. She hopped out of the car, glancing left and right as the crowd roared for her attention. Thelma wouldn’t have blamed the child if she’d retreated, but Little Gloria stood firm. She looked healthy, at least, dressed in a tweed blouse and dark skirt, an autumn cape tied around her neck with a ribbon. Still a child, in most respects—but Thelma could see the weight behind her eyes.
The crowd fell silent as mother and daughter looked at each other. This was what they’d come for: live entertainment, a bloodletting in the streets.
Gloria released her hold on Thelma’s arm and looked down at her daughter. “Hello, darling,” she said. “Are you well?”
The child reddened, and she turned from her mother without a word. Like her grandmother, she set her jaw and began walking up the stairs, her white-gloved hand gripping the iron railing.
Gloria looked as though she’d been slapped. Even Gertrude looked stunned. She turned to Gloria and opened her mouth as if to say something, but then closed it again. She let out a breath, shook her head and followed her niece into the courthouse.
Gloria watched them go. Thelma took her hand once more and Consuelo pulled a case of cigarettes from her bag.
“To calm your nerves,” she said. Thelma took one, but Gloria shook her head. She followed Gertrude up the stairs, her head held high.
Thelma lit a cigarette for herself, her hands shaking. Burkan’s words came back to her, unyielding: no possibility of a settlement. Once the court case was decided, things would continue to be troubled. Gloria would have to keep fighting. It was all she had left—the fight to reclaim custody of Little Gloria, and then, when that failed, the fight to win back her love.
It was something Gloria could do, but not alone. Once Carew ruled against Gloria, she would lose access to the income from Little Gloria’s estate. She would need support—financial and emotional—to endure the overwhelming challenges that lay ahead.
A third Rolls Royce pulled up in front of the courthouse: Burkan and Harry and Edith. Consuelo crossed to the car as Burkan exited, greeting him in a low voice as Thelma walked up the stairs.
Thelma’s future was here, by her sister’s side. She would return to London, of course, to wrap up loose ends: close the Grosvenor Square flat, discuss Tony’s schooling with Duke. Perhaps they would find him a place in a New York school, if they were lucky; maybe a house outside the city, with land enough for horses. Tony took after his half sister in that way.
She lingered at the edge of the portico, looking back past the crowds toward Foley Square. It was a blindingly bright autumn morning, the sun peeking through the gaps between skyscrapers. Were she standing atop the turret at Fort Belvedere, Thelma would be looking over nothing but a blanket of blue sky, green fields rushing up to meet the horizon in the distance.
“Lady Furness!”
Thelma looked down. Below, a small woman had pushed her way past the reporters. She was clearly hard done by—a husband put out of work by the Depression, perhaps, but she had her pride: she wore a patched dress, ironed like it was new. She waved, as though she was greeting an old friend.
Thelma paused, lifting the half-smoked cigarette from her lips.
“You give them hell,” the woman said, and though she didn’t shout Thelma could hear her as clearly as if she were standing right beside her. “From one mother to another. You tell that Whitney bitch to go to hell.”
Thelma held the woman’s gaze for a moment. She nodded, then flicked the cigarette from her fingers.
She watched it fly and land, ember fading, on the stairs.
She glanced back, but the woman had sunk once more into the crowd of onlookers. Thelma turned, squaring her shoulders as she faced the darkness of the courtroom, and walked inside.
EPILOGUE
May 1946
Buckingham Palace
Two hundred pairs of eyes gazed at her as she walked down the long hallway of the Picture Gallery: a hundred different expressions, serene and judgmental and wise, dressed in Tudor finery and ermine robes, damask and silk and finery, jewels so heavy the sitters, surely, had never been able to wear them all at once in real life. The procession of people around her—who, like Thelma, had been invited to the investiture—slowed as they walked through the room, lingering over the frames as though expecting a tour guide to appear and begin explaining this painting or that, the Van Dyck or the Canaletto or the Reubens, the canvases that hung cheek by jowl in a higgledy-piggledy overload that only the British could find dignified.
Thelma knew she stood out in the threadbare crowd, with her manicured nails and glossy hair, her chic American clothing. She had been lucky, choosing to return to New York with Gloria in the latter half of the 1930s—luckier still that her settlement from Duke had safeguarded her during the worst years of the Depression. She’d watched from afar as German bombs decimated her former home, thankful to have Tony safe at her side, wishing she could have taken Dickie, too—to have instilled in her heroic stepson the wisdom of cowardly life, rather than the futile romanticism of a glorious death. She would have given anything for him to be here, rather than for Tony to be collecting medals on his behalf. Heroism was cold comfort, now that Thelma and Tony were the last surviving members of the Furness family.
She walked on, passing portraits of prior monarchs, generations of kings and queens whose stories were as well-known as their faces. Their personal triumphs and failures were woven into the fabric of Britain: the Empire rose and fell with the choices they made, followed through with the stroke of a sword or a pen. The man who now sat on the throne bore the burden of decision heavily—Thelma could see that in the pictures they printed in the newspapers. Bertie had always been duty-bound, even before fate tapped him on the shoulder.
The Woman Before Wallis Page 36
