Ah, I thought with a start. The familiarity of his appearance was explained. While I believed I’d met him in passing several years earlier, I knew his face not from that earlier social occasion but from the newspapers. The gentleman sitting next to me was a prominent member of Parliament and rumored to soon become the next president of the Board of Trade, which would make him one of the most important members of the government. His rise through the leadership ranks had been riddled with controversy, as he’d changed parties from Conservative to Liberal a few years before, favoring free trade and a more active government with legislation protecting the welfare of its citizens. This led to constant coverage in the dailies, including a lengthy interview in the Daily Chronicle by the Dracula author, Bram Stoker, a few months ago.
If I recalled correctly, some years before, this Mr. Churchill had actually voted in favor of the female suffrage bill, an issue quite dear to me. During my school years at Berkhamsted School for Girls, my headmistress, Beatrice Harris, had instilled in me a taste for female independence. Her lectures on suffragism had fallen upon keen ears, because, having grown up with a mother who professed nonconformist beliefs but actually relied upon her aristocratic status and many liaisons for sustenance, I wanted to pursue a path of purpose and, if possible, independence. And now, sitting before me was one of the few politicians who had publicly backed an early effort for the women’s vote. I suddenly felt quite nervous but exhilarated at the same time.
The rest of the table had grown quiet, but my dinner partner didn’t seem to notice, because he cleared his throat loudly and continued. “I hope the mere name Winston Churchill doesn’t scare you off. I’m quite the pariah these days in most households.”
A fierce heat spread across my usually pale cheeks, not from his words but from my worry that my ignorance of his identity might have led me into some kind of gaffe. Had I said anything inappropriate? I wondered as I quickly reviewed our exchange. I did not think so. If Kitty had been in my place, she would have managed this interaction with aplomb and humor instead of with my awkward pauses and nerves.
I settled upon a response. “No, sir, not at all. I find your views quite in line with my own, and I am delighted to make your acquaintance.”
“Not delighted enough to share your name, it seems.”
My cheeks flamed even hotter. “I am Miss Clementine Hozier.”
“It is my pleasure, Miss Hozier.”
* * *
I smile at the memory now. Before I can answer Nellie, her twin, Bill, bounds into the room. Bill is my younger brother and still schoolboy gangly despite his position as an officer in the Royal Navy. He is midbite into an enormous apple that promptly drops to the floor when he sees me. “What in the devil are you doing here? Not skipping out on another commitment, I hope?”
Leaping to my feet, I jab his arm for the reference to my not one but two jilted fiancés—Sidney Cornwallis Peel, grandson of the former prime minister Sir Robert Peel, and Lionel Earle, men with lofty titles or positions and the promise of financial security but with whom I foresaw a life of staid decorum and scant hope of purpose. While I eschew the unconventional life led by my mother, I found that I could not commit to either of these fine gentlemen solely for the sake of propriety when I longed for a life of meaning and—dare I think it—emotion, even though decorousness was a powerful lure.
Nellie, Bill, and I burst into laughter, and I feel impossibly light. The heavy sense of isolation I felt in the long hours before dawn fades away, and in the presence of my siblings, the aisle-long march to my new life no longer seems an insurmountable journey. Until Mother walks into the room.
For the first time in memory, Mother is speechless. No judgmental lectures on her pet topics, no public redressing for perceived slights, no under-the-breath yet audible remarks about bourgeois acquaintances. And most incredibly, it is me—the least favored and often ignored of her children—who has rendered mute the outspoken Lady Blanche Hozier.
Nellie, the favorite, leaps in to defend me. “Clemmie is here only for tea and a quick visit, Mama.”
Mother rises up to her full height and finds her voice. In a shrill, mocking tone, she says, “A visit? At dawn? On the morning of her wedding?”
No one answers. Such questions are not meant to be answered.
With her blond hair in disheveled strands around her still-beautiful face, she stares at each of us in turn, making yet another criticism dressed up as a rhetorical question. “Can any of you think of anything less appropriate?”
I almost snort with laughter at our bohemian mother, never one to follow the strictures of society, church, or family, doubting the appropriateness of her children’s behavior. She, whose own behavior has long flouted the traditions of marriage and child-rearing through multiple simultaneous affairs and long absences. And we, who cling to convention as a life raft in the sea of our mother’s tempestuousness.
Glancing at Nellie and Bill, I recognize the cowed expressions beginning to form on their faces, and I remind myself what today means. For me, for our family. Instead of submitting to Mother’s irritation and hoping a remorseful look will dissipate her foul humor, I assemble my own features into an air of amusement. Today, I will assume a powerful mantle, and this is my first effort at making plain that the balance has shifted.
“Surely you don’t begrudge your daughter a brief trip across town to see her family on the morning of her wedding, Mama?” I ask with a smile. I’m trying to sound like Grandmother, also called Lady Blanche, who, as a Stanley of Alderley inhabiting Airlie Castle, embodies all the strong and assertive qualities the Stanley matriarchs are known for, including female education. Not that Mother follows suit in her own beliefs; she is unorthodox in every view except on the subject of female education. I cannot understand it, but I suppose it’s that Mother’s focus lies on her relationships with men, most of whom find female education distasteful.
Mother doesn’t answer at first, unused to being challenged. Finally, she speaks, in a forced and deliberate manner. “Of course not, Clementine. But I will arrange for a brougham to pick you up and take you back to prepare at Lady St. Helier’s within the hour. After all, there will be over a thousand people watching you arrive at St. Margaret’s church to walk down the aisle.”
Chapter Three
September 12, 1908
London, England
An hour passes on the mantelpiece clock, and I am still submitting to the ministrations of Lady St. Helier’s personal maid. As she tends to my hair, coaxing its heavy chestnut strands into an elaborate pompadour, I examine my face in the mirror. My almond-shaped eyes and profile, often described by others as Roman or well chiseled, whatever that means, appear the same as they do every day. Yet this day is unlike any other.
I watch the minutes tick by on the clock, almost incredulous that most women of my acquaintance spend a significant portion of their days in some version of this process. They waste hours while their maids assist them in changing from one outfit into another, from one coiffure to another, as they move from one social occasion to the next. Mother’s peripatetic, often penurious, lifestyle meant that I’d performed all the maids’ chores myself on those instances when I was invited to an event requiring intricate updos and formal attire, but more often than not, I wore a simple tie-and-shirt-collar blouson, a skirt, and a basic hairstyle. I know now that even if my future life as Mrs. Winston Churchill allows for an abundance of personal maids, I do not want my time spent in this frivolous manner.
A glint of sunlight reflects off the large ruby at the center of my engagement ring. I wiggle my fingers, making the light catch and dance on the facets of the ruby and the diamonds that flank it, and recollect Winston’s proposal. In the mirror, I see a smile curving on my lips at the memory.
* * *
By midsummer, the invitations to visit Winston at Blenheim Palace, one of England’s largest houses and the only nonro
yal home to have the designation of palace, began pouring into our home in Abingdon Villas. Blenheim was owned by Winston’s cousin and close friend, the Duke of Marlborough, who went by the name “Sunny” after one of his titles, the Earl of Sunderland, and Winston was spending part of the summer there. I demurred at first, not out of reluctance to see him but out of despair that I did not own the proper gowns required for such a grand occasion.
His invitations continued until I could not refuse without rebuffing the man to whom I’d grown unexpectedly attached. Letters and visits with Winston over the preceding four months had revealed him to be wonderful company, not at all the brusque pundit that the newspapers labeled him. In the long missives he penned to me during a trip undertaken with my mother to Germany to fetch Nellie back from a tuberculosis cure, he brimmed with the sort of enthusiasm and idealism that I, too, had about politics, history, and culture. In his company, I felt drawn into the thick of things, as if I was becoming an essential cog in the core of England.
I felt another kinship with him as well, a sense of aloneness in the world. We had both been raised by unconventional, unaffectionate mothers: mine, who’d entered into an unhappy union with Colonel Henry Hozier before engaging in perhaps happier affairs with several men who fathered her four children before their divorce, leaving the caretaking of us to servants; and his, the exquisite American-born heiress Lady Randolph Churchill, née Jennie Jerome, whose number of affairs rivaled that of Mother and who’d left the raising of Winston and his younger brother to their beloved Nanny Everest. Our fathers, if indeed my mother’s former husband could be called my father, given his uncertain parentage and our very few encounters in the years after the divorce, played even lesser roles than our mothers; it seems that Lord Randolph, in particular, actively disliked his elder son and, during their limited time together, would spend it critiquing him. Winston and I had been left in an uncertain state about our place in society and in relationships. But, to our delight and surprise, that sensation disappeared when we were together.
My nervousness about visiting Blenheim grew as my train passed through the verdant countryside with its undulating hills and approached the palace, long rumored to be one of the most luxurious outside of those estates owned by the royal family. What would I face at the great house? Winston had given me no details about the weekend plans, other than to mention that his cousin would be present, although not his wife, Consuelo, as they were divorcing, as would his mother, Lady Randolph, who, Mother had reminded me, I had met briefly on several social occasions. I was excited to see Winston but uncertain about the rest of his party.
A brougham retrieved me from the station, and after we’d traveled a fair distance, the driver called back to me, “We’ll be passin’ through Ditchley Gate in a moment, miss.”
Glancing out of the window, I noticed an ornate wrought-iron gate, flanked by an enormous stone gateway, looming before us. When a gatekeeper emerged from a lodge to open this imposing entryway, I glimpsed a long drive, bordered by rows of lime trees, traversing a vast plateau. Surely, I thought, this must be the drive to the palace. Yet as we set out, we continued over a bridge that crossed a meandering lake and passed several other large buildings, none of which seemed to be our destination. When will we reach Blenheim Palace? I wondered. My nerves were stretched near to snapping.
The driver called back again. “We’ll be at the central gate in a jiffy, miss.”
Ah, I thought, thank goodness. We are very nearly there. I straightened my skirt and patted my hair and hat to ensure that everything was in its place. The drive surface changed, and I welcomed the crunch of the wheels on the stones as a signal that we’d finally reached the palace. The brougham passed through a small archway carved into a limestone wall, and as the carriage lurched forward to a stop, I readied myself.
When I finally descended from the brougham, I stepped out onto a great court that faced the grandest house I’d ever encountered. A wide, pillared portico stood at the center, lined with statues and carvings of warlike figures, and two vast wings stretched out in my direction from either side. From nowhere, four servants appeared and rushed toward me, taking my bags and guiding me up the stairs to the imposing front doors of Blenheim.
I climbed the steep steps, my heart racing both from the effort and the anticipation, and the doors to the great hall magically opened as I approached. As soon as I stepped inside, I saw that Winston stood in a row of friends and family—or at least I presumed they were friends and family, as Lady Randolph stood comfortably among them—under the enormous archway at the far reaches of the seemingly endless hall, all waiting to greet me. The only family members missing were Winston’s beloved brother, Jack, and his new wife, Lady Gwendeline Bertie, affectionately known as Goonie, who had recently married and were away on their honeymoon. What on earth did Winston have planned?
My heels clattered across the vast expanse of black and white marble tiles as I began to walk toward my hosts. I winced as the sound echoed under the sixty-foot, fresco-adorned ceiling and around the massive pillars supporting the round-topped archways lining the hall. Winston’s broad smile never faltered, and my gaze locked upon his beaming face instead of the intimidating artwork and sculptures and ancient weaponry I passed, all part of Winston’s family history.
He stepped up and placed a firm, calming hand on mine as he made the introductions to those I did not know, his cousin Sunny, his close personal and political friend F. E. Smith and his wife, and a secretary from the Board of Trade among them. Then he insisted that I retire to my room to get ready for dinner, with two of his mother’s maids in tow. My cheeks flushed as I realized that someone in his group must have recognized that I didn’t have a maid of my own and rushed to address my gaffe.
As the maids unpacked my bags, I sauntered around the impossibly high-ceilinged bedroom suite complete with a japanned four-poster bed, astonished to find a fire roaring in the fireplace despite the warm August weather, an unnecessary indulgence. In mere moments, the maids descended upon me with brushes, combs, and pins ready to create a fashionable confection out of my simple chignon. Perhaps they concentrated their efforts on my hair when they realized precious little could be done about my limited wardrobe.
From the moment I crossed the threshold into the gold-adorned state dining room, past the long murals and tapestries celebrating the Marlborough military accomplishments and family portraits by such luminaries as Sir Joshua Reynolds, John Singer Sargent, and Thomas Gainsborough, I could not summon the poised, talkative young woman I’d been with Winston these past few months. I felt like a fraud in his world. I felt intimidated by the pervasive reminders of the Churchills’ historical importance and the comfortable banter between Winston, his mother, and Sunny, and I allowed myself to retreat into the background. It was an old habit from the days when Kitty was still alive and I’d watch from the shadows as my beautiful sister held a room captive with her wit and charm.
As the women and men parted ways after the meal, Winston approached me. I worried that he’d express concern, even disappointment, about my quiet throughout the meal, but instead he begged my pardon. “My dear Clementine, can you forgive me for monopolizing the dinner conversation? I talked so much with Mother and Sunny, you could not have gotten a word in edgewise.”
I tried to recall the exact nature of their extended discussion, as I’d been somewhat distracted by the furnishings and frescoes of the dining room. The talk had focused on the impending meeting between King Edward and Kaiser Wilhelm about the increasing size of Germany’s navy, and I hunted around for an appropriate comment. “Please, Winston, there is absolutely no need for apologies. I was intrigued by your remarks about naval expansion and Germany’s efforts to rival England as a maritime force. I quite agree that our country must maintain its dominance and not allow Germany to challenge us.”
A broad smile engulfed his full face. “That’s one of the things I love about you, Clementine.
Unlike most young women whose eyes would be glazing over at such talk, you listen, understand, and engage with the important issues of our day. Your intellect is very appealing. As is the nobility of your thoughts.”
While I understood and appreciated that he’d just given me several compliments, my thoughts fixed upon one word. Love. Had he just said love? Neither of us had ever used that word before. I did not—could not—answer, except to nod and look at him through eyes downcast.
“I say,” he said in his version of a whisper, which wasn’t altogether quiet, “let’s you and I take a walk through the Blenheim rose gardens tomorrow morning to see if you think they justify their reputation. I can also promise vistas of the lake.”
“I’d like that,” I answered.
“Wonderful,” he said, reaching out to caress my hand gently. “Shall we say ten o’clock in the breakfast room?”
I nodded my assent, and we bid each other good evening. My steps felt light and my mood a bit giddy as I joined Lady Randolph and Mrs. Smith for dessert, hoping to rectify the lackluster impression I’d made on them earlier.
The next morning, ten o’clock came and went, and eleven was fast approaching without an appearance by Winston or anyone else, for that matter. Where on earth was he? Hadn’t we agreed to tour the rose gardens by this time? I had already partaken of the lavish food on offer, selecting poached eggs, late summer strawberries and cream, and strong tea, and was standing before the row of windows, peering out over Blenheim’s manicured gardens, when someone finally entered the breakfast room.
Turning at the sound of footsteps, I expected to see a sheepish Winston. Instead, a shocked Sunny stood in the archway of the breakfast room, and his expression told me all I needed to know about Winston’s whereabouts, as he’d already confessed to me his habit of working until the first light of dawn and then resting until late morning. Winston was still sleeping. I was furious at him for placing me in this awkward position. I started walking out of the room without a word, never mind that I stood before the Duke of Marlborough.
Lady Clementine Page 2
