Thanks to my sibling, my composure returns. I continue down the aisle, nodding occasionally to guests I recognize. As we near the first row of pews, I see the gaze of Winston’s mother fixed on me. Her new husband, George Cornwallis-West, nearly the same age as Winston and conspicuously not present at my engagement weekend at Blenheim, has not bothered to turn his head in my direction. By contrast, I receive warm grins from Winston’s brother, Jack, handsome with his bushy mustache, and his new wife, Goonie, her pretty, delicate features framed by her shiny dark-brown hair. My relatives, few compared to Winston’s, are beaming as they watch my progress, including my august grandmother, whose demeanor is usually imbued with Scottish stoicism, and Lady St. Helier, who grins at me, delighted in the role she played here. Even Mother, lovely in a plum silk gown trimmed in white fur, is smiling, although I soon identify a more likely source for her delight than her daughter. She has rearranged church seating so that next to her, in a place of utmost prominence, is Algernon Bertram Freeman-Mitford, the First Baron Redesdale; he is my mother’s sister’s husband and the man long rumored to be my actual father.
Bill squeezes my arm, understanding my reaction without a single word. I will not allow Mama to spoil my day, I think to myself as we reach the altar. And I turn to face Winston.
Through the cloud of my veil, I study my intended. Standing next to his best man, the heavily mustachioed Lord Hugh Cecil, Winston looks stout rather than tall as he does in my imagination, but no matter. The twinkle in his eye and his half smile are for me alone. And with his nimble mind, passionate ideals, and the solace we find in each other, he is my home. The one for which I have searched my entire life.
We grin at one another like greedy children, and all the anxiousness of the day fades away. For a few passing seconds, it is just us two.
Our silent exchange—indeed the quiet of the entire church—is interrupted when the marriage officiant, Bishop Welldon, pointedly clears his throat. As Winston’s former headmaster at Harrow, the bishop knows Winston well and launches into a lengthy speech about my husband-to-be and the sanctity of marriage. I despair that I may not even be mentioned in this discourse, on my wedding day no less, when I finally hear my name and the word wife, but only in the context of the little known impact a wife can have on her politician husband.
Winston and I wait until the conclusion of Bishop Welldon’s lengthy speech, more like a monologue than a sermon, to exchange our vows. When Winston repeats his pledge with a tender voice, I see tears well up in the corner of his eyes, and I have to stop myself from tearing up as well. The ceremony concludes with a brief kiss that leaves Winston and I blushing and beaming at each other. Until the bishop interrupts us, that is, having decided that the altar of our wedding day is the appropriate time for a chat with his old student.
As I politely wait for their inopportune discussion to finish, I stare down the nave, over the heads of our guests to the stained-glass window at the west end of St. Margaret’s. A brilliantly colored portrait of Queen Elizabeth I peers back at me with an unflinching gaze. England’s longest reigning monarch would have never tolerated being kept waiting like this, and I feel almost as if she’s taking me to task for allowing the bishop to detract from my moment.
I think about the bishop’s description of my future—as a hidden force for good upon my important husband. Is that all anyone expects my life to be? I may be only twenty-three years old to Winston’s thirty-four, without the education, accomplishments, or nobility of my intended, but my life will not serve solely as the invisible prop for my husband.
Chapter Five
October 14, 1908
London, England
As our Pullman car approaches Victoria station, I tick off the buildings we pass, expecting to be comforted by their familiarity. Instead, the city appears gray and misty after weeks of searing Italian sun. This dark return to London signals the conclusion of our honeymoon, and I feel a wave of sadness that our languorous days and nights must end.
I recall sitting with Winston on the balcony of our suite at the Lido Palace Hotel on the banks of Lake Maggiore, Italy. We’d been admiring the views of the sapphire-blue lake and the surrounding mountains, still snowcapped in places. A peaceful quiet had settled upon us, and we entwined our fingers and tipped our faces toward the afternoon sun. As chunky rays of sunshine warmed us through our white linen clothes, I experienced a transcendent sensation of peace and belonging—and love—such as I’d never felt before. It is this moment that I wish to preserve upon our return.
The weeks of our honeymoon, spent exclusively in each other’s company, were our true courtship. In the first week, we explored the splendors of Blenheim Palace without Sunny or any other family member in residence, and I began to understand the full impact of Winston’s childhood neglect and the resulting fervent adoration of his larger Churchill ancestry. Eight days at Baron Arnold de Forest’s Moravian castle in Eichhorn, Austria, followed, where we wandered through the ancient, emerald woods and started to untangle ourselves from our carefully fashioned public personas. A frenzy of six days in Venice, indulging in Renaissance Madonnas, palazzos, and sleek black gondolas helped shed the remainder of our facades, but it wasn’t until the final, splendid week at the Lido that we peeled away the last layer of our worldly shells and surrendered ourselves. There, we stood before each other, vulnerable and exposed, and became true husband and wife. I made a silent vow that I would protect our union. But as we return to foggy London with all its demands and social constructs, I worry who we will become. How can I safeguard this fusion of selves that we’ve managed to fashion?
“Cat?” Winston whispers, awakening me from my reverie.
“Yes, my Pug?” I answer my nickname with his own.
We had enjoyed the physical love of our honeymoon, the first time for each of us. During those intimate moments, a certain bashfulness had arisen between us, and we’d taken to calling each other by pet names, perhaps as an oblique reference to our more animalistic natures.
A lopsided grin appears on Winston’s lips, and perhaps inspired by his own honeymoon memories, he reaches for my hand. I touch my ungloved fingers to his one by one before sliding my hand into his. He pulls me toward him until I perch on his lap, fully enveloped in his arms. We kiss, and I feel the heat surge within me. As I briefly break away to catch my breath, I realize that we have pulled into Victoria station and slowed down next to a full, waiting train car, all of whose passengers are staring at us.
We erupt into laughter, our extravagant happiness making us unembarrassed by their gazes. Our giggles linger as I tug down the dove-gray wool jacket of my Frederick Bosworth traveling suit, and we step off the train into the carriage waiting to take us and our trunks back to Winston’s bachelor home. The roll and lurch of the carriage over the city streets, bumpy with their mixture of wood, macadam, granite, and the occasional cobblestones, makes me unexpectedly nauseous, and the merriment fades. Only when we approach 12 Bolton Street and I look into my husband’s shining eyes does the discomfort disappear, and I realize that, for the first time in my life, I am home.
“Shall I carry you over the threshold?” he offers with arms outstretched as we stand before the imposing front door.
A smile reappears on my face at the notion, but I shake my head in mock protest. “That seems rather barbaric, doesn’t it? After all, it’s not as if you’ve stolen me from my village and I’m arriving back at your hut kicking and screaming. We have chosen each other quite willingly.”
“We have indeed,” Winston whispers in my ear.
Then he kisses me again and laughs. Without speaking, we link hands, wordlessly choosing to cross over the threshold together.
We step into the spacious entry hall of his narrow but tall building, which contains, as he’d told me, four floors with a basement. As we stroll through the ground-floor dining room and morning room and then upstairs to the drawing room and library, I am
pleased with the simple ivory woodwork, subtle paint on the walls, and accents of mahogany in the staircases, ornate mantelpieces, and dining room furniture, all aglow with electric lights. But then I notice that all the table surfaces in the library are cluttered with miniature versions of war—metal soldiers, cannons, horses, and artillery, as if we’ve interrupted a battle—and that every chair has heaping piles of books teetering. The masculine library, in particular, decorated in leather and bold nautical colors, resembles nothing so much as a boy’s bedroom, and I wonder how we will ever entertain guests in these spaces. Clearly, Winston undertook his socializing at others’ homes or his club. I wish protocol had allowed for me to visit his home before we married, as I could have addressed some of this decor.
He gestures around the library, saying, “It’s been waiting for a womanly touch, as you can see.”
His expression is sheepish and somewhat apologetic, and I reassure him with a kiss. “It’s wonderful. And we will make this our home. Just you wait and see, Pug.”
“It’s been waiting for you all this time. As have I.”
Our kissing continues in earnest until we hear a throat clearing. We jump apart, and I wonder who would dare interrupt us. Any reasonable servant would understand how to silently absent himself from this private moment.
Only then do I see her. Standing in the doorway to the library is Winston’s mother, resplendent in a boldly striped peacock-green gown cut in the latest fashion. She is smiling beatifically, as if her very presence should infuse us with joy.
“Mama?” Winston calls out, his tone a mixture of shock and pleasure.
“Lady Randolph?” I exclaim, astonished by her presence.
“You are family now, Clementine. Please feel free to call me Jennie,” she says with another serene smile.
No wonder the smile of Lady Randolph—Jennie, I mean—has that Madonna-esque quality, I think. She’s grown to expect delight from her son simply because she is present. Even in inopportune moments.
“Did I hear someone say ‘waiting for a womanly touch’?” she announces, clearly pleased with herself. I sense no contrition for her intrusion upon our intimacy.
“What have you been about, Mama?” Winston asks with a wag of his finger as if his mother were a naughty schoolgirl.
After a brief interlude with kisses and greetings for us both, she announces, “I have a surprise for the newlyweds. I’ve been busy while you were gallivanting across Europe.”
I am leery. Over the course of our honeymoon, Winston told me many stories about his lonely upbringing, and while he would never describe his beloved mother in pejorative terms, I’d heard about the many letters he wrote to her, pleading for her attention while she traveled the world in the company of her lovers. She neither responded to his pleas nor defended him against the railings about his lisp or weak constitution by his father, whose preference for Winston’s younger brother was unabashed and undisguised. Only when Winston had become an adult and made a name for himself had she begun to show him the slightest bit of affection, and even then, only when she could benefit from the association. I easily identified her self-serving behaviors, having recognized them in my own mother.
“Whatever have you done?” Winston’s pleased tone holds none of the mixed emotions I’m feeling. Having waited so long for her notice, he would never do anything to jeopardize or critique it. From him, I sense only satisfaction at the attention she is paying us.
“Come, let me show you.”
She leads us up the steep stairs to a door at the end of the third-floor hallway. The door is slightly ajar, and she pushes it open with a light tap. From a quick survey of the room, I discern that it is the master bedroom, and I spin around toward Winston, wondering what his reaction will be that his mother—not he—would be the first to introduce me to the room holding our marital bed.
While his expression shows astonishment, I quickly learn that the decor is what shocks him. “Mama, what a surprise!”
A wide smile forming on her rosebud-shaped lips, she stares into Winston’s face. “Do you like it, darling? The master bedroom needed redecorating, with a dash of that ‘womanly touch’ you mentioned. You couldn’t have welcomed Clementine home to the tired nautical theme that pervaded your old bedroom.”
No one asks me my opinions on the decor. This slight would have normally upset me—it is the room that Winston and I will share as husband and wife, after all—but not on this occasion. I know that if I had been asked, I could not have stifled my horror at the overabundance of frills and sateen bows and ruffles and flowered fabric muslin covers. It resembles a room in a house of ill repute. Or what I imagine one would look like anyway.
I feel as if I cannot breathe in this cloying environment, but mercifully, a housemaid interrupts us with a knock on the open bedroom door. Winston turns, raising an eyebrow at her. “Yes?” he inquires, his tone unexpectedly sharp.
An expression of apology crosses her features, and I feel badly for the girl. She’s only doing her duty.
“I am sorry, sir, but a messenger delivered letters from Parliament. He said they were urgent.”
Winston’s eyes light up; no hint of disappointment appears on his face. “Ah, duty and all that.”
With her son’s attention diverted, Jennie turns her calculating gaze upon me. I meet her eyes, seeing this woman for who she truly is. This makeover of our bedroom telegraphs the extent of her willingness to insert herself into our lives, even into our most intimate moments. I realize now that she championed our marriage because she believed I would be a timid mouse, staying in the background while she manipulated Winston for her own ends. On our honeymoon, Winston and I had created a circle of trust, and I need to reinforce that circle in this moment. If I do not, then it will only be a matter of time before Jennie will attempt to mold not only our home and Winston’s career but also our marriage and even me.
That circle encompasses politics. During our courtship, Winston had written to me that his life centered on politics, but I hadn’t understood how fully until our honeymoon. I know now that if I want to play a meaningful part in his life, I must become involved in his political world, building a walled fortress around us. And it’s a natural fit for me, as I’m deeply interested in the rights and treatment of men and women alike.
I leave Jennie behind and slip my hand through the crook of Winston’s elbow. “Come, Winston. Let’s review the letters together. If the work beckons you, it beckons me.”
II
Chapter Six
November 15, 1909
Bristol, England
My step feels light. With each movement forward, the confinement of pregnancy, the birth itself, and the long, sometimes lonely, recovery afterward are shed, like an unwanted skin. These trials, of course, I had heard other women describe, but until I suffered through them myself, I could not imagine how metamorphic they would be. Now I know. And with each step, I leave them in my wake. I rejoin Winston in the work we undertake together as part of our unique marriage.
As I walk down the aisle and closer to the stairs descending from the train into the station where we will meet with local politicians, I summon myself into the wife and person that Winston requires of me. I am determined to return to the unit we had become since our marriage, at home and at work. Until my pregnancy intervened anyway. I remember the words of his August letter, which I’d received during my convalescence at the Blunts’ estate in Sussex after Diana’s July birth: Recover, my Cat, as I will need you to assist me in the approaching election. I have a key role in mind for you. His words reinforced my purpose, spurring along my recovery, and they push me forward now.
This moment feels long in coming. After Diana’s birth, I’d taken some time alone for recuperation, first to Sussex at Wilfrid Scawen Blunt’s Newbuildings estate and then to my Stanley cousins’ estate Alderley Park in Cheshire, leaving the baby in London under the care
of a nurse and the supervision of Winston. After I returned, I’d assumed that I would step back immediately into the part of Winston’s political confidante and social companion. In fact, I’d prepared for this role during my convalescence by keeping abreast of current affairs and studying the dozens of political books Winston had assigned me—including the indecipherable The Life of the Bee. But when I returned to our new house on Eccleston Square in late August, I discovered that Jennie had insinuated herself into every facet of the daily life of our household, as well as the routines of both Winston and Diana—from the daily menus to the servants’ cleaning regimens to the decor of our new home to Diana’s napping schedule to Winston’s wardrobe and social agenda. Untangling her imprint—and finally her—from our home took weeks, and even then, I only achieved my goal because her husband, George Cornwallis-West, summoned her.
But then, Jennie’s departure coincided with Winston’s. Kaiser Wilhelm II of Germany summoned my husband for an extended trip to inspect the military and to visit the country’s labor exchanges. Immediately upon his return from the continent, his constituency demanded his presence in Dundee. When he came back to London after his trips, long-neglected parliamentary matters consumed him, and I soon heard rumors that Violet Asquith had begun to accompany her father to meetings in the hopes of encountering Winston. While I was powerless to stop Violet’s efforts, I knew I had to reclaim my role at my husband’s side.
London had been stiflingly hot—too hot for the baby—so I made a proposal: I would decamp to the Crest Hotel in Sussex with Diana and the nurse, and he would give us his undivided attention on weekends. The picturesque landscape surrounding the hotel, reminiscent of Scotland, provided an inviting backdrop for nights of affection between Cat and Pug and days discussing political issues, just us two.
Lady Clementine Page 4
