Drawing me back to the present, Winston squeezes my hand, nodding in the direction of an elegantly dressed couple entering the abbey about six couples ahead us. My task lies before me, and I will not fail. I will never risk relegation.
Chapter Eight
November 14, 1911
London, England
I race up the back stairs, leaving the astonished kitchen maids in my wake. I have no choice but to take this unconventional route to my bedroom; the use of the front staircase is impossible. The guests have already begun to gather in the front hallway—like the rest of the house, a stultifying formal affair of yellow silk walls and rich crimson carpeting, shot through with the requisite marine blue—and I cannot allow them to see me in this state of unpreparedness.
My bedroom is located at the farthest end of the long upstairs hallway, and at the moment, it seems impossibly far away. In October, after Winston was appointed as first lord of the admiralty, a key role as the British fleet is integral to England’s status as a global power, we hesitated before settling into Admiralty House, a four-story yellow brick building near Parliament that contains two thirty-foot drawing rooms for events, a library, and seven bedrooms. I held off the move, as I knew the cost of running such a house would be monumental, far exceeding the amount we spent on Eccleston Square, which already stretched our tight budget.
When we finally inhabited the house, I chose my bedroom, decorated in the omnipresent shade of marine blue with masculine furniture that some previous admiral deemed best suited for his official residence, for its distance from the nursery, where seven-month-old Randolph and two-and-a-half-year-old Diana sleep under the watchful eye of Nanny, and for its proximity to Winston’s bedroom. My husband summons my opinion at all hours, a habit I encourage, but I draw the line at seeking me out after midnight. Soon after our marriage, I learned that if we shared a bedroom, his nocturnal work habits meant my sleep suffered from constant interruption. A bedroom of my own became a necessity.
But the need for separate bedrooms does not mean that we never share a bed. On many evenings, just before he readies for dinner, I leave notes for Winston on his bedroom dresser, inviting him to visit me after the meal. Occasionally, on those evenings, he never returns to his bedroom at all.
I push open the door to my bedroom, finding Helen ready with the silk ivory gown and ruby necklace, a wedding gift from Winston, I’ve selected for this evening’s dinner. My personal maid, who came with the house, knows better than most the terrible pressure tonight’s event has placed upon me. Even with the new appointment and its accompanying raise in salary, our finances are strained, and I have had to run this house on limited staff. To keep costs low, I act as housekeeper, an enormous endeavor tonight, as it is our first evening hosting at Admiralty House. Helen rushes to undress me, tighten my corset, and slip me into the dress.
As we hasten through the familiar process of dressing and I begin to arrange my hair, I hear Winston’s footsteps thunder down the hallway. What on earth is he still doing upstairs? He should be in the front hallway greeting our guests, charming them in his loquacious way. Much will be asked of them in the coming days, and he will be doing the asking.
“Clemmie!” His voice booms into my bedroom before the door even opens. “Are you in there?”
I ignore him at first, hoping that he will abandon whatever has driven him to my door and return to his duty. Winston received the appointment to the lofty lord admiral position when the navy failed to provide the government with a coherent plan for British action in the event of war with Germany during the Agadir crisis. Given that he’d been warning the government about the growth in German naval power and its thirst for expansion—warnings that received only denial and resistance from naval leaders—he seemed the perfect man for the role. At least Asquith seemed to think so, and he directed Winston to prepare the navy for any eventuality with Germany.
Even though I loathed to walk away from the critical social issues around which Winston’s home secretary role circled, I threw myself into becoming what I believed to be a perfect lord admiral’s wife. Certainly, I became one like no other, as my predecessors were rarely seen or heard, like most political wives. I christened battleships, visited shipyards, practiced speeches with Winston, and, of course, attended the endless round of parties and dinners designed to secure Winston’s ties to figures critical to the success of our goals. I only balked at the move into Admiralty House.
“Clemmie,” Winston begged, “we must settle into the mansion posthaste. Just as a ship must be christened, so must my tenure as lord of the admiralty. The men will expect it.”
“Winston,” I responded firmly, “we must forestall the move for as long as possible. How will we ever afford to live in that vast, drafty old house? It will require a minimum of twelve servants, while we can only afford nine. At most. Not to mention the cost of heating that monstrosity. We could barely manage the cost of running Eccleston Square.”
“But the salary will be higher, Clemmie. Surely we can afford it,” he protested, always purposefully ignorant of household financial affairs.
“Not six times higher. And that’s approximately how much more it will cost to run Admiralty House.”
“I will limit my spending,” he proclaimed.
His expression was serious, but I couldn’t repress the laughter. “Oh, my sweet Pug. I don’t think you know the meaning of economizing.”
“I promise, Kitten.” He drew close, whispering into my ear. “No more champagne. No more silk underwear. I needn’t always have the most choice items.” His promises—which I know he is incapable of keeping—made me laugh even harder.
When I regained control of myself, I asked, “Can we not hold off the move a little longer and hold your inaugural party on the Enchantress?” I believed that the elegantly appointed, four-thousand-ton steam yacht accompanying the post could easily serve as the venue for the event, while incurring much less expense to ourselves. And, most importantly, putting off the move.
But even as I asked the question, I knew the answer and mentally began preparing to settle into Admiralty House. Even with Winston’s efforts to limit our household spending—arranging that the large private reception rooms should be reserved only for official entertainments and thus not part of our budget—constant economy ruled my days, a topic that he has avoided assiduously.
Winston does not bother to knock. My bedroom door swings open wide with a thud, and he strides into the room, only half dressed. Helen jumps, and the hook and eye she’s been painstakingly affixing comes undone. Why is he in here?
As he thunders into my room, I study him, a whirlwind of messy red-gold hair threaded with gray, undone black necktie, and unbuttoned vest, clutching a stack of papers. My husband has no understanding of the work I’ve undertaken—far beyond what my contemporaries would deign to shoulder—to organize this evening, and he has no desire to know the particulars. I foster this obliviousness, intuitively understanding that if I made him privy to the details and he witnessed me toiling behind the scenes, it could jeopardize the lofty opinion in which he holds me. He might view me as a typical housewife and stop asking me to serve by his side.
“Winston, shouldn’t you be downstairs greeting our guests?” I do not add “finish getting dressed” since one necessitated the other.
“They will wait fifteen minutes. Stewart is passing out champagne.”
“Champagne?” I issued strict instructions to serve only wine, not the exorbitantly expensive champagne that Winston favored and that he promised to relinquish.
He ignores my question, instead making a demand of his own. “I need you to listen to my speech.”
As Helen cinches me into my dress, Winston launches into his presentation, focusing on the mandate given to him by Asquith. He demands that the navy ready itself for Germany’s malignant military ambitions. This directive, a departure from the prior naval guidan
ce, will certainly unsettle the already wary leaders, who will rightly suspect that several among them will be replaced. Winston has already confided in me that, in the coming days, he will ask for the resignation of the first sea lord, Sir Arthur Wilson, and replace him with Sir Francis Bridgeman.
As I listen to him speak, I resist the urge to correct his slight speech impediment in front of Helen. He and I have worked on his pronunciations of his s’s—which he tends to pronounce as sh’s, especially when he’s anxious—as it lessens the power of his words. But I must tread cautiously on that project, and certainly would never offer instructions in front of anyone else. To others, his confidence may seem unshakable, but I know only too well the silty foundation upon which it is built.
But he has no such qualms about my suggestions on the language in his speeches. Turning my focus to his verbiage, his constant use of authoritative commands catches my attention. “Pug,” I begin with his nickname to soften my message, “this is the inaugural speech to your key naval officers, whose support you will need in the upcoming days. It is your first opportunity to lead your men into this new naval realm. All this ordering about—particularly in the context of the new mission—may be a bit too blunt for the men.”
“Hmm.” He considers the paper in his hand. “What do you suggest?”
I make a comment that I know he’ll accept from me alone. “You have all the qualities of a great leader. Why not inspire the men to want to follow you in this course of action? If they embrace the new directive and believe that it has been a choice of their own free will, you will have an amenable navy fleet, not one that is begrudgingly following your commands.”
“Sage advice, Clemmie,” he says with an appreciative nod. Handing his speech to me, he asks, “What changes would you make?”
By the time we descend the grand staircase of Admiralty House to our slightly tipsy guests, we have not only altered the words of his speech, but also, once Helen left the room, rehearsed its delivery. I feel confident that Winston’s pronouncements about Germany will fall upon eager ears, and that his men will see my husband for the inspirational leader he can be.
Chapter Nine
January 2, 1912
London, England
As I wipe the tears of laughter from my eyes, Nellie says, “Remember the time we hid our new croquet set from Grandmother in the lawn behind the gardener’s cottage? So she wouldn’t see us playing?”
Venetia and I burst into guffaws at the memory. When I compose myself enough to speak, I say, “Poor Mrs. Milne! She had to deal with us playing croquet in and out of the clothes drying on her line.”
“All because Grandmother believed the croquet hoops would spoil the appearance of the lawn in front of Airlie Castle,” Nellie adds. “Not to mention her belief that croquet was an unfitting activity for young ladies.”
A maid steps into the parlor of the Stanley family London home to refresh our after-dinner drinks, the perfect ending to their sumptuous annual holiday meal for the family. We pause the conversation to hold our glasses up for refills of the Stanleys’ delicious cordials. After the maid closes the door behind her, Venetia asks, “Did she ban you from riding bikes as well?”
Nellie and I shoot each other an amused glance, and Nellie answers, “Of course. Mama let us bring our bikes from Dieppe to Airlie Castle, because Grandmother found reprehensible the very notion of ladies riding bikes. But when we arrived, Mama decided she did not have the stomach to deal with Grandmother on the bicycle issue. So we had to take our three-mile rides to Loch of Lintrathen for fishing in secret.”
“We went such distances that Grandmother thought we must be very speedy walkers,” I interject, smiling at the recollection.
Venetia, draped in long strands of pearls, giggles. “We did the same thing during our summer visits to Airlie Castle from Alderley Park.”
I maintain my smile, but Venetia’s reference to her grand family home in the countryside of Cheshire reminds me of the great economic divide between Venetia’s upbringing and our own, between the childhood of most of our acquaintances and our own.
Our merry reminiscing over summer visits to our shared family matriarch Grandmother Stanley seems a bit unfair since she isn’t present to defend herself. But since she chose to spend the holidays alone again at the perpetually drafty Airlie Castle, I decide that she’s made herself fair game. As I surrender to the mirth, I suddenly feel a pang of unexpected sadness. How Kitty would have reveled in this moment. Even though it’s been more than ten years since she died of typhoid, I’ve never quite recovered from her passing, particularly since I never got to say goodbye as Mama sent me, Nellie, and Bill away as she nursed Kitty.
Our giggles subside, and I glance over at Nellie, whose severely parted chestnut hair makes her look harder than her sweet nature. A happy smile lingers on her lips, but her eyes betray a passing sadness. Has this moment made her think of Kitty too? While other family members are missing from this annual evening with the Stanleys—Bill and Mother excused themselves due to their respective work and romantic commitments—any family gathering feels bittersweet without our bold sister, who would have commanded these occasions with her wit and courage. Impossible to think that she’s been gone for more than ten years. Or how different things would be with her here.
How my life has changed in that time. A marriage, two children, and countless public appearances at my husband’s side and political maneuverings on his behalf. Would anyone have believed me capable of such machinations when I walked down the aisle on my wedding day? I glance sideways at Nellie and Venetia, thinking how, on the surface, their lives have remained static in the years since they served as bridesmaids at my wedding. Yet I know change has ruled their days as well.
Nellie meets my eye, and I see that hint of melancholy again, undoubtedly caused by the lingering shadow of Kitty. But we say nothing. The presence of Venetia, her gray eyes appearing steelier than usual by the hooding from her heavy eyebrows, looms oddly and prevents us from confiding in each other.
We shift into chatter over the renovations necessary for Airlie Castle’s upkeep, but Randolph’s screams shatter the conversation. I know Nanny will shuttle the children into the parlor momentarily, and I brace myself for Randolph’s rage.
At the sight of Nellie, little Randolph pulls away from Nanny’s arms and reaches for my sister. How does she connect so easily with my son, whom I find overly sensitive and mercurial?
Nanny’s eyes plead with me to let them leave, and I acquiesce. “I’ll ring for the carriage, Nanny. Perhaps you can take the children home and ready them for bed. I will not be far behind you.”
“Thank you, ma’am.” She bobs appreciatively. I understand the challenge of keeping the children quiet and well behaved outside the confines of our apartments at Admiralty House.
As she sweeps Diana and Randolph out of the room, Venetia sips her drink and asks, with a facade of innocence, “Will Winston be joining us?”
I know what she’s really asking. When will the prime minister be finished meeting with my husband? Suddenly, I’m reminded that my relationship with the women sitting before me isn’t a simple sister or cousin relationship but is much more complicated.
“Yes,” Nellie chimes in. “Will Winston join us for dessert? It is a Sunday, after all. And I haven’t see him in an age.”
“How I wish he could make an appearance today. But as he is wont to remind me”—I adopt Winston’s booming voice—“‘a lord admiral’s work is never done, as the sun never sets on Britain’s seas.’ I can only hope he will be home in time to tuck in the children. He hates to miss bedtime on Sundays. It’s his only chance to read to them.”
On most other evenings, no matter how harried my day, I try to read aloud a bedtime story to the children before Nanny takes them off to bed and Winston and I have dinner or attend an engagement. I adore those brief moments with my sweet-smelling, freshly scrub
bed children in their pajamas. At least until Randolph’s screaming and crying and pawing overtake sweet, quiet Diana and our encounter is ruined. Even at this young age, it seems Randolph is determined to take up all the space in the room.
Venetia and Nellie give a polite chuckle at my poor imitation of Winston, and then Venetia checks her wristwatch. My body stiffens. I know she’s calculating the hours until the admiralty meeting is finished and she can skulk off to her clandestine rendezvous. There are rumors that my cousin is having an affair with the very married leader of our country, the prime minister, who also happens to be Winston’s superior, although whether it is of physical nature or purely emotional is anyone’s guess.
Nellie murmurs, “Sometimes, I fear the lord admiral’s wife’s work is never done either.”
My sister’s expression reveals concern, but I do not want to discuss this in front of Venetia. I know exactly with whom she would share this gossip, and I cannot allow such talk to reach Winston’s ears. “All part of the job, Nellie.”
“Sister, I worry about you. I fear the travel and entertaining—not to mention all the political work you do—are a strain on your health. You know I adore Winston, but he is demanding.”
“Nonsense, Nellie. I am fit as a fiddle. I’ve even taken up tennis and hunting lately,” I answer with a brash stare. Does she not understand that Venetia would share my complaints with her dear friend Violet Asquith as well as the prime minister himself? And that one or both of them would pass the information to Winston?
“I hear your words, but I’ll be watching your physical state.” She meets my stare and then breaks into an unguarded smile.
As I smile back at my kindly little sister, Venetia interjects. “It’s unseemly.”
Did I hear Venetia correctly? Precisely what does she think is unseemly? A keen sportswoman herself, she couldn’t mean tennis and hunting.
Lady Clementine Page 6
