Lady Clementine

by Marie Benedict

  “He’s always railing about the Treaty of Versailles, a gripe I can understand and one that might be addressed at a future point. But he’s also always ranting about the Jewish people. Please ask him from me: Why does he so dislike the Jewish people?”

  I stare at my husband, resisting the urge to laugh at his challenge to the views of Hitler, the unsavory upstart who’s desperate for power. This is the man I married, one willing to take risks and make the unusual statement—even if unorthodox or unpopular—if it serves the greater good.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  December 8, 1934

  Westerham, England

  “So you think India would be better ruled by some inexperienced native than by a seasoned British official? Just because he’s an Indian?” Winston baits me. His tone is sharp, like the tip of the sword used by his infernal ancestor the First Duke of Marlborough about whom he continues to write that biography. I try not to wince at his words and instead glance out the window of the bridge room at Chartwell where Winston and I have retired to play an afternoon round of bezique.

  How could the Liberal man I married utter such a sentiment? I wonder. How could the man who challenged Hitler’s anti-Semitic views hold such unpleasant opinions about the Indian people? Each day, I endeavor to sidestep discussions about the political issues that divide us and that will cause another of Winston’s eruptions. The list is long, and as Winston has become more entrenched in his Conservative views, it grows longer. From Irish rule to India’s government to his obsession over German rearmament, our views do not align. Only one issue, the one dearest to me, has been settled and thus removed from conversation: the women’s vote. It took two laws separated by a decade to deliver the vote women deserved; in 1918, an act passed allowing a limited category of women to vote, and finally, ten years later, all women in England had the same right to vote as men.

  But I must be similarly cautious not to delve into conversation about the children. We diverge wildly over their treatment. While Diana and Sarah cause us mild dismay—the former already divorced after an unfortunate year-long marriage with a fellow who turned out to be a cad, and the latter intent on pursuing an unseemly acting career, focusing as it does on dancing in musicals rather than serious stage work—it is Randolph who truly divides us. Our impossibly self-important son, who now works as a journalist after his failure to get an Oxford degree because he left on that ill-advised speaking tour of America, appears regularly in the newspapers as a subject because of his drunken brawls and romantic dalliances. Even though his journalistic efforts have some merit, Randolph lords around town in a chauffeured automobile and does not earn enough to pay his bills, particularly because he is a regular gambler, which makes me nervous because of Bill and his insatiable habit. Just two weeks ago, even though Winston had promised to treat Randolph with a firmer hand, he covered Randolph’s gambling debts of fifteen hundred pounds, a fortune we can ill afford. But, I often think, how can I object when my neglect played a hand in creating the beast? Only my twelve-year-old Mary seems fine, and I’m fairly certain that’s because Moppet is parenting her.

  Hoping for a peaceful afternoon, I return my gaze to our bezique game and decide to say nothing in response to his quip. I know he’s trying to provoke me. He misses the posturing and grandstanding of Parliament, and while I am a poor substitute, he will utilize me when necessary. Given that his two favorite cronies—Brendan Bracken, an unmarried loner who’s cast off his Irish family and is probably using Winston for some as-yet-unknown gain, and the Canadian newspaper magnate Lord Beaverbrook, whose reputation is as shady as his business—have been unavailable to listen to his political tirades, I guess he deems me fair game for debate.

  As I half listen to his diatribe on the question of Indian rule, I stare out the window at the Chartwell landscape from time to time, considering how I turn fifty this year and how my remaining days will most likely stretch before me in this precise manner, constantly walking the tightrope of Winston’s needs while suffering through the maelstrom of his moods. How many times had I cried to Goonie after a family gathering? My only consolation is that he does not understand how his barbs wound me, because at day’s end, I still love him and believe in him for the most part, and that makes me vulnerable to his onslaughts.

  “Nothing to say to that, do you, Clemmie?” he pronounces, a triumphant note in his voice. “That silenced you on the topic, didn’t it?”

  His mouth opens again, wide enough for me to see the bits of scone on his tongue and in his teeth. Mercifully, a knock sounds on the bridge room door. Winston’s valet enters bearing a silver tray heaped high with envelopes. All for Winston, no doubt. Even in political exile, his opinion is solicited. Although those very same supplicants wouldn’t hesitate to walk by him on the street without a single word. I think about how, in the early years of our marriage, I wore our social snubbing as a badge of honor, an indicator we were pursuing righteous Liberal causes that ruffled the feathers of our entitled circle, but now, our marginalization, in large part, does not stem from the pursuit of such lofty goals.

  With his butter knife, he begins slicing through the envelopes. I rise and excuse myself for a brief respite in my bedroom, but he barks, “Clemmie, there’s a letter here from Moyne.”

  “Oh?” I answer offhandedly as I continue to walk across the room. I cannot see what this letter has to do with me. Walter Guinness, Lord Moyne had been financial secretary to the treasury when Winston was chancellor in the 1920s and remains his friend. He’s not as odious as Beaverbrook and Bracken, but Moyne’s public fondness for his mistress, Lady Vera Broughton, does not endear him to me. That said, Winston and I did spend a delightful few weeks cruise on his boat, the Rosaura, visiting Lebanon, Syria, and Palestine this past October.

  “Yes. He’s invited us to join him in a quest to capture a giant lizard known as the Komodo dragon. He wants the London Zoo to have a specimen.”

  “I see,” I say, although I don’t. Why someone with funds as vast as Lord Moyne would dedicate his time and attention to collecting a reptile, no matter how rare, is beyond me. It’s not as if herpetology is his life’s work. Weren’t there more worthy causes or needier people upon whom he could lavish his money? I suppose a man like Moyne is in constant need of a new quest, and this Komodo dragon must fit the current bill.

  “Odd pursuit that, but they’re headed to the East Indies for four months.”

  I sit down at the table. “The East Indies, you say?”

  “Sounds like a grand adventure.”

  “Are you thinking of going?” I ask cautiously, uncertain for what to hope. Four months of blissful quiet while Winston sails alone into the Indian Ocean? Or four months of sun, warm winds, and exploring exotic cultures with Winston at my side? Either way, I long for a change, away from the burden that is Chartwell and the needy, sometimes argumentative man that Winston becomes while there.

  “How can I, Clemmie?” He lances me with another sharp tone. “My deadline looms. And I must keep my finger on the pulse of political developments.” He deems it his public duty to watch over England, even though he has no power.

  “Ah, yes,” I say, hoping my voice does not betray the disappointment.

  “I bet the Cat would love to sit in the sun and purr,” he comments, and I wonder if he is taunting me. But when he continues, I hear tenderness in his voice. “The letter does invite you to come on your own if I’m occupied.”

  “It does?” I wish I could ask him to read the letter aloud, but I must tread carefully. If he senses a strong desire on my part to take this trip without him—no matter if it stems from nothing but a longing for warmth in this bitter December—he will be hurt. We are alike in our sensitivity.

  “Surely you wouldn’t think of taking such a long journey without me.” His voice borders on petulant, and I understand at once that I’d sounded overeager.

  “Of course not, Winston. The notion
would never have occurred to me if you hadn’t mentioned Moyne’s offer just now. You heard surprise in my voice, nothing more.”

  Winston studies my face. “I know I’m hard work, Cat, and the next few months will be all nose to the grindstone for me. Perhaps you should go. Perhaps a grand adventure is just the thing.”

  Funny how he slips between uncanny self-awareness and an inability to think of anyone but himself. While I appreciate it and, in truth, am surprised by his offer, I’m not certain he’s in earnest.

  I don’t reply but instead run the toe of my shoe along the pattern on the blue carpet underfoot. I want to think over his overture, inauthentic though it may be, alone. We play an unusually quiet round of bezique, and I retire to my bedroom for my typical afternoon rest, although I feel anything but restful. The sky-blue dome of my bedroom provides a welcome refuge, and I lay down on my red silk moiré bedcover, hoping that if I close my eyes, my mind will stop whirring. As the experts on my “cures” taught me, I inhale a calming breath. Curious how Winston is always talking about his depression, but I’m actually the one with a nervous condition. One about which he has conveniently forgotten.

  I open my eyes, and my gaze lands on the framed photograph of Marigold that I always keep on my bedroom desk. Even though I almost never mention her—so much so that, only two years ago, Mary asked about the identity of the little girl in the picture—she never really leaves my thoughts. Oftentimes, a powerful memory of her will suddenly wash over me. Images of Mary and Marigold populate my mind, along with the attendant self-criticism about my mothering. My heart begins to race, and anxiety and a familiar desire to flee take hold.

  Do I dare go to the East Indies? I’ve taken holidays alone—usually “cures” for my nerves, at the doctor’s insistence. Living with Winston means that I often need to live without him. But a four-month jaunt to the other side of the earth is quite a different matter, and we only just returned from a Rosaura cruise in October. I’d hate to appear self-indulgent. Another, better sort of mother might worry about the impact of a prolonged absence on her child, Mary in this case, but I am not that sort of mother. She has Moppet, who parents her far better than me. I worry more about the effect on Winston, how unraveled he can become without my structure and influence.

  Rising from my bed, I wander into my bathroom and stare into my mirror. Why do people tell me that I am more attractive with age? When I examine my almost-fifty-year-old face, I see lines of worry, creases of fear, the sag of childbirth, and once chestnut hair tending toward silver. True, I’ve kept my figure, and I’ve learned how to dress for it, but I see a woman beset.

  All at once, I make my decision. Slipping my shoes back on, I stride down the stairs into Winston’s study, somehow both cozy and imposing with its high ceiling and exposed wooden beams, where tendrils of cigar smoke race out to greet me. He looks up from his desk, startled to see me at this hour of the day.

  “I’ve made my decision,” I announce with more confidence than I feel.

  “About what?” His brow furrows in confusion. Can he really be perplexed? I realize then that he never really expected me to accept and so put the entire Komodo dragon adventure from his mind as soon as we started playing bezique.

  His dismissal strengthens my resolve. “I am going to the East Indies.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  February 24, 1935

  Bay of Islands, New Zealand

  The wind whips my hair, and the relatively mild morning sun warms my cheeks, even through the shade of my wide-brimmed hat. I wonder what’s happening at Chartwell and how they are faring since I’ve been gone these eight weeks. A mere week before Christmas, the entire family waved me off at Victoria station, and I hopped on the train to Messina where I joined Moyne’s yacht, the Rosaura. Stepping on board the Rosaura initially reminded me of stepping on board Winston’s beloved Enchantress, but there the comparisons stopped. A festive, devil-may-care mood imbued everyone and every occasion on board the Rosaura—not a whiff of political chatter to be found—and I surrendered to it. It is a lightheartedness I’ve never before experienced, certainly not in my own peripatetic, anxious youth. Even the guilt of missing Christmas slips away.

  I open my eyes, squinting into the delicious sunlight. The light blinds at first, and with the swaying of the boat as it courses through the Pacific Ocean, it takes a moment to orient myself. When I do, I see Terence, a wide grin spread across his handsome face.

  “Why the smile?” I ask, grinning myself. I find it impossible to keep a straight face when Terence is beaming. His smiles are infectious.

  “Can’t I smile at a beautiful brama?” His bemused expression turns mischievous.

  “Oh you!” I throw a towel at him for calling me the slang word for a pretty woman. It’s an oblique reference to Brahma, the supreme god of Hindu mythology and, while geographically appropriate, has a hint of lasciviousness. Eight weeks ago, when I first boarded the Rosaura, I would have stormed off in a huff of righteousness when faced with such a comment. How my time on board this boat with Terence has changed me.

  He suddenly strides over to the railing and peers into the distance. “Come here, Clementine. I think we are approaching the coast,” he calls to me.

  Pushing myself up from the deck chair, I quickly wrap my robe around my bathing costume and stand beside him. The air smells of sea and salt as well as something new and fragrant. Perhaps the magnolia-like flower I’ve seen growing along the New Zealand beaches?

  Without thinking, I clutch his arm. “That’s the island!”

  He places his hand over mine. “It is indeed.”

  Our eyes meet, and I think about the moment I first met him. After changing in my stateroom after my arrival on board, I entered the dining room to join my host, Lord Moyne, and his mistress, Lady Vera Broughton, or so I thought. When I stepped into the room, it wasn’t Moyne who welcomed me but Moyne’s more agreeable cousin Lee Guinness and his wife, Posy. It seemed that Lord Moyne wouldn’t be joining us for three weeks, not until we reached Singapore. I assumed that the Guinnesses and I would be a threesome for those weeks, and while three can be awkward, I consoled myself with the fact that it might give me the time alone I craved. Then a tall, attractive man strolled into the room. My old shyness overtook me, and when he was introduced as “Terence Philip, director of the London branch of the New York art dealer Knoedler’s,” I could think of nothing to say. No longer.

  “Should we ready ourselves?” I am eager to take the dinghy to the deserted island rumored to have pink sand beaches, created after decades of waves crushed the exquisite coral that rings the coast. The Bay of Islands in which we sail contains more than 140 islands, each alleged to be more beautiful than the next.

  Terence reaches for the champagne bottle on the table between our deck chairs. “How about a drink first? We have plenty of time, and God knows, we won’t need the same sober powers of concentration we would need if we hadn’t so wisely abandoned the fishing.”

  The Clementine who mounted the Rosaura over eight weeks ago would have declined the champagne on the grounds that it was too early in the day and therefore unseemly. Or if I was at Chartwell, I would have eschewed the champagne because it was too costly and therefore a drain on my tight budget. But I am not that Clementine anymore. I reach for my crystal glass and hand it over to Terence to fill.

  How have we become so comfortable with one another so quickly? I wonder. It usually takes me years to lower the barricade of my natural reserve, and even then, I’ve only allowed in a select few friends. Was it that both Guinnesses succumbed to seasickness as soon as we set off from Messina, throwing the two of us together alone for three weeks before we reached Singapore? Either way, by the time Lee and Posy Guinness disembarked in Singapore and we were joined by Lord Moyne and his mistress, Vera, Terence and I were already thick as thieves. We had spent countless hours alone swimming in the rigged-up pool on deck, dining
in the salon, and talking as we watched the vast expanse of sea pass us by. When we were finally joined by our hosts—who generally spent the day in their own pursuits—we explored, on our own, Borneo, New Guinea, the uncharted Eilanden River, the eastern coast of Australia where all the geographical points were named after Captain Cook, and the geysers of Rotorua. Terence, Russian-born and English-raised, was a cultured sophisticate with a vast web of acquaintances and friends and no interest in politics. For the first time in decades, I listened to amusing tales about culture and society told by a lighthearted man, who inspired me to be the same.

  After finishing our champagne and suiting up for our decidedly nonfishing excursion, Terence and I meet at the Rosaura’s dinghy. Earlier, when we docked at a different point along the coast, the larger tender left to take the keen fishermen Moyne and Vera back to Deep Water Cove, a stretch of coast in the Bay of Islands known for its abundance of mako sharks, a prize catch for fishermen of our hosts’ stature. After our experience with them yesterday—during which Terence and I not only failed to catch anything larger than a minnow but also suffered from paralytic seasickness in the pitching sea—we vowed to eschew fishing for the rest of the voyage.

  We hop on board the dinghy, greeting the Rosaura cocaptain who’s piloting us to the unnamed island. The little boat is jam-packed with baskets of food for our lunch, folding deck chairs, blankets, and two umbrellas, and Terence and I must squeeze tightly together on the bench to fit. The motor is too loud for us to talk, and I’m not certain I could speak anyway. In the close quarters of the dinghy, our thighs touch, and because the fabric of my dress is thin, I feel his skin against mine. I experience a wave of desire.

  My body instinctively recoils at this swell of emotion and physicality. How can I simultaneously react so strongly to Terence and condemn those culpable of extramarital affairs? Perhaps I’ve been too harsh a judge of others’ behavior. I feel confused and overwhelmed and guilty with the thoughts racing through my head, even though I haven’t acted upon them. But I wonder, does one only cross the line to infidelity if one engages in their fantasies?