Then I unscrolled the paper from the cylinder, crumpled it, and started again.
And now? One week later, S. Barnard Lightfoot, having received said column—Japanese infamy carefully redacted—had fired off one of his telegrams. He had an opinion, it seemed. Lightfoot never went to the trouble and expense of cabling someone unless he had a particular opinion to express.
I extracted the slip of paper from the envelope and held it in the air, between me and the turquoise sea.
FINE EFFORT STOP DAMN WELL BETTER WRITE ACCOUNT OAKES BALL NEXT COLUMN OR ELSE=
=S. B. LIGHTFOOT
Given the circumstances, I suppose I should have noticed the approach of the fellow around the corner of the house, but I didn’t. I checked my watch and stuffed the telegram back in its envelope. I was due at the Red Cross headquarters at ten o’clock to count the takings from the Christmas bazaar, and my bungalow lay three miles from town along West Bay Street, which meant I had only a quarter hour to swim before duty called. I rose from my chair to untie the belt at the waist of my kimono, and then, and only then, did I see the man planted on the paving stones before me, wearing the curious felt fedora—who in God’s name wore a felt fedora in the Bahamas, even in December?—and the expression of fearsome determination.
“Who the devil are you?” I exclaimed.
He was short, portly, middle-aged, dignified. He wore a suit of lightweight navy wool, almost like a uniform except it wasn’t. He straightened his shoulders at me. “I beg your pardon. I was looking for Mrs. Randolph.”
“I’m Mrs. Randolph. And you’re intruding.”
“Ah. Yes. I apologize. There was no answer at the front door.”
“That usually means you should return at a more convenient hour.”
“I’m afraid it’s urgent.”
“Urgent, is it?”
“Quite.”
I stood there in my silk kimono, sizing his shoulders and his sharp, panicky expression, which reminded me more of a rabbit than the fox giving chase. Or maybe that was because of his ears, which burst from the sides of his head at dramatic angles. And his eyes, a wide-open silver behind a pair of thick round spectacles. The air surrounding him smelled of cigars. Where the devil was Veryl?
“May I ask your name?” I said.
The man’s gaze shifted briefly to the door behind me. “Smith,” he said. He reached inside his jacket pocket, and I confess I dropped the ties of my kimono and readied myself for a scene from one of those detective films. But his hand, when it emerged, contained only a small manila envelope, of the kind they used in offices.
“For me?” I said.
He nodded and urged the envelope forward, though he didn’t approach any closer. It was for me to take that step toward him, around the edge of the round table, to extend my hand and extract the envelope from his thick fingers. The flap was sealed shut. No direction on the back, no mark of any kind.
“Couldn’t you have just put it through the mail slot?” I said.
He shook his head. “I’m afraid not. You see, I was instructed to place that envelope in your hands personally.”
“In my hands? Why?”
“You’re Mrs. Randolph, aren’t you? Mrs. Leonora Randolph?”
“So they call me, yes.”
“Well, somebody wants to make sure you get that.” He nodded to the envelope. “It’s sensitive information, see?”
“Oh! Oh, I see. Sensitive information. How thrilling. Let me think. Shall I disguise the names in my next column, or do you want the sinners shamed before the world?”
Smith’s eyebrows went up. He was already on the point of leaving, had already pivoted his shoulders in the direction of the frangipani in a gesture of extreme haste. “Column?” he said.
“That’s what it’s for, isn’t it? ‘Lady of Nassau’?”
Throughout this little interview, Mr. Smith’s hat—as I said, a neat gray fedora of the kind you saw everywhere in New York City, but less commonly here in the tropics—had remained firmly on his head. If you’d asked me his hair color, in some police interview, maybe, or perhaps over cocktails at the Prince George, I wouldn’t have been able to tell you. Brown, probably. Anyway, he tugged the brim now, all impatience, ready to bolt. “I haven’t the foggiest idea what you’re talking about, ma’am,” he said. “I’m here to deliver an envelope, that’s all.”
“From whom?” I asked.
But he wasn’t listening. He’d strode across the paving stones and around the right-hand frangipani shrub, out of sight, presumably toward the road at the front of the house, and though I started forward to chase him down, I checked myself the next instant. After all, what was the point? The envelope, that was the point. I raised it to my nose and sniffed. I don’t know what I was looking for. Somebody’s perfume, maybe, some lingering hint of the sender’s identity. There was nothing, the smell of paper, a blank canvas.
I sat back in my chair, drew a hairpin from the knot at the back of my head, inserted it carefully at the envelope’s seam and sliced.
A rare cloud passed before the sun as I reached inside the envelope and pulled the contents free. Or maybe it’s just a trick of memory, maybe I only imagined that my patio darkened a degree or two as I sat there in my garden chair and stared at the instructions written in block letters on the back of the sealed packet before me.
FOR DELIVERY D/D WINDSOR ONLY, it said.
And beneath that, underlined, CONFIDENTIAL.
I rose, changed into my Red Cross uniform, noted Veryl busy in the kitchen, and slipped silently out the door. Well, I was due at headquarters at ten o’clock, wasn’t I? You couldn’t let a little thing like a clandestine envelope keep you from your patriotic duty.
Did I mention it was Christmas Eve? I don’t remember. Well, you can’t blame me. For one thing, there was this business of the intruder on my patio. For another, it didn’t seem like Christmas, what with the sunshine and the palm trees and all that, the straw hats and the bare arms. Still, the approach of Christmas did not stay the Red Cross ladies from their appointed rounds, oh no. The headquarters had been festooned with wreaths and garlands and all those things—not genuine pine, mind you, because you couldn’t import such things in wartime, just the tinsel kind—to say nothing of Christmas cards and bows and apple-cheeked pictures of Father Christmas, of ringing bells and incessant carols and a general Christmas keening in the air, if you know what I mean, such that you could just about smell the sugar cookies and the balsam that didn’t exist. But parcels must still be packed, and bandages rolled, and socks knit, and besides all that, Miss Nancy Oakes herself was about to make her society debut, and if you weren’t inside the walls of the British Colonial Hotel this evening, celebrating the coming of age of the richest girl in the British Empire, give or take a few shillings—why, you weren’t anywhere.
For four whole hours, wrapping up the remaining presents for the poor children of Nassau—of which there were plenty, believe me—the ladies could talk of nothing else. What they would be wearing, what Miss Oakes would be wearing, did you hear the Count de Marigny had agreed to be her escort? It was true! She’d walked right up to him at the Prince George bar two weeks ago and asked him herself, a man almost twice her age, already divorced, a notorious playboy and sex maniac. Everybody knew the sordid circumstances of his marriage, how he’d seduced the wife of his friend, how she fell madly in love with him and went to Reno for a quickie divorce, how she couldn’t keep up with de Marigny’s boundless sexual appetites and left him a few years later. The ladies agreed that Sir Harry and Lady Oakes should really put a stop to it. But Miss Oakes was so very headstrong.
At two o’clock, the last toy truck was sealed up. Mrs. Gudewill was going to deliver them to Government House in her Buick. I tucked my hair back into my Red Cross cap and volunteered to help.
In the middle of the afternoon, struck on all sides by the glare of the Bahamian sun, Government House was a different creature, not nearly so formal. Smudged pink and a bit tired
, like a confection left outside. The sun burned the tips of the palm trees and the windscreen of Mrs. Gudewill’s automobile as it trundled up the drive to the west entrance. She kept up a friendly chatter as we went. She simply had to confess, she didn’t think much of the duchess before all this, did I?
I said I hadn’t really thought much on the matter. Royalty was never an interest of mine.
“Oh. Well, as I said, I always thought—and you mustn’t ever repeat this, Mrs. Randolph—between the two of us, I always thought she was a bit of an adventuress.” Mrs. Gudewill giggled nervously. Like the Oakeses, she was Canadian, a wealthy widow. She had two daughters, and the younger, a beautiful redhead named Marie, was rumored to be engaged, or pretty nearly engaged, to marry none other than the Baron George af Trolle, personal secretary to Axel Wenner-Gren. A terrific catch for Marie, don’t you think? Exactly the reason you bring your gorgeous redheaded daughter to a place like Nassau. Anyway, Marie was thick as thieves with Nancy Oakes, also a redhead, so you see Mrs. Gudewill had authority to speak on pretty much anything, and I was happy to let her do it. Part of my job, to let people rattle on indiscreetly.
“Really? An adventuress?”
“Well, that was before I knew her, you know. Now I’ve seen all the good she does around here, how hard she works. And you can’t deny the love they have for each other.”
“No, indeed,” I said. “It just touches the heart.”
The windows were open, and as I rested my elbow on the doorframe, I thought I tasted the humid, golden, salty scent of summer. In New York, the air would taste of garbage and car exhaust, would slosh with coal smoke and sleet. We slowed to a halt before the gate at the west entrance. A guard stepped from the booth.
She poked her head out the window. “Good afternoon! Mrs. Gudewill and Mrs. Randolph. We’re delivering the Christmas parcels from the Red Cross.”
He glanced down at his metal clipboard. “Of course. Straight on through. You know the way, don’t you?”
“Naturally.”
We drove through the gates and stopped outside the portico, where a dull green motorcycle sat next to the curb, sidecar attached. As we rolled to a stop, a tall spindly man emerged from the door, exchanged a jaunty salute with the guard, and climbed aboard the motorcycle. The sun glinted briefly on his hair before he slid a leather helmet on his head, a pair of goggles over his eyes. I swallowed my heart. Mrs. Gudewill set the brake. “Why, isn’t that Mr. Thorpe?” she said.
“Mr. Thorpe?”
“Yes, I’m sure it is. He must have been visiting the duke. Well. Come along. I’ve got a hairdresser appointment in an hour! You are going to the party tonight, Mrs. Randolph?”
“Wouldn’t miss it for diamonds,” I said.
By now, the guards and the footmen and Marshall the butler all knew me pretty well. Marshall scooped up an armful of presents and escorted us down the hall to the drawing room, where the duchess usually received me on the sofa near the fireplace, impeccably groomed, chaperoned by her private secretary, Miss Drewes, and her own enormous image above the mantel. There would be tea, and we would chitchat. I’ll say no more. Today, of course, that mantel was dressed in holly, and the duchess wore a festive dress of crimson. Miss Drewes sat on the chair at her right, pencil poised.
“Why, good afternoon, ladies,” said the duchess.
I perceived a trace of agitation at my side. Mrs. Gudewill, who must have been forty-five or fifty—a solid, dependable matron resembling a chintz cushion—sort of fluttered, at least so much as you could flutter while carrying an armload of Christmas presents.
“Good afternoon, Your Highness!” she trilled.
“Good afternoon, Duchess,” I said. “Shall we just deposit these under the tree?”
“Oh, yes. Thanks ever so much,” said the duchess, not so much as flinching from her position on the sofa.
We carried our burden in the direction of the Douglas fir—naturally, a genuine Douglas fir for Government House, and hang the expense—that stood a dozen feet tall in the corner of the room, all decked in tinsel and candles. I followed Mrs. Gudewill, and last came Marshall in his white gloves.
“Just scattered around the bottom here?” said Mrs. Gudewill.
“That will do,” said the duchess.
Together we placed the presents in their thin, cheap, colorful paper atop the skirt of scarlet velvet that surrounded the base of the Christmas tree. The poor thing had already dropped a layer of needles, didn’t like the climate at all. I rose and brushed my hands.
The duchess called out, “You’ve just missed our friend Thorpe, Mrs. Randolph. Popped by for a visit.”
“We saw him on his motorcycle!” said Mrs. Gudewill. “Just leaving!”
“It’s a funny thing, how you always just miss him.”
“Funny, isn’t it?” I said.
“But then he’s constantly in and out,” said the duchess.
Miss Drewes piped up. “He turned up at that tennis tournament last month, didn’t he? At the British Colonial.”
“I don’t recall,” I said. “Did he?”
The duchess laughed. “Yes, he did. I believe I caught him looking your way a hundred times, poor fellow.”
There was a dainty pause. A clink of somebody’s cup into somebody’s saucer. Mrs. Gudewill turned back to the tree and made some admiring noises.
“Duchess,” I said, fingering my pocketbook, “while I’m here. Perhaps you could spare a moment for a private matter? If it’s convenient, of course.”
The Duchess of Windsor met my gaze over the back of the sofa. “Of course. Miss Drewes, would you mind showing Mrs. Gudewill to her car?”
Miss Drewes rose. “Not at all.”
Now, let me make something clear, before I explain what happened next. You could fault the duchess for any number of defects—we all have our defects, remember—but you couldn’t claim she shirked her duties as the wife of the governor of the Bahamas.
“They think I’m nothing but a clotheshorse,” she told me, as we cruised to Cat Island aboard the Gemini, a few weeks after our first productive little chat in the library of Government House. “They think I’m some kind of lazy, frivolous socialite. Dinner parties and ocean cruises. And nothing could be further from the truth, Lulu.”
I remember gazing at her against her tableau of pillows on the sofa—we sat inside the deckhouse, because of the draft—and recalling a certain dinner party the night before, at the home of Fred Sigrist and his wife. The Oakeses were there, and Harold Christie and his brother Frank, and yours truly, and a warm breeze off the ocean, and plenty of wine and brandy, palm trees and sea grapes and tranquility, such that you would hardly have known there was a war on at all, over on the other side of the world, where they existed under gloom of German bombers and English weather. Of course, there was no need to ask Wallis who they were. She meant David’s family, her nemesis, those wicked, cold-blooded, implacable snobs, hypocrites all, determined always to cast her—Wallis—in the worst possible light, when nothing could be further from the truth, Lulu. Behind her, the ocean shimmered under the sun.
“Nothing at all,” I said.
“I simply couldn’t believe my eyes when we began to tour about. The poverty! It’s heartbreaking, worse than anything I saw in China. And no one was doing a thing to help. I remember visiting a woman in her hut on one of the Out Islands—I don’t remember which one, it doesn’t matter—dirt floor, surrounded by children in rags, their bellies all swollen, another baby on the way, and she wasn’t any more concerned about the coming event than a . . . a cat might be concerned about an impending litter.” Wallis shook her head. “And that’s when I conceived the idea of a maternity clinic. To help, you know. To help these poor creatures take care of their young.”
“And to think the newspapers report nothing but the number of steamer trunks in your retinue.”
“Oh, it’s no surprise, really. That’s what they want the rest of the world to think of me. Those newspapers, they all ha
ve their instructions, believe me.” She turned to look out one of the portholes. What a profile she had. That strong jaw, that sharp, large nose. “It doesn’t matter. As long as I’ve made a difference, that’s what matters. I don’t care if nobody hears about it, not a single soul. My own conscience is clear.”
“I’m sure you’ve done a lot of good.”
“You’ll see. You have to roll up your sleeves, you know, you have to weigh those babies yourself, change those napkins, feed them their bottles. You have to show these natives how to do it all properly.”
I opened my mouth to ask how Wallis herself had learned to do it all properly, not having children of her own, but at the last instant I swallowed the question and glanced down to my stenographer’s notebook and scribbled something, I don’t remember what.
“It’s all so primitive,” she went on. “And in this modern age. They nurse the babies themselves, like animals. No notion of proper infant nutrition. The first thing I did, I rang up Johnson and Johnson and made them donate cans of milk. Thousands and thousands of cans we’ve distributed among the Out Islanders. It’s done so much good. Of course, if the United States gets dragged into this damned war, they’ll have to stop.”
The Golden Hour Page 14
