Thanks to the generosity of a friend who lent us a plane to go to Memphis for the day from New York, I was able to visit Graceland. Jayne Wrightsman, Blanche Blackwell and Ashton Hawkins of the Metropolitan Museum were three of the party. It was a cold, bright day in January and the Graceland summer crowds were absent. Excitement mounted as we went through the gates decorated with musical notes and into the house. We were accompanied by the audio-guide spoken by Priscilla, Elvis’s wife, who gave an excellent picture of what it was like when they lived there together. The 1950s furniture and decoration must be some of the few examples left of those years of spindly tables and chairs, and shag carpets so deep you lost your shoes in them.
In some rooms, carpets covered the ceiling as well as the floor. White pianos and giant ancient television sets filled one room while next door in the Jungle Room the arms of the chairs were carved crocodile heads. Elvis saw this bizarre furniture out of the corner of his eye as he was driving past a shop window and was so intrigued that he went back and bought it. His gold discs lined a passage, evidence of his world-wide fame, and the people from the Met put on their specs and studied them closely as if they were seventeenth-century vermeil. His grave in the garden was obliterated by flowers and other tributes that arrived daily at the shrine from his fans. There can be nowhere like Graceland – students of the decorative arts should see it as part of their education, lovingly conserved as it is, whether they are Elvis fans or not.
Back in New York I had an engagement to talk at a lunch arranged for ten influential journalists who wrote about tourism. The idea was for me to tell them about Chatsworth and for them to entice their readers to Derbyshire. I told my journalist neighbours at lunch about the Graceland trip and how moved I had been by it. They looked at me in amazement. Then it was my turn to be amazed: none of them had been there, and they seemed almost embarrassed to think that I had – in their eyes – sunk so low. Graceland is the second most-visited house in the United States after the White House, and I was left pondering on what they and their readers had missed.
23
Festivities and Celebrations
A
NDREW’S GENEROUS NATURE made him want people to enjoy themselves and he pushed out the boat whenever there was an excuse for a party. These extravagances, some unique in concept as well as execution, were entirely his idea, fired by his wish to give a good time to others. The first big party we gave at Chatsworth was in 1965 for Stoker’s coming-of-age and to celebrate the restoration of the house. A special train brought guests from London to Matlock; some stayed in local hotels, others put up with neighbours, and the house itself was full to bursting. We had wanted to use the state dining room to dance in but the floor would have collapsed, so we used the great dining room instead. Supper was in the sculpture gallery and guests could wander round the house, upstairs to the state rooms and in and out of the private drawing rooms. Many of the young men there that night have remained good friends with Stoker and come back to Chatsworth as hoary seventy-year-olds. Three memories stand out from that night forty-five years ago. Stoker and Amanda Heywood-Lonsdale dancing together; I thought then, perhaps . . . and indeed they were married two years later. I remember Uncle Harold taking Oswald Mosley, his old political adversary, by the arm and the two of them walking through the state rooms for all to see. They came of a generation that could lash each other with words in the House of Commons and dine together the following night as if it were perfectly ordinary, which it was. My third memory is of several uninvited guests being discovered fast asleep in two attic rooms the next afternoon.
Stoker and Amanda were married at St Martin-in-the-Fields on 28 June 1967 and were among the first married couples to have a party on the evening of their wedding instead of disappearing after the reception, or ‘going away’ as my generation called it. Hubert de Givenchy made Amanda’s dress and she wore the Cavendish tiara, which lived in the vaults of a London bank. She went to try it on, accompanied by her mother and Hubert – ever the perfectionist. The three of them squeezed into an underground room where they could scarcely turn round and Hubert was much amused when the only available mirror was a small pocket one from Amanda’s bag. In spite of this, the results of his efforts were lovely and the bride looked radiant.
At the dinner party after the wedding, my sister Pam sat next to Lord Mountbatten, a friend of Amanda’s family. The last Viceroy of India and Commander-in-Chief of Allied Forces in South East Asia had been briefed about his dinner partner. He turned to her and said, ‘I believe you are called Woman by your family?’ ‘Yes, I am,’ she answered, looking at him with her bright blue eyes. ‘And may I ask who you are?’ Mountbatten was floored by this question and turned to his other dinner partner. When I heard of this comical exchange I said, ‘Oh Woman, you MUST have known that face.’ ‘Well,’ she said, ‘if he had got all his medals on I might have recognized him.’ One of the wonderful things about Pam was how unimpressed she remained by names, money, titles, reputation or any of the world’s extras attached to some people.
Over the years, the usual family events – births, marriages and deaths – were duly celebrated. Andrew was one of twenty-one grandchildren on his father’s side and in 1988 he invited all his surviving Cavendish cousins and their progeny to lunch at Chatsworth to mark fifty years since they had last been together under the same roof. We had never met many of the children before so had fun matching parents to their offspring. The latter were unruly in the extreme and the next day the housekeeper said to me in a solemn voice, ‘Would you like to see the damage your guests did yesterday?’ They had had free run of the house, including the state rooms, and some of the damage was indeed interesting.
On 6 July 1990 the coming-of-age of Stoker’s son, William, was the incentive for another celebration. It was – I can say it myself because I had little to do with it – perhaps the best party we ever gave. The house remained open to the public throughout the preparations as Andrew was always delighted for visitors to see anything that was going on, private or public. The garden was floodlit for several days before and after the party, and visitors were able to enjoy the floral extravaganzas, including a giant copy of the family crest – a knotted serpent – made with green and yellow flowers.
The south side of the house was unrecognizable: a tent was stretched over the steps that lead down from the first-floor drawing room and went out to the Sea Horse pond, making room for 250 diners. The sides were painted with Derbyshire landscapes and banks of flowers lined the perimeter. The inner courtyard was tented over and became a dance floor with a live band; a tented disco went up on the south lawn and another tent held a flight simulator and bucking bronco machine. I saw Andrew Parker Bowles, Silver Stick-in-Waiting, being neatly bucked off and I decided not to hang around for any more accidents. The Prince of Wales lent us his Arab tent for sitting out, which we covered with a weatherproof outer tent as its exotic contents would have been damaged had it rained. The Prince and Princess of Wales were to have come but he had broken his arm in a polo accident a few days before and they had to cancel.
As well as the beauty of the house, there was something wonderful to look at wherever you turned. Shortly before midnight we were summoned by figures on stilts dressed in costumes inspired by Inigo Jones designs for a royal masque. Their height lent them authority and we trooped after them, through the tent on the south lawn – where tables were now laid for breakfast – to the canal. A firework display began at midnight, synchronized with Beethoven’s Fifth. It was the first time I had seen and heard fireworks set to music and the effect astonished the company. As the display came to an end, up rose Jimmy Goldsmith’s helicopter into the night sky with another kind of firework on board. I was delighted with a gatecrasher in the elegant shape of Jerry Hall (brought by Christopher Sykes), so easily recognizable that she turned all heads.
On 19 April the following year we celebrated our golden wedding anniversary. Andrew decided to ask everyone in the county whose golden wedding
fell in 1991 and we advertised in the Derbyshire Times to compile the guest list. A nun from the convent in Matlock wrote to say she had been a bride of Christ for fifty years and could she come. Of course Andrew said yes. (There was a great deal of speculation as to whether she would bring her bridegroom, but in the event she came with her brother.) Every couple was invited to bring a keeper, just in case, and our children and grandchildren came too. We thought we might get a few hundred people, but 3,700 sat down to tea in the biggest tent yet. The local newspaper produced a special celebration issue and Andrew commissioned a souvenir plate from Crown Derby to give to each couple.
The tercentenary of the dukedom fell in 1994 and Andrew went to town. A stage was built on the banks of the River Derwent, west of the house, and tiered seating for 3,000 was erected on the opposite bank. Richard Evans, a professional actor and son of our former doctor, wrote a pageant that spanned the years from Bess of Hardwick to the present day. The Pilsley school children and dozens of local amateur actors were roped in, while professional actors, some of whom also took leading roles, directed the pageant. ‘Queen Victoria’ drove through the Great Conservatory in a horse and carriage, just as she had done in real life in 1843, and Donald Sinden’s voice rose out of the water as ‘The Spirit of the Derwent’. The centuries came to life as other ingenious inventions unfolded. On the first night we invited employees, tenants and pensioners from Chatsworth, Bolton Abbey, Lismore, Eastbourne and London. The second night was held in aid of the Children’s Society. The events took place in May and it was none too warm, so each guest was given a silver space blanket that folded to the size of a pocket handkerchief – a life-saver on such occasions.
Suddenly Andrew and I were eighty. It was also the year of the millennium: two reasons for a party. Up went another huge tent and a revolving stage on which John Hyatt, the husband of Tristram Holland who edited four of my books, performed a wonderful rendition of Elvis. The invitation said ‘fancy dress’, and there were plenty of other Elvises, men in gold lamé suits whom I never thought to see in anything so uninhibited and shiny. I wore the gown designed by Worth of Paris for Louise, Duchess of Devonshire to wear at the Devonshire House Ball in 1897. It is made of green and gold shot-silk gauze, with a velvet train embroidered with jewels, metalwork and gold and silver thread, and weighs a ton. The original headdress had disappeared so I wore the largest of the three family tiaras, adorned with ostrich feathers for added impact.
A party the following night was held for what is loosely described as ‘the great and the good’ of Derbyshire. Some were neither great nor good but they all seemed to enjoy themselves, even though they were decidedly sticky compared to the rumbustious company of the previous night – black tie keeping inhibitions well in check. Tony Benn, MP for Chesterfield, and Dennis Skinner, MP for Bolsover, neatly avoided being tainted by coming to a party at Chatsworth and did not answer the invitation. It all looked very pretty and music was provided by young local talent. Another incredible firework display was accompanied by a screen of water over the canal on to which photographs of our lives were projected.
Our diamond wedding was in 2001. The list of our golden wedding guests was unearthed, which produced the survivors of sixty years of marriage. The party should have taken place in April, to coincide with our anniversary, but had to be postponed until September because of foot and mouth disease; it was dangerously close and we feared for the park deer and farm animals. The theme of the party this time was 1941. We laid out a week’s wartime food rations on a trestle table and our astonished younger guests could hardly believe what they saw. ‘Two ounces of bacon for one week?’ ‘Two ounces of butter? Impossible!’ But that is how it was. Utility clothing was not easy to find as it had been worn to death and thankfully thrown away when clothes rationing came to an end, so the staff dressed up in RAF, Royal Navy and Army uniforms of the period. Few knew how to fasten a Sam Browne or on to which uniform it should go; Sergeant Major Brittain who greeted us outside the church after our wedding would have had apoplexy, and I think Andrew, with his military training, was close to putting the offenders on a charge.
The New Squadronaires Orchestra, inspired by the original RAF Dance Band, played songs made famous by Vera Lynn: ‘We’ll Meet Again’, ‘There’ll be Blue Birds over the White Cliffs of Dover’ and ‘I’ll be Seeing You’. Our ancient guests joined in the singing with gusto and 1941 seemed like yesterday. Andrew commissioned a porcelain loving cup for each celebrating couple and when they eventually tottered off home, a forest of sticks and an array of wheelchairs, with Chatsworth staff at the ready in case of falls, an old gentleman said to me, ‘Goodbye and thank you. See you in ten years.’ It would have been a small, but extra-special tea party. Sadly it was not to be.
As well as giving parties, we went to some marvellous balls and celebrations given by other people. The first – and perhaps the best ever – grand ball after the war was given in September 1951 by Charles de Beistegui, heir to a Mexican silver fortune, to celebrate the restoration of his magnificent Palazzo Labia in Venice. The extravaganza gave rise to green-eyed jealousy over invitations and was the talk of London, Paris and New York for months. Andrew and I were lucky enough to be invited. He went in eighteenth-century costume and I wore a simple, white muslin dress with a pale blue satin jacket, copied from a portrait of Georgiana, Duchess of Devonshire, by John Downman.
The ball was an unforgettable theatrical performance with entrées of men and women in exquisite costumes. M. de Beistegui, in a vast wig of cascading golden curls and a lavishly embroidered brocade coat, stood on stilts so as to be easily recognized. Daisy Fellowes, regularly voted the best-dressed woman in France and America, portrayed the Queen of Africa from the Tiepolo frescoes in Würzburg. She wore a dress trimmed with leopard print, the first time we had seen such a thing (still fashionable today, sixty years on), and was attended by four young men painted the colour of mahogany. So many women threatened to be Cleopatra that the host decided to settle it himself and named Diana Cooper for the role.
One memorable entrée was Jacques Fath, the Paris couturier, who came as Louis XIV in a headdress of white ostrich feathers as tall as himself, and a shimmering white satin jacket and skirt – like a doublet and hose – embroidered with gold. Cecil Beaton, dressed as a French curé and dancing with Barbara Hutton, was worth watching. Wine, food and entertainment were provided on the public square outside the palazzo for the citizens of Venice. At least one Frenchman of noble birth, who thought he should have been asked to the ball, enjoyed himself among the crowd who were climbing greasy poles for chickens and hams, and he was visited every now and again by the glamorous figures from the palazzo. As this extraordinary night turned into dawn, we splashed our way down the Grand Canal back to our hotel, having had the time of our lives.
In 1953 Moucher was made Mistress of the Robes to the new young Queen. One of her duties was to arrange the rota for the ladies-in-waiting and I can see her, head clasped in hands, saying, ‘I must get through’ – the expression for telephoning – ‘about the Waitings.’ Hers is an important job, even in everyday life at Court; at a coronation the role is vital. I was not planning to go to the ceremony as I was pregnant with my fifth baby, due around the end of June. When the baby was born too soon and did not survive, I was not in the mood for celebration and stayed quietly at home trying to recover. As weeks went by someone suggested it might be cheering for me to go after all, especially since Stoker was to be page to Moucher and carry her coronet during the procession. To allow Stoker to take such a prominent role was a big concession on the part of the Earl Marshal, who was in charge: the minimum age for pages was twelve and Stoker was only just nine, but he was considered ‘reliable’. Moucher and Andrew encouraged me to go and I am so glad that they did.
Then came the problem of what to wear, as obviously Moucher was to have the robes that had been carefully put away by Granny Evie in 1937 after King George VI’s coronation. Chatsworth, as always, came to the rescue. The
re were a number of tin boxes containing old uniforms and other relics. In the vain hope of finding something for me, we started going through them and, lo and behold, from beneath a ton of tissue paper in the box that had held Moucher’s, appeared a second crimson peeress’s robe. The velvet is of exceptional quality, so soft your fingers hardly know they are touching it, and of such pure, brilliant crimson as to make you blink. Miraculously the robe fitted; we had found what we were searching for. But there was a hitch: unlike other peeresses’ robes it was cut off the shoulder. Moucher or Andrew asked the Queen’s permission for me to wear this irregular style and it was granted. Stoker wore the uniform last worn in 1911 at the coronation of George V, and it was not a bad fit.
In for a penny in for a pound: Andrew and I despatched the Chatsworth state coach to London so we could arrive at the Abbey in style. The coach was tested for roadworthiness, a pair of stout grey horses and a coachman were hired from the Red House Stables in Darley Dale and two burly Chatsworth farm men crammed into Devonshire livery to ride as attendants at the rear. The coach was taken by train to London and the horses stabled at Watney’s Brewery. Although it looks large, the coach has surprisingly little room for passengers. On that cold, wet June morning Andrew and I could just squeeze Stoker on the seat between us as we trundled down Park Lane to Piccadilly. We waited for Gerry Wellington’s coach to reach us from Apsley House then processed at a stately pace to St James’s Street, where the crowd was treated to the sight of the handsome Henry Bath (on his own as he was between marriages) in a well-sprung yellow coach, a faster version than ours, drawn by a pair of Hackneys, smart as paint and stepping out. The people waiting in the empty, rainy streets, many of whom had been stationed there all night, were pleased to have something to look at.
Wait for Me! Page 34
