In his more rational moments Porchey knew that his mother had sacrificed a great deal on the family’s behalf, but, nevertheless, he struggled with feelings of hurt and disappointment that his father had not left him more secure.
Almina was quick to point out that it had not been deliberate. ‘Your father had already begun to implement savings, Porchey, but he couldn’t possibly have known how little time he had left to economise.’
Though it was Almina’s money that ultimately made the difference between losing the house and not, her son tended throughout his life to lose sight of that fact. Nor had he understood her hasty marriage to Ian Dennistoun. Catherine had none of her husband’s prejudices, and in fact remained firm friends with Almina throughout their lives, but she knew she would have to bide her time before she attempted to steer them towards any kind of rapprochement.
As far as Almina was concerned, between them they had secured the future of Highclere: not without sacrifices, but the house was safe and so was the core of the community of people who worked there. True enough, the staff was reduced to a skeleton. Fearnside would only have two footmen, a hall boy and an usher; a chef, two kitchen maids and a scullery maid; five housemaids; an electrician; a night watchman; two chauffeurs; a head groom, two assistant grooms and a stables cook. It would not be as it had been in Almina’s day, at least not for a while. But the Carnarvon legacy was more or less intact and, really, Porchey needed to look forward. He had a wife and would soon have two children; he had his whole life ahead of him.
If Almina had been a different sort of woman, she might have observed to her son that the voguish remedy for a British aristocrat who even suspected the state of his finances was to marry a wealthy American girl. Her own marriage had been a love match, but she was not a fool and she knew that her husband had also weighed the value of her vast independent wealth. Porchey, though, had married an American girl with no money to speak of. But quite apart from the fact that Almina loved Catherine, she had supported her son at the time and was not about to change her tune, though neither was she about to absolve Porchey for what she perceived as his lack of gratitude.
7
Life and Death in the Roaring Twenties
Duff Cooper, who was a prolific diary keeper, noted in March 1925 that Porchey had written to tell him that ‘the adorable Catherine had presented the new heir with a sister.’ Lady Anne Penelope Marian Herbert was born in London on 3 March 1925.
There is a photo taken at Penelope’s christening, which was, like her brother’s, held at Highclere. A family group stands on the drive that sweeps around the house, as if they have all just stepped out of the French windows to the Library. Catherine holds her daughter, who is dressed in a long white christening gown. Lord Porchester is a bonny baby of fourteen months, also dressed in white and held firmly on the nurse Mrs Sambell’s knee. The mood is quite different from the highly staged and glamorous shots of Catherine and her son that were published in the press. This is a family snapshot. Catherine’s hair is immaculately curled in a fashionable Marcel wave, but she is wearing sensible day clothes, and has the proud but slightly harried look of a mother of two children under eighteen months old. By today’s standards, Catherine had a huge amount of help in the care of her children, but even so, 1924 and 1925 had been exceptionally busy years.
Once again, Almina did not attend, though she was thrilled at the arrival of her first granddaughter, but Eve and Bro were at Highclere for the service. Eve was five months’ pregnant at the time and they were living by then in a small house on Deanery Street next to the Dorchester Hotel, which Almina had gifted them on their marriage. Everyone was hugely excited, especially Eve’s mother-in-law Lady Beauchamp, who was thrilled at the prospect of an heir to carry on her husband’s name and title.
In July, when the time came for Eve to have her baby, she had no hesitation in engaging William Gilliatt to be in attendance. Almina would be with her, too, a calm, practical presence. But Eve did not have the happy experience that Catherine had. She was eventually delivered of a healthy baby girl, but she had such a difficult labour that she very nearly died. Even Almina’s fortitude was stretched to its limit by the long, traumatic birth and the rising sense of panic in the room that Gilliatt could not conceal. When baby Patricia arrived, Almina was euphoric, Eve barely conscious. She rallied at the sight of her daughter, but her recovery was difficult and at the end of it all, Dr Gilliatt told her that she would not be able to have any more children. It was a bitter blow for Eve and Bro, who comforted themselves by lavishing Patricia with love, but even more so for Lady Beauchamp. The baronetcy would end with Brograve.
Porchey was just massively relieved that his beloved sister had come through her ordeal. He and Catherine, and indeed Eve and Bro, were delighted that Patricia had been born soon after Penelope so that the two girls could grow up more like sisters than cousins. His happiness over the births of his daughter and niece was also a welcome distraction from the tension with his mother. If Almina had hoped that his resentment would quickly die away, subsequent events only conspired to make it worse.
After they were married, Almina and Ian had agreed to pay a number of small sums to Dorothy, Ian’s ex-wife and Almina’s former friend. But before long she was asking for more and threatening to go public with allegations that Almina had begun a relationship with Ian before the 5th Earl’s death. Almina was convinced that Dorothy was blackmailing them, and that the only way to deal with this was to refuse to pay her anything at all. This provoked Dorothy to a rage. In March 1925, she issued a writ for £13,000 and back payment of the support she claimed she had been promised for her quiet compliance with the divorce. The Dennistoun v Dennistoun case exploded in a gory mess of allegation and counter-allegation. Nobody came out of it looking good. Public interest in this sensational ‘high-society behaving badly’ drama was heightened by the fact that Almina was still particularly in the public eye, thanks to the 5th Earl’s discoveries in Egypt, and his subsequent ‘mysterious’ death. At the first whiff of scandal, the media were in raptures.
Dorothy’s claim to Ian’s newly acquired assets rested on her assertion that she had played a material part in his promotion through the army to the rank of Lieutenant Colonel. A particularly intimate part, in fact. Dorothy alleged that Ian had insisted she begin an affair with Sir John Cowans, in return for which Sir John would engineer Ian’s ascent. Her husband had, in effect, pimped her out in order to get on.
Naturally Ian denied this, claiming that Dorothy was only looking for a convenient cover-up for her own sexual promiscuity. It was well known that she had numerous lovers all over Europe, he claimed. In exasperation, the trial judge told Ian’s lawyer that he would not be allowed to read out a list of the names of these alleged lovers. But it was too late to contain the scandal. Allegations of blackmail and intimidation were made. Several reputations, most notably that of the late great Sir John Cowans, were in tatters. Almina was called as a witness and gave a spirited defence of her husband. It wasn’t enough to dispel the lingering suspicion that the Dennistouns were probably both culpable, and that Almina had got mixed up in highly distasteful matters. The 6th Earl was horrified that his mother had gone to court and dragged their names through the papers. The Christie’s sale was being promoted at the same time and the publicity was desperately tawdry.
The case took thirteen days to arrive at its conclusion, and once the press realised what it had to work with, they covered it in excruciating detail. Punch magazine nicknamed it the Dustbin Case. King George V was sufficiently disgusted by the washing of so much dirty laundry in public that he wrote to the Lord Chamberlain to express his dismay that the case had ever come to court. He wasn’t the only one who thought a new low had been reached. In 1926 Parliament passed the Judicial Proceedings (Regulation of Reports) Act, which curtailed the detailed reporting of divorce cases in the press.
In the end, Dorothy was awarded just £472, the sum of a loan she had made to her ex-husband. Ian’s lawye
r argued that the assurance he had made to pay her maintenance in due course if circumstances allowed, was not binding. The jury agreed with him. The suspicion that Dorothy was targeting the couple out of greed and a desire for revenge had evidently lodged in the jurors’ minds.
The outcome was ghastly for everyone, though. The legal fees cost Almina approximately £400,000 in today’s money. Her standing in society took a tumble and her relationship with her son, already faltering, was dealt a terrible blow. Whatever the truth, mud sticks, and her husband had been labelled a scoundrel; Ian lost his army commission and retired without rank. But the decision to fight the case was typical of Almina’s bravado. She believed that her former friend had betrayed her, flinging her generosity back in her face and setting out to blackmail her with scurrilous lies. Dorothy had also attacked the man whom Almina had pledged to look after. Almina was not the sort to take such behaviour lying down. If she and Ian had settled with Dorothy out of court, they probably would have saved themselves an enormous amount of money and escaped a vast amount of embarrassment, but Almina would not hear of it. She insisted that they fight. In point of fact they had won, though the reality was infinitely less positive.
It cost them dear but the court case did not sink them. Before long Almina had found suitable premises at which to open a new hospital. She named it Alfred House, after her father, and it became the choice of society ladies when it came to giving birth, setting standards for excellence in nursing care. The cynics were confounded about the marriage, too: Almina and Ian remained happily together until his death, in 1938.
From the mid-Twenties, Porchey began to focus his energies on building up the Highclere stud, which his father had started in 1902 on 250 acres of chalky grassland below Siddown Hill, next to the golf course. Porchey had been devoted to the sport of horseracing since he was a young boy. He knew his horses well, was a skilled horseman and came to be considered one of the best amateur jockeys in England. He also had a good memory for horses’ race pedigree and breeding, which he put to use enthusiastically when he was placing bets. Like many before and since, Porchey felt that his passion could become his life’s work. He knew it was imperative that Highclere begin to generate an income, and this was by far the most pleasant way he could imagine for that to happen.
The stud was already a going concern, but had always been run as a pastime rather than an enterprise. Now Porchey persuaded Marcus Wickham Boynton, a well-known figure in the horse-breeding world, to help him to expand activities. Porchey already had an excellent stud groom in Charlie Whincup, who had worked for his father. Charlie was a spare man, slightly too tall to be a jockey, a fountain of knowledge who appreciated the enthusiasm and expertise of the new young Lord Carnarvon.
One of Porchey’s first decisions was to build up his brood mares and then send his youngsters to be trained by Dick Dawson at Whatcombe, who trained the Aga Khan’s horses. He also sent horses to Harry Cottrill and Fred Darling; the latter trained seven English Derby winners and is commemorated by the Fred Darling Stakes, run at Newbury racecourse.
The horseracing, breeding and training world is full of dreamers and eccentrics, driven men (it usually is men, and certainly was in Porchey’s day) whose existence has been overtaken by the hope that one day, one of their horses may win a Grand National, or an Epsom Derby, and become a household name. The sport is full of great individualists from all walks of life: thrill-seekers and gamblers, canny businessmen and sportsmen devoted to the turf.
Porchey loved to bet, and intended to augment his income from the stud with some well-chosen punts. When Sir Marcus arrived to help run the stud, the two of them pooled knowledge and placed some sizeable bets. Porchey was a good gambler. He wagered only as much as he could afford to lose and always kept a cool head, noting meticulously all the details of his wins and losses.
Catherine had not previously experienced the racing world, but since her husband spent a great deal of time at race meetings, now so did she. She quickly discovered that as well as the thrill of the race itself, which she loved, there was a diverting social side. The Highclere guestbook shows that she and Porchey hosted numerous parties for friends during race meetings at Newbury, when the days were spent at the track and the evenings in revelry at the house. Catherine accompanied Porchey on his trips to Newmarket and Epsom, Aintree and Ascot. Often Eve, who was almost as much of a fanatic as her brother, would join them, the somewhat less enthusiastic Brograve in her wake. Reggie was frequently with them, spending the morning with Porchey talking horses and the afternoon with Catherine. She lunched or took tea with her girlfriends, all dressed for the occasion in the latest fashions and charming hats. She appeared regularly on the newspapers’ best-dressed lists, which then as now loved to discuss women’s fashion choices. She also started to place bets herself and had quite a streak of beginners’ luck.
Porchey was delighted that Catherine was having fun, since it meant that he was able to get on with the business of his own analyses of different horses, with competing in races and with socialising. He took it upon himself to teach her how to understand the basics of racing form, but seems to have been considerably less meticulous about monitoring her gambling than he was about his own. Presumably, as someone who had no urge to recklessness, he didn’t consider the possibility that Catherine might not be quite as self-controlled.
One day, one of the bookies approached him and said that he thought Lady Carnarvon’s bet needed hedging. ‘She’s laid £5,000 to £2,000 on Saucy Sue.’ ‘Heaven help us, thank god you told me,’ said Porchey, rushing off to find his wife and dissuade her. Catherine was duly persuaded both to hedge and reduce her bet but, perhaps unfortunately, Saucy Sue won. Catherine continued to place bets for several years after that. She had a few more notable wins but many more losses and, in the end, Porchey learnt that the tiara given to her by his father on their wedding day had gone to Ladbrokes. He urged Catherine to give it up, which she did manage to do, and thereafter she contented herself with being a spectator, joining in with Eve, who was famous for her noisy displays as she cheered a horse home.
Catherine wasn’t the only one who sometimes lost her head over the amount of money to be made from the horses. Porchey very nearly landed himself in serious trouble when he asked a friend to do him the favour of ‘bidding up’ on a particularly good colt that he was selling at auction. The horse was named Blenheim, by the stallion Blanford out of Porchey’s mare Malva, and Porchey was convinced that the Aga Khan would snap him up.
Blenheim was duly despatched to the renowned Tattersall’s sale ring in Newmarket, without a reserve price. Determined that he should fetch the right price, Porchey asked his old friend Jock Delves Broughton to bid on him in order to drive up the price that any interested party would have to pay. Sure enough, the Aga Khan did want him and, thanks to Jock’s efforts, he ended up paying 4,200 guineas for him.
Porchey was in Newmarket a few weeks later, only to be brought up short by a bark of fury aimed at him from across the paddock. Captain Gerald Deane, a partner in Tattersall’s, tore him to shreds for breaking the rules so flagrantly. He threatened that any repeat performance would mean that Tattersall’s would no longer accept horses from Highclere. Porchey backed away, apologising sincerely. He never made that mistake again.
1926 and 1927 were glorious years for Catherine and Porchey. They had two children they adored and had made Highclere their family home. The house was financially secure; the stud was flourishing. They were young and wealthy and the Roaring Twenties were in full swing around them. London was only an hour away by train and there was a huge amount of fun to be had there. Porchey in particular took full advantage.
In her memoir of a deb’s life in 1920s London, Loelia the Duchess of Westminster made an astute comment about the self-mythologising that characterised the decade. ‘The glamorous twenties have long been a legend. Even in 1932 the present Lord Kinross was writing about them as though they were a remote Golden Age … the nightclub age. The majo
rity of Londoners never saw the inside of a nightclub, of course … On the other hand you couldn’t help hearing them talked about.’
Much like the Swinging Sixties forty years later, another era that invented its own myths on the hoof and in the morning-after haze, the Roaring Twenties probably only happened to a tiny number of people. But those people enjoyed themselves a great deal and were well positioned to tell the rest of the world about their fun.
If the Carnarvons were in town together, going to the theatre or a dinner party or a ball, they stayed at the Ritz. London was dancing mad, and Catherine in particular loved to dance. As well as nightclubs and balls there were tea dances in the afternoons, so one could dance from four in the afternoon to four the following morning, if one wished. Nightclubs were more the preserve of Porchey’s outings with friends, but the couple attended endless balls together during the season. Fancy dress was a mania and people flitted from one great house to another, changing their costumes for each party, running into different groups of friends en route.
When Porchey was in London without Catherine, he stayed at one of his clubs. Porchey frequently joined the Prince of Wales and Prince George, who took their carousing very seriously indeed. They all loved the theatre and would often start their evening at the Windmill Theatre for one of Noël Coward’s plays, or the Pavilion on Piccadilly Circus where C. B. Cochrane produced his famous revues. Then the party would head off to the Embassy Club on Old Bond Street for dinner. Various pretty girls accompanied them, champagne flowed, and Luigi the head waiter provided cold quails in aspic. The Embassy was always full of their friends, from Lord and Lady Mountbatten to Alfred Duff Cooper and Lady Diana Cooper, the Duke of Westminster with Coco Chanel, and Fruity Metcalfe, a chum of the Prince of Wales. There would be cabaret acts or a jazz band with dancing until the early hours, when the guests tumbled out amidst noise and laughter onto the streets. London had never been this gay: previously one had to go to Paris to have anything like as much fun.
Lady Catherine, the Earl, and the Real Downton Abbey Page 8
