Tilly might well have put on a good show at the dinner but in fact she was at a very low ebb. After her divorce in 1935, she had tried to make a jump to Hollywood. She featured in several films but the breakthrough never came. For a while Louis B. Meyer insisted he just needed to find the right role for her, but after two years, tired of waiting, Tilly had returned to the East Coast to dance with the New York City Ballet. A dancer’s career is brief, though, and she was coming to the end of hers. Stuck for ideas about what to do next, feeling a failure and afraid of getting older, she developed severe depression and, in early 1939, booked herself into a sanatorium in Switzerland where she stayed for several months. When she dined with Porchey that night, at the Savoy, she was in fact far more fragile than he could have known.
He seems to have fallen for her almost immediately. A week after their dinner date, he invited Almina to stay at Highclere, which he tended to do at moments of crisis in his life. He needed to ask her opinion about something important. Porchey told his mother that he was thinking of getting married again, and that there were two ladies whom he favoured. Almina had suspected that something of the sort was in the offing, and confined herself to bland encouragements. She tended to be a supporter of the romantic decision and, in any case, neither of Porchey’s prospective wives had either money or connections to recommend them. She probably told him to think hard about it but to please himself.
Porchey very much wanted to marry. Britain’s preparations for war were now in full swing. No one doubted that conflict was coming; it was only a matter of what would trigger it, and when. Porchey’s habitual sense that he would like someone he loved and who loved him by his side was becoming acute as the crisis approached. He appreciated Jeanne Stuart’s beauty and kindness, but Tilly Losch was of a different order and, besides, he was sure of Jeanne, whereas Tilly was a challenge. Her visit to Highclere made up his mind for him.
Miss Losch arrived from London on the Saturday morning with two of Porchey’s old friends, American-born Sidney Beer, a racing chum, and Leslie Hore-Belisha, an outspoken National Liberal politician who was by then Secretary of State for War in Chamberlain’s government, and consequently a very busy man. In 1937 he had picked up where Alfred Duff Cooper, his predecessor, left off, in haranguing Chamberlain to embark on modernisation of the armed forces and a recruitment drive. Now he was central to Britain’s preparations for war, which, since Hitler and Stalin were on the brink of signing a non-aggression pact, seemed imminent.
The staff had been surreptitiously watching to catch the first glimpse of the renowned Miss Losch. Robert Taylor was again standing in for Smith, whose health problems were worsening. He was delighted, as acting butler, to have the opportunity to welcome their charming guest alongside his employer, to open the car door and escort her to her room.
Tilly did not disappoint. Robert told the story of his initial impressions of her, many times. The first thing he saw was a perfectly proportioned leg extended from the car. She stepped out and greeted Porchey with a smile and kiss on the cheek. She was immaculately dressed, slim and elegant, with wavy dark hair framing huge, slanting green eyes. Porchey urged her to run back downstairs as soon as she was comfortably settled, and then Robert led the way across the Saloon and up the Oak Staircase. He turned right on the Gallery and opened the door to Mercia bedroom.
‘But is this really my room?’ she exclaimed, her voice husky from her beloved cigarettes and still bearing a soft Austrian accent. ‘It is so beautiful!’
Ever the performer, Tilly twirled around, admiring the view over the park, the elaborate frame of the mirror, and the paintings, before throwing herself backwards onto the eighteenth-century four-poster bed in sheer, exuberant delight. Her dress rode up and Robert couldn’t help staring—just for a moment; she really did have the most stunning pair of legs he had ever seen.
The weekend was a great success. Over dinner on Saturday night, for which Porchey had asked his new French chef Monsieur Pascal to make extra-special efforts, Leslie Hore-Belisha kept whispering to Porchey that Tilly was so divinely pretty. Had he noticed she had the most beautiful and expressive hands? It was difficult not to notice Tilly’s hands. Her most famous choreographic creation was a hand dance that wowed audiences wherever she performed it, and she used them to great effect in conversation. As Porchey sat opposite her, watching her laugh at Sidney Beer’s jokes, making graceful gestures, glancing at him from time to time and smiling, he found himself captivated. ‘She would make a prefect chatelaine for Highclere; she’s so elegant, so accomplished,’ continued Hore-Belisha. Porchey quite agreed.
Hardly two weeks later, he decided to take the plunge. Over dinner in London, he quietly suggested to Tilly that they get married. She seemed surprised by the speed that things were moving, and not at all convinced. ‘We hardly know each other, Porchey,’ she pointed out, not unreasonably. ‘And I’m not sure it’s quite the right moment to marry. There’s a war coming, after all.’ Tilly’s mother was in America and Tilly felt alarmed at the prospect of staying in England without her if Britain were about to go to war with Germany, especially since she was both Austrian and half Jewish.
Porchey was ready with a solution to at least the first of Tilly’s objections and suggested they go to Paris to get to know each other better. Tilly looked tempted by the prospect of a trip to one of her favourite old stamping grounds, but made it clear that they would be staying in separate hotels. ‘Porchey, darling, you’ve slept with most of my girlfriends and I am not going to bed with you unless we really are married.’ Porchey felt his enthusiasm slightly dampened.
Despite doubts on both sides about the wisdom and purpose of the trip, they arrived in Paris on 24 August as a golden summer there was ending. The Nazi–Soviet pact had been signed the day before and now German troops were massing on the border with Poland. The Gare du Nord teemed with soldiers: the French army was mobilising. Porchey and Tilly’s timing was a disaster. The next day they heard on the news that a call for general mobilisation had gone out in Britain, and they had to rush to book their tickets back to England. Tilly was seasick all the way back across the Channel and, when they arrived in London, having once more insisted on separate hotels, she announced that she was going to take three days to think about things and would then give Porchey an answer. ‘If it’s in the affirmative,’ she told him, ‘I think we should get married straight away.’
Torn between his infatuation for Tilly and the sense that things were not progressing as he would have wished, Porchey felt deeply apprehensive. But he tried to tell himself to hold his nerve. She was so beautiful, so lovely, such fun. He adored her. Having left her at the Ritz, he tried to think calmly about practicalities. If they were indeed to marry in the next few days, they would need a special licence.
Porchey lodged the application the following day. He must have felt a sensation of familiar dread, having been here before with Tanis. In addition to his doubts about the fundamental wisdom of the marriage, there were familiar worries about the press getting hold of the information. Porchey completed the paperwork in the names of Henry George Alfred Marius Victor Francis Herbert and Ottilie James, in an attempt to throw any journalists off the scent. He gave her address as the Ritz hotel and his as Claridge’s.
On 31 August, as Hitler ordered hostilities to begin against Poland the following day and Porchey waited for Tilly’s answer, he tried to calm his nerves by travelling down to Brighton for the racing. He got back to Claridge’s that evening to find a message from his not-quite-yet-intended, evidently very upset, summoning him to the Ritz. A diligent journalist had uncovered their special licence, put two and two together and trumpeted the news on the front page of that evening’s edition.
When Porchey arrived at Tilly’s room, he found her pacing up and down, while Sidney Beer sat, evidently feeling awkward, in one of the armchairs. She explained that she had been discussing the marriage with Sidney, and she still felt that there were pros and cons. There was also the little mat
ter of money. Tilly looked at Sidney for his support, as he did his best to pretend he wasn’t there. Turning back to Porchey, she said, ‘I simply want to feel secure, darling.’
When Tilly explained that her definition of secure amounted to £1,000 a year, Porchey also began to pace. Now he felt really jittery. Tilly seemed to have discussed the marriage endlessly with their mutual friends and, frankly, the idea was losing all its mystique.
‘Oh, I just don’t know, darling,’ Tilly said. ‘But if you can get on to your lawyer and sort out the money, I do think it might be better to marry than not, don’t you?’
Porchey, half wondering whether he should be backing out, but not quite sure how to do so, eventually agreed to pay Tilly £600 after tax, though his lawyers insisted it would only be for the duration of the marriage. The deed would be drawn up and they could sign it tomorrow, after the wedding ceremony. Porchey had previously made an appointment at the Register Office, just in case, for the earliest possible time on 1st September. Perhaps he was not convinced that, with another whole day to think about it, she would turn up.
Sidney was relieved to leave them to it. Porchey suggested to Tilly that they had dinner to celebrate their decision, at the Savoy Grill. They walked in to find two of Porchey’s old friends, Alfred Duff Cooper and Harcourt ‘Crinks’ Johnstone, dining at an adjacent table and, perhaps feeling that they had talked quite enough to one another for one evening, decided to join them.
Tilly knew Alfred Duff Cooper from when she had starred in The Miracle alongside his wife, Diana. There had been considerable tensions between the two women; both famous, beautiful and used to the limelight. Relations sank to a frosty low when Tilly, in prankster mode, sewed up the arms of Diana’s costume before she went on stage. This made Diana’s key moment, the miraculous graceful descent from the pillar on which she stood resplendent as the Madonna, rather less impressive than it was supposed to be.
Duff Cooper’s temper was famously explosive but short-lived, and he was incapable of remaining on bad terms with a woman as beautiful and charming as Tilly. Besides, there were more important things to discuss than old spats. The talk turned to war and a very sober estimation of the danger facing England. Porchey tried to be optimistic; Crinks was more truthful and gave the Germans odds of four to one on—they were so much stronger in terms of men, training and equipment. Porchey observed Tilly’s demeanour becoming ever more withdrawn. He could just see her absconding on a boat to America in the middle of the night.
Porchey tried to reassure Tilly that Highclere was in a very safe part of England; in fact, that was why a nursery school was going to be billeted there. There would be no bombs at Highclere. ‘I hope so, I do hope so,’ she said very quietly, her Austrian accent seeming more pronounced.
Later that night, Porchey rang Almina to tell her the news of his wedding. ‘Well, darling boy, God bless you. I’ve got a tiny present for Tilly, which I will give her when I have the pleasure of seeing her. Now. I have to ask. Are you quite sure in your heart of hearts that this is what you want?’
Porchey was lost for an instant reply. That night, he slept badly.
On 1 September, Nazi Germany invaded Poland and Porchey arrived early at the Register Office at Caxton Hall, Westminster. Half an hour later, and with less than five minutes to go, Tilly still hadn’t shown up. The reporters were waiting. Porchey must have suffered paroxysms of anxiety and doubt, wondering whether he was doing the right thing, wondering whether he was about to be jilted at the altar for the second time in his life. To his immense relief, Tilly arrived just in time, looking pale but lovely and leaning on the arm of Sidney Beer. The registrar appeared and looked enquiringly at Porchey. ‘Are you by any chance Lord Carnarvon?’ ‘I am,’ he declared. ‘Splendid. You’re the first this morning. Be ready in three minutes.’ Tilly smiled weakly and they entered the office together.
After the ceremony, Lord and Lady Carnarvon returned to Claridge’s to sign the financial papers. Porchey felt a mingled sense of euphoria and panic and ordered champagne to steady everyone’s nerves. Tilly cheered up immensely.
George packed His Lordship’s bag and sent round to the Ritz for Her Ladyship’s, and then they caught a train from Paddington to Highclere, where they were met at the station.
It was a beautiful late summer’s day and, as they motored up the drive, the warm breeze carried the scent of cut grass. At the castle, the entire staff lined up outside the front door to welcome the Earl and his new Countess. Everyone was beaming; the maids could hardly believe this sudden injection of glamour, the male staff were scarcely less pleased. A stream of friends dropped in after lunch to wish them well and Porchey, observing Tilly in a more relaxed mood and exerting her usual powerful spell, began to feel more robust.
It wasn’t until Tilly had suggested that they take their coffee outside to sit on picnic rugs in the sunshine, that they learned about the invasion of Poland. Smith informed his employer that twenty-seven evacuee children and four of their teachers and nurses had just arrived from Curzon Crescent nursery school in Willesden, northwest London. Oh, and there were several gentlemen of the press who would be obliged by a photo. The evening editions would be full of the news of invasion and a more cheering story was judged appropriate.
Porchey was stunned both by the terrible news, which seemed to confirm that war was now only a matter of days away, and by the realisation that he and Tilly would be sharing their home, from day one of their marriage, with dozens of strangers. When he was first informed about the plan for billeting the school on Highclere, he had asked his secretary Miss Stubbings to draw up plans for where the children would sleep, play, eat and take their lessons. Preparations had been made, but he could never have envisaged that they would be needed on his wedding day.
Following photographs for the press with the new Countess of Carnarvon, Mrs Saunderson and Miss Stubbings led the children, teachers and assistants out through the front door and round to the back of the castle. They were to use the staff entrance through the courtyard and then make their way up the second staircase, the Red Stairs, to the top floor. Mrs Saunderson and Miss Stubbings helped Miss Winifred Butler and her staff to settle the children in the old nursery and adjoining bedrooms, before showing them the Library that would serve as their playroom and the servants’ hall where they were to take their meals. One imagines a slightly shell-shocked Porchey and Tilly dining that evening: Porchey making jokes about the ridiculousness of the timing; Tilly incredulous that her fears were being realised already. War seemed to be on its way to Highclere.
Porchey had invited his sister, Lady Evelyn, and Brograve, his brother-in-law, to come to stay for a couple of nights, to meet Tilly. Eve was a clear-sighted pragmatist, like Almina, and though she had adored Catherine, she wanted her brother to be happy. But both she and Bro worried that Tilly talked a lot about her fears for the future rather than her happiness with Porchey, and mentioned America a great deal.
On the morning of Sunday 3 September, the house party was driven down to Highclere Church for Matins. The building was packed and the mood was subdued. There was a sense of waiting for something to happen. Just after the service got underway, a note was passed to Lord Carnarvon, who read it and then handed it immediately to Mr Kent, the parson. Mr Kent fell silent, then cleared his voice to announce the news. ‘At 11.15 this morning, the Prime Minister of England made a radio broadcast to the nation. Ladies and gentlemen, I am sorry to tell you that Mr Chamberlain has informed us we are now at war with Germany.’
14
We Are at War
After months of anxiety-inducing build-up and then last-minute hopes that the catastrophe could yet be averted, war had arrived. Congregations up and down the country received the news from their vicar; sermons were jettisoned and prayers for a swift victory were offered up instead. Millions more people, sitting at home, tuned in to the radio to listen to Neville Chamberlain’s sober pronouncement. He, more than anyone, had staked everything on a diplomatic so
lution based on concessions. He sounded weary as he delivered the news.
At lunch at Highclere that Sunday, the talk was all of what might happen next. Porchey’s great hope was that the war should be over quickly. If it were to drag on for years, his son would almost certainly be involved. Henry was now fifteen. His father must have been ruminating on the agonies suffered by his own parents when he joined up as an enthusiastic seventeen-year-old during the Great War. For everyone of Porchey’s generation, especially those who had fought in that terrible conflict, there was a sense of history repeating itself. On 3 September 1939, the notion of a war to end all wars was exposed as a tragic delusion.
Porchey’s other immediate worry, apart from Henry’s safety, was that Tilly would bolt. They had been married for just three days and now their marriage, already so fragile, was being overtaken by global disaster. It was precisely the scenario Tilly had dreaded, and the events of the next two months would demonstrate that—despite Porchey’s best efforts—she never did regard Highclere as a place of safety.
In the days after war was declared, there was a flurry of activity as people rushed around trying to determine what they could do to help. The country had been planning only half-heartedly for this eventuality; now everyone needed to buckle down and face reality. In the words of novelist Mollie Panter-Downes, who was writing from London for the New Yorker, ‘The English were a peace-loving nation up until two days ago but now it is pretty widely felt that the sooner we really get down to the job, the better.’
The staff at Highclere were kept busy helping out with the nursery school. Monsieur Pascal, the chef, and the kitchen maids now had to prepare additional food for twenty-seven children and eight adults. The housemaids had extra fires to light and clear in the nurseries, bedrooms and schoolroom. Just as Almina’s household staff had rallied round to support the nurses when the castle was turned into a military hospital during the First World War, now Highclere set about its war work with determination.
Lady Catherine, the Earl, and the Real Downton Abbey Page 18
