This routine lasted only a fortnight, but the lively Jennie found it stultifying. In the third week of May the newly-weds moved to a rented house in Curzon Street in Mayfair, while waiting for their own house at 48 Charles Street, Westminster, so that Randolph could make his maiden speech and to enable Jennie to be presented at court. When Randolph got to his feet in the House on 22 May, his speech was impromptu, and it answered rather than supported a member of his own party, which caused some offence. Even Disraeli, who had known Randolph since he was a small boy and actively backed him, in a note to the Queen described it as ‘imprudent’. However, reflecting that a great deal of licence is given to a maiden speech, Disraeli continued: ‘The House was surprised, and then captivated, by his energy, and his natural flow, and his impressive manners…it was a speech of great promise.’3 From this minor success Randolph recognised at once how intoxicating it would be to really rouse the Commons – which assembly, wrote his contemporary Anthony Trollope, ‘by the consent of all men is the greatest in the world’.4
The London Season had begun. In Jennie’s own words, ‘it was looked upon as a very serious matter which no self-respecting persons who considered themselves “in society” would forgo, nor of which a votary of fashion would willingly miss a week or a day’.5 From early May, each evening, the great mansions of Belgravia and the embassies opened their doors for a series of flower-bedecked balls, dinners and parties organised by hostesses who vied with each other in elegant excess. During the day the fashionable flocked to Hurlingham,* to Wimbledon, to flower shows, to garden parties with brass bands playing or to the races – many of these are still features of the Season today. It was important to be seen at Rotten Row† in Hyde Park. To parade each day in ‘the Row’ at the fashionable hours between noon and 2 p.m., on foot, in a carriage or – best of all – on a well-groomed showy hack, was an essential element of the diary. Here friends and acquaintances could meet informally; clandestine lovers could exchange notes or longing glances. Horsewomen like Jennie, dressed in severely cut riding habits that perfectly fitted the upper body but hid the hips and legs under sweeping skirts, showed themselves on mettlesome thoroughbreds to advantage, envy and admiration. Only on Sundays did the constant round of pleasure cease, for the Lord’s Day was kept with strict observance – or so, at least, it must appear; all entertaining then was done in private.
In June Jennie made her curtsey to the Queen, as all young married women in her position must do. Also present in that drawing room were the Prince and Princess of Wales, to whom Jennie had already been formally introduced at Cowes the previous August. The Prince was always kind to Jennie, and bearing in mind his reputation as a serial womaniser there is at least a suspicion that, even then, he may already have had an ulterior motive. Every day throughout June and July there was at least one daytime event as well as one grand function to attend at night, and Jennie rose to every occasion with zest – always beautifully dressed, always with a fund of witty, intelligent remarks. She was already demonstrating that she was the perfect wife for an ambitious new politician, even though as an American in English society she was a rara avis and was watched carefully for gaffes. Then there were the races – Ascot, the Derby and Goodwood. For her first visit to the Royal Enclosure at Ascot Jennie wore (as was traditional) her wedding gown, altered for the occasion and trimmed with pink roses to match her bonnet, and carried an exquisite lace parasol which her father had given her as a wedding gift. The Prince of Wales offered her his arm in the Royal Enclosure, sealing her success. Later she would recall how they used to drive down to Ascot in summer frocks and feathered hats, ‘and stay to dinner, driving back by moonlight’.
Her entry into Society, successful as it was, was necessarily brief. Already Jennie and Randolph knew that they were to become parents; they announced that the child was due in mid-January – exactly nine months from the date of their wedding. Mrs Jerome visited from Paris, bringing a layette of baby clothes, and during her frequent visits to Blenheim Jennie was now forced to take things easy and go for sedate rides in a carriage with the Duchess instead of joining Randolph riding in the park. She found this routine stultifying, but it was not improved even when they had guests. On one occasion, returning from a drive, she found the drawing room full of visitors having tea. Jennie escaped as soon as she could, making the excuse that she had to write to her mother. The first hour, when no one knew each other, was always stiff and uncomfortable, with long silences. But she knew from experience that the house guests would soon make themselves at home, and – she wrote to her mother – they would shortly be exchanging slanderous gossip. Everyone in society and politics was pulled to pieces, and it was not only the women who were guilty of this, Jennie wrote, the men were equally to blame.6
In late November, when Jennie was seven and a half months pregnant, the couple visited Blenheim for a shooting party. Jennie enjoyed these parties, with their friendly outdoor picnics and enlivening conversation. Most of the women guests walked out to join the men for lunch, but Jennie used a pony trap. On Friday 27 November she decided to walk with the other ladies, but during luncheon she felt very tired so she elected to use the trap to return to the house. During the bumpy drive she began experiencing labour pains, and because the baby was supposedly not due for a further six weeks the local GP, Dr Frederick Taylor, attempted to stop the pains by ordering complete bed rest. The pains continued spasmodically throughout the Saturday night and all day Sunday, by which time Jennie had risen and joined the family. On Sunday evening at 6 p.m., however, it became obvious that she was in full labour and the birth was imminent. The London obstetrician who had been booked for Jennie’s confinement could not get down to Oxford in time as there were no trains on Sunday evenings, and an Oxford specialist was busy elsewhere, so Dr Taylor was called in from nearby Woodstock to deliver the child. When the worst pains started Jennie had been hurried into a small, bleak bedroom along a passage leading from the Great Hall to the Long Library. It had formerly been allocated to the Duke’s chaplain, Dean Jones, and latterly to an organist who had come to play the organ in the library. It was (and is) chiefly notable for lacking any pretensions to ducal grandeur.
Attended by the Duchess, Randolph’s aunt Lady Clementine Camden* and Berthe, Lady Blandford, at 1.30 a.m. on 30 November Jennie had a son, to whom they gave an old family name, Winston.
In view of the date of the birth, six weeks earlier than anticipated, the question has inevitably been asked – was Jennie pregnant before they married? Did Randolph use this fact to force the hand of the Duke into agreeing to their marriage? It might explain his sudden capitulation, and also perhaps why he and the Duchess did not attend the wedding of their favourite son. Mrs Jerome’s recorded care of the reputations of her three daughters makes it difficult to surmise how and when the couple might have consummated their love, but it is possible that, given their engagement and with wedding plans well advanced, Randolph and Jennie might have stolen a short time together alone. We know from their letters how much in love they were, and being thwarted almost always stimulates passion.
Before their marriage on 15 April, Jennie and Randolph had last met on 3 March, when he left Paris after a short visit. Winston was born 272 days later. Given that gestation is approximately 266 days, had they consummated their relationship on 2 March this would mean that Jennie was actually a week past full term when Winston was born. But had she indeed been at full term, would it not have been apparent to her doctor? And would she have really gone out for a long walk, then travelled over rough ground in a pony trap when she would have been hoping to hang on to her baby as long as possible to avoid inevitable gossip? If she was close to full term it was brave of her to have gone to Blenheim for a shooting party, away from London doctors and knowing that there were no preparations for the baby’s arrival; yet she could hardly have made the necessary arrangements without advertising the fact that she expected the birth imminently.
We shall never know the answer. When Winston w
as asked about his birth he responded with typical humour: ‘Although present on the occasion I have no recollection of the events leading up to it.’
Whether premature or not, the fact of his birth occurring at Blenheim was always something of which Jennie’s first child was immensely proud, and he joked as an adult that he had deliberately timed it to ensure he was born there. Randolph wrote immediately to Mrs Jerome of the surprise element of the confinement, hastening to assure her that ‘everything went well’ and Jennie was fine. The Duchess also wrote to her about more practical considerations. No baby clothes or cradle had been available.* The beautiful Parisian layette presented by Mrs Jerome was waiting in the nursery of Randolph and Jennie’s home in London (even had she anticipated going into labour on that visit to Blenheim, carrying a baby’s layette around with her would have aroused suspicions). Fortunately, the necessary items could be borrowed from the wife of a Woodstock solicitor, Mr Thomas Brown, who had prepared in advance for her own forthcoming confinement in January. Meanwhile, baby Winston’s own things were sent for from 48 Charles Street. Mrs Jerome professed to be shocked when a horse-racing friend wrote about the new baby that he had ‘interesting breeding, stamina goes through the dam, and pace through the sire’.7
The main thing was that the little boy was fine and described as ‘healthy’ (a word not normally applied to a very premature baby in that era), as was his mother. He was baptised in the Blenheim chapel with the names Winston Leonard Spencer Churchill, and both families rejoiced.
In those days few upper-class women nursed their own children, and a nurse and wet-nurse were found within hours of Winston’s birth. Most doctors would have been able to recommend a respectable local woman who had recently given birth and had milk to spare, or perhaps (since infant mortality was so high) someone who had lost her own baby. Jennie was soon on her feet again and on returning to London a nanny was recruited. Miss Elizabeth Everest,* always called ‘Mrs Everest’ by courtesy, was to be fully responsible for all aspects of the nursery. Jennie had done her duty, so to speak, and after the months of enforced rest during her pregnancy she could now enjoy herself again. And Jennie, twenty years old, with all her remarkable energy threw herself into the whirl of gaiety that beckoned. ‘Many were the delightful balls I went to,’ she wrote in her memoirs, ‘which…invariably lasted until five o’clock in the morning. Masked balls were much the vogue. Holland House [a Jacobean mansion in Holland Park, destroyed by bombs in 1940] with its wonderful historical associations and beautiful gardens was a fitting frame for such entertainments, and I remember enjoying myself immensely at one given there. Disguised in a painted mask and a yellow wig, I mystified everyone.’8
At dinner parties she was often, as a lady of high status, seated next to Disraeli, who had a soft spot for Randolph, or even beside the Prince of Wales who would tease her that she was seeking some preferment for Randolph when she monopolised the Prime Minister. Indeed, promoting Randolph now became Jennie’s chief aim; her own dinner parties were well patronised and she was soon regarded as a successful hostess. Lord Blandford’s well bred wife Berthe did not shine socially and the couple were never seen together in London. Despite his early opposition to his brother’s engagement, after he met her Blandford conceived a great fondness and respect for Jennie, for she possessed every characteristic that he most admired in a woman. He saw his younger brother happy in his marriage, the proud father of a healthy son, and apparently not only succeeding in a career in politics but also basking in parental affection.
Most of this Blandford put down to Jennie’s influence, and one day he presented her with a ring as a token of his affection and regard. In November 1875, a year after Winston’s birth, when Jennie was visiting Blenheim, probably to illustrate the fact that she had made friends with Blandford she innocently showed off this ring to her mother-in-law and sister-in-law Rosamund, only to be faced by appalled accusatory stares from both women. The ring was part of the entailed family jewel collection, and should never have been given to anyone except the wife of the Duke or the wife of the heir. Technically, the ring belonged to Goosie during her lifetime, and it was not Blandford’s to give away. Jennie immediately made Randolph write to Blandford explaining what had happened and asking him to take the ring back as their friendship needed no demonstration. Suddenly Jennie was treated to a spectacular family row.
Randolph and Blandford were quite happy to quarrel vehemently with their parents, and the Duke and Duchess seemed equally happy to fling bitter accusations of treachery and lying at their sons. But Jennie was at the centre of it all – and, not brought up to family enmity, she was made deeply unhappy.
It was three months before the row blew over, and meanwhile she and Randolph had been unable to spend Christmas at Blenheim as planned. Randolph fell ill over the New Year and could not accompany Jennie and baby Winston on a hastily arranged trip to Paris to visit Mrs Jerome, so he went instead to stay with one of his married sisters, Frances (‘Fanny’).* Within days he wrote to say Fanny had thrown him out because he had insisted that he was in the right in the family quarrel, and he had gone to stay in a hotel.
Jennie stayed on in Paris, ice-skating and enjoying herself, well away from Churchill family feuds. The Duchess would always blame Jennie for alienating the affections of her favourite son, and her antagonism towards her daughter-in-law, although never overt, was to become a lifelong dislike.
4
1875–80
A Dysfunctional Family
‘As every skoolboy knows’, after being widowed in December 1861 the forty-two-year-old Queen Victoria retreated into a life of seclusion primarily at Osborne House on the Isle of Wight, with occasional visits to Windsor and Balmoral. So when, two years after Prince Albert’s death, Edward, Prince of Wales, married the elegant and beautiful Danish princess Alexandra (who had been preselected by the late Prince Albert), the newly-weds immediately became the leaders of Society and fashion. The public adored them and thronged the streets, cheering loudly, whenever they made an appearance. The image of Prince Edward as a stout old roué is so fixed in our collective minds that it is difficult to think of him as he was then, at twenty-two, slender, handsome and full of energy. His Princess was just eighteen, and these young royals were not predisposed to follow the example set by his staid middle-aged parents. A constant whirl of balls, parties and other festivities thrown in honour of the couple made the 1864 Season a particularly glamorous one, and set the standard for future Seasons.
Edward and Alexandra moved into Marlborough House on The Mall, which would be their home for another forty years and would subsequently pass to other members of the royal family. It had been built in red brick with stone quoining by Duchess Sarah as a sort of mini-Blenheim, but the building had long since been lost to the Churchill family.* The Marlborough House set, friends of either the Prince or the Princess of Wales but only rarely of both, surrounded the royal couple. Blandford and Randolph Churchill were part of this coterie, without ever being among the Prince’s confidants. However, following their marriage, Randolph and Jennie became for a while part of the inner circle.
Blandford was an erratic personality: he was a clever scientist but he suffered from the Churchill arrogance without the Churchill charm, was ham-fisted in relationships and always prone to ungovernable flashes of temper and impulse, and he possessed no financial sense whatsoever. The six-year union between him and Goosie had been a disaster almost from the outset, and although they had four children between 1870 and 1875 he had come to despise her simplicity and infantile humour. Soon after the birth of his fourth child, at about the time of the family dispute about the ring, he began a passionate love affair with Edith Lady Aylesford whose lively husband Lord Aylesford, popularly known as ‘Sporting Joe’, was a close friend of the Prince.† Blandford and Edith were gossiped about, of course. Who was sleeping with whom – discreetly – was an essential, even an enjoyable, part of their world. And had Blandford been content to live within the rules se
t by Society, all would have been well with the arrangement, despite the strong disapproval of his parents. The problem arose when the Prince made an official visit to India and, against the Queen’s counselling, included Lord Aylesford as a member of his entourage.
Aylesford’s months of absence left the field clear for Blandford, who moved into a hotel near to the Aylesfords’ country house at Packington near Coventry. Ostensibly, he was there for a season’s foxhunting, but Edith gave him a key to a side door of the house so that he could come and go at night without having to be admitted by servants. This did not fool anyone, especially after footprints in the snow provided clear evidence of his nocturnal visits. The affair flamed into passion, and within a short time the pair decided they could no longer live apart. They proposed to run away and live together, each asking for a divorce.
It is impossible today to convey the shock that was felt by the respective families of the lovers at this news. The Prince’s party was in Nepal when Aylesford received Edith’s letter – the first time he had heard from his wife in five weeks – advising of her intention to elope with Blandford. Aylesford acted swiftly, cabling* his mother with instructions to collect his children at once and keep them secure until his return. He then told the Prince and asked for permission to return home immediately. The Prince, furious because his hunting party was being prematurely broken up (he had been loaned a thousand elephants for his trip), roundly castigated Blandford as a ‘rabble’ and a ‘blackguard’ before Aylesford, seated on the back of an elephant, left the royal camp to make the six-week journey home.
The Churchills Page 7