Churchill's Grandmama

by Margaret E. Forster

  The Duke and Duchess were cruising in the Aegean at the time, and so Randolph flung himself into the crisis with characteristic impetuosity. Once more, he was about to heap pain and anguish on his father and mother. In his defence, however, it must be said that this time his motive was altruistic: he was trying to protect his brother. This is all the more admirable as in his letters he discloses just how foolish and irritating he found Blandford’s conduct. The true offender, of course, was Blandford. He knew how sexual misconduct would strike deep into Frances’ and John Winston’s strong Christian conviction, and how much pain it would cause them. For it to become public was a double betrayal.

  For a time Randolph was able to prevent his brother from taking the matter any further and he telegraphed the Prince of Wales in India, asking him to influence Aylesford against divorce. When the Prince refused to intervene, Randolph typically rushed into precipitate, ill-considered action. His next move changed what was a private matter, albeit subject to the public gaze and criticism, into a constitutional crisis involving the heir to the throne. He counselled Blandford to do nothing precipitate, but failed to follow his own advice. Edith Aylesford numbered the Prince of Wales among her former admirers, probably lovers, and she showed Blandford and Randolph personal letters which the Prince had written her. Randolph was convinced the Prince had encouraged Blandford in his affair, and possibly connived at it by deliberately taking Aylesford to India, and he knew full well the attention the Prince had been paying to Jennie. Randolph had unscrupulously used pressure to further his own wishes before, when threatening his father that he would not enter Parliament unless his marriage to Jennie was agreed to, and now he resorted to blackmail to force the Prince of Wales’ hand. The unpleasantness he had forced on his parents earlier was nothing compared to the distress he was to inflict on them now. He armed himself with the incriminating letters and went to Alexandra, the Princess of Wales, and threatened that if Aylesford sued his wife for divorce the letters would be produced in court. If this happened, he went on recklessly, the Solicitor General, no less, was of the opinion the Prince of Wales would never sit upon the throne of England.

  It was vital the licentiousness of the Prince of Wales and his associates should not reach the newspapers or the courts. He had already attracted public attention to himself by being involved in the Mordaunt divorce case of 1870 and another scandal would destroy him. The careers of such men as Charles Stewart Parnell and Oscar Wilde were ruined by their failure to keep their immorality out of the public eye; any divorced woman, innocent or guilty, was ostracised for life. Publicity for the Prince could be fatal: the whole royal succession would be threatened. It would be a constitutional crisis!

  The Prince of Wales, in India, was furious at being dragged into this scandal. He was desperate to avoid any further personal disgrace. He returned to England and appointed his Master of the Buckhounds, Lord Hardwicke, to demand an apology and negotiate some kind of settlement. Randolph considered his brother a fool and a bore but stayed loyal to him; he did, however, attract considerable resentment to himself. According to his son, Winston, he boasted that he ‘had the crown of England in his pocket’. The Prince, of course, was furious.

  At this point, however, the quarrel came to the ears of Queen Victoria and she arranged an approach to both parties: to Randolph she sent the best emissary she could, the distinguished Lord Hartington, later to become the Duke of Devonshire. Hartington told Randolph he would do nothing for either side until he saw the letters to Lady Aylesford, which Randolph produced. He then asked Randolph for his authority to make such use of them as he himself thought best. Having received this, he walked to the fireplace and burned the letters in the grate, saying that he did not think it would be necessary to carry the situation any further. Randolph’s respect and trust of the man was sufficient to make him believe this had ended the affair. But he was mistaken.

  On their return home from the Aegean, the Duke and Duchess had once more to shoulder a burden their sons had created and did their best to effect a reconciliation. Randolph and Jennie wrote individually to John Winston and Frances seeking their help. There is no evidence that Blandford sought any kind of mitigation in the crisis he had provoked. In his heedless and self-oriented way, he cared nothing for the distress he was causing, least of all to his loyal mother and father. Even his formal expulsion from the officers’ mess of his former regiment, the ‘Blues’ (Royal Horseguards), a social disgrace, failed to move him.

  The correspondence between Randolph and Jennie shows that Frances and John Winston acted together to cope with the burden placed upon them. The Duke went to see the Prince of Wales and Frances thought the meeting had gone well, although Randolph’s letters show him to have been less sure. He wrote to Jennie, telling her about the interview, in which he gathered the Prince had shown great animosity towards him. He believed his father had stood up to the Prince well. The Prince demanded an apology, which the Duke advised Randolph to give, and he duly did so.

  The most recent letters between Randolph and Jennie are a mixture. On the one hand they demonstrate signs of maturity and of a developing intimacy between the couple. A vein of family information runs through them, in spite of the problems they face: the suggestion of a smaller house, complete with price; the reassurance of baby Winston’s good health. They give an insight into Randolph’s movements during Jennie’s absence: he spent some time at Broxmouth Park, the home of sister Annie and her husband, the Marquess of Bowmont, eldest son of the Duke of Roxburghe; he is eating three meals a day in St James’s Square, the home of the Duke and Duchess, to whom he turned when on his own. On the other hand, there is all manner of superficial gossip, indicating how oblivious they seem to have been to the seriousness of the situation. A friend has gone abroad wine-tasting; Randolph has bought four plates, ‘very nice for a mutton chop’; Jennie is going to the opera; Jennie is in Paris and has bought some gloves and silk hairnets ‘which I think look very pretty sur mes cheveux noirs’, and so on.

  Despite the lack of seriousness which Randolph and Jennie were affording the matter, its importance was being addressed in more significant quarters. Because of the serious threat to the monarchy, matters had reached the Queen and the Lord Chancellor, both of whom were fully aware of the danger should the matter develop and threaten the position of the Prince. Another letter of apology to the Prince had been drawn up for Randolph to endorse, a letter contrite enough to ensure her son’s acceptance and allow ‘the matter’ to blow over. There it could have ended, except Randolph could not resist having his own way, and added a sentence of his own to the words the Queen had devised. It referred to his existing apology and stated very formally that ‘as a gentleman he was bound to accept the words of the Lord Chancellor for that apology’.

  On 13 September the Duke wrote to Francis Knollys, the Prince’s Private Secretary, informing him of his son’s acceptance of the terms of the apology and making it clear that he believed his son to have behaved correctly but, since the Queen and the Lord Chancellor were now involved, Randolph had no alternative but to sign the apology. There is no doubt about the Duke’s opinion of the whole escapade.

  Without knowing the whole content of this letter, it is impossible to understand the position fully. The Prince of Wales was unable to appreciate the subtlety of the apologies, and was not used to making reconciliations. He gloried in the position he held and, though he had no political power, exploited his social position. He made it clear he would not visit any house which entertained the Spencer-Churchills, and this was dramatically effective as people feared to cross him. This is what Blandford and Randolph had brought upon their parents; the family became virtual social outcasts. Disraeli, commenting on the Prince, called him ‘a thoroughly spoilt child’.

  Randolph and Jennie took ten years to recover from this blow. The betrayed Aylesford went to America, where he died of alcoholism at the age of 36. Blandford and Edith fled to Paris, where they lived together for several years and ha
d a child. True to form he then deserted them, leaving them penniless. Later, after the Marchioness had divorced him in 1883, he married Lillian Hammersley, a rich American widow. Frances is said to have given the unfortunate Edith a pension.

  Disraeli had been asked to intervene in the situation but had found the storm of petulance on the Prince’s side and the intransigence on Randolph and Blandford’s allowed no room for effective action. Now, however, at a stroke, the consummate politician found a solution to the problem. He offered the Duke the position of Viceroy of Ireland, the Queen’s representative. This would remove Frances and John from the embarrassing social situation in England and give them a position of dignity, away from the Prince’s influence. Randolph, too, would be removed: he was to go as the Duke’s secretary. It benefited Disraeli as he judged, rightly as it turned out, that John Winston and Frances, with their personal skills, would perform the duties of the role successfully, at what was becoming a critical time in Irish politics. He would assume the Duke had enough wealth to subsidise the costs of the position, as was the custom.

  So a new chapter in John Winston’s and Frances’ lives unfolded. For John Winston, who saw that his absence from England would probably bring one political career to an end, it would bring a higher status and the opportunity to take his talent and reputation to new ground; for Frances, although it removed her from her home and friends, it was to be a period in her life that she looked back on with great satisfaction. What was to follow was without doubt her greatest achievement.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Ireland, 1877-80

  * * *

  For over 20 years Frances and her husband had struggled with the two sons whose self-centredness and lack of judgement had instilled a capacity for self-destruction. A sense of responsibility and genuine care and affection had resolved the parents again and again to rescue their sons from themselves: finally, it seemed now, to little avail. Their exile to Ireland is a measure of their commitment. For the down-to-earth and sensible Frances there was no lure in any social prestige the position might carry; far more important was the fact that she had three daughters for whom to find husbands. And for how long was the posting to be? No time limit had been set. Fortunately it was not in Frances’ nature to dwell too long upon disaster. That tremendous resilience, born perhaps during her early years, was to stand her in good stead in the years ahead. Before the boat docked at Dublin, she would have carefully reviewed their position and steadfastly begun again to count their blessings.

  Their six daughters were happy and healthy: Cornelia had married Ivor Guest, from an established and very wealthy family, who was later to become the 1st Baron Wimborne; Fanny had married Randolph’s university friend, Edward Marjoribanks, later the 2nd Baron Tweedmouth; Annie had married James Innes-Ker, Marquess of Bowmont, heir to the Duke of Roxburghe and she would become chatelaine of the magnificent Floors Castle. Moreover, the orphaned Clementina, John’s step-sister, whom Frances had taken into her care, was now the Marchioness of Camden. Any Victorian mother would be satisfied with such progress in the marriage market. From what little is recorded of them, Frances’ daughters seem to have presented a phalanx of unity and support. Like their mother and grandmother before them, their virtues were intelligence and humour rather than beauty, each one contentedly playing her part in this large Victorian family. They conjure an image of those sweeping choruses in Gilbert and Sullivan’s operettas, crinolines dancing rhythmically to the lively music. Three daughters, Rosamund, Georgiana and Sarah, remained unmarried and travelled to Dublin with their parents. The two surviving sons were undeniably the biggest problem. Blandford had long ago gone his own way, without regard for the consequences for himself or other people; Frances could only pray that he would learn something from this last experience. She believed Randolph was different: he had the capacity for regret and recovery which, coupled with his abilities, could be the means of his personal salvation.

  The respect that the office of Viceroy of Ireland commanded cannot be over-estimated. As the Queen’s representative the Duke was welcomed to Dublin in royal style. He was met with a guard of honour and a 21-gun salute. The streets, decorated with flags and banners, were packed with spectators and lined with troops; His Grace, dressed as Viceroy and wearing the ribbon of the Order of the Garter, was mounted on a fine white charger. At Dublin Castle, the official residence, he was received officially by the Irish dignitaries; the ceremonial was dignified and impressive. He was presented with the keys to the city by the Lord Mayor and formally returned them, as was the custom.

  This was the normal panoply but neither John Winston nor Frances was the kind of person to welcome or enjoy such ostentation. It was a part of the position they had accepted and both of them had the background, character, social experience and poise to perform the role which the actions of Blandford and Randolph had forced upon them. Disraeli had chosen well in appointing the new Viceroy. Ireland was entering a tense period in its history with the emergence of the Home Rule lobby under Charles Stewart Parnell. The Queen’s representative needed to be more than a figurehead. Nor would he be effective alone: so much of the contact with people would depend on the social arrangements of the official ‘season’ and on the informal day-to-day contacts with ordinary people. In these the Vicereine was vital, and in this role Frances was supremely successful. She received both admiration and respect for the way she handled her official duties. Deep appreciation of her work was soon being expressed. At his official banquet in 1878 the Lord Mayor of Dublin summed up her special qualities: her innate thoughtfulness, kindness and compassion. Her concern for the vulnerable, the commitment and integrity which had characterised her all her life, were felt and appreciated now that she had a public role:

  Her Grace the Duchess of Marlborough, by her kindly interest and generous munificence in every district of the country, sustained our charitable and benevolent institutions … the magnificent hospitality over which the Duchess so naturally presides in the Castle and Vice-Regal Lodge.1

  The Times newspaper linked Frances to her husband in similar vein. Although they had come to Ireland as comparative strangers:

  They have won the confidence and esteem of all parties by their impartiality, consideration and kindness … in the promotion of useful works and in acts of generous benevolence.

  The newspaper appreciated that Frances had dispensed hospitality at Dublin Castle with a generosity and style which recalled the Castle at its best. To use a modern expression, this was ‘part of the job description’, what she was expected to do.

  A genuine difficulty in her position as Vicereine was the danger of the limited social circle surrounding Dublin Castle and her husband’s position. Many a woman of her class would have been content to relax and enjoy the privileges of the position; others might have wished to reach out beyond its limits but lacked the personality and skill to do so. From the example of her parents, and from her experience with the household workers and their families at Blenheim, on the estate and in the surrounding communities, Frances had a well-developed instinct and natural talent for crossing the class boundaries.

  Where she really endeared herself to the hearts of people was in the way she spent her unofficial time: she sought out the needy, the defenceless, the deprived. She gave much of her time to visiting and supporting schools, particularly charity schools and those for the poor and for girls. Frances had been mother to a family of 11; relating to children was natural to her. It seems hardly surprising, therefore, that by all accounts her visits to schools were made with genuine warmth and interest. She appears to have prompted happy responses from the pupils and given the staff who worked in these schools, often in difficult conditions, a sense of being valued and appreciated. Her visits were not stilted, formal affairs. She asked the children about their work, admired and praised it; they sang for her, gave her flowers, acted plays.

  One of her first visits was to a school for poor girls who were either blind or deaf and dumb and it was ty
pical of many that were to follow. An account of it in the press at the time describes how some of the girls performed a representation of scenes from the life of Joan of Arc in action and sign language while one of the teachers spoke the text. Frances was moved by what she saw:

  Most sad as was the picture, one could not but be delighted with the marvellous expressiveness of every gesture, the perfect grace with which the representation was enacted.

  The young faces then looked at her expectantly, but how was she to respond? They could not hear. Without hesitation, Frances asked for a blackboard and wrote a few words indicating the deep pleasure they had given her. The school was run by Dominican nuns and the Duchess was meticulous in dealing with both Catholic and Protestant sides of the community impartially. The whole community responded to her awareness of such matters.