Another Woman’s Husband

by Gill Paul

  ‘I’d love to. The famous Bath of Jane Austen novels. I’ve always wanted to see it.’

  That’s why Wallis wanted me here, she thought wryly; to help her juggle her life. But fortunately it suited her to keep Ernest entertained while Wallis pandered to the Prince. It would be fun.

  Over breakfast, Wallis suggested to Ernest that he and Mary go to Bath without her.

  ‘Looking after Peter Pan, are you?’ he enquired.

  Mary turned to Wallis, raising an eyebrow. ‘Peter Pan?’

  ‘Because he’s never grown up,’ Wallis explained with a grin.

  Mary was enchanted by the honey-coloured stone terraces of Bath, climbing up from the River Avon. As she and Ernest walked round the Baths, the Pump Room and the Abbey, he clutched a Baedeker but only opened it once to check a date. Everything else he knew.

  ‘I can think of nothing but the characters in Jane Austen’s Persuasion,’ Mary told him. ‘The pretentious Sir Walter Elliot and Mrs Clay, the treacherous William Elliot, and the simmering passion between Captain Wentworth and Anne, all played out against this very backdrop. It’s a thrill to be here.’

  They lunched in a café in the corner of a covered market dating back to the nineteenth century before continuing their exploration.

  ‘I feel as though I am on a movie set,’ Mary exclaimed. ‘How lucky are the citizens who live in such surroundings.’ Her back had begun to ache from all the walking, but the experience was far too magical for her to ask Ernest if they could cut it short.

  He had another treat for her on the drive home: as dusk encroached, he turned off the road and into a field.

  ‘Do you recognise this?’ he asked, pointing towards some stark black shapes etched against the salmon-pink sky.

  ‘Stonehenge,’ Mary breathed. ‘Oh my word!’

  She got out of the car and walked towards them, feeling her skin prickling.

  ‘The stones are thought to be five thousand years old,’ Ernest told her. ‘Possibly they were used as an astronomical calendar, but no one can explain how the builders transported such huge blocks without any mechanical aids.’

  She laid her hand on one of the stones and imagined all the people who had worshipped at that spot over the millennia, peering out towards the rising or setting sun.

  ‘It’s eerie,’ she told Ernest, ‘and awe-inspiring. Makes me quite giddy.’ She slipped her arm through his and shivered. ‘Thank you for bringing me. What a special place.’

  It was dinner time when they arrived back at Bryanston Court. The maid said Wallis had telephoned to explain she was detained at the Fort and would not be back till the following morning so they should dine without her.

  Mary glanced at Ernest, surprised, but his face betrayed no emotion.

  Over their meal, she couldn’t resist raising the subject. ‘It’s certainly flattering that Wallie is so essential to the heir to the throne, but I worry that the situation could get out of control. In New York there is already gossip amongst people who have too much time on their hands.’

  Ernest swallowed a spoonful of soup before replying. ‘I don’t care two hoots what the gossips say, but it does feel rather odd when another man buys my wife jewels and clothes. She argues that it is only fair he contributes since she has to attend functions by his side and must have new costumes for each.’

  ‘That’s one way of looking at it, I suppose.’

  ‘I’d much rather pay myself but the business is still recovering from the Crash.’ He looked at her pointedly. ‘You know Wallis and her insecurities over money better than I do.’

  Mary nodded. She well remembered Wallis’s anguish every time she had to beg Uncle Sol for a handout.

  ‘So if she can feel a little more secure having a wealthy prince to subsidise her extravagant shopping habits until my income picks up again, I suppose I must accept whatever is whispered of me.’ He finished his soup and, seeing that Mary had also finished, rang for the maid to bring the fish course.

  Only when the maid had left the room again did Mary reply. ‘It must be lonely for you when she stays over at the Fort.’ She was shocked that Wallis would do such a thing. Was there a chaperone present? What would she do if the lovesick Prince wandered into her room in the night?

  ‘First time it has happened. I suppose she thought it was acceptable since I have you for company.’ He took a forkful of fish, staring into the middle distance, before changing the subject.

  Chapter 39

  London, November 1934

  WALLIS’S COCKTAIL HOURS WERE RENOWNED BY now, and so popular she often had to refuse those who called to invite themselves so she could keep the numbers around twenty. She made the drinks herself in a silver shaker, and was skilled at pouring the correct proportions by eye.

  Mary stood back and watched her hostessing. Wallis made sure she conversed with everyone, remembering to ask after children, ailing parents and new business ventures. The guests revolved around her like planets round the sun.

  ‘I declare you are the most popular hostess in London,’ Mary complimented her when she came to the bar for a refill.

  ‘Only because they hope to bump into the Prince of Wales,’ Wallis confided. ‘You see them enter the room and glance around, then a shadow of disappointment crosses their faces if he is not here.’

  This was true of a new guest one evening, a German diplomat by the name of Joachim von Ribbentrop, who did not attempt to hide his chagrin.

  ‘Mrs Simpson, I had it on good authority that the Prince of Wales was a fixture in your drawing room. Is he going to arrive later?’

  Wallis smiled as she handed him a gin martini with two olives. ‘He has an official engagement this afternoon. You picked the wrong day to grace us with your presence.’

  ‘I was very much hoping to see him. Perhaps another time.’

  ‘As long as you promise not to discuss politics all evening. I don’t want to hear about workers’ housing and the evils of Judaism in my KT hour.’ She turned to Mary. ‘May I introduce my old schoolfriend, Mrs Mary Raffray? I want you two to talk about entirely frivolous subjects,’ she instructed, before crossing the room to greet a newcomer, leaving them alone together.

  Mary took against von Ribbentrop on sight. His forehead was too high, taking almost half the height of his face, and beneath it his eyes were too close together, too calculating.

  ‘Do you live in London, Mrs Raffray?’ he asked.

  ‘No, I’m here for a visit, to bask in the glow of Wallis’s glittering social circle.’

  He didn’t smile. ‘And how long do you plan to stay?’

  The question was delivered rudely, but Mary assumed the directness was a German quirk. ‘Until they throw me out. How long that will be, I have no idea. What brings you to London, Mr Ribbentrop?’

  While they’d been talking, he’d kept gazing over her shoulder, his eyes roaming the room as if looking for someone more worthy of his attention, but now he fixed his stare on her. ‘I work for Herr Hitler, and travel wherever he asks me to.’

  ‘How fascinating! What kind of a man is he?’ Mary asked.

  Von Ribbentrop smiled. ‘He is a genius who will save our country. We are very lucky to have him. If you will excuse me, I see a friend I must talk to. Enjoy your evening, Mrs Raffray.’

  He walked off, leaving Mary to gawp at the rudeness.

  ‘How long have you known Ribbentrop?’ she asked Wallis the following morning.

  ‘I’d only met him once before, at Emerald Cunard’s. He’s supposed to be some sort of spy. Isn’t that glamorous? I find him charming.’

  Mary certainly didn’t.

  Later that day, a huge bouquet of blush-pink roses was delivered for Wallis, and she smiled when she read the card, before tossing it onto the fire. ‘Ribbentrop,’ she said. ‘Aren’t they lovely?’

  One Sunday in late November, Ernest asked over breakfast whether Wallis or Mary would like to visit Petworth with him. Although the house was not open to the public, there was a park
by the great landscape designer Capability Brown.

  ‘I’d love to,’ Mary said straight away, and both of them turned to Wallis.

  ‘I’d rather have a lazy day,’ she said, stretching. ‘You two go. Have fun!’

  It was clear but cold, and Mary bundled herself in hat, coat and fur muff for the drive over the South Downs, with their glorious views to the silvery streak of sea beyond. As they strolled in the grounds, Ernest explained that they had previously been formal gardens but that in the 1750s Capability Brown had persuaded the owners to opt for a more natural style. He’d introduced an S-shaped lake, great sweeps of grass and winding paths that took advantage of the stunning vistas.

  Two red setters came bounding towards them, with glossy coats in a rich shade of rust. Ernest stroked them and they rubbed their heads against his legs. Mary glanced round to look for their owner and saw a woman in tweeds with a scarf tied around her head. As she got closer, she called: ‘Don’t encourage them. They think you have food.’

  There was something familiar about her brown hair, friendly face and very upper-class accent, but Mary couldn’t place her.

  ‘Excuse me,’ the woman said. ‘Aren’t you Mary Kirk from Baltimore?’

  ‘Ye-es,’ Mary agreed cautiously.

  ‘Eleanor Jessop,’ she said. ‘We met at Oldfields. I was there from 1913 to 1914.’

  ‘English Eleanor!’ Mary exclaimed. ‘My goodness, how are you?’ She reached out to shake hands. ‘Ernest, this is a schoolfriend of Wallie’s and mine.’

  Ernest shook hands, and Mary explained that he was Wallis’s husband.

  ‘You’re still in touch with her then?’ Eleanor seemed surprised.

  ‘I’m staying with her in London. Ernest and I just came out for a drive.’

  Eleanor’s eyes flickered from one to the other, clearly curious. ‘Can I invite you for tea? My house is a mile down the road, in the direction of East Lavington.’

  Mary looked at Ernest, then said, ‘I’m getting rather chilly, so tea would be welcome.’

  ‘I assume you came by car. Do you have room for three in the back?’ Eleanor indicated the dogs.

  Ernest looked uneasy, and Mary could tell he was worried they would scratch the leather seats, but in the event they just made them rather muddy. Eleanor gave directions and they turned up a drive towards a pretty manor house with a circular parking area outside.

  ‘What a glorious house,’ Ernest remarked. ‘Eighteenth century?’

  ‘Yes. It’s been in my husband’s family for generations. Do come in.’

  Once they were seated in the spacious drawing room in front of a log fire with a grand pillared fireplace, Mary began to thaw. A maid brought a tray of tea and home-baked scones and Mary and Eleanor chatted about Oldfields days, remembering the Miss Nolands, and some of the other girls.

  Ernest was gazing round the room. He spotted a portrait of Eleanor with her hair scraped back into a tight bun and wandered over to have a closer look. ‘That’s terribly good,’ he said. ‘The artist has captured a clever likeness.’

  Eleanor smiled, pleased at the compliment. ‘It’s by my husband, Ralph Hargreaves. He would be delighted to hear you say that. I’m sorry he’s not around this afternoon, but he’s off painting somewhere and I won’t see him till dusk. Do stay to meet him.’

  ‘Another time, perhaps.’ Ernest looked at his watch. ‘Wallis is expecting us at six.’

  Before they left, Eleanor and Mary swapped addresses and telephone numbers. Mary gave the Bryanston Court ones as well as those in New York.

  ‘If you’re in London, come to our cocktail hour,’ Ernest offered. ‘Six o’clock most evenings.’

  Eleanor replied, ‘I’m afraid we don’t tend to travel to the city, but I would love you to come here for a longer visit. It’s so good to see you, Mary.’

  In the car on the way back, Mary told Ernest how Wallis used to do an uncanny impersonation of Eleanor’s accent, and how they used to pump her for information about the Prince. ‘Funny to think of it now,’ she laughed.

  As soon as they arrived at Bryanston Court, Mary found Wallis. ‘Guess who we met? Do you remember English Eleanor?’

  ‘Oh, her,’ Wallis said, making a face. ‘Is she still dull as dishwater?’

  ‘On the contrary,’ Ernest chipped in. ‘She’s charming, and lives in a beautifully kept manor house of some distinction.’

  ‘Houses. Yawn.’ Wallis was tidying her cocktail bar. ‘Chop, chop, you two! You’ve got five minutes to change before Peter Pan arrives to lap up his martini.’

  As she walked past the hall table, Mary noticed a new bouquet of blush-pink roses, the exact shade of the ones von Ribbentrop had sent before. She looked but couldn’t see a card beside them.

  Chapter 40

  Brighton, 23 October 1997

  IN BED THAT NIGHT, RACHEL COULDN’T STOP thinking about Nicola and Alex. Had she misjudged them both? Two years ago, when she had discovered that her previous boyfriend had been unfaithful most of the time they were together, it had seriously dented her faith in her ability to judge character. Now that insecurity came surging back. Were they making a fool of her?

  She and Nicola had shared a lot since they’d met at one of her exhibitions. Rachel had bought a pencil drawing of some seashells, which still hung in her bedroom in a pretty driftwood frame. They’d gone for a drink and liked each other enough to build a friendship that rapidly became close. Nicola knew that Rachel had been badly hurt by her errant boyfriend because she’d consoled her during many cocktail-fuelled evenings. She wouldn’t be so cruel as to put her through the same thing again, would she?

  Rachel realised that she and Nicola hadn’t gone out for a drink together in a long while. Their relationship had been strained since the break-in, but even before that it had become a little awkward once Nicola started working in the shop. It could never be the same when Rachel wrote her pay cheque at the end of the month, when she had to ask her to be more careful about keeping all sales noted in a ledger, when she had criticised her as tactfully as she could for not looking smart enough. All of that altered the dynamic from a friendship of equals to one of employer and employee in a way that slightly poisoned the relationship. Rachel had thought she was doing her a favour because Nicola needed the money, but perhaps she resented it on some level.

  A thought flashed through her mind: could Nicola even have staged the burglary and made off with the cash? She rejected that straight away. It would be totally out of character, and would have required more capacity for deceit than Nicola possessed. She could not have faked her shocked sobbing as she spoke to the police that morning.

  Rachel mulled it over and decided the affair theory didn’t make sense either. Nicola and Alex had been friends for over a decade and people didn’t suddenly start having an affair after all that time. She was being paranoid. Alex had asked her to marry him, and his nerves the night he proposed had demonstrated how much he wanted it to happen. She knew she should have more confidence in herself, but the nagging doubts clamoured in her head, stopping her getting to sleep.

  The following morning when Rachel booted up her computer, she found a reply from Richard in her inbox.

  I looked up that Mainbocher and found the photo you mentioned of Wallis wearing it. Does your supplier have any connection with her that would explain the provenance? Send me the measurements and I’ll ask at Mainbocher head office. They keep a note of all their clients’ measurements right back to the 1930s, and usually still have the dummies the clothes were fitted on (you could only expect celebrity clients to come for one or two fittings, so they had tailors’ dummies made to their body shapes; still happens now).

  She went to measure the Mainbocher dress: bust 32 inches, waist 23, hips 33 – almost the measurements of a boy. No wonder she hadn’t been able to fasten it over her own hips. She emailed them to Richard, with a note that read: Didn’t Wallis say ‘You can never be too rich or too thin’? It seems she was a woman of her word.

/>   The post arrived just before she left for the shop, bringing a letter that informed her the application for a credit card had been approved. She clutched the letter to her chest and closed her eyes in gratitude. November’s rent would be paid. She had another month’s grace.

  Chapter 41

  Brighton, 24 October 1997

  RACHEL HAD THE CLOTHES FROM SUSIE’S HOUSE cleaned and hanging in the shop two days after picking them up, just in time for the weekend trade. She hoped they would mark a change in her fortunes. Richard had emailed that the Van der Heyden purchases would be with her on 11 November, so she noted that in her Filofax, at the same time marking when the first repayments for the new credit card would be due. There was no remaining leeway; if sales hadn’t picked up by the end of November, she would have to close the shop.

  Next she started flicking through the last few Fridays. Alex always came home late after his weeks away, and she’d thought he was hurrying straight from the train, but instead it seemed he had been meeting Nicola. Was he with her in London today? What were they doing?

  She tried to remember when she and Alex had last made love, and worked out it was three weeks ago. And then she thought of something else: she hadn’t had a period since then. Could she be pregnant? She cupped a hand over her belly. It would be so wonderful if it were true. She crossed her fingers and made a wish. Please, she asked. Please.

  Alex came home around 9 p.m. that Friday and she handed him a beer, trying to keep her tone light as she asked: ‘Did you bump into Nicola today?’

  He gave her a quizzical look. ‘London’s a big place. I’ve been stuck in the office.’

  That wasn’t a ‘no’, Rachel noted. ‘Did you find out what she was doing there?’ she persisted.