Another Woman’s Husband

by Gill Paul

  ‘Thank you,’ Mary said. ‘That’s kind of you.’ She knew she would never wear it now. Any pleasure she might have taken in the King’s gift had been soured by the bitterness of her fight with Wallis.

  They had cocktails, then dinner, and later in the evening Ernest asked Ralph if he might see the portrait of Mary.

  ‘Of course,’ Ralph agreed. ‘I’d be delighted.’

  ‘That’s not fair!’ Mary protested. She had not been allowed to view it herself, because Ralph said he did not like his subjects to influence him as he worked.

  Mary sat chatting with Eleanor while Ernest followed Ralph to his studio across a yard behind the kitchen. They were gone some half an hour, and when they returned, Ernest had a soft look in his eyes.

  ‘Do you like it?’ Mary asked. ‘I hope I don’t look hideous.’

  Ralph followed him into the room, beaming. ‘Ernest has offered to buy it, so I suppose he must think it’s not too bad.’

  Ernest crossed the room and put his arm round Mary’s shoulder, kissing her on the cheek. ‘It’s beautiful,’ he said, his voice hoarse with emotion.

  Chapter 58

  London, May 1936

  MARY LIKED THE APARTMENT IN ALBION GATE. IT was compact, with rather small bedrooms, but double doors between the drawing room and dining room could be thrown back to create one large sunny area lined with windows overlooking Hyde Park. She furnished it simply but comfortably with items from Heal’s. She was not planning on entertaining anyone there except Ernest, and she wanted it to feel like a home from home, a place where he could relax.

  Several times a week he came for dinner and to spend the night, but Wallis was clearly not happy with this arrangement because she swiftly reinstated KT hour at Bryanston Court and insisted Ernest must attend. Some evenings she held impromptu dinners too, and he would have to sneak out to the hall and telephone Mary to say he could not join her that evening. It made her blood boil: she knew Wallis was simply flexing her muscle and detaining him to spite her, but she was in the role of mistress and had no right to complain, so she bit her tongue and never said a cross word to Ernest; she wanted him to see her as an easy-going, good-natured woman with whom he could enjoy a contented life. She just had to count the days until Wallis and the King set off for their summer holiday.

  Mary had not been in touch with any of Wallis’s set but imagined they would all share Mrs Campbell’s reaction. Wallis would have poured poison into their ears about how her old friend had betrayed her – and everyone wanted to stay on the right side of the King’s lover. One evening Mary and Ernest ventured out to a show at the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane, a musical called Rise and Shine, but Mary spent the entire time looking over her shoulder, convinced that people were talking about them and blaming them for upsetting ‘poor Wallis’. It was a lonely period. Many days she saw no one but her maid.

  When Ernest spent the evening at Albion Gate, they often discussed what might happen between Wallis and the King. There were many possible outcomes, each with their own set of repercussions.

  ‘I swear I could not bear to curtsey to her,’ Mary said. ‘If she becomes queen we shall have to keep well away from anywhere we might encounter her.’

  ‘I spoke with Mr Churchill again,’ Ernest told her. ‘He seems to accept that the King will not back down from his desire to marry Wallis, so they are taking soundings in the Commonwealth to see what the reaction would be. One possibility is a morganatic marriage.’ Mary hadn’t heard that term before, so he explained: ‘It would mean that Wallis could be his wife but would not have a title or any claim to royal estates. In the unlikely event they had children, their offspring would not inherit. It was traditional in the past when people of unequal social status married.’

  ‘It sounds like an ideal solution, so long as it saves me from curtseying.’ Mary shivered at the thought.

  ‘Yes,’ Ernest agreed, ‘but so far Wallis has not accepted the King’s proposal and the strain is making her ill. She barely eats and I’ve never seen her so thin. I’ve told her to consult a doctor but she refuses.’

  He has no idea how much I detest her, Mary realised. It was better that way. When she thought back over their twenty-five-year friendship, she could not remember one selfless thing Wallis had done for her. When her father had died she had merely scribbled a quick letter of condolence, and she had not come to visit while Mary was nursing her mother through her final illness. By contrast Mary had spent days in Washington comforting the distraught Wallis when Alice died.

  Wallis knew about her miscarriages now but had never seemed to appreciate how devastating they had been for Mary. She did not know that Jacques had infected her with syphilis, because Mary had never trusted her not to turn it into an amusing anecdote to entertain dinner guests.

  Looking back, she could recall no happy memories from their friendship, only her obedient slotting into the role Wallis had allotted: that of the adoring old friend who would do anything for her. Well, not any more. Never again.

  When Ernest told her that the King and Wallis had invited him to a house party at Blenheim Palace at the end of June, Mary was incensed.

  ‘I thought you were no longer going to act as chaperone for them,’ she said, swallowing her annoyance. ‘Did you change your mind?’

  He poured himself two fingers of Scotch and raised the bottle. ‘One for you, dear?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  ‘Wallis said they want to talk to me about the Situation, so I decided I had best go. Besides, Blenheim is an extraordinary house by Sir John Vanbrugh and Nicholas Hawksmoor; it’s about as good as it gets in baroque architecture.’

  Mary didn’t reply but held out her hand for the drink.

  Mistaking her silence for disappointment that she could not see it too, Ernest added: ‘I’ll ask if I can take you to visit one day. It’s quite spectacular.’

  All weekend while he was away, Mary was on tenterhooks. She took a parasol and wandered round Hyde Park for hours on end, watching young lovers strolling, children playing with their nursemaids or governesses, gentlemen riding on horseback. Her fate was being determined by three people in a house of architectural significance and it seemed desperately unfair that she was not allowed to represent herself. They wouldn’t see it as being about her, though. It was about Wallis; always about bloody Wallis.

  She wasn’t sure if she would see Ernest on the Sunday night, but he arrived about seven in the evening looking grey and careworn. She poured him a whisky and let him sit down and tell her what had happened in his own time, although she was fit to burst with curiosity.

  ‘It is decided,’ he said, looking at her so gravely that she felt sure he was about to say he was returning to Wallis to save his marriage. She could feel her whole body trembling.

  ‘I am to divorce Wallis this summer,’ he continued. ‘She wants to name you as co-respondent, but I told her that if she pressed that point I would dig my heels in. Instead we will hire a girl to spend the night in a hotel with me – perfectly innocently, of course – then bribe a chambermaid to come in the morning and witness us in bed together. Then Wallis will be able to divorce me on grounds of my adultery, without a stain on her character.’

  It took all of Mary’s willpower to maintain her composure. Why should Ernest take the blame? It simply wasn’t fair. But at the same time, she wanted to sing with joy that he would be free and Wallis would be out of their lives.

  ‘I wouldn’t care if I were named,’ she said. ‘Wallis has told all of London society that I am a marriage wrecker, so why bother to hire some other girl? Besides,’ she added coyly, ‘I don’t like the idea of you having another girl in your bed.’

  ‘I admit it will be rather awkward, but I don’t want you to be compromised.’

  Mary thought she had been continually compromised since the day she first met Bessiewallis Warfield at summer camp, but she didn’t say as much. ‘I’ll come with you to the hotel,’ she said. ‘I insist.’

  Ernest booked
a room at the Hotel de Paris in Bray for Tuesday 21 July. He knew the place because the Guards, with whom he had fought during the war, had their annual passing-out parade there. He told Mary that they often hosted shows by cabaret artistes, and there were pleasant walks by the River Thames. All the arrangements were in hand, he assured her.

  Ernest took the day off work and they drove down in the afternoon. When they signed the register at reception, Ernest gave Mary’s name as ‘Buttercup Kennedy’ and she had to stifle a nervous giggle. They had a drink in the bar, strolled in the hotel’s pretty grounds and fed the swans on the river with pieces of a bread roll Ernest had procured from the restaurant. After dinner they retired to their room – a rather lovely one with a huge bed – and made love.

  ‘I might as well commit the adultery I am to be accused of.’ Ernest smiled as he unfastened the buttons of her dress.

  ‘In that case, am I ever glad I didn’t let you come with a strange girl!’ Mary rejoined.

  At 7.30 in the morning, there was a knock on the door and a chambermaid opened it and looked in. ‘Breakfast is served, sir’ – she looked pointedly at Mary – ‘and madam.’ As she laid out their toast and tea on a little table, Mary got the sense she did this kind of thing all the time and did not approve.

  After breakfast they drove back to London, to the apartment at Albion Gate. The doorman handed Ernest an official-looking letter and he tore it open as they walked up the stairs.

  ‘Good grief, Wallis is a fast worker,’ he said. ‘This is a letter from her solicitor saying that she is suing me for divorce. She also wants me to move out of Bryanston Court forthwith. Any chance I can stay with you, my dear? You wouldn’t put a chap out on the streets, would you?’

  Mary couldn’t wait until they were inside her front door. She grabbed him by the collar and pulled him towards her for a passionate kiss.

  In early July, Wallis accompanied the King to the royal estate of Balmoral in Scotland, then they headed off for a cruise of the Greek islands on a yacht called the Nahlin. Mary hoped for a couple of months’ respite now they were out of town. She and Ernest began touring the countryside at weekends, exploring Cotswold villages and sailing on the Norfolk Broads.

  Her sister Anne wrote, sending them articles from the American press about the Nahlin cruise. Their authors were confident that Wallis was the King’s mistress, despite the presence of several other guests. One paper printed a photograph of Wallis touching the King’s hand, which seemed to provide the proof. All the press say he plans to wed her, Anne wrote. It’s hot news out here.

  ‘How come the British press still hasn’t cottoned on?’ Mary asked Ernest. ‘Their editors must read the American papers.’

  ‘Of course they know,’ he explained, ‘but there’s a tradition of not criticising the monarch. It’s simply not done.’

  ‘You Brits are so quaint,’ Mary teased. ‘What century do you live in?’

  ‘At least none of the stories have mentioned you,’ he said. ‘I want to protect you if I possibly can.’

  The divorce hearing was set for 27 October; all being well, they would get the decree nisi in April 1937. Perhaps Ernest and I can be married in the summer, Mary daydreamed. She was still not divorced from Jacques, but she had written to him telling him that she was in love with Ernest, and he had replied wishing them happiness and saying he would give her a divorce just as soon as she wanted. You two are a good match, he wrote, and I am glad you will be together. Give Ernest my warmest regards.

  Wallis sent postcards for Ernest from stopping points on their cruise, full of gossip about the other passengers, particularly Lady Diana Cooper, who was, she said, ‘a hoot’. But she complained that the weather was too hot and it barely got any cooler at night. There was no mention of Mary in any of the cards, although they were addressed to her apartment in Albion Gate. She was tempted to tear them up, but didn’t. There seemed no need. They were heading towards the resolution she wanted, after all.

  In August, Ralph Hargreaves wrote to Ernest checking that he had received the portrait of Mary, which, he said, had been delivered to Bryanston Court over a month earlier. He hoped they were both pleased with it and hinted very delicately that the fee was due.

  The painting had completely slipped their minds, with all the drama of the divorce occupying them that summer. Ernest went to speak to the doorman at Bryanston Court but was told that Wallis had changed the locks and instructed him not to let her husband enter the apartment under any circumstances. ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ he said, hanging his head.

  ‘I’ll have to ask Wallis for it on her return,’ Ernest told Mary. He posted a cheque to Ralph with a note apologising for the delay.

  In mid September, soon after she got back to London, Wallis telephoned Ernest at his office and invited him for dinner at the Savoy.

  ‘Dinner!’ Mary exclaimed, unable to hide her irritation. ‘Might that not be counted as collusion?’ If a judge thought that Ernest and Wallis had colluded over their divorce, he could refuse to grant it.

  ‘We will make sure no one hears of it,’ Ernest said. ‘I need to ask her to return your portrait, and there are a few other practical matters we must agree upon.’

  Once more, Mary had to bite her tongue, even fastening his cufflinks and straightening his bow tie as he got ready to dine with her nemesis. All evening she waited in a chair by the window, sipping whisky and watching for the taxicab to draw up outside that would signal Ernest’s return.

  It was after midnight when he came in and slumped in the chair adjoining hers, reaching out across the gap to take her hand.

  ‘Well?’ she asked, her tongue thick from booze.

  ‘Wallis has never ceased to surprise me in all the years I’ve known her,’ he began. ‘You’ll never guess the latest. She wants to cancel the divorce and for us to give our marriage another chance.’

  Mary pulled her hand away. ‘She wants what?’ It was a struggle not to hurl her glass across the room. What an evil, calculating bitch! This was Wallis’s attempt to show Mary that she could never truly possess Ernest, just as she had written in her letter. ‘What did you reply?’

  Ernest sounded weary and sad. ‘I told her that all the nice things about our marriage have been spoiled and I do not want to be tied for life to someone I cannot live with.’

  Mary frowned. She wished he had told Wallis that he loved her now – loved her more than he had ever loved anyone else. But that was not Ernest’s nature. He found it hard to speak of emotion. As she grew to know him better, Mary was learning to judge him by his actions rather than his words.

  ‘Bad news about the painting,’ he continued. ‘She simply refuses to hand it over. I’m afraid you are persona non grata as far as she’s concerned.’

  ‘She’s probably using it for knife-throwing practice,’ Mary said, then a bitchy thought came into her head. ‘When the King gets bored of her, she can run off and join a circus.’

  ‘And she told me you have a dress of hers. She would like it returned.’

  Mary shook her head, mystified. ‘I don’t know what she’s talking about.’ She didn’t have anything of Wallis’s. She must be mistaken.

  Chapter 59

  Paris, 17 December 1997

  NEXT MORNING, RACHEL WAS WOKEN BY HER PHONE ringing. She looked at the screen: 9.45 a.m. She had meant to get up earlier. It was Monsieur Belmont.

  ‘I’ve seen Alex and he was delighted to hear you have come to Paris. The police are still holding him, though, and I’m not expecting further news till the end of the day. Where are you staying?’

  She told him the name of the hotel.

  ‘I’ll keep you informed,’ he said and hung up brusquely, as though he had a hundred more pressing matters to deal with.

  Rachel stretched. That meant she had a day to kick her heels, and straight away she knew what she was going to do. She got directions from the hotel receptionist and set off on the Métro to Porte Maillot, then crossed into the Bois de Boulogne. A road snaked
through the woods, with closely packed bare-branched trees on either side. The sky was pale blue, with a shimmering white sun making frost sparkle on the grass.

  The Villa Windsor was a three-storey pale-stone building with black balcony railings, surrounded by a high wrought-iron fence and a border of slender trees. To Rachel, it did not have the appearance of a royal palace, despite the pillared entrance and tall, narrow windows. The garden was too small and lacking in privacy, the architecture too square and unadorned.

  Rachel knew that Alex had tried and failed to get an interview with the manager, so she thought it best not to ring the bell set into a pillar by the gates. Instead she walked round the perimeter, hoping she might spot a gardener at work, but there was no sign of anyone, no lights in any windows. She positioned herself on the other side of the road with a view of the driveway and waited.

  Around 1.30 p.m., a white van drew up and its driver rang the bell. A man with short silver hair appeared and opened the electronic gates, whereupon the van drove in and parked outside the front door. Rachel wandered over to watch from just outside the gate as they carried some large cardboard boxes from the house and loaded them into the van.

  When they had finished, the driver signed a docket and drove off. Rachel hurried up the drive before the gates swung closed.

  ‘Je cherche Monsieur John Sturkey. Est-il ici?’

  ‘C’est moi,’ the man replied.

  Thank God, Rachel thought. That made things easier. ‘Do you speak English?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘I’m from Devon, so I’m pretty fluent.’ She could hear a slight Devonian twang in his accent.

  ‘My name is Rachel Wainwright,’ she said, ‘and I work with Alex Greene. He was supposed to meet you on Monday? He is very sorry to have missed that appointment. He asked me to come and talk to you today. Is that possible?’