Another Woman’s Husband

by Gill Paul

  No doubt that was true, Mary thought, but all she could feel was joy that Ernest was one step closer to being free of Wallis’s clutches.

  They dined that evening with Ernest’s sister Maud, and she shared Mary’s pleasure that Wallis would be out of their lives. She had never warmed to her.

  ‘You are mistaken in your belief that she has poisoned London society against you,’ Maud told Mary when the men had retired for cigars and brandy in the library. ‘I think you’ll find that lots of people who used to lick Wallis’s boots are now saying they hardly knew her. Only the other day I heard Emerald Cunard claim she had met her “only once or twice” and did not take to her.’

  Mary laughed at this. ‘Emerald positively fawned over her at the Bryanston Court KT hours. How the worm has turned!’

  She felt emboldened enough by this conversation to accept a few invitations, and found there was a tacit acceptance that Ernest had behaved with patriotism and correctness in doing as his King commanded. Ernest’s lawyer told him that Wallis had produced Mary’s love letter to him in the divorce court in a last-ditch attempt to blacken her name, but no one remarked on it. She and Ernest were seen as the innocent parties in the fiasco and Wallis was the she-devil who was harming the monarchy.

  Wallis wrote to Ernest that she was too scared to stay in the Regent’s Park house the King had bought for her. Every mail delivery brings poison-pen letters, calling me harlot and Jezebel (although few of them spell it correctly). And last Sunday, while I was dining out, a brick was thrown through the front window. I can no longer have my hair done or go shopping in case some maniac leaps out to shoot or stab me. I’m pretty flattened out by the world in general.

  On 1 December, after the Bishop of Bradford spoke directly against Wallis and the King, the British press finally jumped on the story. Ernest’s friend Bernie Rickatson-Hatts telephoned to say that the Times was preparing to publish an attack on Wallis’s character, so Ernest dutifully rang Fort Belvedere to warn her. Mary overheard his side of the conversation.

  ‘There’s nothing I can do. It’s not just the Times . . . I can ask around. Perhaps you could stay with some friends in the north of England . . . No, I quite see . . . When do you plan to go? . . . And who will drive? . . . Perhaps that is wisest.’

  He came off the phone and glanced at Mary. ‘She’s hysterical. She thinks she will be killed if she stays in England, so she’s fleeing to France.’

  Mary’s first thought was that it was not far enough. ‘Will she stay with her friends, Katherine and Herman Rogers?’

  ‘I imagine so. It’s all very hush-hush because she doesn’t want the press tailing them. Peter Pan is distraught but admits he can’t protect her if she stays.’

  ‘When is she going?’

  ‘Tomorrow.’ He mused for a moment. ‘She said the damnedest thing: seemingly the King has told Prime Minister Baldwin that if all else fails, he will abdicate rather than lose her.’

  Mary was astonished. ‘What, he would leave the throne entirely? Become a commoner? That’s the last thing Wallis would want.’

  To risk all in seducing a king only to win him but in the process cause him to lose his throne: it sounded to Mary like one of those traditional fairy stories in which pride led to a fall, or greed led to penury.

  Ernest regarded her with a serious expression. ‘As a patriotic Englishman, I cannot allow this to happen. I will write to Mr Baldwin this evening.’

  ‘Saying what?’ Mary felt fear prickling her skin.

  ‘Two things: that I know Wallis will withdraw from the situation if she is given a chance; and that if my country requires it, I will claim there was collusion over our divorce and therefore we cannot be awarded a decree nisi next April.’

  Tears filled Mary’s eyes and she covered her face with her hands, turning away so Ernest would not see her cry.

  ‘I’m sorry, my dear.’ He looped his arm round her waist from behind. ‘But this concerns a centuries-old institution that is worth more than the happiness of a few individuals. We must make a sacrifice if called upon.’

  She watched him write his letter and did not try to stop him, but the blood felt like razor blades in her veins.

  Ernest’s offer was not accepted by the prime minister, and a week later, on the evening of 11 December, he and Mary tuned their radio set to the BBC to hear the King broadcast to his subjects. The familiar voice was calm and the words moving as he explained that he was handing over the crown to his brother George with immediate effect and quitting public affairs altogether: ‘I have found it impossible to carry the heavy burden of responsibility and to discharge my duties as King as I would wish to do without the help and support of the woman I love.’

  Mary and Ernest exchanged glances, shocked that it had come to this.

  ‘I guess Wallie has gotten herself into the history books,’ Mary remarked. ‘Somewhere between Helen of Troy and Attila the Hun.’

  Chapter 61

  Fairford, Connecticut, 15 November 1937

  MARY STOOD ON A PIER ON NEW YORK’S EAST RIVER, waiting for Ernest to arrive on a crossing from Southampton. She had been in the States since September, because she had to spend six weeks in Reno obtaining her divorce from Jackie. Now the legal paperwork was ready and all the arrangements had been made for her forthcoming wedding to Ernest.

  He had never actually asked her to marry him. There was no proposal on bended knee, but once his divorce from Wallis came through in April, he had announced in a matter-of-fact tone that November would be a good month for them to get married, and she had said, ‘Yes, that’s fine.’ Their conversations had been about practicalities; he seemed to have assumed they would be married one day, and she was glad she had not pressed him on the matter before.

  She missed Ernest terribly during their two months’ separation, with a dull ache she carried around. She also had an irrational fear that Wallis would try to stop their marriage out of spite. If there was a legal technicality, some final spanner she could throw in the works to prevent Mary and Ernest finding happiness, then she would almost certainly do it.

  Wallis had married David the previous June at a ceremony in a French chateau. Mary was secretly pleased to hear that few of their sycophants turned up, and none of the British royal family. Herman Rogers gave her away, Cecil Beaton took the photographs, and Wallis wore a Mainbocher dress of ‘Wallis blue’, a colour he had invented for her, but the high society she had hoped to woo found themselves unavoidably otherwise engaged on 3 June.

  They honeymooned in Austria, at Schloss Wasserleonburg, yet even from there, during what should have been the most romantic time of her life, Wallis wrote to Ernest saying how much she missed him: I think of us so much, though I try not to. I’d love to hear from you if you feel like telling me a bit.

  Mary read that letter in utter disbelief. He’s not yours any more, she growled. Leave him alone!

  The new Duke and Duchess of Windsor, as they had been styled, would receive a generous allowance from the Crown, and could live their lives as they pleased, but they were no longer allowed to return to England without the new King’s permission. That made sense to Mary: King George could not have his brother, the erstwhile pin-up boy, barging in to interfere whenever he felt so inclined. They had settled in Paris, which meant Mary had no fear of bumping into them when she accepted a dinner invitation or Ernest booked theatre tickets. Now she just had to get her own wedding out of the way and she could erase Wallis from her mind for ever. At the grand old age of forty-one, she would finally be with the man she had loved for the last thirteen years, the man with whom she hoped to grow old.

  Ernest waved as he walked down the gangplank, a smile lighting up his face. He ran the last few steps and ducked under a rope barrier to throw his arms around her and hold her tight.

  Mary and Ernest stayed at the Waldorf while making the final preparations for their wedding. Every time they stepped outside the hotel, they ran the gauntlet of photographers with exploding flashbulbs, a
ll of them shouting questions about Wallis and Edward.

  ‘Are you in touch with the Duke and Duchess of Windsor?’ ‘Does Wallis mind that she didn’t get an HRH title?’ ‘Does Ernest feel responsible for the abdication?’

  ‘No comment,’ Mary called every time, with a cheery wave.

  Ernest was keen to outwit the press, determined there would be no photographs of their wedding in the newspapers, so instead of a New York location they chose the Fairfield Lawn Country Club in Connecticut, not far from Mary’s sister Buckie’s home. Two limousines picked them up from the Waldorf on the morning of 19 November – women in one, men in the other – and they drove north for almost two hours. Mary kept turning to check they weren’t being followed, but it seemed the photographers outside the hotel had not leapt into their cars fast enough to tail them.

  The country club facilities were basic, with uncomfortable folding chairs and tiny tables covered in worn white linen, a few displays of orchids and mimosa doing little to make it seem matrimonial, but none of that mattered to Mary. She and Ernest were wed in front of the fireplace by a justice of the peace, who stumbled over his lines because he had never married anyone before. Mary’s heart was full as she repeated the words – ‘for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health’. She was determined that she would live by them and do all in her power to make her new husband happy.

  They sailed back from America on the Queen Mary, a luxurious ship that had only made her maiden voyage the previous year. That winter, all of London society clamoured to entertain them, but Mary and Ernest gravitated towards the literary set, becoming good friends of Mr and Mrs Sacheverell Sitwell, as well as the opera and ballet crowd whom they met at Covent Garden. Mary remained wary of the Americans who had been at the core of Wallis’s KT clique, although they all sent wedding presents and effusive congratulations.

  At weekends, they sometimes visited friends in the country, including Eleanor and Ralph. Wallis still refused to return Ralph’s portrait of Mary; it seemed she’d had it transported to France among the rest of her personal possessions. Ralph sent her a lawyer’s letter demanding its return but was ignored, and the legal complications of filing a suit overseas stopped him pursuing it further.

  ‘I can’t believe Wallis and Edward went to meet Hitler last October.’ Eleanor shook her head. ‘What were they thinking?’

  ‘They were trying to make themselves feel they still have some importance in the world,’ Mary replied. ‘He was the only leader who offered them a state visit. It does seem naïve in the extreme.’

  ‘Rather more than naïvety,’ Eleanor continued. ‘I think there might be ambition behind it. It’s well known that both are fascist sympathisers, and I hear it’s now common knowledge’ – she glanced across the room to where Ralph and Ernest were engrossed in a conversation of their own – ‘that Wallis had an affair with von Ribbentrop.’

  Mary nodded. ‘I always suspected it because of the regular deliveries of roses. Who told you?’

  Eleanor lowered her voice. ‘I heard it at Nancy Astor’s, and I believe it’s all the talk round London. The story goes that Constance Spry, the florist, told another customer that von Ribbentrop asked for exactly seventeen roses in each bouquet he sent Wallis because that’s the number of times they went to bed together.’

  Mary thought back to the unusually large bunches: she had never counted, but there could easily have been seventeen blooms in each. ‘She always hid the cards that came with the bouquets, but I stole one and it read “See you in Berlin”. They must have been planning their visit all along.’

  ‘Will you two never be reconciled?’ Eleanor gave her a searching look. ‘You were close for so long.’

  Mary shook her head vehemently. ‘She has been hateful towards me. Simply hateful. I will never forgive her.’

  In the spring of 1938, a long-held dream of Mary’s came true when Ernest took her to Italy on a belated honeymoon. They walked round the antiquities in Rome, toured the museums of Florence and glided in a gondola down Venice’s Grand Canal. It was remarkable how much they were in tune, Mary thought. They paused before the same paintings, admired the same church interiors, invariably agreed with each other’s opinions. Theirs was a meeting of minds, as well as a marriage of great passion.

  On their return, they bought a house in Holland Park, a spacious home with plenty of room for entertaining, and hired an interior designer to furnish and decorate it. It would not be ready for several months, so they stayed in Albion Gate in the meantime, and it was there, in early April 1939, that Mary woke one morning feeling terribly sick. She spent the day throwing up, her new Scottie dog Diana curled on the bed beside her.

  ‘It must have been those cocktails at the Sitwells’ last night,’ she told Ernest. ‘I lost count of how many I drank.’

  When the sickness continued the following day, and the one after, Ernest insisted on calling a doctor.

  ‘I’m going to take a blood test, Mrs Simpson,’ the doctor said, after asking a battery of questions. ‘There’s no cause for alarm. I’ll visit you in a few days when I have the results.’

  Mary couldn’t help worrying that there was something dreadfully wrong; perhaps she had damaged an internal organ with all the alcohol she had been imbibing. She didn’t think she was an alcoholic, not like Jacques, but she and Ernest enjoyed a quiet tipple at home every evening, and when they were out somewhere it was only polite to join in with the general merriment.

  ‘I have some news for you,’ the doctor said on his return. Ernest leant forward in his chair, looking grave, and Mary crossed her fingers tightly.

  ‘It seems,’ the doctor continued, ‘that you are pregnant.’

  ‘Pregnant?’ she gasped, and her mouth fell open in shock as she looked at Ernest, who seemed equally stunned. ‘But I’m forty-two; I’ll be forty-three in a couple of months.’

  The doctor nodded. ‘We will have extra check-ups during the pregnancy because of your age. I expect your obstetrician will deliver the baby early by Caesarean section, so as not to risk your health in the final weeks.’

  ‘How far gone is the pregnancy?’ she asked, still not daring to believe it. ‘I lost three babies before twelve weeks, so I don’t want to . . .’

  The doctor flicked through his diary, counting. ‘You are thirteen weeks pregnant as of today,’ he announced. ‘There could still be a risk so I suggest you take it easy. The baby is due in October.’

  Mary looked at Ernest again, scared to rejoice too soon. He leapt from his chair to put an arm round her and kiss her, clearly ecstatic. It’s not the same for him, she thought; he has a daughter already. There was no way his excitement could be any match for hers. She had wanted a baby for decades but had long ago given up hope. This was a miracle, a gift from God. She had never in her wildest dreams thought she could be so lucky.

  I hear you are to have an addition to the family, Wallis wrote to Ernest that summer. How very irresponsible of Mary! You’d think she’d have been more careful at her age. Still, at least she no longer has a figure to lose.

  Mary laughed out loud when she read the letter. Clearly Wallis was riled that she was giving Ernest something – a son, they hoped – that she, Wallis, had never been able to.

  Soon after this, she received a telephone call from Gladys Scanlon, Wallis’s old friend, asking when the child was due and when she and Ernest were moving into their new house in Holland Park. Mary could tell she was on a spying mission. Wallis had clearly ordered her to find out.

  None of her business, she thought, and was deliberately vague in her answers.

  Chapter 62

  Paris, 17 December 1997

  WHEN RACHEL EMERGED FROM THE MÉTRO IN central Paris, her phone began to beep with messages. She rested the painting on the pavement to check them, hoping there might be news of Alex. Nicola and her mother had both texted, and there were several missed calls from Alex’s dad, but no word from Monsieur Belmont. She realised she hadn’t been ge
tting a signal in the Bois de Boulogne.

  Back in her hotel room, she propped the painting against the wall, took off her filthy coat and mud-caked boots and massaged her aching arms. Her neck was sore from the strain of the awkward position she’d had to adopt as she staggered along, leaning back slightly to counterbalance the painting’s weight.

  She flopped on the bed to reply to her messages. Nicola wanted to know the price of a dress in the shop and to see if there was any news; her mother wondered what time they hoped to arrive back; and Alex’s dad was clearly getting anxious. It was almost 5 p.m.; surely the police must decide soon whether they were going to charge Alex? She sent texts to all three of them, then stripped off and had a shower, taking her mobile into the bathroom so she would hear if it rang.

  She had just stepped out of the shower when she heard the room phone ringing and rushed in her towel to answer it. ‘Someone here to see you,’ the receptionist said. Rachel guessed it must be Monsieur Belmont. She pulled on her dress, although her skin was still damp, and hurried downstairs barefoot. Instead, to her amazement, there was Alex, grinning at her, with two days’ growth of beard, filthy clothes and lank, greasy hair. She threw herself into his arms, so relieved she almost cried.

  ‘Does this mean you’re not being charged?’ she asked, between kisses.

  ‘Unfortunately, no. I won’t hear about charges for a couple of weeks. But I’m out, and I’m allowed to fly home and get married.’ He squeezed her tight. ‘God, it’s good to see you.’

  Rachel led him upstairs to her room. She felt like having sex straight away, but he held back. ‘Can I shower first? I’ve got the smell of jail all over me: like a mixture of body odour and rancid cooking oil.’