God bless you & make her be kind to you, I shall pray always for your happiness.
Nancy
After the first agonised outburst, when she, in her own words, ‘made that dreadful scene’, Nancy accepted that the affair was over. She had been in love with Hamish for nearly five years. Her heart was broken. And within a month she was engaged to another man.
1 Muv and Farve.
2 The Swinbrook linen-cupboard was, in The Pursuit of Love, transformed into the Hons’ cupboard, meeting-place of the Radlett children’s secret society.
3 Mabell, Lady Airlie, was the widow of the 6th Earl of Airlie, brother of Grandmother Redesdale.
4 Society columnist and author, succeeded as third Baron Kinross in 1939.
5 Painter, eccentric and flamboyant homosexual, brother of the second Baron Glenconner.
6 ‘William Hickey’ of the Daily Express, and later Labour Member of Parliament.
7 Lord Kylsant, chairman of the Royal Mail Steam Company, was sentenced to a year’s imprisonment for publishing and circulating a false prospectus.
CHAPTER FOUR
Peter
Peter Rodd, born in 1904, the same year as Nancy, was the son of Sir Rennell Rodd, one of the most distinguished diplomats of his generation. A man of many accomplishments, Sir Rennell was a brilliant linguist and classical scholar, a talented water-colourist and the author of several small volumes of verse. He had served in Cairo, Stockholm and Berlin; had been Special Envoy to the Emperor of Abyssinia, Minister Plenipotentiary to Sweden and Norway; and in 1908 was appointed British Ambassador to Rome, where his noble bearing and unfailing politeness made him much admired among the Italians: they saw in him the epitome of the English gentleman, the very flower of diplomacy.
His wife, Lilias, was quite different – nothing diplomatic about her. She was a prima donna, a woman who loved bossing other people about, a firm believer in speaking her mind. Behind her back the Embassy staff referred to her as Lady Rude, or Tiger Lil. She came from a wealthy Scottish family, the Guthries, and all her life remained typically Scotch about money, reading the Financial Times from cover to cover every morning and keeping a sharp eye on household accounts. She was not mean exactly, but, when it came to spending money, she had a clear idea of her order of priorities: herself first, her husband second, her children very much third. Lady Rodd, it was widely known, lived for beauty – not, it has to be said, an impression easily obtained from her personal appearance: she had no interest in clothes (her one hat was sent back to London every year to be retrimmed), and her dowdiness was almost magnificent in its indifference to fashion. She had, however, a strong aesthetic sense; she was an artist: she spent hours a day at her easel; gave a great deal of thought to the garden; and, above all, staged magnificent parties. As English Ambassadress in Rome, she was famous for her entertaining. Her guests would arrive to find the garden of the Villa Torlonia transformed into a wood near Athens or a glade on the slopes of Mount Olympus, with their hostess blazing forth to greet them gorgeously attired as Juno, or Titania, or Queen Elizabeth I, attended by her five children dressed as elves or fairies or miniature characters from classical mythology. In the accounts in the society papers of the colourful goings-on at the British Embassy (‘Parmi les hôtes de l’ambassade, hier soir, ce n’a été qu’un long cri d’admiration …’), Lady Rodd’s appearance was always described dotingly and at length – cloth of gold, peacock feathers, attendant company of nymphs and maidens – while that of the Ambassador himself seemed rather to fade into the background, a shadowy figure to be mentioned only in the final paragraph: ‘Sir Rennell Rodd looked well in a costume of pearl grey satin’, or ‘Sir Rennell Rodd figured in a group of foreign Ambassadors of the 16th century’.
But although she loved the centre of the stage, Tiger Lil loved her husband even more, and deferred to him in all essentials. He, an Englishman typical of his class and time, inclined in domestic matters towards the quiet life and the line of least resistance: let Lil have her head, then he could be left in peace to write his poems (‘Hail, ancient people of the northern sea …’) and work on his book on the history of medieval Greece. Lady Rodd was a devoted wife and conscientious as a mother. The business of having babies bored her, but it was one’s duty, one did it, and that was that. Of her five children she loved best the eldest Francis and her second son Peter, mainly because as boys they were both exceptionally beautiful, and beauty was what she lived for. The two girls, Evelyn and Gloria (Golly), coming between the brothers in age, she was not much interested in, and by the time her last child, Gustav (Taffy), was born, any enthusiasm had long since evaporated. Francis, as his father’s heir, was given a conventional upbringing at Eton and Oxford, but the others, of much less importance, were subjected to their mother’s highly individual educational theories: she did not approve of the public-school system, and saw no reason why the younger boys should have to endure it before they absolutely must. So Peter and Taffy, with Evelyn and Golly, were shunted about Europe, moving every term to a different country. By the time the boys were old enough for public school (Wellington, not Eton for Peter), they spoke several European languages fluently, and had almost no experience of their own country.
In spite of this fragmented education, Peter, or Prodd as his family called him, showed early signs of intellectual brilliance, together with an unusual precocity arising from his cosmopolitan background and an independence of necessity learned young. By the time he arrived at Oxford, he felt himself, with some reason, older and more sophisticated than the immature schoolboys who were his contemporaries. His moody beauty and arrogant air led his friends to compare him to the young Rimbaud, and there was current a verse about him which went: ‘Mr Peter Rodd/ Is extraordinarily like God/ He has the same indefinable air/ Of savoir faire.’ Prodd’s belief in his own superiority did not endear him to his male companions, although his blond good looks made him from the start a success with women. Having made no effort to hide his contempt for what he considered the petty regulations of undergraduate life – regulations which he constantly and openly flouted – he was sent down from Balliol before taking his degree on the charge of entertaining women in his rooms after hours.
This was the beginning of Peter’s long career in delinquency, a delinquency made almost inevitable by his upbringing. He loved and admired his father, felt under an obligation to win his respect, while at the same time recognising that this was impossible. His father represented a standard of unattainable perfection. His mother was more accessible. She and Peter used to quarrel, mainly about money, as one of Lady Rodd’s favourite tenets was that it was good for her children to be kept short, but at least at those times he knew he had her attention. He knew, too, that she loved him in her way, even if her way was more concerned with his tow-headed good looks – he had made a lovely elf – than with the difficult, anarchic person behind them. But his father was an impossible act to follow: not only did he excel at everything he did, but his flawless courtier’s manner meant that any real confrontation was out of the question. He was the perfect prototype of an ambassador, a stage version, a cardboard cut-out, never losing his temper, never raising his voice, theatrically handsome, immaculately dressed, always deferred to and admired. His attitude towards his second son was one of weary resignation: instead of anger he expressed disappointment. And then there was the example of Francis. Nearly ten years older than Peter, Francis was the perfect son, as good and obedient as Peter was rebellious and rude, always doing what was expected of him, always succeeding in what he did, to the end of their lives the greatest possible comfort and support to his parents. They made no secret of the fact that Francis was the favourite, and it was to Francis that they turned for help in extricating his younger brother from a long series of disastrous escapades.
In these circumstances, it is hardly surprising that Peter, in the words of Evelyn Waugh, was ‘an obstreperous minority of one’. The pity was that, given his remarkable intelligence, he was not better
at it. Nearly everything he did turned out badly. On leaving Oxford he was despatched to Brazil where he worked in a bank, which he hated, spending most of his spare time getting drunk – and incidentally adding Russian and Portuguese to his linguistic repertoire. He was eventually arrested for being destitute, and Sir Rennell, as usual with the help of Francis (at that time usefully placed in the Foreign Office) was obliged to use his influence to get Peter repatriated as a distressed British subject. Back in England he managed to land a job in the City, was sacked from that, went as a journalist to Germany, was again sacked, and again rescued by Francis, who took him off on a two-year expedition in the Sahara, an undertaking far better suited to Peter’s buccaneering spirit than a desk in the City or a newspaper-office in Berlin.
At the time of his proposal to Nancy, he was working, with the greatest reluctance, for an American bank in Lombard Street. He and Nancy had known each other slightly for some years, having many friends in common, chief among whom was Hamish. He and Peter used to fool around together at parties, both very drunk, the game being to give false names to the photographers from Vogue and Tatler, then claim damages when the inaccurately captioned pictures appeared. It was at a party that Peter proposed: he was in the habit of proposing to pretty girls. It was meant as a joke. Nancy accepted, and the thing was done.
The speed with which Nancy and Peter changed course and turned towards each other came as a surprise to everyone. To Peter, Nancy had been no more than another lively, pretty girl he was used to seeing about; she for her part, less than a month earlier, had had her heart broken by the man whom, for a period of nearly five years, she had believed she would marry. When they came together, each represented for the other a kind of life-line. They were both approaching thirty. Peter, well aware of his reputation as a failure, saw marriage – the only resort he had not so far tried – as his last hope; and he rather liked the idea of a home and a wife and some children. For Nancy the ending of her engagement to Hamish had been painful, but it had also jolted her into a realisation of the fatuity of that relationship. It had been fun, no doubt about that, and Hamish-the-tiny-child had made a strong appeal to her maternal instincts, but emotionally it had been sterile and frustrating. She and Hamish were not interested in each other sexually – prancing about in fancy dress was a far more satisfactory pastime – but the fact remained that Nancy had longed for love, and that was something that he had never been able to give. Hamish did not love her – Hamish loved no one but ‘Little Me’ – and he was frequently unkind. Now here was Peter Rodd, strikingly handsome, strikingly masculine, self-confident, full of jokes and impressively well-informed. Nancy rather liked pompous men, and she had that undiscriminating respect for intellect often felt by those themselves lacking a formal education. Prodd knew a lot, and he talked a lot about what he knew. Although he had not yet become the famous bore he turned into later on, he was already given to lecturing anybody he could waylay, at great length, on preferably obscure subjects. Prodd thought he knew everything – and the trouble was that he very nearly did. His friend, and Nancy’s cousin, Ed Stanley, said of P. R. Odd as he called him, that ‘whatever topic is under discussion, he will pose as an authority outstanding over anyone present … to quote him: “I know, I know, I am a hospital nurse/ war criminal/ displaced person/ painter/ journalist/ financier/ poet/ Italian pimp/ diplomat/ geographer”.’
Grandfather Redesdale (illustration 1 (a))
Grandfather Bowles (illustration 1 (b))
Nancy with her parents (illustration 2)
Farve in uniform during the First World War (illustration 3 (a))
Tom (illustration 3 (b))
Out walking at Batsford. From left to right: Muv, Tom, Miss Mirams, Nancy, Aunt Daphne, Nanny Dicks with Unity in front of her, Pam and Diana (illustration 3 (c))
Pam, Tom, Diana and Nancy in the garden at Asthall (illustration 4 (a))
Nancy (on the right) with Constantia Fenwick (illustration 4 (b))
Nanny Dicks (illustration 4 (c))
Nancy on the Venice Lido (illustration 5 (a))
Self-portrait (illustration 5 (b))
Nancy photographed by Derek Jackson at Rignell (illustration 5 (c))
Hamish St Clair Erskine (illustration 6 (a))
Diana (illustration 6 (b))
Hamish with Nancy and Anne Armstrong-Jones at the Ritz (illustration 6 (c))
Nina Seafield and Mark Ogilvie-Grant (illustration 6 (d))
Peter and Nancy on their wedding-day (illustration 7 (a))
Nancy with her French bulldog Millie (illustration 7 (b))
Peter in his role as artist, a portrait by his sister-in-law Mary Rodd (illustration 7 (c))
Lord and Lady Rennell of Rodd (illustration 8 (a))
Peter and Nancy on their ill-fated holiday in Brittany (illustration 8 (b))
The engagement was announced in July in the Daily Telegraph. The Rennells (Sir Rennell this same year, 1933, had been raised to the peerage as Lord Rennell of Rodd) were uneasy at the news: this was the first they had heard of it. They both wrote at once to Francis. ‘The whole thing has its rather inexplicable side,’ Lord Rennell confided, ‘and it worries me not a little’. Lil’s reaction was less circumspect: ‘About Peter, we hear there was an announcement in the Daily Telegraph that he was to be married in October which is probably not true. He has not written to us himself on the subject so I suppose as usual it was made up.’ The Redesdales had been rather better prepared. Nancy, begging him to stay sober for the occasion, had sent Peter to have lunch with her father at Rutland Gate. She herself, unable to bear the suspense, left the house, returning two hours later to find Farve coming out into the hall reeling with boredom, having been lectured by Peter for two solid hours on the toll-gate system of England and Wales (‘The Old Toll-Gater’ became one of his nicknames from that moment on). But although Farve did not like Peter much – ‘talks like a ferret with its mouth sewn up’ – he saw no reason to refuse his consent. Almost anyone was preferable to Hamish.
To Nancy Peter was as near perfect as it was possible for a man to be. She wrote to Roy Harrod1, ‘I am absolutely happy for the first time in my life.’ And to Mark, ‘Well, the happiness. Oh goodness gracious I am happy. You must get married darling, everybody should this minute if they want a receipt for absolute bliss. Of course I know there aren’t many Peters going about but still I s’pose everybody has its Peter (if only Watson) So find yours dear the sooner the better And remember TRUE LOVE CANT BE BOUGHT. If I really thought it could I’d willingly send you £3 tomorrow What I want to know is why nobody told me about Peter before – I mean if I’d known I’d have gone off to Berlin after him or anywhere else, however I’ve got him now which is the chief thing.’ Peter, too, was in a state of high excitement, posting off love-letters from the Savile Club whenever he and Nancy were apart. ‘Darling darling Pauline [Pauline was Peter’s private name for Nancy] … My darling I am glad that all this started as a joke. I love you I love you my darling Pauline … I should like to see your head lying on your pillow This Peter who loves only you.’ To Hamish, his old companion in debauchery, he wrote a manly letter courteously accepting the fiction that Hamish as the vanquished lover would be suffering from a broken heart. ‘It is absurd for me to pretend that I am sorry for taking your Nancy from you, but I know that it is hell for you and I wish it wasn’t I am so much in love with her that I can understand how you feel.’ Evelyn Waugh was among those who wrote to express approval of the match. ‘Well I think its top hole about you and Rodd and I foresee a very wild and vigorous life in front of you … I hope you have numerous piccaninnies and that Mr Erskine will now disappear from your novels. But listen, I won’t have you writing books about Rodd because that would be too much for me to bear.’
The wedding, first planned for October, was postponed to November, then from November to December. At the beginning of November, the Rennells spent a weekend at Swinbrook, a situation fraught with danger which in the event passed off smoothly:
Farve behaved himself and Nancy admitted to being fascinated, in a slightly horrified way, by Lil. Wedding-presents came pouring in, mainly of the disappointing cut-crystal-vase variety. Bryan Guinness gave Nancy her wedding-dress, Lord Rennell a diamond wrist-watch, Muv a diamond ring, Diana a dining-table, some chairs and a sofa. The three youngest sisters, Unity, Decca and Debo, contributed gilt fittings for the dressing-case which was the bridegroom’s present to the bride. But what they both needed was money. Lady Rennell, true to form, was keeping a tight hand on the purse-strings – if Peter couldn’t afford to keep Nancy, then he shouldn’t marry her, was the line – and Farve, undergoing yet another financial crisis, had very little to spare. ‘I note that your father refuses to tie himself up to any settlement,’ Peter drily remarked. ‘I hope he does his stuff about your allowance even if he sours on the marriage.’
They were married on Monday, December 4, 1933, at St John’s, Smith Square. Peter, having planned his stag-night for the Saturday before, appeared sober, upright and wonderfully handsome in his tail-coat. Nancy, in a dress of white chiffon with a train, wore a wreath of white gardenias securing a long veil, and carried a bouquet of gardenias and roses. Farve gave her away, and she was attended by eleven little pages in white satin Romney suits. After the service there was a reception for over two hundred at Rutland Gate presided over by Muv in brown velvet and a feathered hat. Lady Rennell was in red. Among the guests were Hamish’s parents, Lord and Lady Rosslyn, with their daughter Mary, Hugh Smiley and his wife Nancy (Cecil Beaton’s sister), Mark Ogilvie-Grant and his mother, Middy and her mother, Helen Dashwood, Roy Harrod, Nina and her husband Derek Studley-Herbert, Robert Byron’s two sisters, Constantia Fenwick, and the Osbert Lancasters.
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