by Anne Edwards
During this meeting of the brothers, Wallis Simpson was struck by the contrast between them—the King “all enthusiasm and volubility as he explained the fine points of the machine, the Duke of York quiet, shy, obviously dubious of this newfangled American contrivance. It was not until [the King] pointed out its advantages as a shooting brake that his younger brother showed any real interest. ‘Come on, Bertie,’ [he] urged, ‘let’s drive around a little, I’ll show you how easy it is to handle.’ ” They drove off, “the King at the wheel, his still skeptical brother sitting beside him.”
Through the open door, Mrs. Simpson could see a small comfortable hall with a staircase of low broad steps carpeted in bright crimson with simple banisters of unstained oak. Enormous Chinese porcelain jardinieres in the entry held forsythia sprays, their branches massed with golden blossoms reaching nearly to the ceiling. Horse paintings dominated the walls. The corgi and two other small dogs ran frenziedly up and down the staircase, where, at the top landing, a pair of rocking horses belonging to the two golden-haired girls upstairs stood side by side. The overall effect was a combination of homeliness and overstatement and at great variance with Mrs. Simpson’s more sophisticated taste.
She and the Duchess had met before on several occasions, but had exchanged no more than a few guarded words. Trouble had been brewing in the Royal Family since King George V’s death on January 20, only three months earlier. The family knew the King had given Mrs. Simpson fabulous jewels, including a suite of emeralds said to be worth over fifty thousand pounds, and that he was deeply in love with her. The British people were not yet aware of the extent of the new King’s infatuation, but the Yorks feared it had already grown out of hand.
With her father-in-law, King George, dead such a short time and the country still in mourning, the Duchess took a dim view of what she considered to be a Royal scandal. Nothing could have made her like this American woman, but at the moment the Duchess’s “justly famous charm was highly evident,” and she graciously led her visitors into the drawing room. Brightly colored flower paintings adorned the walls and the sun swathed a golden path across the large room from open french doors that led to a wide stone terrace and the gardens beyond. The Duchess was dressed in a blue chiffon afternoon costume that softened her full figure, flattered her fair complexion and underscored the startling blueness of her eyes. Her dark, gently waved hair—a delicate fringe of it dusting her forehead—framed her round face. As she stood in the strong sunlight she had the look of a Gainesborough painting.
Mrs. Simpson, her slight but flawless figure dressed in a simple but elegantly tailored print, faced her hostess self-confidently. Although she was not conventionally beautiful, her extraordinary posture, the long neck and proudly held head, the unforgettably wide violet eyes, the high forehead and the center-parted, sleekly chignoned, mahogany hair demanded attention and admiration. She was far more striking than her published photographs, but what surprised most people meeting her for the first time was the melodious southern lilt in her American speech. Although not a southern-belle type, Wallis Warfield Spencer Simpson was from Baltimore, Maryland, the granddaughter of General Henry Mactier Warfield, a famous Confederate officer from that state, and her mother had been a proud Montague from Virginia.
Those present in the room were aware of an undercurrent in the Duchess of York’s attitude toward Mrs. Simpson, who would later comment that she had “a distinct impression that while the Duke of York was sold on the American station wagon, the Duchess was not sold on [the King’s] other American interest.” Both women appeared grateful when the men returned, at which point the Duchess hurriedly suggested that they all tour the garden.
Broad stone steps led down to the lawns: and beyond, centuries-old cedars towered high into the sky. The abundance of bloom in the gardens was spectacular. Masses of hyacinths crowded the flower beds and “the great encircling walls at either end of the terraces were covered with flowering jasmine and creeper with lacquered crimson blooms ... there was a sunken more formal rose garden with crazy paving and a low square-clipped hedge.” Because the Duchess of York was particularly fond of roses, almost every species known in Britain was represented.
As the group was comparing the merits of the gardens at Fort Belvedere and at Royal Lodge, yapping, excited dogs appeared suddenly from all sides—labradors and lively corgis and a small doting Tibetan called Choo-choo, “a cascade of silvery fur” which the Duchess whipped up in her arms as she escorted her guests back to the drawing room for tea. In a few moments two little blond girls (ten and six) escorted by their youthful, spare Scottish governess, Marion (Crawfie) Crawford, came into the room jostling each other to enter first. The Duke cleared his throat and they jolted to a sudden halt, made small curtsies in the direction of the King, whom they knew as their Uncle David, and then went over to kiss him. Both girls were exceptionally fond of their handsome, fair-haired uncle who formerly had made a habit of visiting the Yorks to have a romp with his nieces. His affection could be easily discerned as he whispered something into Margaret Rose’s ear that made her giggle. He gave her a small hug, the added gesture indicating, perhaps, a closer bond to the younger sister.
“This is Lilibet and this is Margaret Rose,” the Duke said, introducing his daughters (the elder “a long, slender, very beautifully-made child,” the younger girl “an enchanting doll-like child with a small, fat face”) to Mrs. Simpson. The sisters, wearing twin Royal tartan kilts and yellow pullovers, scanned Mrs. Simpson’s face with undisguised curiosity as they shook her hand (surprisingly large for her petite frame). A member of the household staff had mentioned some tidbit of gossip about Mrs. Simpson and their uncle in their hearing. (A Royal valet had claimed he had given his notice when he happened upon the King on his knees in the garden at Fort Belvedere, painting Mrs. Simpson’s toenails as she reclined on a chaise. “To see my sovereign in such a compromising situation was simply too much for me to bear,” he had explained.) But Mrs. Simpson either overlooked or was unaware of any impoliteness on the part of the sisters for she reported that they “were both so blonde, so beautifully mannered, so brightly scrubbed, that they might have stepped straight from the pages of a picture book.”
A few minutes later, Dookie, the corgi who had first greeted the visitors, bounded into the room, stole a biscuit from a plate and then ran off. This remained the only moment of levity during the tense half hour or so spent at tea. Crawfie noted later that Mrs. Simpson “had a proprietary way of speaking to the new King. I remember she drew him to the window and suggested how certain trees might be moved and a part of a hill taken away to improve the view.” Since Royal Lodge belonged to the Crown and was leased to the Yorks by “His Majesty’s grace and favour” (meaning they paid no rent, rates or taxes), the remark created an awkward situation. The American guests were uncomfortable; the girls and the Duke of York were mostly silent; and whatever conversation transpired was carried on by the King and his sister-in-law, who chatted about the proper care of rose bushes.
Finally, the King stood, and the others in the room dutifully got to their feet. He took his brother’s hand and an emotional moment followed. Bertie’s face flushed. Mrs. Simpson suspected that words had been exchanged about her when they had been out inspecting the car, for the Duke of York’s attitude had suddenly cooled to her upon his return. He now escorted the King and his guests to the car, the Duchess remaining inside.
Mrs. Simpson had been struck by the informality of the Yorks’ home, the freedom enjoyed by the children and the dogs, so unlike the rigid atmosphere in which the King had confided he and his brother had been raised.
As the station wagon circled the drive and headed back toward the Fort, Wallis Simpson caught a glimpse of the young sisters leaning forward and peering out from the same upstairs window as when their uncle had arrived. “Well, of course, they were curious about the car,” she told a confidante later. More likely it was Mrs. Simpson who commanded their attention. “Crawfie, who is she?” Lilibet
had asked as soon as she and the king had departed. The governess did not give her a direct reply, but the girls had heard Crawfie say that their Uncle David was “besotted by Mrs. Simpson.” They may not have understood the definition of the word “besotted,” but the sound of it had an ominous ring.
What they could not know was that in a few scant months Mrs. Simpson would change not only their lives but their relationship with each other.
2
The year of Lilibet’s birth, 1926, England was on the brink of industrial chaos and a general strike of coal workers was called. Great tents were raised as canteens where gaunt men ate ravenously, served by society girls and members of the Court. At Buckingham Palace, the sentries at the gate had exchanged their red coats and bearskins for khaki and forage caps. Inside, austerity reigned. Queen Mary demanded frugality in the kitchen, purchases were pared by 20 percent and second helpings forbidden.
Strong-willed and poker-backed, looked upon by her Household not as the Consort of George V but as the Queen of England, Queen Mary was a formidable figure. (Lady Cynthia Asquith was to recall a terrible slip when in a public gathering she once exclaimed, “God save the Quing.”) She had been an unbending mother to all six of her children* and an intolerant and difficult mother-in-law. Though grateful that Lady Elizabeth Bowes-Lyon, daughter of Lord and Lady Strathmore, had finally agreed in 1923 to marry Bertie (a union that she felt would help to stabilize her second son, who had always caused his parents their greatest concern), she thought very little of the intellectual or artistic capacities of Bertie’s wife and seldom sought her out as a companion. Nor did she urge the King, despite her daughter-in-law’s impending motherhood, to grant the Yorks a grace-and-favour house of luxurious nature. With the country in such a dire state, she could not acquiesce in what she considered unnecessary expenditure by members of the Royal Family.
Finally, after “a mission of protracted negotiations,” a Crown-owned house at 145 Piccadilly, four doors from Hyde Park Corner, had been agreed upon as a suitable residence. But the house, which had seen numerous occupants in the recent decades, was in a state of dilapidation and many long months were required to make it habitable. Meanwhile, the Yorks lived out of suitcases at Glamis Castle (the Strathmores’ ancestral home in Scotland), at Balmoral, St. Paul’s Walden Bury (also owned by the Strathmores), Sandringham and Chesterfield House (as guests of the Duke’s sister, Princess Mary). The situation was humiliating to a man who stood second to the Throne. The Duchess bore the indignity of the situation with public grace as she organized the constant packing and repacking, but, privately, resentment rose toward her in-laws and her husband’s bachelor brother, whose London home, because of his position as heir apparent, was York House, St. James’s Palace, a much more commodious arrangement.
As her pregnancy neared its end, the Duchess decided to give birth at her parents’ large, comfortable home at 17 Bruton Street, directly off Berkeley Square in Mayfair. Along Bruton Street, the names of Herbert, Pakenham, Stonor, Tennant and Wyndham “glimmered on polished brass plates or were listed discreetly in Boyle’s Court Guide.” Carriages with ducal crests still mingled with the box-like limousines that turned into Bond Street and Berkeley Square. And the Strathmores’ stone-faced residence, Grecian columns across the façade, held its own among the dignified bricked Georgian houses of their neighbors.
Winter had been unduly long and segued into weeks of heavy rain. Trees on Bruton Street were bare and flowering shrubs not yet in bloom when the twenty-six-year-old Duchess of York went into labor early Tuesday morning, April 20. By evening, the three obstetric surgeons attending the birth ascertained that the baby was in a breech position and that a Cesarean section would have to be performed. In accordance with the archaic decree to ensure the legitimacy of royal children (by preventing child swapping in the event of a stillbirth), the Home Secretary, Sir William Joynson-Hicks, was summoned to witness the birth. As he waited impatiently, the Duke of York “restlessly wandered about the house,” spoke to reporters waiting in an anteroom, “and saw to it that they were provided with coffee and sandwiches.” Outside a small crowd had gathered. Royalty has an undeniable fascination.
At 2:40 A.M. on the morning of April 21, just five days before her third wedding anniversary, the Duchess of York gave birth to a daughter. The crowd still standing in the lashing rain cheered when the news was announced. Champagne was served to the staff and members of the press, who had waited tensely inside. A Cesarean section was no simple procedure when performed as it had been in a private home. Royalty, however serious their complaint, never entered hospital, it being de rigueur to give birth or to die (when one could) in one’s own bed. In the Duchess of York’s case, an operating table had been improvised and hospital procedures of sterile cleanliness observed. Nonetheless, if anything had gone amiss, advanced hospital medical equipment would not have been immediately available.
At Windsor, Queen Mary and King George were awakened at 4 A.M. and informed of the birth of their third grandchild but first granddaughter. “Such relief and joy,” the Queen noted in her diary. She lunched that day with the King’s cousin, Princess Andrew of Greece (the former Alice of Battenberg). A great-granddaughter of Queen Victoria, Alice had been born at Windsor Castle in 1885, sixteen years before the old Queen’s death. At eight years of age, she had been a bridesmaid at the wedding of the future King George V and Queen Mary. Her own marriage to Prince Andrew of Greece had been filled with vicissitudes, the Greek royal family having been deposed, her husband, Prince Andrew, jailed, tried for treason by the Greek Republic, stripped of his wealth and exiled forever. As if these were not trial enough, Alice was afflicted with congenital deafness; and though she read lips, she spoke with great difficulty. Despite these tribulations, she struggled valiantly to keep her four teenaged daughters and her much younger son, Prince Philip (who had been born sixth in succession to the Greek throne), together and afloat. Without her British relatives, this would have been almost impossible.
It seems eerily prescient that Philip’s mother should have lunched with Elizabeth’s grandmother the day of her birth. But financial assistance, not a future alliance, was discussed. Later the King and Queen motored to London to 17 Bruton Street “to congratulate Bertie and we found Celia Strathmore [the Duchess of York’s mother] there, saw the baby, who is a little darling with a lovely complexion and pretty fair hair.”
The Times devoted more space to other domestic and international news—the seemingly inevitability of a general strike and “the state of Russia”—than to the new Princess, although it was mentioned that the King’s two younger sons, Henry (“Harry”), Duke of Gloucester, and George, Duke of Kent, were now each one position lower in the succession. The common view was that the new baby was “third in succession to the throne for the time being....”
Princess Elizabeth’s rung on the royal ladder was anything but secure. Quite apart from the fact that her father’s elder brother, the Prince of Wales, age thirty-two and a handsome bachelor, would almost certainly marry and have one or many heirs himself, her parents planned a larger family. She would rank below a brother and, eventually, his children. And if the Yorks had more than one son, she would be even farther removed from the succession.
The baby, dressed in the christening robe of cream Brussels lace that had been used for Edward VII, George V and Princess Mary, was christened Elizabeth Alexandra Mary in the private chapel at Buckingham Palace on Saturday, May 19. The strike, propitiously, had been settled two weeks earlier and spring had finally arrived. Sun streaked into the chapel. White and crimson flowers wreathed the columns. The eighteen-inch gold lily font of 1840 was brought from Windsor and filled with ceremonial water from the Jordan; and the ceremony was performed by Dr. Cosmo Gordon Lang, then the Archbishop of York, who had presided at the Yorks’ wedding.
“Of course, poor baby cried,” Queen Mary noted.
Within a few weeks, public interest in the little Princess waned and she was able to be perambu
lated along the gravel paths of Berkeley Square by her nurse, Mrs. Clara Knight, with a minimum of public ogling. Affectionately known to her charges as Alah, Mrs. Knight (the Mrs. was an honorary title) had been nanny to the Duchess of York, her brother David Bowes-Lyon and the children of their older sister, Lady Elphinstone. Alah was a dedicated nanny in the traditional old-fashioned style. Now her small charge, as in the past, became her entire life. She seldom availed herself of holidays or free days. Tall, and sturdily built, her dark hair streaked with gray, she appeared much older than her forty-two years.
Alah had her own ways and the Duchess seldom countermanded them. This was not unique in upper-class English homes in the 1920s, for the nanny was an institution and reigned supreme in the nursery, which was a world in miniature. When the registered infant nurse departed, usually after a month, the baby was placed entirely in the nanny’s care, at least for the first six years, to supervise his or her upbringing, training and preschool education. Being a nanny was a real vocation and most of these women were as dedicated to their calling as nuns. The system was open to abuse. When Queen Mary had been a young mother, a nanny in her employ had been dismissed after it was discovered she had physically, perhaps even sexually, abused David and Bertie. But, mostly, nannies protected and lovingly attended their charges, and were well-respected and given great privileges.
In Royal households private staff were paid far below the average wage for the same job; the pride and prestige of such positions were considered compensatory. Alah not only had a nursemaid to carry out the more menial chores, but a footman and a housemaid stood by to serve her, and there were a car and driver to take her wherever she might wish to go. In these early months the Yorks saw very little of their offspring. It was Alah who was by Elizabeth’s side when she woke, Alah who fed, dressed and took her for airings and Alah who “twice a day presented her in a clean dress to her adoring parents.”
