by Anne Edwards
Outside touts sold mourning favors to the silent queues as they slowly, endlessly entered the Hall to file past the coffin after the Queen had departed. Most of the mourners experienced “the most extraordinary sobering intimations of mortality,” one witness wrote, “maybe because of a feeling that the coffin also contained a sizable chunk of themselves—the dangerous thirties, the war, the disappointing peace. The death of the King, who stood for completely trustworthy good among unpredictable evils has given many people the sense that something important in their lives is over, too.”
When the Duke of Windsor arrived in England he was met at Southampton by a security man and a representative of the Prime Minister and driven directly from the ship to Marlborough House, a two-hour journey with the icy road conditions. His reception by his mother was cool but, nonetheless, his initial reaction was of confidence that this was the breakthrough for which he and the Duchess had been waiting so long. On the morning of February 15, the day of the funeral, he was presented with a formal notice from the Palace informing him that the reduced £10,000 per annum he had received as an allowance “would be discontinued since it had been a personal favour of the King who was now dead.” The shock was enormous. This violated the agreement the two brothers had originally made, “which was that the Duke should give up everything he had inherited [Sandringham, Balmoral, etc.] in return for a pension....” Clearly, the contract between them had meant the length of the Duke’s life, not the King’s.
“Darling [the Duchess wrote after her husband told her of this turn] I can hardly believe this can go on at this time. I hope you have not taken this expensive trip to lose the £10,000 and to be insulted.... Love, love and fight for WE. Your Wallis.”
Queen Mary was not well enough to ride in one of the “icy” carriages in the procession, or to attend the interment at Windsor. Lady Airlie came down from her home in Scotland to be with her on that day. The two old women—both in their eighties—both the very symbol of the grande dame—greeted each other warmly in Queen Mary’s sitting room at Marlborough House, where they were to watch the “long, melancholy” funeral procession pass directly before the huge bay window on its way from Westminster to Paddington Station. They sat “alone together at the window, looking out into the grey gloom of the cold winter day.
“As the cortege wound slowly along,” Lady Airlie movingly recalled, “The Queen [Mary] whispered in a broken voice, ‘Here he is,’ and I knew that her dry eyes were seeing beyond the coffin a little boy in a sailor suit. She was past weeping wrapped in the ineffable solitude of grief.... I could not speak to comfort her. My tears choked me.... We held each other’s hands in silence.”
A movement in the first of the carriages in the cortege caught the attention of the news and television cameramen. The Queen, the Queen Mother and Princess Margaret, all half-veiled, could be seen leaning forward facing the window where Queen Mary stood. When the other carriages came past, the Queen of the Netherlands, the Queen of Denmark and Lady Mountbatten also looked over toward Queen Mary; the “salute” by the Royal women had been arranged beforehand by the Queen.
The cortege also passed by the King’s old home, 145 Piccadilly, in the process of demolition, its single remaining floor draped in black and purple and surmounted by a Union Jack at half-mast. The winter day was filled with the sound of pipers until the cortege reached its destination. Then, there was an uncanny two-minute, citywide silence requested by the Queen and assiduously observed by her subjects.
At Windsor, the Queen and her mother stood together at the head of the coffin, facing the altar. The four Royal Dukes (of Windsor, Gloucester, Edinburgh and Kent), came up into the choir in line together, the Royal visitors behind them. The Prime Minister and General Eisenhower were in the front row of the stalls. As the service neared the end, the Queen stepped to the lip of the chasm, sprinkled earth from a gilded bowl, and the coffin, heaped with flowers (including Margaret’s wreath bearing the simple message: “Darling Papa from his everloving Margaret”) was lowered into the ground.
With the King’s burial Queen Elizabeth II’s standard was raised over Buckingham Palace, where an office had been arranged for her. “We shall be the new Elizabethans,” wrote Chips Channon.
On the Duke of Windsor’s return to Marlborough House the night of the funeral, he cabled his wife: “Funeral passed off well but am foot weary. Never any question of my not having correct place in the procession and wore naval uniform [as Admiral of the Fleet]. Am pursuing all our problems relentlessly but tactfully....” He then made some handwritten notes: “Nobody cried in my presence. Only Winston as usual ... Cookie & Margaret feel most ... Mama as hard as nails but failing. When Queens fail they make less sense than others in the same state.”
Finally, on February 21 the Queen Mother agreed to see him. “Cookie was sugar,” he wrote the Duchess, “and M[ountbatten] and other relations and the Court officials correct and friendly on the surface. But gee the crust is hard & only granite below.” In his journal he added that “Cookie listened without comment & closed on the note that it was nice to be able to talk about Bertie with somebody who had known him so well.... Clarence House [where he lunched with the Queen on February 26] was informal and friendly. Brave New World. Full of self-confidence & seem to take job in their stride. Mountbatten ... he’s very bossy & never stops talking. All are suspicious & watching his influence on Philip.”
Shortly after the funeral, ex-King Peter went to lunch at Clarence House and “was alarmed to find how thin Elizabeth had grown since their last meeting, and [how] Philip seemed withdrawn and detached,” Alexandra wrote. She added that later her husband told her, “It was as if a volcano had been stoppered up ... I don’t know how long he can last ... bottled up like that!”
It could not have pleased Philip that in terms of precedence he ranked below both the Dukes of Gloucester and Windsor, as well as his own son, despite the fact that the ruling house now bore his name—the House of Mountbatten—as did Charles, the heir to the throne.
When Mountbatten, in 1947, had succeeded in having Philip’s name legally changed to Mountbatten, none of the Royal Family or their advisers had fully understood the serious implications. The editor of Debrett’s, “the bible of the British Aristocracy,” published an article two days after the funeral pointing out that Philip’s “adoption of his mother’s name meant that the House of Windsor had been succeeded by a new royal house, the House of Mountbatten.”
The Queen came under immediate pressure from her ministers to amend “this appalling fact.” Privately she was under equal stress, knowing such a move would create a delicate situation between Philip and herself. Two months of tense discussions followed. Then, early in April, Mountbatten, “basking in his status as the nearest thing the Queen had to a royal father-in-law,” publicly boasted “that since February 7, 1952, a Mountbatten has been sitting on the English Throne.”
When Queen Mary heard this she became outraged and contacted Churchill to tell him “her husband had founded the House of Windsor in aeterno and no ‘Battenberg’ marriage, however solemn and effective in English law, could change it.” Churchill, “egged on by one more of Mountbatten’s keenest enemies, Lord Beaverbrook,” met with the Queen and advised her to officially proclaim the House of Windsor the ruling house and that her children be known by the name of Windsor.
Furious that his wife would consider expunging his name, Philip exclaimed that he was nothing more than “an amoeba—a bloody amoeba!” Despite her husband’s bitter anger, the Queen, by an Order in Council dated April 9, 1952, decreed that it was her “Will and Pleasure that She and Her Children shall be styled and known as the House of Windsor.”
Time did not placate Philip’s strong resentment, and for several months his relationship to his wife was seriously strained. With the approach in November of the first State Opening of Parliament in her reign, the Queen was faced with a new dilemma regarding her husband. When George VI had opened a new session of Parliament, his
Queen Consort had sat by his side in a second throne on the dais beside him. After several meetings with her Councillors, Elizabeth’s decision had been that her husband would occupy a chair of state one step lower down to her left. She did, however, appoint him Chairman of the Coronation Council, granted him official precedence next to herself and gave him her sister’s place on the Regency Council, which in the event of her death meant that Philip would ostensibly stand in for Charles as Sovereign until his eighteenth birthday.
This last act was seen as “an advance for Philip at the expense of Margaret.” However, the Queen, leaving little to chance, had also placed her mother on the Council, and no one could doubt the Queen Mother’s strength nor that of those who supported her. Though “wonderfully polite” to Mountbatten over the years, she had tenaciously protected her husband against his influence and was prepared to do the same for her grandson if his father’s influence ever seemed ill-advised.
She had chosen to be called the Queen Mother although technically she was now Queen Dowager. Either way she had been demoted because, upon her husband’s death, a Queen Consort no longer exists. At fifty-one, she now owed allegiance to her twenty-five-year-old daughter. Her role was amorphous. “Was she now to become a vaguely endearing old nuisance, like Alexandra [King Edward’s widow], or a formidable matriarch like her mother-in-law?” Penelope Mortimer, one of her biographers, queried. In fact, the Queen Mother was ill-suited to both roles. She is said to have been frightened of her widowhood as well as being grief-stricken. Upon hearing of her unhappiness, Churchill came to see her; though they were never close, his encouragement rekindled her ability to act positively.
Peter Townsend’s position had also ceased with the King’s death. The Queen Mother requested that he join her Household as Comptroller and he accepted, which meant he would be in charge of its organization. The original estimate on the time required for the work to be done on Clarence House now seemed unrealistic. Both she and Margaret had to have their own apartments, and the nursery wing was to be converted. Townsend was to oversee this task.
The Queen and her family took up residence at Buckingham Palace on May 5, so that the work could begin. Margaret’s rooms on the second floor of the Palace were turned back into a nursery for Charles and Anne, and Margaret was given a suite at the opposite end, over the visitor’s entry. The Queen and Philip took over the Belgian Suite on the ground floor, moving some of their favorite pieces of furniture in with them. Philip occupied the King’s former study after having it paneled with the wood removed from the walls of his office at Clarence House.
The Queen Mother retained her old apartments for the moment, but the situation was not easy, for no longer was she mistress of the home that had been hers for fifteen years. With Philip’s restrictive presence so near, Margaret had lost both her independence and her privacy. Both women were more comfortable traveling between the various Royal homes. Townsend in his new capacity most often went with them. The Queen Mother found him a sympathetic companion, one of the most reliable members of her greatly reduced Household, while Townsend and Margaret discovered “increasing solace in one another’s company.”
Townsend and Rosemary still publicly maintained a degree of pretense as to their relationship, and Adelaide Cottage was ostensibly their home. In June, the Queen, Philip and Margaret were even their guests for tea. Within six months, Rosemary had moved out. Townsend spent a lonely, solitary Christmas. He joined Margaret at Sandringham in February 1953. The past year had brought them consistently together. He had always found her understanding, far beyond her years, and she was one of the few people who could make him laugh in the face of his present difficult situation.
He had been awarded a decree nisi against Rosemary in view of her adultery with John de Lazslo (the son of Philip de Lazslo, a celebrated Royal portrait artist), whom she married two months later; and Townsend had been given legal custody of their two sons. His “ordeal” was over, but it had left him somewhat numb. Margaret made him feel wonderfully alive again. The emotion and intense attraction that had been building over the nine years of their friendship suddenly erupted.
“One afternoon [a few weeks later], at Windsor Castle, when everyone had gone to London for some ceremony,” he recalled, “we talked in the Red Drawing-Room for hours—about ourselves.... It was then that we made the mutual discovery of how much we meant to one another.”
Townsend is, above all else, a gentleman, not given to the excess of “kiss and tell.” And he was a responsible and mature man. But he could see, as remarkable as it seemed to him at the time, that this young, beautiful Princess was desperately in love with him. He knew very well that they both were playing with fire. He sat down then and “told her, very quietly,” how he felt about her. “That is exactly how I feel, too,” she said simply when he was done. They “longed” to remain together—“God alone knew how—and never be parted.”
For the next few months they indulged their feelings. They could not chance being seen in public together. “At Balmoral, dressed in tartan skirt and green tweed jacket,” Townsend reminisced, “she would sometimes walk with me ... a discreet but adequate distance from the rest of the party, so that we could talk en tête-à-tête .... We talked while walking on the hill, among the heather, with the breeze in our faces; or riding in the Great Park at Windsor, along drives flanked with rhododendrons and venerable oaks and beeches ... or through the pinewoods and across the stubble at Sandringham.” Their love deepened in her own milieux, surrounded by memories, home and family. Their difference in age and station tended to make it even more profound.
“How to consummate this mutual pleasure” was the question. “Marriage, at this moment,” he has written, “seemed the least likely solution, and anyway, at the prospect of my becoming a member of the Royal Family, the imagination boggled, most of all my own.”
Not only did they have her family with whom to contend, but the British Constitution and the Church. He was a divorced man. She was in the Royal succession. To marry they would need the Queen’s consent along with that of Parliament and the Dominions. Neither felt ready to deal with all these hurdles so soon, but they did not want to have to continue to be devious about their feelings or to hide them. Margaret decided to speak privately to her sister.
She asked permission to see her alone. They met in the morning in the sitting room of the Belgian Suite. The easy camaraderie they had once enjoyed was now somewhat restrained. Since her sister was Queen, Margaret could not simply knock and then bounce in to see Lilibet. She had to be ushered into her presence. And, although neither of them had bowed to their father, a small curtsy was somehow in order and “Ma’am” expected as an initial greeting. (In fact, the Queen Mother also extended this same courtesy to Elizabeth.) She did not confide at this time her wish to marry Townsend. But she did tell her sister how deeply in love she was, that she hoped Townsend might be included in family gatherings so that everyone could see how happy and right they were together.
The Queen had always had a proprietary feeling toward her younger sister. She was also a bit of a romantic and recalled how understanding Margaret had been in South Africa when she and Philip had been separated. Besides, she liked Townsend and knew how fond her father had been of him. Reacting without a great deal of surprise, she suggested Margaret and Townsend spend that evening with her and Philip. Whatever the lovers might have expected that night, what was gained from it was a sense that the Queen had accepted the “disturbing” fact of their love for each other with some sympathy.
Philip handled the situation with caustic humor. He appeared to find “a funny side to this poignant situation.” Townsend adds, “I did not blame him. A laugh here and there did not come amiss.”
The Queen Mother was soon taken into their confidence. She reacted calmly to their news—“without a sign that she felt angered or outraged—or on the other hand, that she acquiesced.” Townsend suspected that the Queen Mother and the Queen (and certainly Philip) felt “it c
ould not be,” but if disconcerted, no one made a move that would indicate they planned to separate the lovers or attempt to end the liaison. In fact, the Queen Mother gave Townsend more responsibility and included him in additional family activities, giving the couple a greater opportunity to be together.
The thinking among the Royal Family might well have been that the affair would run down on its own if let alone. But if Margaret—always the rebel—was told she would have to give up Townsend, she might very well do something foolish, like go public—or worse, run off with him.
The family now endured another blow which took all their attention. Queen Mary was seriously ill. After returning from a holiday at Sandringham in February, she had suffered severe abdominal pains caused by a colon deformity. Her age and the state of her heart made an operation out of the question. She told her family she “did not wish to go on living as an old crock.” Her physician, Sir Horace Evans, feared she had given up. He then took it upon himself to write the Duke of Windsor, who was once again spending the winter in New York, “I cannot help feeling that she wants to see you, though She has not said so.”
The Duke boarded the liner Queen Elizabeth with his sister, Princess Mary (at whose home he would stay), who had also been abroad. The Duchess did not accompany them. While at sea he wrote her: “The bulletins from Marlborough House proclaim the old lady’s condition to be slightly improved! Ice in place of blood in the veins must be a fine preservative.”
He found his mother critically ill, but still in firm mind. (She had told her friend Osbert Sitwell, “I have lost my memory, but I mean to get it back.”) He was allowed to see her for only fifteen minutes each day with his sister. “She [Queen Mary] notices if you are one minute late and talks coherently [although] she repeats herself a lot and has one or two theme songs upon which she harps all the time [not to delay the Coronation because of her death and not to have an extended mourning period]. Our arrival seems to have done her good and although she gives us no indication we are told she got quite a kick out of seeing us again.”
