American Duchess

by Karen Harper

  So here I sat praying in the church service at nearby Woodstock not with Sunny, but with Lilian, for Norah was under the weather. I prayed for a child—a son—and for a much improved marriage and better relations with the Prince of Wales. I prayed for strength and some sign I was appreciated somewhere.

  On our way out, while Lilian bustled ahead to speak to someone, the curate, standing off to the side, motioned to me. “I must tell you, Your Grace,” he said when I joined him, “that the gifts and compliments you send regularly when the schoolchildren sing for the staff at the big house have been much appreciated. Even the flowers you sent their teachers at Bladon and here at Woodstock.”

  “I am pleased to hear that,” I told him. “I learned long ago that children, too, love flowers. I had a garden at our house called Idle Hour and sent the flowers to nearby children when I was just a child.”

  “And now,” he said with a smile and a slight nod, “your endeavors to meet and know people in the village are blossoming. The old ladies at the almshouse you visit are so appreciative of your time, especially Mrs. Prattley, the blind lady whom you read to.”

  “She loves the Book of John, especially the part where the Lord heals the blind man. I nearly have it memorized myself. She is such a gentle, patient soul and—I need to learn that.”

  “I have no doubt that ‘Blessed are the meek’ is difficult for a duchess. Well, the last thing I heard—and the old ladies all cheered—was that they now have food from the big house that they can tell what it is, not all swirled together like—mush.”

  “Good. Tradition needs to be changed sometimes.”

  “Well,” he said, with the first frown I had seen from him today, “please do not quote me to the duke about that, for, of course, he always tells me that the aristocracy is the cornerstone of society—of civilization itself.”

  I did not blink an eye at that, Sunny’s bedrock belief in a nutshell.

  “I feel blessed by the village people and feel I derive more gifts from them than they do me,” I told him as Lilian, already seated in our landau, looked around to see what I was doing.

  “You know,” he said, speaking even more quietly as others passed, “Mrs. Prattley calls you ‘The Angel of Woodstock,’ and I dared not argue with that.”

  I blinked back tears as I bid him good-bye and was helped into the landau by a footman. I felt calm for once, and cared for—really cared for her. For that blind, old lady and the others she lived with, the schoolchildren, the tenants in the streets and fields had given me a finer gift than any expensive costume or ornate piece of jewelry.

  I felt I had done something good and worthwhile here, in the Lord’s eyes, if not my lord’s eyes. For the first time I glimpsed that I, as duchess, could make a difference.

  Chapter Ten

  You indeed look like a Duchess of Marlborough!” my mother-in-law, Albertha, crowed, clasping her gloved hands together.

  The two of us were waiting in the line of ladies to be presented to the Prince of Wales and his wife, Princess Alexandra, because the queen no longer undertook difficult duties. I was regretful I would not be able to meet Her Majesty, but Sunny had said he hoped for a more private audience with her soon. He was somewhere with the crowd inside, and the dowager duchess was my presenter. At least the two of us had worked well today so far.

  It was the first time I had been in Buckingham Palace, which, I understood, the prince and his set had jauntily dubbed “Buck House.” Today was the first time Sunny and I had ridden in the new crimson state coach he had purchased to be pulled by his favorite team of four matched grays. It was driven by a white-wigged coachman in a red coat with cape and guarded by two powdered footmen riding postilion in similar garb.

  After being escorted through a series of small rooms called “the pens,” I took my place in line outside the palace ballroom. I felt weighed down by my jewelry and garments and heavy court train, which was draped over my right arm. For once, I blessed my mother for making me wear that dreaded iron contraption years ago that made me stand so straight.

  The neckline of my bridal gown had been cut lower to meet the proscribed style for presentation attire, since recent brides wore that gown by tradition. Short sleeves with over-the-elbow gloves were de rigueur. I wore a diamond belt, a recent gift from my husband, and the diamond tiara Papa had given me. Each lady to be presented wore three ostrich feathers upright in her coif. Sunny had said it was to honor the Prince of Wales’s historic heraldic badge, but Albertha said it was so that, in the crowd, the prince could give his full attention to any pretty young woman approaching.

  Oh my, I thought when the palace footmen swept open the double doors, at least the length and height of the ballroom was not so daunting, perhaps the size of Blenheim’s long library. A band inside played military music, but we hardly marched in. Each of us in turn halted to give the card with her name to a lord-in-waiting, who then handed it to the Lord Chamberlain to be read aloud in his booming voice while the train was taken off my arm and arranged by Albertha and a page.

  My name rang out, and I moved farther forward, leaving Albertha a few steps behind as planned. I sensed a stir in the attendants and the crowd, but I had known I would be a curiosity. I concentrated on gliding across the parquet floor and then onto the crimson carpet that led to the elevated dais where sat the prince and princess on thrones. Thank heavens I had practiced the court curtsy, for it was very deep with my head almost touching the floor, a real stretch for a woman of my height.

  But I was well rehearsed. Probably fearful that his mother would come up with something silly, Sunny had insisted on watching while I curtsied repeatedly after walking the long library in this gown, dragging the train.

  I managed both of my curtsies to the royals. Oh, the prince was quite heavy, indeed fat, and the princess so lovely. And how Bertie, as they called him, looked me over with an avid eye, more than most would dare. I found it a bit off-putting but for two things. I had heard he had a roving eye for any pretty woman, so it was not personal. And Sunny had said that if the prince approved of me, it would help the family climb back in his good graces.

  And then, before I turned away, the most momentous thing: Princess Alexandra smiled at me, right at me! I was so grateful and liked her instantly. They said she was hard of hearing. I felt I not only saw but heard her sympathy, her good wishes for me loud and clear.

  The worse part was yet to come, for one must not turn a back to the royals. So, after a page scooped up my train and placed it over my arm again, I retreated in reverse, gazing not to the right or left, inching away from the royal presence.

  In the corridor outside, Sunny was beaming. “I have a beautiful, regal duchess!” he told the man next to him, though he did not tell me. That set me a bit on edge.

  “Well done,” Albertha said. “I must say, no one would take you for an American!”

  I could not help myself in my retort to her, for I was full up with comments disparaging my people and my past. “I suppose you mean that as a compliment,” I told her. “But what would you think if I said you were not at all like an Englishwoman?”

  “Oh, but that is quite different,” she protested, starting to blush.

  “Different to you, but not to me. I am proud to be an American. I will ever be an American, even living here wed to the English, with English and American children, someday, I pray.”

  Sunny took my arm. I thought he might be angry, but he said, “Mother, Consuelo carried herself beautifully tonight, and as for children, we shall soon see.”

  As our coach swept us away from the palace gates that night to the music of the Household Calvary band, and as we rode down the Mall, I felt I had become in truth, duchess at last, if still an American one.

  AMID THE SOCIAL swirl of polo matches, visits to Parliament to listen to and applaud speeches—sometimes Winston went along—theater visits, and numerous parties that first London season, came another important invitation. The Duke and Duchess of Marlborough were invit
ed to be presented to the queen. The event was called a dine-and-sleep and was to be held with a small number of guests at Windsor Castle on very short notice. That, Sunny said, was because one never knew how strong Her Majesty would be from time to time.

  We took the train, which the British called the railway. Again, I had been prepared for this by a family member, this time Sunny’s great-aunt. I must speak only when spoken to by the queen and must keep my comments pertinent to Her Majesty’s question. When presented, I would kiss the queen’s hand, and because I was a peeress, she would give me a quick kiss on my brow as a blessing. Here we were, properly dressed in dark colors, but she was swathed all in widow’s black. I know she still mourned her beloved Albert after all these years, but I vowed I would never go into eternal mourning, God forgive me, at least not for Sunny. However, mourning for losing my person and my past might suit me.

  I was surprised that Queen Victoria was so tiny that I almost had to kneel to get low enough to receive the forehead kiss. I wore a diamond crescent in my hair that I feared might scratch her, but all went well. Her questions to me were about my country, and I caught the whiff of disdain there, too. Needless to say, I did not lecture her as I had my mother-in-law. Dinner was odd and a bit depressing with everyone but Her Majesty whispering. I found Windsor Castle somewhat gloomy and was amazed it made me long for—at least the gardens and rural spots—of Blenheim.

  Funny, but in the midst of all this, I thought how very regal was dear, blind Mrs. Prattley in the almshouse with her black shawl pulled over her shoulders and her graceful, blue-veined hands folded in her lap while I read to her. She, too, had lost her husband years ago, and there was such an inherent, silent nobility about her. God forgive me, but I would have preferred to be spending time with her.

  SUNNY WAS GIDDY with joy that autumn when we received an invitation from the Prince and Princess of Wales to visit their country estate of Sandringham in Norfolk for a Monday through Saturday—not even the shorter Saturday through Monday.

  “He knows I am not like my father!” Sunny told me. “And I am sure he was taken with you too, Consuelo. He has a bit of a reputation with women, I must warn you again, though I am certain he would not pursue one who had not yet borne an heir.”

  “Nor would I ‘take up with him,’” I retorted. “Not before or after an heir or ten of them. And since it is you he is favoring, you do not need me to earn the Marlborough way back!”

  “Now, I did not mean that. Not a bit of it. You are a Marlborough-Spencer-Churchill now, too. You have been doing a fine job when we entertain here.”

  I just stared at what, I was certain, might be the first real compliment he had paid me, at least one he made directly, with no one else around.

  “And you will be smashing there,” he rushed on. “There will be a lot of shooting, of course, but you ladies will join us for lunch under a marquee outside, and you can become acquainted with the princess. Their heir, George, Duke of York, and his family live on the estate in a place called York House, quite small and provincial, but charming.”

  “Every house is small, compared to Blenheim. Do you think you could be happy in such a rural place? I have told you how much fun my brothers and I used to have at Papa’s favorite house where we went after our wedding. My mother might have decorated it, but it seemed most like home.”

  “A place like that rather than Blenheim? Absolutely out of the question, so do not bring it up again. Blenheim is home! But one more thing. The heirs of George, Duke of York, Victoria’s firstborn great-grandson and his younger brother, David and Bertie, their heir and the spare, as you like to say, live mostly at York House. Their mother is Mary of Teck. You must keep all this straight. And these two heirs were born a scant two years after their marriage and quite close together.”

  “I am sure hearing that, especially about their two little sons, will inspire others,” I dared with a roll of my eyes. Then, to avoid a righteous tirade from Sunny and even a determined nightly visit to my bedchamber for my snide remark, I quickly darted in another verbal direction. “So how deaf is the princess and how is it best to speak to her?”

  “I hear she somewhat reads lips, but be certain to speak directly to her. She will show you her collections of bric-a-brac, so she will do a lot of the talking, another way she tries to overcome, I suppose.”

  I wondered what she did to overcome and overlook her husband’s infidelities, but bit my tongue on that. The kindly woman had smiled at me when I saw she did not necessarily do that to others in the presentation line. But how fortunate that she had borne children—sons—early in her marriage. And the message was always that I must do the same.

  I MUST ADMIT I loved the country elegance of Sandringham. The “big house,” as they called it there, seemed homey next to Blenheim, and York Cottage was a charming but cramped place to rear a family. We all ate ptarmigan pie and lobster salad at teatime, because that is what the prince favored. Dinner, blessedly, was not the usual four hours of a social meal, but one hour, because that was the way here. Despite the four major changes of attire each day, I enjoyed myself greatly because of the warmth and kindness of Princess Alexandra.

  She was a beautiful brunette with a poodle-fringe of hair over her high forehead. She, too, owned a thick pearl choker, which she wore at dinner, so I was glad I had not brought mine along. I had seen that women imitated her limp with the so-called Alexandra glide, but I did not, for I found it faintly mocking.

  “I must say, you have two beautiful grandsons at York House I was honored to meet!” I told her as she showed me her large Fabergé egg collection. I tried especially hard to talk directly to her and raise my voice. She did not use an ear trumpet. Though she was some years older at age fifty-two and far above my rank, she seemed my age, my friend.

  “My dear Consuelo, they are darling boys. We are on the lookout for granddaughters also.”

  “I was the firstborn, but two boys followed!”

  “I am sure you miss your family. I miss mine in Denmark and visit when I can—or when they cannot come here. Now this egg opens up with a mere touch of this hidden pin, you see?” she said and opened the ornate, gilded and jeweled egg. To my surprise, within was a tiny, delicately decorated hot-air balloon with a gold woven basket and two gilded figures.

  “Oh, it is lovely, Your Majesty! I know—I mean knew—someone who flew a balloon once.”

  “Someone is new, you say?” she asked frowning and tilting her head. I realized too late I had said that too quietly. Yet I felt I had blurted it out, so strong was my memory of my few moments with Jacques Balsan.

  “He is a Frenchman! He flies in balloons!”

  “I say, perhaps he will take us up someday,” she added with a little laugh. “Oh, I see outside the window the men are returning. How many hundreds of partridge will they have dispatched today, do you think? Do come along now, and we will greet them before tea, then have time for a little lie down before dinner.”

  The prince was all eyes for me again, and Sunny was beaming in his proximity to the man. But I was well content to have only Alexandra take my arm.

  BUT, ALAS, OUR newfound royal favoritism had its price—at least for me, though Sunny would never agree. During the yacht races at Cowes in August, he burst into my bedroom at our leased seaside home while Rosalie was lacing up my corset. I was surprised and Rosalie totally flustered.

  “Wait outside,” Sunny told her. “I need to convey something to the duchess straightaway!”

  She fled, and I stood there, half-laced. I began, “Well, at least, I can tell by your smile no one has died, so—”

  “The prince and princess will be making a visit to Blenheim! We are on the upward path, Consuelo! Do not look so dismayed, for this is a godsend for the Marlborough name and reputation, if not fortune, for it takes a lot of tin, as your American newspapers say, to host them. But this is an answer to prayer!” he insisted and came close to kiss me, something he almost never did.

  “But when? Just t
he two of them?”

  “Ah, November 23 for five days to be exact, but the two of them?” He laughed. “They are bringing some of their family, two of their daughters, no less, Maud and young Victoria. Then their staff, of course, two equerries with their valets, two loaders for shooting. Probably a total of twenty-four or -five, not including the servants.”

  He paused while I stared at him aghast. “Wherever will we put them—the royal party? We will have to move out of our first-floor rooms and house them there.”

  “Exactly. As well as redecorate some chambers. I do wish we had better plumbing, but they will have to make do. The benefits and beauty of Blenheim quite make up for that. So you need to plan breakfasts, luncheons, teas, dinners, and theatricals. The prince loves to be entertained. You will sit next to him at the table at dinner, of course, and you and the ladies will join us for luncheon in the fields the days we hunt—every day, I wager.”

  I still just stared. Granted, I had finally assumed control of the daily routines and our staff, but we had not been wed a year and now this? At first, the only thing I kept thinking was that my mother would be ecstatic and, as we crude Americans sometimes said, she would definitely “make hay” with this news.

  Chapter Eleven

  Although Sunny oversaw the redecorating of the room the royals would use, but for Albertha’s suggestions, I felt greatly on my own. I was even so desperate for advice that sometimes I wished my mother were here. But she was reveling in her new marriage and undertaking some political endeavors in her new zeal for reform. She cabled again, however, that she would come to oversee things when my first child was born, so that weighed on me, too.

  “The royal reception is going to be an absolute repeat of our triumphant arrival as newlyweds here,” Sunny said, with a clap of his hands. The Waleses would be arriving that afternoon, and we were heading out to the Great Court to take a carriage to meet our guests at the Woodstock railway station. “The same triumphal arch has been raised,” he went on as if I hadn’t planned and arranged all that weeks ago. “The same schoolchildren prepared to sing for their arrival, and hundreds have turned out for a glimpse of their future king.”