American Duchess

by Karen Harper

  “Fate is kind for once, yes?” he whispered as we walked from the Saloon to assemble in the library. “And a blessing that we meet again and can now be friends.”

  “You have not married?”

  “Not yet,” he said with a shrug. “I found her once but lost her just as fast.”

  I nodded, feeling sad for him. I was not so conceited as to think he could mean me, not this charming, handsome Frenchman I had spent barely a quarter hour with years ago.

  I had also told Sunny that I had danced with Jacques the night of my debut in Paris. I had received much the same bloodless reaction from him as when I had told him on our wedding day that I had loved another man. “What goes around comes around,” he said this time.

  “Well, just as with you and Gladys, it is possible to enjoy the company of another person,” I had replied.

  “Quite right. But you like Gladys, too. That Frenchman was not half as interested in our stables or even the estate when I gave your father’s friends a tour. He is more interested in spouting off about how Blenheim would look from a hot-air balloon. Hot air—ha!”

  It is true that Jacques was fascinated by not only that now—a passionate hobby, he said—but by the future of something he called flying machines. But I had found all of that quite daring and interesting.

  At the first night’s dinner, Jacques had proudly said, “Not only the Americans and Germans, but we French are at the forefront of this endeavor, have been ever since King Louis XVI watched a balloon ascent at Versailles years ago.” The next day at breakfast, he had asked, “Can you imagine men flying over national boundaries, doing reconnaissance in war, let alone peacetime flights? We will need a lightweight engine for powered flight in the future, but I know a man, Léon Levavasseur, who is working on that.”

  My father looked interested. Sunny nodded. I was entranced, perhaps not so much by the idea of flight as with my own flights of fancy. Just as I had felt swept away in the brief dance I had shared with Jacques years ago, I sensed the same now. Perhaps Papa picked up on that for he asked me after breakfast, “Why don’t you walk Jacques to the Grand Bridge, my dear? I and the others plan to go hunting with Sunny, but Jacques would rather not shoot birds in the sky, I take it—only fly with them.”

  I wondered if Papa—and perhaps Jacques—had set this up. Had Papa sensed some spark between this Frenchman and me? I know Papa thought my husband rather a cold fish, but surely he would not want to encourage me to stray. But with someone I had not seen in years and probably never would again?

  “Yes, yes, a good idea,” I told him.

  “I CAN HEAR the banging of the guns already,” I remarked to Jacques. “I prefer hearing birds sing to shooting them.”

  We walked together around the lake toward the massive bridge that the genius architect Sir John Vanbrugh had fashioned for the first Marlboroughs nearly two centuries ago. I had always loved the balanced beauty of it with its massive, honey-hued stone arches reflected in the lake the famous landscape architect Capability Brown had created from several streams.

  “The banging of the guns?” he said. “I thought that was my heart—at the stunning view here.”

  He was a bit of a tease and a flirt but never seemed to overstep, perhaps because—even at my age and all I had been through—I was hungry to be courted. I loved speaking French with him. It seemed my senses woke up, the girl or woman in me sprang alive. Yet despite his words and the intense way he regarded me, he seemed so under control, so proper. But beware, I told myself, for he is a Frenchman. Allure and charisma are their stock-in-trade.

  “But for London Bridge,” I told him, “this may be the only bridge in England that was built to house people. Several of the chambers have fireplaces and chimneys, but I am not sure anyone has ever lived there. And there is one huge windowless room that had been plastered and fitted with an arch, as if for theatricals. The rooms are locked and off-limits now so that someone does not take up residence there or damage them—or themselves.”

  “A lovely place for a picnic or a great adventure. The lake, I believe, came later and put the lower part of the arches underwater. Still, so magnifique, yes? A work of beauty.”

  He took my arm and put it through his. His blue eyes seemed bluer with the sky above him. His mustache lifted slightly when he smiled, which was often. Our gazes locked and held. And then, something I had not expected. I had been quite tense but I suddenly relaxed. This man moved me deeply but made me feel safe, too, as well as respected and appreciated. Oh, what a heady mix that was.

  We walked up onto the roadway over the highest arch of the bridge and looked down into the blue water of the lake. Despite the midmorning winter breeze, I felt warm, and it seemed as if this huge, solid structure under my feet was moving.

  “Consuelo, your two sons are very handsome. The older one a handful, yes?”

  “Indeed, he is. Do you recognize a bit of yourself in him?”

  “I do. I was throwing toy soldiers off a bridge when I was young to see if they would sink or swim—the tin ones sank and the wooden ones floated, but none flew. As I said, it is beautiful here,” he added. Leaning back, his elbow resting on the bridge, he looked up into the sun beyond my shaded face.

  What did he really see? I wondered. An attractive woman, for I knew I had outgrown the gawkiness I once had. A married woman, a mother? A wealthy duchess? All that but still a lonely girl trying to find her place, trying to love and be loved?

  “The offer to take you up in a balloon still stands,” he told me as we walked slowly back toward the palace, taking the long way around the lake. “Perhaps when you visit your father next, yes? I shall take him, too, if he wishes, though he seems only interested in land or sea. And you, Consuelo?”

  “If you think it is safe—because of my sons, I mean.”

  “I shall take care of you. But remember, some things worth having are not safe, at least at first. Ah, like flying machines, yes?” he added, turning to me again. He did not smile this time but seemed to study me. I think he wanted to remember me and this short time we had alone. I felt the same. And more. Even the Prince of Wales’s stares and innuendos paled to nothing beside those of Monsieur Jacques Balsan.

  SADLY, SOON, IN October 1899, England went to war, just when Sunny and I were trying to settle into a truce. The South African Boer War they called it because the Dutch Boer settlers in South Africa wanted Britain out of “their” territory. British forces overwhelmed the enemy at first, but the Boers fought back in what they called guerrilla style—unconventional and underhanded. Winston entered the action there as a war correspondent. He had been taken prisoner, made a bold escape, and was now considered a dashing hero here at home.

  Sunny was slated to leave for the war soon, in early 1900, as part of the Imperial Yeomanry. I was appalled, not because he would go, but because a London paper intimated he was leaving not to do his duty but to escape marital problems. I thought we had been putting up a pretty good front and I never did learn who leaked the status of our non-marriage to the press.

  “Now remember what I said about rearing our sons,” Sunny said in the last few moments before he departed for who knew how long. We stood in the Great Hall at Blenheim, though we had said our good-byes with the children last night. “Boys will be boys, you know.”

  “I had two brothers, you may recall, and I do not think they were one whit damaged by learning there were some rules in life.”

  “Now do not argue. I am sure Gladys’s staying for a few weeks will cheer you up.”

  “She does keep me up on things and is always kind, interested, and interesting.”

  “There, you see. Consuelo, my duchess, I know we had a devil of a time in the beginning,” he told me, taking both my hands in his and standing closer than he had for quite a long time. The honorary medals on his scarlet dress uniform caught the slant of sun through the doorway glass and glinted. “And a rough patch here and there after. But you have gifted me with two fine sons and have been a gra
nd hostess, helped me climb back into the good graces of the royals. I believe Queen Victoria is not long for this world, as they say, and then—Bertie as king and your friend Alexandra queen.”

  “That will mean a lot of changes, but England will weather them, war or not.”

  “Spoken like a true Englishwoman and not only an American.”

  “Only?” I said with the edge back in my voice that I reserved for when he lectured me, which was far too often. But I did not want to ruin this rare moment, for there had been so few like this. I realized, of course, that though he would probably be some general’s secretary and not on the battlefield, he yet might not return.

  We stared a moment into each other’s eyes. The best I could think of to say was what he really wanted to hear. “I will take good care of our boys and of Blenheim.”

  “Dear Blenheim, my third son and heir,” he said with a little shake of his head as he gazed away at the marble bust of the first duke over the Saloon door.

  He held me close. His wool uniform smelled of the camphor it had been stored in, and I thought I would sneeze. Thank heavens, I did not, for he kissed me once hard on the lips. He did not want me to go to the station but to stand at the door of Blenheim where I would greet him with both boys when he came home.

  “Be safe,” I told him, “and take care of Winston, if you see him. He takes too many chances, but I know that you will be sensible.”

  He grabbed his helmet from the chair near the door. I followed him out and saw Gladys waiting by the carriage to say farewell. She said something and bobbed him that little curtsy she always managed as if she were one of his dependents hereabouts. He kissed her on the cheek and climbed into the carriage, which rolled immediately away while Gladys kept waving.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Sunny returned in July of that year. I greeted him on the front steps of the Great Court with Blandford standing beside me and Ivor in my arms. Sunny hugged the boys, quite equally, I thought, and ruffled Blandford’s hair. He embraced me, too, and kissed my cheek.

  “More later,” he whispered, though I was not sure what that meant. More than a quick kiss? More time with our boys?

  The months he had been away I had kept busy, yet I had pondered—even agonized—over what our marriage would be in the future. I had indeed missed him but not in an emotional or romantic way. I had missed his control of this big place, his concern, toward our sons at least. But as for the Duke of Marlborough and his duchess, even now that we were back together, unless it was with our sons, a stone wall loomed, one I did not know how to break through, one I did not know if I wanted him to climb. Even in the big ducal bed, when he claimed me again, I was getting used to a marriage that was as cold as vast Blenheim.

  The Boer war was not over yet, but I was still glad to have him home. I had been right that he had not seen much action, whereas Winston had absolutely managed to be in the thick of it and was now planning to parlay all that into making a stand for Parliament.

  “I had the tea table set up under the trees,” I told him, gesturing toward the lake on that first day of his return. “Apricots and peaches, bowls of Devonshire cream and pitchers of iced coffee—things I am sure you have missed.”

  “Not as much as I have missed all of you. And scones for my boys, eh?” he added. “With fruit jams and cakes with sugar icing!”

  Although Sunny had been gone barely six months, I had coached both boys about behaving and hugging their father. Besides, I was in a good mood. In the spring—ah, so far away—I was going to see Papa in Paris, attend the races at Longchamp, and accept the standing offer of my friend Jacques to take to the skies in a balloon.

  IN JANUARY 1901, Queen Victoria died, and the nation and Empire were plunged into mourning. I even wore a traditional crepe mourning veil when I went out, as if I were a widow, especially, of course, when we went to London for the state funeral. Wearing black so depressed me that winter. I had the wildest urge to wear colors, not to dishonor Her Majesty’s memory, but to cheer myself.

  Sunny was pleased we had been asked to the services, which were in the smaller St. George’s Chapel at Windsor, so only the elite and powerful were invited. Going to Windsor in our ducal train car, thinking I looked like gloom and grief itself, I was surprised when Sunny said, “My beautiful wife, if I die, I see you will not remain a widow for long.”

  I was sorely tempted to say something like, And if I die, I believe the Duke of Marlborough will find a mate quickly, too. I knew Gladys would take him in a moment, because, for some reason, he was her ideal of chivalry, her knight in shining armor. So often I saw her eyes follow him as she heaved a heartfelt sigh. I suppose I should have been jealous or worried, but I could not stir myself to that.

  Besides, I understood fully. How foolish I was to be counting the days until I might see my favorite Frenchman again.

  So, at least I had a compliment from my husband on my appearance. He seldom praised me for anything else, though I knew he approved of the way I cherished our boys. Sometimes I wondered if he were actually jealous of or resented my efforts to uplift the village folk, the way I got down from the carriage to greet or chat with them or—God forgive—from my little pony cart, which he thought not grand enough. At least he no longer chastised me for my democratic tendencies, perhaps when he saw the way the folk on the estate looked up to him for things I did.

  The queen’s funeral was solemn and striking, befitting a woman who had ruled England and the Empire for so long. But even as the Knights of the Garter, foreign rulers—including the Kaiser—colonial officers and ministers of state, and the lords and ladies of the realm like us rose as the royal cortège mounted the steps, I pondered her life when she was my age with a young family. But she had her beloved Albert then. She had wed the right man for her. And was not that just as important as being queen or even a duchess?

  But after the pomp ended, after the funeral march faded and the clank of ceremonial swords in scabbards quieted, I found my spirits greatly lifted. Upstairs in the Waterloo Chamber, where a light meal had been laid out, I found myself sought for greetings and conversations—of course not by my husband—but by many of the powerful men of the realm including the charming Arthur Balfour and the influential George Curzon. I liked to think my conversations with them that day were a help for Sunny later being given the Garter and being named Under-Secretary for the Colonies in July 1903. As Sunny liked to say, “we” were really on our way.

  And another great gift to me—although they were yet to have their coronation, Queen Alexandra asked me to be one of her canopy bearers for that ceremony. Also Sunny and I were in the very select party of companions asked to go to India for the Durbar next year, two weeks of festivities in Delhi to celebrate the succession of Edward VII and Alexandra—and Lord Curzon was to become viceroy there.

  Oh, foolish and selfish though I sounded to myself, I hoped none of that interfered with my trip to see Papa and Jacques.

  AT THE LAST minute on that trip to Paris, though Papa had said he would go up in the balloon with Jacques and me, one of his racing horses became ill and he begged off to go to his stables. The three of us had dined one night to make the plans, but at least I was still going. Jacques himself called for me at Papa’s house, and we set off in a carriage for a field outside of Paris.

  We talked about everything. There was never a dull moment. I told him about the electric car my mother had sent me and the boys from America. Despite Sunny’s insistence I always be accompanied, that instead of my pony cart was my escape from problems and from him. I drove alone to visit charity cases and through the forests of Blenheim and Woodstock. I stopped on the bridge where Jacques and I had once stood. Sometimes I took Golden along in her gilded cage and just listened as her songs blended with that of other birds.

  And sometimes I just watched the clouds and pretended I was flying. But now I was about to take to the skies.

  “Let me hold your hand to steady you,” Jacques said. He was speaking English to
me right now, but French to the two men who would release the guy ropes yet keep their ends attached to a metal frame in the grass. Above us bobbing, waiting, was a beautiful blue and red balloon with big white stripes, the colors, I thought, of the American flag, the British Union Jack, and the French Tricolor.

  Though I was trembling a bit at this ride and my nearness to Jacques, I climbed the wooden stairs next to the deep, narrow woven basket and, lifting my skirts a bit, climbed in. He came right behind me.

  “We are going high but they will not cut us loose this time,” he assured me. “Not for our first time, yes? No danger, for I do not want the Duke of Marlborough and the British crown after my head if we should just drift away forever.” He laughed deep in his throat and reached up to adjust the burner over our heads.

  “Now!” he called to his friends. “Allons! Allons! Let’s go!”

  And go we did. Upward, higher and higher, though still tethered to the ground.

  I gasped at the magnificence of the vast view. This is what it was to fly. To my amazement, tears blurred my vision, and I blinked them back. He took my hand. His was warm and steady to my shaking touch. I leaned slightly against him as the breeze picked up. His arm encircled my waist.

  “From the first moment I saw you,” he said, his breath heating my cheek and ear, “I wanted to take you with me like this. I . . . I wanted you. So, one kiss to celebrate our friendship, yes? This special moment we soar into the heavens, though I swear to you, Consuelo, we could even do better than this and on the ground.”

  “A kiss? Only a kiss,” I told him, but my voice trembled and the breeze snatched my words away.

  Our mouths met perfectly. He moved his lips, slanted sideways, seemed to drink me in. My knees leaned against him for support. He held me tight to him with one hand and steadied us with the other as the basket in which we stood swayed. Suddenly, I was not sure I had ever really been kissed before. I did not want this ride or his touch to ever end. When we parted, both breathing hard, still with our gazes locked, he looked ecstatic, yet tears gilded his eyes, too.