by Karen Harper
“I am working on it, Your Majesty,” I said loudly.
“Working on what?” the duke said, coming up to us after again speaking with the king and queen. I was so grateful they had come and that they had even mentioned that Queen Alexandra had reminded them of this event more than once. At least King George was not such a stickler for propriety as his father had been, for rumors were rampant that the duke and I would permanently part. But could I trust this man to finally let me go?
“I want Consuelo to be happy,” Queen Alexandra told him, tapping his arm with her gloved finger. “I expect to see her again and know that she is content, so, sadly, you must do your duty, Sunny.”
“Oh, ah, yes,” he stammered, and the tips of his ears actually turned pink. So she did know of my attempt to turn our separation into a divorce, and she must be referring to that, bless her? Could she even know about Jacques?
After the royals had departed, the two newly united families went to Sunderland House for a reception. I could tell Ivor, the best man, was tiring, but I was too, light-headed and nearly swaying on my feet.
After everyone cheered the smiling, departing young couple—and I said a silent prayer that Bert’s fascination with showgirls was over—and Mary’s family had departed also, the duke came up to me and took my elbow to steer me aside from his family.
“I am writing a scathing letter to the Times,” he told me.
“Not about our situation?”
“Hardly. About the wretched mess our liberal P.M. Lloyd George is making of things. Taxing the aristocracy to death. My key line in the letter is Are historical homes to become merely museums and dead relics?”
“I see. Of course, you are worried about Blenheim with all the new taxes.”
“Go ahead and say it,” he whispered. “And without much Vanderbilt money, despite the so-called allowance I receive when you decamp. And then to be made to jump through hoops to obtain a divorce—which I should have had years ago!”
“Really? How I wished we had discussed that years ago. And perhaps you had best keep your voice down here.”
“I want you to hear this loud and clear. I still say you may have it—our damned divorce. I will do the rest that is required of me. I have someone who truly cares for me, and I have no doubt you do, too.”
“Then thank you for carrying out the last important step. I am grateful, for I will no longer be told what I must do with my life.”
“You have not listened to me for years on that! And that is what is wrong with America, always was and still is, rabid, out-of-control independence mania, my American duchess!”
I surprised him by seizing and shaking his hand. “Nothing like a good American independence day,” I told him. “Thank you again for your part in that. And on a happy marriage day, we discuss for the last time ending our sad one. It is for the best for both of us—Sunny.”
Still clasping my hand in return, he nodded, but his frown seemed etched on his brow. “Consuelo,” he said only and turned away.
Good-bye for good, I thought. And that made me feel good.
THOUGH I WAS terrified that the duke would yet balk at having to be seen cohabiting with another woman—though it would certainly not be Gladys, though he was actually living with her—he went through with it. Before Bert’s wedding, the duke had sent me a letter declaring we could no longer cohabit together happily. As ordered, I now took that to London to my lawyer to petition a judge to restore my conjugal rights.
Again, I thought, what a sham, but the duke stuck to the rest of the plan. Followed by a detective hired by Sir Edward, whom the duke knew was two steps behind him, he took a lady hired for the occasion to the Hotel Claridge in Paris. They stayed in the same room the night of February 28, 1920, and were seen leaving the next morning. I can only imagine that the woman earned her money that night, not for any sort of coupling, but for having to stay in the room with a very upset, angry man.
Finally, the nightmare of pretense was over. The duke took a train to Nice to escape the press, and I hied myself to Sir Edward’s to ask for a court order that my conjugal rights be restored. The newspapers got the news of our pending divorce on March 23 and went crazy with it on two continents.
Finally, freedom was within reach! I would soon get my divorce decree. Then, six months later—if Jacques proposed again as he had almost already—I could legally wed him. I knew his very Catholic family would be upset he was marrying a divorced woman, but nothing mattered except our being together.
Only, I had no idea a tragedy, careening around another of life’s sharp corners, would ruin my joy and tilt my world.
Chapter Twenty-Five
The telegram from my stepmother read: YOUR FATHER WAS OUT WATCHING HIS HORSE RUN AT AUTEUIL. TERRIBLE HEART ATTACK. I HAVE NOTIFIED YOUR BROTHERS. CAN YOU COME? ANNE.
I rushed to Poissy, arriving before my brothers, who were coming from the States. Papa looked so pale and thin—so still, though he was fully awake and talking. The prognosis was not good, and I grieved even the possibility of losing him.
“You have always been on my side,” I told him the second day, sitting by the bed and holding his hand while Anne went to take a nap.
“I should have stood up for you when you married the duke.”
“Water under—and over—the dam. I believe I will soon have my divorce decree and be able to marry Jacques.”
“Ah,” he said, slowly moving his hand to his chest outside the coverlet, “I would like to be there for that.”
“You will be. You must be. It will be small, of course, private like your and Anne’s wedding. We shall hide out from the world. But, Papa, I must thank you for keeping an eye on him for me those years we were apart. You saved him for me, didn’t you?”
“I cannot convince the man to like horses more than his blasted aeroplanes, but when he told me of your first, brief meeting . . . when I saw how he treasured it still and remembered . . . Ah, so much to remember.”
“Rest now. I will sit here until Anne comes back and the boys—well, they are hardly boys now—will be here tomorrow.”
“But just in case—in case they take so much time—you know—I must tell you how proud I am of you. Always was. But what you did as duchess, what you will do . . . your charities. To whom much is given, much is expected. That has been my motto, horses aside, to give to other less . . . less blessed, so—”
He fell asleep in the middle of that thought, but what fine thoughts and words to cherish.
THE NEXT DAY, it was a sad reunion with my brothers. When Papa improved a bit, they went home and I back to London to finish my divorce business. How I hated and feared to leave him.
However, on the day evidence would be given in open court for our divorce trial, Sir Edward advised me to be “indisposed” rather than face the newspapermen. In November our case was heard in London. The duke must attend, and his lawyer would deny accusations, Sir Edward had told me. But when the duke offered no evidence in his defense and was accused of a night in Paris with an anonymous femme fatale, the judge granted me a decree nisi. Unless, Sir Edward explained to me, the judgment would be contested within the next six months, I was divorced and free. I was not sure whether to laugh or cry that I was ordered to pay paltry court costs, when I had already paid with years of my life.
Although I yearned to celebrate with Jacques, we had to make do with a relieved phone call because word came that my father was dying. I was with him when he passed away, calmly, bravely, my champion over the years of my life. Exhausted and grieving, I had the terrible thought that the Lord had exchanged Papa’s life for my new life, but that was foolishness, and I was done with all that.
Jacques came to Poissy to comfort me, to hold me. “He was a good man,” he told me. “He did great things for me, kept me in line to wait for you. He was a special friend.”
PAPA WAS BURIED in the huge Vanderbilt family mausoleum on Staten Island, there to sleep forever with his ancestors. The place was heavy stone, heavy on m
y heart. I cried as his polished coffin was slid deep into one of many vaults.
I vowed silently I would never be buried here. I had lost my beloved father, but I would always keep him in my head and heart, for he was, as Jacques had said, a special friend to me, too.
As we all turned to leave, I felt the weight of this mausoleum, the weight of the Vanderbilt name, which so many desired and envied. Yes, I was proud of the heritage, but it was a burden, too, like dear Blenheim was to the Marlboroughs. I could not wait to become just Consuelo Balsan.
Mother, of course, did not attend, though I knew she was grieving, if not Papa’s loss, then for some sad things that had passed between them and how generous he had always been. In his will, my brothers and I had received even more of an inheritance, which I vowed would go greatly to good causes.
I stayed with Mother on Long Island where she had built yet another place. This one resembled a medieval castle, frowning down on Long Island Sound. She lightened my heartache some because she was celebrating the Nineteenth Amendment to the U.S. Constitution, which gave the vote to American women, a long struggle, a great victory, in which she had had an active and vociferous part.
“It is not so bad living alone, when one has one’s causes,” Mother said, trying to buck me up, though the design and décor of this place depressed me as much as had the mausoleum. I longed for sunlight, for a small, charming place like Crowhurst, but anyplace with Jacques would do.
“I cannot believe I have lived away from my marriage from my twenty-ninth year to my forty-fourth,” I told her with a sigh. “I cannot say ‘time flies,’ but I bet it will—at least once this waiting period is over.”
“You must bring your Jacques to visit me everywhere, and not just on the Riviera.”
“Mother, he is running his family business, and I intend to take a good deal of his time—but we will certainly visit you. I thought the two of you got on quite well.”
She moved from her favorite chair to the settee where I sat, and put her arm around me. “I thank God,” she told me, leaning close, “that you and I get on well now. Consuelo, I am mourning that I made you marry the duke, but you did great things for his people, have become a strong, loving woman and have your sons, still have Ivor, at least.”
“I pray he finds someone to love the way Bert has. The way I have, at last!”
WHEN WORD WENT round that I would be leaving England to live mostly in France—though I had not yet announced why—I came to realize I would be missed in England. George Curzon asked if I regretted leaving. I told him, “Only in leaving behind good friends like you and the people I have been able to help. I shall always miss Crowhurst but must let someone else find a lovely refuge there now, for I will find a country place in France as well as a home in Paris.
“And I admit,” I went on with a sigh, “it will be an adjustment to step back into private life. I shall miss my friends and charities, but I shall find something worthwhile to do.”
I did so regret leaving my causes, especially because Papa had said I had done well with them. “To whom much is given, much is expected,” he had said, and I took that as my credo. I found it was from words the Lord had spoken in the Bible, in the book of Luke: For unto whomsoever much is given, of him shall be much required. Indeed, I vowed to myself that I would find good causes in France once I lived there as Madame Jacques Balsan.
But to my surprise, perhaps to flaunt the fact he was glad to be out of our marriage, too, the duke rather quickly wed Gladys in Paris with a civil ceremony at the British consulate on a Saturday, and then the next day in a religious ceremony. Bert, his bride Mary, and poor Ivor attended.
Ivor, age twenty-three, home from Oxford on holiday, told me, “I overheard Father was angry with her though. Gladys got what they call soft feet at the end.”
“Cold feet?”
“That’s it. I heard him yell at her—heard it right through the door—‘Haven’t you had time enough to make up your mind? You set your trap for me from the first, though it took me a while to catch on, and Consuelo, too! So do you want to be duchess or not?’
“I mean, I know they argue,” Ivor went on as if imparting some state secret, “but they should not fight about something big like that. You and Jacques don’t argue, do you?”
“Not yet, my dear, but you never know. Married people, even if they are in love, have to disagree sometimes.”
“I am just glad I do not have to worry about being duke and all that. An honor, but not one earned, and a lot of trouble. It has made Father testy at times.”
“Indeed it has.”
“Besides that, I will choose a wife very carefully. Then we will not have to muddle through that divorce business.”
I sighed. He was so innocent yet and always seemed to be younger than he was. Still delicate-looking with a blond tress always falling in his eyes, he resembled the duke whereas Bert looked more like me.
“I am very sorry you had to worry about all that, Ivor. I will miss you when I move to France, but promise me you will come and visit, and I will be back to visit you.”
“I cannot wait until we can explore all the art museums in Paris. Art is my real interest, not most of the things I must study at Oxford. And one more thing, Mama. As much as I like Monsieur Balsan, I do not want to go up in his aeroplane. I do not think I could,” he said, his face so serious. “Feet firmly on the ground, that’s me.”
“I will tell him, and he will understand. And maybe someday you will change your mind.”
“Not on that. Would you change your mind to fly back to Father, even if he had not made it final with Gladys? And I will never call her Mother!”
I bit back a smile. “I shall miss the beauty of the land around Blenheim, but, no, I will never go back to being Duchess of Marlborough, and she is welcome to all of that now.”
“Righto. I will never be duke and never go up in an aeroplane, and that suits me just fine,” he said, folding his arms over his chest.
I hugged him and rested my chin on his shoulder, treasuring the moment. My dear boy had lived and flourished despite his weak constitution that had set him back in life at times. He and Bert and the dear charity friends I was leaving behind were my true heritage as the once Duchess of Marlborough.
JACQUES HAD PROPOSED to me numerous times, but not lately. Instead the mad aviator took me flying. He had borrowed a plane with two seats, and I was behind him. He kept yelling back to me, but I could catch only part of what he said, with the wind in my ears and the close-fitted leather cap that buckled under my chin. But even through my glass goggles, it was glorious to see the English countryside slip beneath us, farms and fields and forests.
Despite how happy we were to be together, I hoped he would make our private betrothal public soon. The landing was a little bumpy but it was on a grass strip. He slowed our speed and turned the machine around, but then, right in the middle of the meadow, hopped out and helped me down. I took off my cap, and the bounty of my hair spilled loose. Under that tight cap, I had not worn my hearing aid.
“I feel I am still flying!” I told him. I blushed, for I realized that was how I felt when he made love to me—stomach flutters, insides spinning, soaring high.
He dug for something from the inside of his leather jacket and hauled it out. In a satin pouch he opened lay a ring with one big, square-cut diamond and two smaller ones on either side.
“Oh, Jacques!” I cried. “A family heirloom, like the pin!”
“No—I could not—did not get a family ring,” he admitted, raising his voice so I could hear, but suddenly stumbling over his words and frowning. “I bought it—wanted it to be only yours.”
“It is so beautiful.”
“As it must be for you. Here, give me your hand. Will you marry me, my beloved, Consuelo Vanderbilt?”
“Yes. A thousand times, yes!”
He slipped the ring on, and it was perfect. The sun caught the gold around the stones and gleamed.
“The glitter and
the gold,” I whispered as tears crowded my eyes. “I have seen the glitter but you are the gold.”
He knelt, gripping my hand so hard it almost hurt. “I ask again and give you my pledge of constant love. Consuelo, will you be my wife? It does not matter one whit that we are getting a late start and had to go through hell to get this far. Onward and upward together forever, yes?”
“Yes!” I cried again and really cried now. I tugged him to his feet and threw my arms around him. “Finally, forever!”
FOR OUR WEDDING, I chose July 4, 1921, for it was truly my own American independence day. We wed in a private, quiet London ceremony that morning in a marriage registry office in Covent Garden, and then, the same day, in an Episcopal service at the Chapel Royal, Savoy, near the Strand.
Bert, who signed the guest list as the Lord Marquess of Blandford, and Ivor, Lord Spencer-Churchill, escorted me up the short aisle. I saw nothing else during the ceremony but the love in Jacques’s eyes.
For the ceremony and reception—no expensive, elaborate changes of costume this time—I wore a sea-green satin dress and pinned primroses to my black satin hat that hid my hearing aid. The one thing I missed from my first, forced wedding was not having Papa here.
After the service, we went to a reception at Bert’s London home in Portman Square. My mother had wanted so to come but knew her arrival would signal that it was time for the newspapers to pounce. Winston and Clemmie had sent a gift, but regretfully stayed away. We knew Winston, now Secretary of State for the Colonies, would be watched by the press.
Yet all that aside, I was a blushing bride, if not with innocence and youth, with joy. I did not think I had ever been happier. I did not think I had ever been so blessed.
That very day, we left England for France by aeroplane. My duchess days were really, finally over.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Jacques was worth the wait, the pain, the loneliness, and the longing. As we began our honeymoon, everything to me seemed like a fairy tale, a dream.
