by Karen Harper
I sighed and felt deflated as I sank on the sofa overlooking the view. Jacques sat beside me. “I just wish, if he gets his annulment, it would apply to you also, but it will not,” he said. “You—and your mother—would still have to testify, and now that the duke has blown the lid off privacy—well,” he said with that charming Gallic shrug.
“I detest how dirty the publicity is getting. My brother Will says one New York paper suggested that since the duke insists there was no marriage, he might want to consider returning his American millions. And the Episcopal Church is attacking the duke for suggesting that a Protestant marriage is less valid than that of a Catholic mass. Such vitriol but at least it has not touched us—yet.”
I turned to embrace him but he was quicker than I, and he had me sprawled across his lap with both arms tight around me.
“I suppose we could do something outrageous in the middle of the day,” he said, his voice that raspy tone I could hear without my ear aid. I had thought at first that the air was different in France for a hard-of-hearing person, but it was just my bond to my Jacques. I swear, I could almost feel his voice like a caress.
“Such as?” I said and felt myself blush under his intense perusal.
“How about something that would shock them all and maybe not get you an annulment, but get me, strayed Catholic though I am, a delightful afternoon?” he added with an exaggerated waggle of his eyebrows that he had copied from one of our British friends who had visited here last week, Charlie Chaplin.
“In the middle of the day—in broad daylight?” I asked and giggled. How quickly and smoothly this man could make everything awful go away.
“They may all go to perdition!” he said and set me aside only to bend down and scoop me up in his arms. “Because we have staff here today and are already a scandal, we shall continue this discussion in the privacy of our bed.”
He bounced me once to tighten his grip and headed for our bedroom. Again, as ever with him, the outside world, even people stalking us, faded to nothing. We were newlyweds again, young, expectant, and happy. I was so desperately in love—but one thing did remain: However much the Duke of Marlborough still played havoc with my life, I was going to follow his lead to annul my marriage, whatever it took.
AT LAST, SIX years after my divorce and five years after my marriage to Jacques, I obtained an English lawyer and prepared to testify before the Catholic Rota with Mother and Miss Harper as key witnesses. With my mother’s permission, two of her sisters also gave corroborating and quite damning statements about her treatment of me.
Our British lawyer, Sir Charles Russell, warned me, “Unfortunately, I believe the entire Catholic Church must know that your mother has publicly taken on a New York Episcopal bishop over the taboo issue of women in the priesthood, and that could prejudice even the Catholic Rota against her. So you will have to be very convincing, Mrs. Balsan.”
My fear that my sons would be made illegitimate was not a problem, for this was indeed an ecclesiastical trial. The duke would never have threatened Bert’s future inheritance or title with his own legal annulment.
Just as in the complicated steps to get my divorce, these proceedings seemed so antique and unfair to me. I had learned that the Holy Rota which would hear my case had not changed since it came to power in 1326, and that it was the same governing church body that had refused to annul the marriage of King Henry VIII and Catherine of Aragon. Well, I could see some similarities between that king and the Duke of Marlborough!
I testified first. I had been coached for the terrible—and true—things I must say. “My mother tore me from the arms of a man I loved and took me abroad,” I told them, my voice steady. “She even swore she would shoot that man and willingly go to prison if I did not give him up and marry the man she had chosen for me, the ninth Duke of Marlborough.”
The three priests nodded, frowning. I could hear and feel my heart beating. When they did not ask a question, I went on, “She had chosen the duke for me and brought him to America, though I had met him before in Europe. She said I would be the death of her if I did not agree to be affianced to him. He proposed and I, under great duress, accepted.”
My dear, now elderly governess, Miss Harper, testified next to corroborate what I had said. Then—I held my breath—my mother.
“Yes, I forced my daughter to marry the Duke of Marlborough,” she admitted under initial questioning. “It was, as you may know, an Episcopal ceremony, not a Catholic one. She disliked him for his arrogance—which, I must say, is understandable but has never abated. He is still very overbearing.”
Oh dear, I thought. She is already off the script she was advised to use and had practiced. And she might as well be describing herself. What would these priests think of a modern-day Joan of Arc? Word was in even the European papers that Mother had attacked the Episcopal and Catholic churches at home over male priests.
She went on, “Consuelo was quite upset, but I did not soften my decision. I admit I coerced her, even put a guard at her door so she did not escape before her wedding, but the young man she had been infatuated with was mostly interested in athletics, and as for charitable causes, was a bit of a layabout. Although good things came of the union of my daughter with the duke—mostly through Consuelo’s strength of will and care of the poor, and two fine, upstanding sons—their marriage and the resulting contract for Vanderbilt money was my fault.
“Surely,” she went on, gesturing now, her voice rising, “their unhappy marriage, the lengthy, resulting separation and divorce all speak to their union being wrong and unsanctioned by heaven from the start. Again, I say, I take the blame.”
She had said it. I fought to keep from rolling my eyes at that “unsanctioned by heaven” embellishment. I was amazed and grateful, but regretful to put her through this, however much she had ruined things years ago. But, I must admit, if I had not wed the duke, even if I had wed Win Rutherfurd, would I have lived a worthwhile life? More importantly, I never would have borne my dear Ivor and Bert—and, no doubt, never would have wed my Jacques.
FORTUNATELY, THE ROTA’S decision was to grant me an annulment since I had felt “deferential fear” of my mother and what she would do. Unfortunately, it all became front-page news on two continents. I partly blamed the duke for that, blazing the way as he had with his own public annulment.
Again, we were stalked by newspapermen both in Paris and at lovely Lou Sueil. Neighbors were harassed for their comments. Back in America, my mother was followed, and Miss Harper and my aunts were sought out and badgered, though my aunts—and, surprisingly, even my mother—said simply, “No comment.”
Mother, who had strived so long to be recognized as what was now being called a “feminist,” and who had fought to become a public figure of import, became depressed and almost solitary in reaction to her ruined reputation. To my grief and amazement, she said she wanted to be left alone. My brothers told me she hardly went out and merely wandered from house to house where she kept skeleton staffs and the curtains closed.
So great guilt crashed in on me even as we were privately—through much subterfuge and changing of vehicles—remarried in a Catholic ceremony in France. But I was ecstatic about one thing on the horizon. The press had not managed to sniff out Jacques’s family, and he had been in touch with them. We were going to motor a roundabout way to meet them, which frightened me at least as much as facing the Rota had.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
I must admit I was terribly nervous as we motored up the curved lane to the Balsan château at Châteauroux in the heart of France. The family lived in a sort of compound with houses on grounds that looked like a well-tended park. Jacques had pointed out to me their cloth factories as we passed them, huge structures that had founded the family fortune back in the days of Napoleon when the Balsans had first clothed the French army in a blue cloth with the name of “the blue horizon.”
“That is what is facing us, my darling,” he had said to me as we motored through the groun
ds, closer to the imposing main building. “From now on, only blue sky on our horizon.”
Someone must have been watching, for the moment we pulled up, several young adults on the porch became a crowd of waving, chatting people of several generations. I saw Jacques blink back tears of joy, which made everything worth it: my years of loneliness, missing my sons, even Mother’s now ruined reputation for the way she had treated me years ago—everything. Family first, I had once heard Jacques say, and loss of that had been a tragedy.
I was hugged, kissed on both cheeks, my back patted as people, young ones mostly at the entry, embraced me even as they did Jacques. His brother Étienne was easy to pick out, for, as Jacques had said, they looked much alike. I heard the voices of little children floating down the grand staircase, but they had evidently been banished upstairs for now.
But then came squeals and cheers and cries, some so loud I could easily hear them from behind me. French words from at least twenty throats came at me like a chorus, dancing on the buzz of some whispered conversations. What if I could not hear them when they spoke to me or asked a question? More than once I thought I heard, “Belle, belle! Elle est belle!” She is beautiful.
In the press of people, we were greeted by his parents. Jacques also resembled his father, so I knew them instantly, but especially from a photo of them Jacques kept in his study. His mother was crying; I was too. No kisses on the cheek here, for she simply hugged me hard. Then more kisses on both cheeks from his papa. They looked me over, smiling and crying while Jacques beamed.
With a strong hand, he led me the rest of the way inside, into a large, lovely room with tall windows. Like a queen, a frail, silver-haired woman was seated across the way under a tapestry.
“Even if you have met them, you must be formally introduced to my brothers, sisters, and cousins,” Jacques told me, though he had explained that earlier. “You must meet our grande dame, for the formal introductions are hers.”
We had rehearsed names and connections in the motorcar, so I was somewhat prepared. He had told me I would be formally welcomed by the doyenne of the Balsans, Madame Charles Balsan, Jacques’s aunt, and the traditional head of the family. But I wondered if it would not only be a welcome but an approval. Strange, but the memory of the time I met Queen Victoria and she kissed my forehead flashed through my mind. How my mother would approve of a matriarch heading this family.
Everyone seemed to understand the importance of this moment, for the chatter muted, and it was as if the sea of people parted. Even Jacques’s smiling father and teary mother stepped back to clear our path.
I sucked in a sharp breath when I saw madame. It was as if I were looking not into the face of Queen Victoria but into that of dear, long-departed Mrs. Prattley from the almshouse at Blenheim, though this woman was obviously not blind. Her gaze went quickly, thoroughly over me, then she smiled at Jacques and then at me. She even spoke loudly for an old lady, so perhaps she had been told about my deafness—or she was hard of hearing herself. No matter: I felt instantly at home with her.
“Welcome to our family, and I shall present to you each one,” she declared in French.
“I am so happy to be here and to be the wife of Jacques Balsan,” I said and somehow kept myself from dropping her a curtsy.
“And part of us now,” she said. She seated me next to her in a chair and Jacques on the other side and began to recite names as people stepped forward in turn as if this had all been rehearsed. When the introductions were through, she presented me with a family heirloom, a small golden box. I knew instantly it was where I would store the antique pin Jacques had once given me and perhaps my engagement and wedding rings, too, if I took them off to bathe or sleep.
We went into a dining room lined with family portraits for a lovely dinner. I was seated between this kindly mater familias and Jacques at the head of the table, with his aunt just across the corner near his mother and Jacques catercorner from his father. My years of social training served me well, for I kept myself from sobbing with joy to see my husband so proud and happy. Surely nothing could ever go wrong again.
I DID WHAT I could to raise money for children’s charities but also reveled in my own grandchildren. When Jacques was especially busy with the Balsan woolen factory empire or even training other pilots, I spent a bit more time with my sons in London. Bert and Mary now had three beautiful children, and they let me spoil them with my gifts and attention.
Sarah Consuelo turned ten during this visit in 1931; Caroline was eight; and the heir, and future duke, was five. Their mother, Mary, much relieved after John George Vanderbilt Henry was born, told me the third time was a charm, for she had felt the pressure to produce a boy, too. No heir and a spare, she told me, but this would have to do. Despite the fact I was no longer a Marlborough, she and I shared a certain understanding, and I valued her greatly.
Bert, all six and a half feet of him, was always very sure of himself, unlike Ivor, but then he had been showered with love from his father, more than had Ivor. I was happy to see that Bert did not seem to overly favor his son and very grateful that the Vanderbilt name was part of the boy’s heritage, too. I did think that Bert was especially happy when I was visiting and Ivor was not there to distract me, as I had overheard him say to Mary once when they were first married.
“I say, Mother,” Bert called to me—he always spoke very loudly, bless him—“but you are good hands on with the children.”
“That is one of the most lovely compliments you have ever given me. They have wonderful parents and a good nanny, but sometimes it takes a grandmother’s special fairy godmother touch.”
“Grandmother Alva would have just smacked me,” he said with a little laugh. “Still might next time I see her.”
“So you do not mind if I go up to see the children tucked in?”
“Sarah C would like that so she doesn’t see the ghost. But, truly, she only mentions it when we’re at Blenheim, not here in the city.”
I jerked alert and pulled the child toward me to hug her. “Did you think you saw a ghost there?” I asked with a smile, but gooseflesh peppered my arms. It had to be of the first duchess Sarah. And that long dead woman had a namesake with the child’s name and mine. I did not really believe in ghosts, but I believed in the first duchess Sarah.
“It’s bloody fine,” little Sarah told me.
“Do not say ‘bloody,’” her mother corrected.
“Well, she is a nice ghost,” the child insisted.
My gaze met Mary’s. “Have you seen her, my dear?” I asked.
“Oh, she is only in Sarah’s dreams when we stay at Blenheim,” Mary tried to assure me with a roll of her eyes, which was evidently meant to merely humor Sarah. “She is just pretend, right, my girl?” her mother prodded. “Just in your dreams?”
“She is oodles nicer than Duchess Gladys,” Sarah insisted. “Duchess Gladys yelled at Grandpapa to get those children out of here, and that means us.”
My gaze snagged with Mary’s startled look, but neither of us said anything. For now, at least, I kept quiet on that. Later, I went upstairs, holding Sarah’s hand while the younger ones went up with the nanny. The staircase was lighted, and I was relieved for Sarah about that. How often I had been frightened in the New York or Newport houses by darkness on the vast staircases. We sat on Sarah’s bed as the city night sounds quieted outside and we waited for Nanny to tuck Caroline and little John in.
“If you do think there’s a ghost at Blenheim, do not be afraid,” I told her.
“She is not a dream. She goes up and down in the hall,” she said, her eyes wide, “and she is not Duchess Gladys. You used to live there with Grandpapa, right?”
“Yes, a long time ago before his Gladys.”
“Well, Gladys—I am supposed to call her Grandmama but I don’t. She screams and throws things, but the ghost only comes in and covers me up and then Nanny says why ever did I open that bedroom door to let in the chill air, but I didn’t.”
T
he mention of the ghost had given me pause, but this news of Gladys was worse. Surely, this child hadn’t dreamed any of that or made it up. And why was Bert letting the children stay there if Gladys was screaming—at whom I wondered?—and throwing things? I would have to find out, but I wasn’t going to ask little Sarah.
“Do you know who you are named for?” I asked her after Nanny came in to change her to a nightgown and I tucked her in.
“You, of course!”
“But the name Sarah. What about that?”
“The first duchess long ago like in a fairy tale. She built Blenheim because the queen liked her and liked the duke and he was a good soldier, but he didn’t fly planes in a war like Grandpapa Jacques did.”
I had to smile at that. Jacques loved these little ones as if they were his own, and, in a way, they were.
“I want to tell you something I think you are old enough to understand, my dear,” I told her.
“But Caroline and especially Sunny are not. I won’t be duke, but I am firstborn.”
There it was again: The name Sunny for the heir apparent to the dukedom, this time Sarah’s little brother. The specter of my former husband seemed to haunt me, as the ghost of Sarah Churchill never had.
“All right, here is what I mean,” I said, scooting forward to the edge of her bed and taking both her hands in mine. “I have seen that ghost, and she is kind and friendly, not bad or a bit scary.”
“I believe you, Grandmama. Mother says the same, but she thinks I made her up, but I didn’t—did I?”
