The Viceroy's Daughters

by Anne de Courcy

  Irene, by contrast, and for the sake of his children, made the best of this fait accompli. She felt a little happier when Zita James, one of Cim’s great friends, called on her. “Of all amazing things she [Zita] feels this marriage of Tom’s and the child may relegate Cim’s children more and more to me. Pray God it is so.”

  28

  Fruity Speaks His Mind

  The shock suffered by Mosley’s children on learning that their father had secretly married the woman so disliked by their aunts brought out the best in Irene. There was no criticism, no repining. She encouraged Vivien’s natural loyalty to her father, listening to the girl she thought of as a daughter explain, in words she must have heard from her father, how inevitable the marriage was. Diana had given up so much for Tom, said Vivien, and her services were so necessary to him—“besides, she adores him.” Viv was showing great sensitivity and unselfishness, thought Irene. It must have been worse for Nick, surrounded by everyone at school. When Tom arrived at Denham, dinner passed smoothly as Irene chatted about her recent U.S. trip; afterward, she took advantage of the moment to discuss Vivien’s debut—Vivien wanted to “do” the season thoroughly, from presentation at court to coming-out ball.

  After the Mosley children had gone to bed, it was impossible to avoid the subject of Tom’s marriage to Diana any longer. Irene told Tom that all she wished to say was that the loyalty of his children after the cruel shock they had received was amazing and he must never betray it. Tom took this well-deserved reproof calmly and went on to talk about Denham. He had never wanted Diana to “butt in” there, he said; he simply wanted everything to go on as before. “I think he feels ashamed how it all came out and took place,” she wrote that night. “I definitely know God kept me in the USA away from Baba so I could come back calmly and talk it all out with Tom and get matters settled whilst she is out of the country.”

  Tom was grateful for Irene’s rational approach, as his mother told Irene when she arrived at Denham on Christmas Eve. Tom himself only arrived after lunch, in time to do his Father Christmas act and join in the Christmas tea and carol-singing.

  Against all the odds, she felt that their Christmas had been a happy one—she had never known Tom so amenable, or so sweet to the children, or so sensible in planning for the future. He even agreed to relinquish Cim’s bedroom to Viv, who longed to have it as her own.

  When the meeting with Diana took place, on December 27, 1938, Irene was psychologically prepared to meet her brother-in-law’s new family. Her first impressions were not of Diana’s beauty but of the affectedness of her voice: the Mitford drawl, with its up-and-down inflections, prolonged vowels (“orfficer” and “lorst”) and idiosyncratic “exclamations” was at its most pronounced when Diana was nervous. Irene was surprised that Diana called Tom “Kit” (Diana had done this almost from the start, because her brother was called Tom) and how bad the tea was (“just bits of bread and butter and a tiny Xmas cake”) for what was after all an important meeting. But they chatted easily about Wootton, Diana’s new chef, shooting and, of course, the baby.

  As always, Irene’s heart was softened by the sight of a child. Alexander, she thought, looked big and strong for his age, more like a baby of nine weeks than one just over a month old. When Diana’s mother, Lady Redesdale, joined them later the surreal aspect of the encounter struck her forcibly. “How that battered washed-out woman could have produced those six hooligan girls I do not know,” wrote Irene. “What a curious picture of Tom—wife, baby, mother-in-law and monthly nurse, very domestic but somehow not fitting.”

  Irene and Nick both thought the meeting had gone well; buoyed up, Irene wrote to Baba in Gstaad, exhorting her to put her own feelings behind her and accept the situation. She read the letter to Lady Mosley and, at midnight, had a long and satisfactory talk with Nanny, who told her how Micky, now almost seven, had reacted. When he read the announcement in the evening paper he said, “This must be some rot or else Daddy would have told US.” When Nanny explained that it was in fact true he said philosophically: “Well, I am no longer his youngest son.”

  A moment later he asked what he should call his father’s new wife. If he addressed her as Lady Mosley, they would think it was Granny, if Diana, it would be too like friends of his own age, and she couldn’t be Mummy because she was not his mother. Nanny also told Irene of a revealing incident. Micky, already in bed when Tom called at Denham for dinner on his way to Wootton one evening, was told by Nanny Hyslop to call out a greeting to his father but refused, saying it would be an embarrassment as he had only seen him about four times in his life.

  Having discussed with her solicitors Tom’s proposal to ask the court for fifteen hundred pounds a year more and to request a further sum to pay for Viv’s coming-out expenses, Irene returned to America early in 1939, accompanied by the future Czech foreign minister Jan Masaryk, who was an old friend. Both were desperately worried at the threat to Poland’s three million Jews and were to discuss the question of emigration. Before leaving she put a notice in the papers to say that she would be bringing out her niece, Miss Vivien Mosley, from 10 Cornwall Terrace, Regent’s Park.

  With family plans settled, Irene seized the opportunity to enjoy what she felt might be a last season’s hunting. It was brought to an abrupt end when her horse came down with her on slippery mud after jumping a post and rolled on her, breaking her collarbone and four ribs. When found by one of the field staff she was hanging head down and unconscious from the saddle—fortunately her horse was standing still or she would have been badly dragged and possibly killed. By January 14 she was back in Cornwall Terrace, bruised all over and suffering pain from her broken ribs, but delighted to be home.

  In Switzerland the unhappy atmosphere between the Metcalfes was more noticeable than ever. “Fruity with us grumbling endlessly about his life and Baba’s unkindness to him,” wrote Georgia Sitwell early in January. “Tea with Metcalfes in their villa, which is absurdly small—poor Fruity.” “Sach, Reresby and I drove in sleigh to see ski jumping. Very exciting. Talked about Metcalfes, of course.” And again on January 10: “Fruity came down and talked sadly for ages.”

  Baba’s return in mid-January brought the inevitable family disruptions, as she now immersed herself in the business of Vivien’s coming out, disputing everything from the financial aspects to Viv’s clothes, which, she said, were not “right”—a judgment that caused the eighteen-year-old Vivien much anxiety. Even Georgia Sitwell, fond though she was of Baba, commented, “She is spoilt, irritatingly self-assured and bossy,” though she added, “but not intentionally.” The fact that Irene was conscious that Baba’s taste was far superior to hers did not help matters. However, she was soon in command of the field again as Baba went off on a trip to Tunisia with the Sitwells (“I resent being treated as Baba’s lady-in-waiting,” wrote Georgia crossly, though when Baba actually arrived, on February 15, all was forgiven).

  The “small” dance for 150 which Irene gave for her niece on February 10 (there would be a big ball in the season proper) came off well. Viv looked superb in a dress of oyster-gray satin, its short jacket embroidered with red; Gracie Curzon wore black velvet and Irene, supervising from a wheelchair, was resplendent in rubies. The second-floor ballroom at Cornwall Terrace was decorated with white tulips and white irises; there was supper in the Chinese room on the ground floor and a bridge room for the chaperones at the top of the house. The party ended at 2:30 a.m., with a wild race by the young men and girls from room to room, leaping over sofas and chairs. Two days later, the effort caught up with Irene: her right lung collapsed and two pints of fluid had to be drained from it.

  It was back to bed, nurses and doctors again. Tom visited her, spending an hour discussing the international situation. “He said the Italians were very inflammable and might ask for a lot but that Musso could not stand a war and it depended if Hitler could control him,” wrote Irene. Tom also told her that he found Hess the supreme party technician, that Diana was greatly impressed by Himmle
r but that they all hated Streicher—and that what Hitler enjoyed about Goebbels was his wit. Since Diana had been visiting Germany regularly, and had numerous tête-à-têtes with the German leader, this obviously came straight from the führer himself.

  A few days later Irene was visited by Nevile Henderson, recovered from an operation for cancer of the tongue and preparing to return to Berlin. The reason Chamberlain was so insistent that Britain would always come to the aid of France, he thought, was partly to frighten Mussolini, whose alignment with the Nazi regime was becoming ever clearer. Grandi was summoned to Rome for a few days at the end of March to be told he had lost touch with Italy and fascism, and reproved for not wearing the new fascist uniform designed by Il Duce himself.

  Irene’s injuries took a long time to heal. She was too ill to go to Melton to present the bouquets to the principals in The Student Prince (she was still president of the Melton Operatic Society) and by the end of February she knew she should give up any thought of hunting that year—and possibly forever.

  Another visit from Nevile Henderson, soon after the invasion of Czechoslovakia on March 16, 1939, seemed to confirm her fears of war. “He was sad, disillusioned and could see no daylight. He definitely felt the out-and-out lefters, Goebbels, Streicher and Himmler, had rushed Hitler into this,” wrote Irene that night. “Though he realises all about honour, obligation, etc, he is very chary of having several million Englishmen killed for Rumanians, Slavs etc, to resist wars of different nations who could be run over by Hitler in a few hours—long before we could gather strength.”

  The visit of the French president in March duly emphasized Franco-British solidarity. Robert Bernays, attending the gala performance of an opera in cocked hat and ministerial uniform in the place of Walter Elliot, wrote of one of the last diplomatic flourishes of peacetime: “It was like pre-War Vienna. The incomparable Opera House was blazing with uniforms and tiaras. There were rows of scarlet-breeched footmen on the grand staircase and the loveliest women in England.”

  The bickering over who would “run” Viv’s season continued. Baba was determined to have the final word, saying that she knew best—an unkind dig—through having children of her own. Irene comforted herself, and gathered her strength for the forthcoming season, with her usual remedy: a cruise, visiting Greece, Istanbul and Italy.

  Shortly after her return at the end of April she went down to Denham, to find a dozen fascist drummers, young women who traipsed up and down in the pelting rain, rehearsing for forthcoming marches, while their clothes got soaked and their high heels sank in the mud. The drums were a mild irritation compared with what came next: a request from Tom that Diana and their new baby should spend the month of July at Denham. Irene took advice from Andrée and Nanny before finally deciding that Cim would have probably wished this, if only to ensure Tom’s continuing good relations with his two elder children.

  With the start of the season and her niece’s debut, Irene’s life was packed, her days full of dressmaker fittings and luncheons as well as a succession of committee meetings and concerts. In the evenings were the parties: Queen Charlotte’s Ball on May 17, where each girl was presented with a red satin heart on a ribbon and a bottle of scent, Sibyl Colefax’s party for the American novelist Thornton Wilder, her own supper party, with the band of the Four Hundred, attended by many of her old beaux like Bobby Digby and Miles Graham.

  On June 8 came the event for which Irene had been planning for months: Vivien’s ball. At ten-thirty the guests began to swarm into the flower-bedecked rooms. Baba arrived on her own, as Fruity was having a hernia operation. The duke of Kent arrived at twelve-fifteen and after one dance with his hostess settled down to discuss with her first Baba and Fruity, then Tom and Diana, and finally the king’s speech versus that of the duke of Windsor. The ball ended at 4 a.m. “Baba, Viv and I came home in her car, jubilant and happy at the glorious success of the party.”

  The social events seemed more numerous than ever as the last season of peace unrolled. Irene took her niece to Paris for another round of parties: racing with Sir Charles Mendl at Longchamps and a huge ball given by the immensely rich Daisy Fellowes. There the duke of Windsor came to talk to her. “He chatted a lot about Fruity and said he would never get a job because he would not be serious and concentrate on anything,” wrote Irene, apparently oblivious of the fact that exactly the same charges could be leveled at the duke.

  Back in London, the season wound to its frenetic climax. There was a dance at Londonderry House, its Rembrandts, Raeburns and Gainsboroughs looking serenely on as the debutantes shook their hips to the latest craze, the Big Apple; a ball at Sutton Place, floodlit for the occasion; a weekend at Walmer Castle in Kent; the Henley Regatta; Mrs. Clifton Brown’s ball in Eaton Square; the Cubitt ball at Holland House, where the pile-up of guests’ cars in Kensington High Street was such that Irene and Viv walked the final mile through drizzle, clutching their trains and tiaras.

  The ball at Blenheim a few days later was so wonderful that Irene was thankful Viv had come out that year—perhaps the last time that anyone would see such a spectacle. Guests danced in the huge library, with its organ at one end; the floodlighting, which could be seen for miles, turned the facade of the palace a glowing amber, illumined the cedars, the stone water garden with its two Cleopatra’s Needles, the borders of rambling roses and the lake faintly gleaming through a pearly mist. Small supper tables were set on the flagged terrace, where chefs grilled food to order and any chill was dispersed by two large braziers; inside, there were powdered footmen in red velvet, the beautiful duchess of Kent surrounded by a mass of young men, and supper in the Painted Room.

  Four days later Viv was presented. As only married women (who had themselves been presented) could in turn present a debutante, this had to be done by Baba, to Irene’s frustration. The pair set off at 7 p.m., equipped with sandwiches, brandy and smelling salts and, for Baba, elegant as ever in gray organza and aquamarines, her Red Cross examination books, so that Vivien could question her during the long wait in the Mall. With the threat of war increasing daily Baba, with her usual thoroughness and efficiency, was training to be a nurse.

  Reality intruded with a jolt when the faithful Nevile Henderson next called on Irene.

  He is bitterly out of sympathy with the Government’s policy with Poland, Rumania and Russia. He thinks Hitler knows well enough we would fight over Danzig and will behave unless he gets convinced that we want to fight him anyhow and that then he might steal a march while he was still ahead in armaments. It pains me how Nevile dares say the occupation of Czechoslovakia was right and that the Czechs are rapidly turning pro-German. He thinks Danzig should go back too. He agrees with me that Winston Churchill in the Govt would convince Hitler we were going to fight against him and he implored the P. M. not to put him in. He does not see the Germans’ faults enough. His spectacles are too rosy and it pains me.

  On July 16, 1939, Tom held his last and greatest meeting in London. He had managed to hire the enormous new auditorium at Earl’s Court and filled it with an audience of more than twenty thousand. Irene attended with Viv, Nick and Lady Mosley, Baba with Mike Wardell. There was the usual panoply of banners and standards of the various fascist “districts,” stewards, rousing pipe-and-drum bands and Tom’s solo march down the center aisle in the beam of spotlights to mount the high rostrum. Speaking, as usual, without notes, against the background of an enormous Union Jack, he talked of how the whole of Britain’s international trading system, foreign policy and even Britain’s various conflicting political parties were “maintained for one reason; and for one reason alone—that the money power of the world may rule the British people and through them may rule mankind.” His audience were in no doubt that it was “international Jewry” to which he was referring.

  Even more contentiously, he went on seemingly to defend Hitler:

  I am told that Hitler wants the whole world. In other words, I am told that Hitler is mad. What evidence have they got so far that
this man, who has taken his country from the dust to the height in some twenty years of struggle—what evidence have they got to show that he has suddenly gone mad? Any man who wants to run the whole of the modern world with all its polyglot population and divers people and interests—such a man is undoubtedly mad and I challenge my opponents to produce one shred of such evidence about that singularly shrewd and lucid intellect whom they venture so glibly to criticize.

  Somewhere about this point in the two-hour oration Winston Churchill’s son Randolph, sitting with the dancer Tilly Losch directly in front of the Denham party, got up and walked out. For those who stayed, there was a spectacular peroration extolling the splendor and virtues of Britain and its historic past and saying that no true Britons would die “like rats in Polish holes.” It was an extraordinary and hypnotic speech that brought the crowd roaring to its feet—and it said in the clearest possible terms that Britain should not go to the aid of Poland.

  Afterward, the family went back to Lady Mosley’s flat for supper, where Baba joined them. While they were eating, to their surprise, Diana’s brother, Tom Mitford, arrived without warning. At 11:45 Tom Mosley appeared. Then, at 12:15, there was a mass irruption of Mitfords: Diana, who had been giving interviews to German reporters; her mother; her youngest sister, Debo; and a couple of friends. Baba, unable to face her successful rival, left at once.

  The hypnotic spell woven by Tom’s oratory quickly wore off and Irene seized the chance of what she was increasingly coming to think might be a last foray abroad: a quick trip through the Low Countries and Scandinavia. On her return she heard that Dino Grandi had been recalled to Rome.