That Churchill Woman

by Stephanie Barron

  Walden was Randolph’s valet.

  Jennie bit her lip. She was too used to her husband’s unpredictable hours and hectic schedule to track his comings and goings every hour of the day. But it was unlike him to leave his valet behind, and it was clear that Alasdair was worried. “Send Walden to me, if you would be so good.”

  The secretary inclined his golden head and left her to her coffee. She sipped it tentatively—it was still quite hot—and wondered if Randy had simply gone home to Blenheim. Surely there was a reasonable explanation—

  “My lady.” Walden bowed.

  “Ah, there you are,” she said briskly. “Did Lord Randolph tell you where he has gone?”

  It was a bald question. Spouses rarely interrogated each other’s personal servants; that was poor taste and worse breeding. A lady’s maid or a gentleman’s valet often overheard conversations or witnessed scenes that were meant to be forgotten and were certainly not meant to be shared. Walden had known Randolph longer than Jennie had, in fact. She had been married to him nearly thirteen years; Walden had been in Randy’s employ for fifteen.

  “No, ma’am,” he replied.

  Jennie set down her cup. “But his lordship was quite definite that he did not require your services?”

  “He was emphatic, my lady.”

  “I see. That will be all, Walden.”

  It was probable, she reasoned, that Randolph was at Blenheim—he was too fastidious about his clothes to do for long without a valet. George employed fewer servants in his bachelor household than Duchess Fanny’s fifty, but no doubt there was at least one who could safeguard Randy’s wardrobe while he was there. But it was odd that he had mended fences with George—and odder still that he hadn’t left word.

  Jennie went about her day.

  No message came in the evening mail, and none in the next morning’s post. Jennie dispatched delicate inquiries to Blenheim and to Duchess Fanny, who now leased a home on Grosvenor Square. She hated betraying her ignorance to the Duchess, who reveled in every hint of marital discord between them, but Jennie was uneasy. By that evening she learned that none of the Churchills had heard from Randolph in days.

  “Arthur,” she said, when she met Balfour at the Albert Hall for a spectacular Beethoven concert that night, “where is Randy?”

  “I haven’t the faintest,” he replied. “I’d hoped you’d tell me.”

  Jennie turned the comment aside with a smile and was more than usually glittering that evening, but once alone again in her bedroom at midnight, she stared unseeing at the coal fire, wondering with an edge of panic if Randolph was lying dead somewhere. If he had thrown himself into the Thames, or under a train. Or if he had fallen into one of his fevers, and no one knew who he was—

  Nonsense. His face was the most recognizable in Britain.

  The next morning, she found the answer in the copy of the Times her butler had placed, carefully ironed, at the breakfast table.

  “Mr. Spencer” and Mr. Trafford, two travelers whose every step is watched by the European press, have been residing at the Imperial Hotel in Vienna since yesterday. One of those who glimpsed the gentlemen disembarking from a train insisted that “Mr. Spencer” is none other than the British Chancellor of the Exchequer, Lord Randolph Spencer-Churchill.

  Jennie closed her eyes an instant before reading further. Randolph and Tommie Trafford. Tommie and Randolph. Running away together under an assumed name so ridiculously childish even a random Austrian on a railway platform could see through it.

  A random Austrian.

  She pushed away the sharp stab of Charles Kinsky and read the rest of the article. Randolph had passed through Paris and Berlin. The newspaper speculated he had been on a back-channel mission to Bismarck, but Buckingham Palace revealed nothing. He had looked at picture galleries and attended theaters in Dresden. He appeared exhausted and ill and told his landlord in Vienna that he would receive no one. He had worn a dark green coat and a trilby hat and browsed through the exquisite leather-goods shop of Herr Weidmann. He was dogged everywhere by journalists.

  I am hopelessly discovered, Randolph wrote in the letter she received from Vienna the next day. This pottering about Europe would suit me down to the ground if it were not for the beastly journalists.

  He said nothing about Tommie. To Jennie’s fury, he offered her no apology or explanation. She tore the letter to bits and went out to gallop recklessly through Hyde Park.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  “My dear,” Louise Manchester said as she settled herself in the drawing room at Connaught Place one November morning and removed her delicate fawn gloves. “I’m so glad I found you at home. And alone.”

  It was true that Jennie was rarely indoors at eleven o’clock, but the autumn sky had threatened rain, and she had put off riding. She sank onto the opposite end of the sofa and smiled with real affection at Louise, whose bone-deep beauty never wore thin. The German-born Duchess was nearly fifty-five, but her elegance—and, Jennie suspected, her fundamentally optimistic nature—gave her a perpetual appearance of serenity.

  “A true morning visit!” Jennie said cordially. “This is treating me like family, Lottie.”

  “I would know better how to proceed if you were my relation,” the Duchess replied abruptly. “But lacking a blood tie, Jennie dearest, I must simply blunder forward. No matter how much I bruise you.”

  Jennie felt her happiness ebb. “What is it?”

  “I’ve just returned from Sandringham, where I’m afraid you were the subject of gossip….”

  “Is that all!” She tried to look indifferent, but repressed an uneasy shiver. Louise would only mention such talk if it had truly turned ugly. Jennie’s mind raced. What damage had she done? Had she earned a new enemy?

  “I could have put this in an envelope and mailed it to you.” Louise reached into her reticule and withdrew a folded square of paper. “I brought it myself because I am angry on your behalf.”

  Jennie smoothed the creases. It was a column of print—from a journal, she guessed, rather than a news sheet.

  “That was cut from Town Topics,” Louise told her. “A New York publication, I believe.”

  “Call it a scandal sheet and be done. When I was a child, it was a literary review with an emphasis on music and culture. But the current editor has considerably altered the tone. He has blackmailed some American friends, Lottie, who pay ridiculous sums to stay out of his paper.”

  “Did he attempt to extort money from you?”

  Jennie shook her head. Pulse leaping, she scanned the brief paragraph.

  Society has invented a new name for Lady R. Her fondness for the exciting sport of husband-hunting and fiancé-fishing, when the husbands and fiancés belong to other women, has earned her the title of “Lady Jane Snatcher.”

  It reminded her of something vague and far less damning she had glimpsed in a recent issue of the Spectator. She had dismissed that as a Liberal jab at Randolph. But if the same rumor had surfaced in New York—

  Jennie glanced up. “Who gave you this?”

  “I wish I knew,” Louise said crisply. “The column was left on the Prince of Wales’s sideboard, beside the covered dish of quails’ eggs. Each of the guests—there were sixteen this past week—was privileged to read it as they progressed through the buffet. Naturally, it was the first topic of conversation.”

  “Random spite,” Jennie said bitterly.

  “Of course. But some people took it quite seriously. It was said that if your behavior was outrageous enough to cross the Atlantic, someone ought to warn your husband. As a Cabinet member, Lord Randolph cannot afford a scandalous wife.”

  “Damn their impertinence!” Jennie’s lips were white with anger.

  “Indeed.” Louise studied her bleakly. “Those were Hartington’s exact words, when it was suggested that he should speak to Randy.”<
br />
  “Please offer Hart my deepest thanks.”

  “We are both your friends. As I hope you know.” Louise reached for her hand. “But I would dearly love the answers to two questions: Whom have you offended, Jennie, with connections to the American press? And who hopes to turn the Prince of Wales against you by leaving this rubbish in his breakfast parlor?”

  “No man would waste his time this way.” Jennie met the Duchess’s eyes. “Both the tone and the tactic are female. Which ladies were at Sandringham last week, Lottie?”

  “Lady Brooke. Gladys de Grey. Mary, Lady Jeune. My daughter-in-law Consuelo. The Wyndhams. Minnie Paget. And a lady you have not met, I think…a wealthy widow. From New York.”

  “Ah.” Jennie drew a deep breath. “And the widow’s name?”

  “Lily Carré Hamersley. Quite a shy and well-bred young woman. Consuelo tells me her late husband left her a considerable fortune—which his family has fought in the courts. Mrs. Hamersley has quitted New York in an effort to put the distress behind her.”

  “And may have brought a copy of Town Topics in her baggage,” Jennie mused. “As the lady is a complete stranger to me, however, she can have no reason to savage my reputation. Particularly among a social set entirely new to her.”

  Louise hesitated. “I can think of one possible cause….”

  “Can you?”

  “Mrs. Hamersley—or her fortune—is an object of great interest to several impecunious noblemen. Among them is your brother-in-law the Duke of Marlborough. Does Randolph still refuse to speak to him?”

  * * *

  —

  “Who is that child?” Minnie Paget demanded of Daisy, Lady Brooke. “She’s come out in her nightgown!”

  “I daresay no one told the poor thing the Prince of Wales was expected,” Daisy suggested. “What a shame.”

  Both women were sipping sherry in Jennie’s drawing room a few weeks after Louise Manchester’s sudden morning call. The Marquess of Hartington and Louise were standing by the fire. Near them, Randolph was arguing with George Curzon. The gentlemen were in unimpeachable evening dress: cutaways and starched white cravats. Lottie wore a gown of maroon velvet and one of the Manchester tiaras, set with rubies. Daisy Brooke was sporting the Warwick emeralds with her silver evening gown—she would be Countess of Warwick one day, and the jewels complemented her golden curls and misleading expression of sweetness. At present, Daisy was Bertie’s reigning mistress, a fresh and witty young woman of twenty-five, only a few years older than the “child” in the nightdress.

  Jennie had decided that the best way to combat Town Topics was to flaunt her friendship with the Waleses, so she’d invited Bertie and Alix to dine. Having Randolph there, along with most of the Marlborough House Set, would put a stop to malicious gossip. But as she hurried past Minnie and Daisy to welcome her guests, she caught the snide remarks about children and nightgowns. She hoped Margot Tennant had not overheard them.

  Sir Charles Tennant had sent round a note only an hour before, to explain that his wife was indisposed but he would like to bring his younger daughter to supper. Jennie had immediately replied that he must. She had been wanting to meet Margot, the mysterious founder of the Souls, for some time.

  “My dear Sir Charles,” she exclaimed as she greeted them, “welcome to Connaught Place!”

  He was, Jennie thought, a man after her father’s heart—a self-made industrialist from Glasgow whose fortune was larger than anyone else’s in the room. The breathless aristocracy Jennie had gathered was inclined to patronize him. Tennant was a Liberal Party MP.

  Sir Charles bowed and touched his daughter’s elbow. “May I present Miss Margot Tennant, Lady Randolph.”

  Boldly sculpted cheekbones, a sharp blade of a nose, a heavy square chin, and penetrating eyes. Margot’s dark hair was parted in wings on her forehead. She had a reputation for cleverness. Other people sometimes called her intellectual, which was not a compliment. The look Margot gave Jennie was full of intelligence—but something else as well. Reserve? Resentment? The girl probably had overheard Minnie’s insult.

  “You were lovely to join us on such short notice,” Jennie told Margot warmly.

  “My father assured me this was to be an informal supper.” Her voice was a deep contralto, almost grating, her diction precise—to avoid any suggestion of a Scottish lilt?

  “And so it is,” Jennie declared. “I’m an American, you know, and can’t know what ceremony is.” The “nightgown” was a white muslin dress with transparent chemise sleeves and a blue taffeta sash. Margot had tucked a bunch of rose carnations into her fichu with three diamond duck pins. Unusual. It was the sort of word frequently attached to her.

  George Curzon was staring, transfixed, from his position at Randolph’s side. Jennie had heard that he was one of the Souls who gathered in the Tennants’ night nursery. She dimpled at George and said, “You know Mr. Curzon, I think? But Sir Charles, you must introduce Miss Tennant to Lord Randolph—your sparring partner of old!”

  The Tennants moved toward the knot of gentlemen near the mantel. Curzon flushed and bowed low over Margot’s hand. He must be in love with her, Jennie decided. But even Randolph looked alert and intrigued.

  “Cultivating tradesmen, Jennie?” a voice murmured in her ear.

  Minnie Paget had drifted over in her noiseless, catlike way. She was magnificent this evening in black lace over a champagne silk underskirt, elaborately draped with knots of passementerie and black jet. A parure of topazes glittered in her hair and at her throat. It was unusual for Minnie to look so fine—or so expensive.

  “Sir Charles is a political ally of Randolph’s on Home Rule,” Jennie explained. “His manners are refreshingly like an American’s, don’t you think?”

  “I confess I cannot see the likeness,” Minnie retorted with a bleak smile. “But it has been so long since you were in the States. You would find it remarkably changed. The rougher class of persons aspiring to Society—the speculators and pirates—have been entirely cast down by the Wall Street slump.”

  Jennie bit back a sarcastic response. Minnie’s father had owned hotels, for heaven’s sake—a grade less distinguished a profession, one might argue, than Leonard Jerome’s. But anything she might have said was forestalled by the fresh acid dripping from Minnie’s lips.

  “One meets only people of quality in New York now. I was fortunate enough to spend a few weeks there this autumn—some part of my father’s estate has, at long last, settled. Did no one mention that to you?”

  Six million dollars.

  “I think everyone has mentioned it,” Jennie said wryly. “But unlike the rest of London, I know the tragedy behind the truth. No amount of money, Minnie, could possibly be worth the loss of your only brother.” The sole male heir to the vast Stevens’ fortune had died the previous year of tuberculosis, barely twenty-five. His inheritance had gone to his two sisters. With typical Stevens’ rapacity, Minnie’s mother was suing her daughters for the balance of the estate.

  “He was a dear boy. I shall always regret that I returned to New York too late to see him.” Minnie’s gaze hardened. “I wonder you have time for sympathy, Jennie. You’ve been so taken up with Harry Cust. I assumed you had quite forgotten your old friends.”

  Startled, Jennie frowned. Harry Cust. Whom Minnie still pursued. He’d idled away a few weeks in Jennie’s company, it was true, but neither of them had taken the affair seriously. He was the Duchess of Rutland’s lover now. But perhaps Minnie really cared about him—and resented everyone he’d touched? It would be like Minnie to lash out from the pain.

  Had she spent her time in New York stabbing Jennie in the back? Feeding scandal to the press?

  Lady Jane Snatcher…

  “I always knew you had a vicious streak,” Jennie breathed wonderingly, “but I never thought you could occasionally be clever! You left that piece of newsp
rint on Bertie’s sideboard, Minnie—and were smart enough to do it when there were other American guests I could suspect.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.” Minnie’s green eyes were alight with triumph. “And I resent your tone, Lady Randolph.”

  “How you have the gall to show your face in my drawing room! But your tricks never work, Minnie! You really think your millions will secure your place in Society? I am happy to say that I have more friends than you do!”

  Minnie’s face drained of color. “You overestimate your power, Jennie. There are some things Society does not forgive. A woman who can’t keep her legs closed is one of them.”

  The chatter around them fell silent. Heads turned. Jennie caught a glimpse of Margot Tennant’s shocked face and Louise Manchester’s stricken one.

  “Get out of my house,” she ordered, her voice guttural with fury.

  But before Minnie could move, a royal equerry strolled into the drawing room.

  “Their Royal Highnesses, the Prince and Princess of Wales!”

  Jennie stepped back. So did everyone else. With a faint rustle, the men bowed and the ladies curtseyed deeply as the royals entered. When Jennie rose again, Bertie stood before her.

  “Lady Randy! How sorry we were not to have you at Sandringham last month! But how delighted to join your party this evening!”

  “Your Royal Highness is far too good.” Jennie dazzled him with a smile and accepted Alix’s hand. “Lord Randolph and I are sensible of the very great honor you do us.”

  “And Mrs. Paget,” Bertie rumbled to Minnie. “You are looking well, my dear.”

  “Unfortunately,” Jennie interjected as Minnie bowed her head in acknowledgment of the Prince, “Mrs. Paget is obliged to leave us. A summons from home that may not be ignored. Your Highness will forgive her, I know, though I cannot!”