“What did you do?” asked Duke.
“What could I do? I waited for it to slow. I was afraid it was going to take me halfway to New Jersey,” said Thelma. “So there—my one and only adventure on a horse. But as I see it, I’ve only got room for improvement.”
Dickie laughed, and reached for the decanter.
“The horse likely hadn’t been properly exercised,” said Averill. “That’s often the case with new riders. The horse is skittish as it is, and if it’s not given enough time to work out its nerves...” She shrugged and shared a glance with Duke. “I’ll give you a few lessons. See if we can’t get you jumping hedgerows.”
* * *
“Shall we tell them tonight, do you think?” Duke asked as he pulled the oars of a gray-hulled rowboat and sent the little vessel gliding across the loch. They had been at Affric Lodge nearly a month now and had settled into a domestic routine more stable than Thelma, living between cities and hotels, had experienced in years. She felt she might just fit into the fabric of Duke’s family: under Averill’s guidance, she had become a proficient rider, able to bring Dickie’s slender roan up to a gentle canter; with Dickie, she learned how to fly-fish, standing in the river behind the house in a pair of Duke’s old waders, attempting to make the small bundle of feathers at the end of her line fall delicately on top of the water.
She lounged in the bow of the skiff, watching Duke row. He’d rolled up his shirtsleeves to the elbow and had dispensed with his suspenders, letting them hang loosely against his legs as he strained against the oars. His skin had become nearly the same reddish gold as his hair and he was smiling, the lines on his face smoothed by the breeze coming across the water as the afternoon sun stretched long across the mountains behind him. She’d never seen him so contented.
“I think we ought to,” said Thelma, “though I doubt it will come as a great surprise.”
Duke’s grin broadened as he pulled on the oars. “I can’t imagine it will,” he replied. “It’s a yes, then?”
“To what? You’ve not properly asked,” she said, with the hint of a smile in her voice.
Duke stopped rowing. He leaned toward her, resting his hands on the oar handles. “I hope you’re not expecting me to go down on one knee. We might end up in the loch.”
Thelma leaned forward, too. She’d worried about her feelings, once: Did they match the depth of his? But here, in his element, Duke had shown her the life he was prepared to give her—and a love she wholeheartedly returned. She placed a hand on his cheek and kissed him—a long, crushing kiss, question and answer bound together. She’d played this moment out a thousand times and seen a thousand different futures: theirs the whirl of a summer romance, the madness of a fling transformed into the long and storied courtship of a couple meant to be.
She’d played this moment out a thousand times, but had never felt as sure as now.
They broke apart and Thelma leaned back on the gunnels of the skiff.
“Just so you know,” she said as Duke picked up the oars, “my answer is yes.”
* * *
Later that evening, Thelma sat at her vanity as Elise set her hair for dinner. Would Averill and Dickie be surprised at the news? Having gotten to know them, Thelma realized that Duke’s children always expected their father to remarry: Averill had said as much one evening as they brushed down the horses after a day on the moor, letting slip the fact that Duke hadn’t brought any other women to Affric Lodge.
No, thought Thelma. They wouldn’t be surprised.
She thought about writing to Gloria. Perhaps Duke would take her into town tomorrow to send a telegram.
Elise set a pair of amber combs in Thelma’s hair, then stepped back, nodding with satisfaction.
“It looks wonderful, Elise, thank you. The brown gloves, I think,” said Thelma, as someone knocked on the door.
Duke hadn’t yet changed out of his rowing clothes. His shirtsleeves were still pushed up, his suspenders still loose at his sides. He clutched a creased telegram between his hands.
Thelma knew its contents without being told. The air rushed out of her lungs as though she’d been struck in the chest, feeling Gloria’s grief—her own grief—hit her.
“Reggie,” she said.
* * *
The day after they received the telegram Thelma and Duke traveled into Inverness to place a transatlantic telephone call at the Royal Highland Hotel. “There was nothing they could do,” said Mamma, her voice sharp over the wires. “Internal hemorrhages—horrifically violent death, so I’m told. Alice wouldn’t let Gloria see the body. A kindness, I suppose...”
Thelma shied away from the image of Reggie, bloated and bloody against his bedsheets, his fate long since sealed by the vices he was too proud to give up—or too aware, perhaps, that doing so would make no difference. “I’ll leave for London immediately,” she said. “I’ll buy a ticket to New York.”
“You will not,” said Mamma. “What on earth could you accomplish here?”
Thelma let her outrage stretch across the silence. “I could mourn my brother-in-law,” she said.
“The funeral is in three days. You can’t possibly make it in time. Stay with Duke—let him comfort you.”
Thelma hung up the telephone, shaking at Mamma’s callousness, hating the fact that she was right. She spent the day of the funeral alone in Duke’s Arlington Street town house, surrounded by his austere collection of marble statues that looked more like graveyard monuments than works of art, dazed at the devastating change in Gloria’s fortunes.
Soon after, Thelma received more shocking news from New York: Gloria was bankrupt. Although he had provided generously for Gloria in his will, Reggie’s profligate spending—and his penchant for handing out IOUs—had left him so heavily in debt that, after probating the will, Gloria was declared virtually penniless. Aside from a $2.5 million trust fund for Little Gloria, every cent of Reggie’s estate was earmarked for creditors; and, being only nineteen, Gloria was unable to serve as guardian over Little Gloria’s sizeable inheritance.
“They’ve put a team of lawyers together as Surrogates to safeguard the money until she comes of age,” Gloria said, when Thelma telephoned. “I can collect the interest from her estate, but only if the money is used to provide for her well-being. For myself, I’ve got nothing. No money—no husband.”
Thelma’s cheeks burned when she thought of how unflinchingly she had accepted Reggie’s charity. Now, Gloria was forced to sell their honeymoon farm, all of Reggie’s magnificent purebred horses, even Little Gloria’s old crib.
“He owed $14,000 to a butcher. A butcher, Thelma,” Gloria continued, her voice numb. “How on earth does a man run a $14,000 debt to a butcher?”
Thelma gripped the telephone cord as Gloria explained that the lawyers would be holding an auction at Reggie’s farm in Rhode Island.
“I’m coming,” said Thelma. “You can’t possibly go through that on your own.”
Six
October 9, 1934
RMS Empress of Britain
The wood-paneled tearoom had begun to fill with passengers seeking refuge from the chill wind that blew off the sea, but Thelma was already stationed at a small table beneath a lacquered oriental painting of willow trees. She studied the painting, admiring the play of brown and gold in the leaves—did it look different in the morning light?—but was interrupted by the thud of a newspaper hitting the table.
“I’ve been looking for you all over this damned boat,” said Harry. He took the seat opposite Thelma’s and called for a waiter. “Did you see yesterday’s headline?”
Every newspaper in Europe, it seemed, was following the trial, basking in Gloria’s misfortune. “Vanderbilt Widow Penniless Without Heiress Tot;” “Fight To The Bitter End For Vanderbilt Girl.” There would be more articles waiting when they landed—Thelma was sure of it, given the scene she’d made when she b
oarded the Empress in Southampton.
She’d been mobbed by reporters at the dockyards, a swarm of them shouting questions over one another as she and Harry walked up the gangplank.
“Lady Furness!” shouted one reporter, his voice cutting through the shipyard commotion, “Do you know your own mum will be testifying against Mrs. Vanderbilt?”
“I do,” said Thelma, “and she’s mad to do so. Absolutely mad.”
The reporters scribbled, and one young man raised his pen. “What do you say to the maid’s allegations about Nada Mountbatten? Will Her Ladyship come to Mrs. Vanderbilt’s defense?”
Thelma gripped the railing to still her shaking hand. “All I have to say,” she said, “is that my mother is mad to indulge this fantasy. Absolutely mad.”
Thelma shook her head, thankful that she’d been able to escape into the sanctuary of the ship.
“Nada won’t come,” said Harry, his fingers trembling as he folded the newspaper. “She’s sending a lawyer—wants to keep away from all this.” He let out an involuntary noise and closed his eyes, waiting for the tremor to pass. “Friedel is, though. He’s told reporters he’ll be leaving on the Bremen.”
“Good.” Prince Friedel Hohenlohe, Gloria’s former fiancé, had been heartbroken when Gloria rejected his proposal—but what choice did she have, when Mamma had accused him of wanting to do Little Gloria harm?
Thelma could have laughed at the accusations, if they weren’t such a threat. According to Mamma, Gloria neglected her daughter to the point of cruelty—a claim that Gertrude Whitney, Reggie’s sister, had accepted far too easily, far too quickly. Yes, Gloria entertained friends on a regular basis, but never at her daughter’s expense. Yes, Gloria traveled frequently, but she made sure that Little Gloria wanted for nothing, regardless of whether they were in Paris or Biarritz, New York or London. Hadn’t that been the point of Mamma joining her household in the first place?
And where had Gloria learned about motherly love? All through their childhood, Thelma and her siblings had been dragged from country to country according to their mother’s changeable whims: Consuelo had been stashed away with a family friend in the United States from the time she was thirteen, and Thelma and Gloria had barely seen Harry as children, closeted away in a Swiss boarding school.
Harry sipped his coffee, looking at Thelma over his shaking cup. “I wanted to talk to you about what you said to those reporters this morning.”
“What about it?” said Thelma. “I’m right, aren’t I? Mamma is mad, and that’s all there is to it. The public ought to know.”
Harry sighed. “Maybe so, but discrediting her on the front page won’t help Gloria’s case.”
Thelma’s irritation—with Harry, with Gloria, with Mamma—spilled over. “I’m trying to discredit her,” she said. “She’s mad as a cat. The media ought to know what sort of person is behind all the ridiculous accusations Gertrude’s accepting as fact.”
“And it will,” said Harry. “But it’s for the lawyers to bring it all out in court. They have a strategy, and we won’t help by creating another arena for combat.”
Thelma exhaled, biting back her next retort—hadn’t Mamma’s side already claimed that battlefield? “It just—it makes me so cross, Harry.”
“I know.” Harry signaled for the waiter, who came with a billfold. “Promise me you’ll speak to Gloria’s lawyer before you make any more statements to the press.”
Harry signed the bill and stood; Thelma finished the last dregs of her tea and followed him through the first-class corridor in silence. When they reached Thelma’s cabin, Harry cleared his throat.
“I need your word, that you won’t make any more unauthorized statements, Thelma,” he said. “You can’t do that to Gloria.”
Again, Thelma refrained from snapping. Lawyers wouldn’t help Gloria’s reputation—not when the judge had closed the courtroom to reporters for the rest of the trial. How could Harry not see that? Gloria had to be vindicated by her friends, her family—those able to defend her outside the courtroom, as well as those fighting within it. “It’s ghoulish,” she said. “I won’t let Mamma spread such lies—”
“I can’t stop you from speaking your mind, Thelma, but please consider your actions,” Harry replied. “Calling Mamma names in the papers—can’t you see how that looks?”
She pictured two fishmongers’ wives, brawling in the streets. “You’re right,” she said. “Of course.”
Harry nodded, the twitch in his cheek more pronounced than earlier. “You’re a good sister,” he said, with a sudden smile. “You and Gloria...always two of a kind, aren’t you? The Magnificent Morgans.” He sobered, stepping away as Thelma crossed into her berth. “You can’t fight this battle for her. Remember that when we get to New York. As difficult as it may be.”
Thelma shut the door to her stateroom. The Magnificent Morgans, she thought, recalling a newspaper article from their days as New York socialites. They had always been magnificent, her and Gloria—the world knew it, which was perhaps why it was so taken with Gloria’s trial. She turned Harry’s words over in her mind: You can’t fight this battle for her.
It came from a good place, really, but Harry didn’t understand. Thelma would always fight Gloria’s battles. Just as Gloria had always fought hers.
Seven
April 1926
Newport, Rhode Island, USA
Due to complications involved with the estate, the auction at Reggie’s Newport farm was delayed until spring, giving Thelma time to move her possessions from Paris to London. To provide a suitable mourning period, Thelma and Duke agreed to keep news of their engagement quiet until Thelma returned from America. They spent a quiet Christmas together in Scotland and Thelma set sail in mid-April, arriving in Rhode Island the week of the auction.
When Thelma arrived in Portsmouth, Gloria was there to greet her, looking too small on the platform, her mourning clothes hanging off her thin frame like a shroud. She wrapped Thelma in a silent hug before leading her to the motorcar that would take them to Newport.
“I have to let them all go,” she said, watching the chauffeur walk around to the front seat. “Reggie had meant to give his staff a nice settlement, but I can’t even afford to keep a housemaid on the—on the amount of money—” She fell silent as the automobile lurched forward.
“I had no idea it would be so sudden,” she continued. She reached across Thelma’s lap, seeking comfort; Thelma grasped her hand, wishing she could provide something more substantial than reassurance. “We had talked, of course, but we thought he had more time...”
“There’s never any way to be prepared,” she said.
“No,” said Gloria. “But to leave me with nothing... I had no idea.”
Thelma thought of Duke’s healthy vigor; his many homes, scattered like leaves across Britain and Europe. Duke’s wealth was concrete, tied up in dockyards and steel hulls, bricks and mortar. If anything were to happen to him, Thelma would be well cared for—but then, Gloria had thought the same thing.
“Little Gloria is provided for. At least there’s that,” she said.
Gloria nodded. “My lawyer tells me I can’t be guardian of her property until I turn twenty-one. Her person, yes, but not her property.” She rooted through her purse and pulled out a handkerchief emblazoned with Reggie’s initials. “I can use the interest from the inheritance to maintain her standard of living—but what about mine? What on earth am I to do?”
They motored onto a narrow strip of land, the road barely the width of the car. On one side lay the Atlantic Ocean; on the other, a bay eroded into a marsh.
“Would Reggie’s family support you?” asked Thelma.
Gloria folded the handkerchief. “They’ve been very good to me,” she said. “Gertrude’s husband paid for the funeral.”
The automobile slowed as it entered a seaside town, clapboard colonial houses
on tree-lined lots, white sailboats turning on mooring lines in the blue distance. Thelma opened the window and salt air breezed in. Newport would be an idyllic place under different circumstances.
The car crept closer to the sea, where the green spaces between houses grew wider. Down long driveways, Thelma could see the peaked roofs of massive homes. They were elegantly haphazard, palatial and incongruous: beaux arts mansions beside French châteaux, English manor homes next to Italian palazzos.
They turned down a drive flanked by a set of massive wrought-iron gates. Thelma couldn’t help but marvel at the sheer size of the estate beyond: built by Reggie’s parents, The Breakers was needlessly large, a statement rather than a summer home. Six footmen flanked the front entrance, standing to attention as the motorcar came to a stop under a heavy limestone portico.
“Good morning, Mrs. Vanderbilt,” said one as he opened the door. Behind him, the others came noiselessly to life, unbuckling Thelma’s luggage from the luggage rack.
“Thank you. Is Mrs. Vanderbilt home?” asked Gloria.
“She is, ma’am. Shall I lead you in?”
“No need.”
Though Thelma was becoming used to Duke’s old-world wealth, the Vanderbilt estate was an entirely different form of opulence. It was almost offensive in its display of family fortune, though Gloria barely blinked as she led Thelma through the front door. The great hall, with its gilt ceilings and immense marble columns, dwarfed Thelma, her footsteps echoing as they walked. She felt as though she’d stepped into the Renaissance, and had to remind herself that the mansion, with its quaint cottage name and sweeping crimson carpets, had been built only thirty years ago.
Gloria led Thelma into a wood-paneled library with a spectacular stone fireplace. Books sat in glass-fronted alcoves; damask-covered chairs and couches fought for prominence against a bright Persian carpet.
The Woman Before Wallis Page 5