Preoccupied as she was with the room itself, Thelma nearly didn’t see the white-haired woman in a high-backed chair by the fireplace. She didn’t stand as Gloria grasped her hand, but looked at Thelma with a placid expression.
“It’s lovely to meet you, my dear,” she said, “though under such unfortunate circumstances.”
“Mrs. Vanderbilt,” said Thelma. “I’d like to offer my deepest condolences. Reggie was such a dear, dear friend.”
Alice Vanderbilt smiled. She was a diminutive woman with papery skin and a stern face, her scrawny neck rising out of a sea of pearls. Like Gloria, she was dressed in black—though, according to Gloria, black was the only color Mrs. Vanderbilt wore, ever since her husband’s death twenty-six years ago.
“So kind,” she said. “My Reggie—our Reggie,” she conceded, looking at Gloria, “spoke so fondly of you.”
She gestured toward a tea tray on the coffee table. “I hoped you might join me for some refreshments, but I wonder—Gloria, would you be so kind as to go make sure Thelma’s things are put in the green bedroom?”
“Of course,” said Gloria and she turned, her footsteps heavy as she made her way back down the hall.
Mrs. Vanderbilt watched Gloria’s retreating figure. “We truly appreciate you coming,” she said.
“I would have come for the funeral if there had been time,” said Thelma, settling into a chair. “How is Gloria?”
Mrs. Vanderbilt shook her head. “I worry she’s not keeping up her strength. The shock of it all—and now this horrid business with Reggie’s estate. She was such a bright young thing when they met, but now...”
“What’s she going to do when the estate is settled?” asked Thelma. “Will she stay with you?”
Mrs. Vanderbilt smiled. She leaned in, her hands folded in her lap. “It’s not terribly sensible, is it, having older and younger generations under one roof?” she said. “Gloria has to think about her future, and about the sort of environment in which she plans to raise my granddaughter. I’ll not give unsolicited opinions, but perhaps she ought to consider being with those from whom she draws strength.”
Thelma frowned, thinking of herself in London and Consuelo, stationed in Paris with her diplomat husband. “Perhaps she ought to return to Europe. For a time, at least.”
Mrs. Vanderbilt nodded. “A change of scenery might be a fine thing for her.”
The door to the library opened once more, as Gloria returned. “All sorted,” she said.
Not for the first time that afternoon, Thelma noticed the deep blue shadows that had gathered under Gloria’s eyes, like mourning veils.
* * *
They arrived at Sandy Point Farm the next morning, an hour before the auction.
“The lawyers tell me I’m only to take what I owned before the marriage,” said Gloria, as they stepped out of the car, “which doesn’t leave me with much. It all fits inside a single trunk.”
Though there was a flurry of activity at the stables where the auction was to take place later that afternoon, the main house was empty, its doors thrown open in anticipation of bidders to come. Thelma walked arm in arm with Gloria through the echoing rooms. The contents had already been removed, but Thelma could see touches of Gloria’s hopeful handiwork: new curtains, barely faded. Fresh paint in the sitting room.
Thelma left Gloria on a bay window downstairs and walked through the bedrooms alone. She had been to the farm before, shortly after Reggie and Gloria’s wedding: she had sat in the back of the carriage as Reggie drove his Hackney horses to and from parties, and had laughed with the women, flirted with the men. Where were Reggie’s friends now, she wondered—the party guests, the high society horsemen? They had disappeared: fearful, perhaps, that Reggie and Gloria’s misfortunes might be contagious.
Thelma found Gloria in the drive, conversing with an elegant older woman in a magnificently embroidered jacket.
“Thelma,” said Gloria, as the woman turned to greet her, “meet Gertrude Payne Whitney. Reggie’s sister.”
Thelma shook Gertrude’s hand, looking for a hint of her brother-in-law in the woman’s gray eyes. In looks, at least, she was Reggie’s opposite: tall where he was short, willowy where he had bulk. Given her success as a sculptress and an art patron, Thelma had expected someone more gregarious, but Gertrude seemed solemn and reserved—though, Thelma acknowledged, the circumstances didn’t exactly lend themselves to levity.
“I’m pleased to meet you,” said Gertrude. “I hope you don’t mind my intrusion, Gloria. I wanted one final look at the place.”
“How difficult it must be for you,” said Thelma.
Gertrude looked up, squinting, at the house. “Difficult for all of us. We were close, Reggie and I—I only wish he’d taken better care.” She looked at Gloria, and despite her reserve Thelma could see the sympathy in her eyes. “For all our sakes.”
Gloria attempted a smile. “Gertrude’s been just wonderful. She’s caring for Little Gloria while all this business with the estate gets sorted out.”
“That’s kind of you,” Thelma offered, but Gertrude didn’t seem disposed to accept her praise.
“It’s nothing at all,” she said. “I’m happy to have her—she’s a lovely girl.”
They stopped talking as three men in coveralls walked past, carrying a marble bust that had once stood in Gloria and Reggie’s sitting room.
Thelma shivered, despite the heat of the day. “What a horrible business,” she said, once the men were out of earshot.
Gertrude watched the men carry the bust into the stables and Thelma wondered whether it was one of her pieces. “I’m sorry this is the side of our family you have to see,” she said. “My brother was many things, but his generosity got the better of him. I wish his estate could care for Gloria in the manner he’d intended.”
Thelma was surprised by her frankness. “I’m sure it will,” she said, more for Gloria’s sake than out of any sense of conviction. “Once the financiers have a chance to look at the books, we’ll see that today was for the best. I’m sure of it.”
Gertrude reached into her handbag and pulled out a cigarette case. “None of this is for the best,” she said, “but it’s the best we can do. We all make our choices. It’s a pity, Gloria, how Reggie’s choices are impacting you.”
Gloria smiled, looking close to tears as a flatbed truck pulled into the driveway.
Thelma took her by the arm, lending her what strength she could. “We really ought to be getting on. It was lovely to meet you, Mrs. Whitney.”
“Of course,” said Gertrude. She looked back to the house, dropping ash onto the pavement. “I’ll stay a little longer, if that’s all right with you.”
The first automobiles were beginning to pull up as Thelma and Gloria drove away from Sandy Point, filled to bursting with people and wicker baskets. Looking at the threadbare incomers, Thelma knew they couldn’t afford to buy anything at the auction—a napkin, perhaps, or a silver spoon, sold off one by one. No, they came to peer behind the curtain of high society, to run their hands over Gloria’s memories.
Their Rolls Royce trundled up the drive, the only car to move against the current. Moonlike faces stared through the glass windows, fingers pointing as they recognized the Vanderbilt Widow.
* * *
That evening, Mrs. Vanderbilt made the tactful suggestion that Thelma and Gloria take their dinner on trays in Gloria’s bedroom. “Things look better after an early night,” she said. Given the informality, Gloria had changed into a dressing gown. To Thelma, the pale pink silk was a welcome change from Gloria’s solemn attire.
“A comfortable household,” Gloria said finally, pushing a piece of asparagus congealing in butter onto her fork. “That’s all I’ll be able to afford, if I’m lucky.”
“It’s something,” said Thelma.
Gloria abandoned her plate and stared out the w
indow. Two stories below, the Atlantic Ocean buffeted itself against the coast. “Did you see them today, Thelma? Those people—” She rubbed at her eyes with a slender finger. “You know, I haven’t had a moment’s peace since it all happened. The newspapers have been relentless.”
Thelma had seen the headlines generated by Reggie’s death, the clear glee with which the newspapermen were recounting the fall of a giant. “Reggie Died Broke!” Thelma had been given a newspaper in New York City before boarding the train to Portsmouth, black letters emblazoned across the front page: “Gloria Junior World’s Most Expensive Tot—Mother Left Penniless.”
“Have you given any thought to moving abroad?” asked Thelma. “At least until things quiet down.” She recalled Mrs. Vanderbilt’s words. “Perhaps a change of scenery...”
“I had been thinking, perhaps, France,” Gloria replied slowly. “Reggie and I were so happy there...”
“You’d be closer to Consuelo and me,” said Thelma. “You ought to be with family.”
Gloria stared down at the waves breaking below. “If I stay here, I’ll only ever be Reggie’s widow,” she said.
“Perhaps moving to Europe will give you a chance to regain yourself,” Thelma replied.
Gloria smiled half-heartedly. “It would be a start.”
They were interrupted by a knock at the door. Gloria’s maid opened it and accepted a telegram that she passed to Thelma.
“Duke?” said Gloria.
Thelma nodded. Unbeknownst to Gloria, Duke had sent five telegrams to The Breakers already; in deference to Gloria’s feelings, Thelma had tried to hide them.
HOPE DAY WASN’T TOO DIFFICULT STOP WHEN DO YOU ANTICIPATE RETURN STOP WITH GREAT AFFECTION DUKE.
Thelma folded the telegram and tucked it under her napkin. “Nothing that can’t wait.”
“He loves you,” said Gloria.
Thelma paused. “Yes,” she said quietly. “I believe he does.”
Gloria’s face crumpled delicately, a softening and a steeling all at once—then she looked up.
“I love you for coming to help me,” she said, “but I’ll love you more if you go back to Duke.”
Thelma frowned. “Don’t be silly.”
Gloria reached across the table. “If this whole terrible experience has taught me anything, it’s that life is short. Go back to Duke and enjoy every moment of it. For me, darling. Please.”
Eight
After her somber weeks in Newport, Thelma’s return to London was welcome—and busy, given preparations for her wedding. As it was a second marriage for Thelma and Duke both, they planned for a quiet ceremony—but that didn’t mean the society pages hadn’t caught wind of it.
“If anyone turns up with a camera I’ll knock them into next week,” said Duke, practically growling after a friend from Manhattan sent Thelma a newspaper clipping chronicling Duke’s courtship in astonishing detail. “New Lady For Lord Furness?” it read, above a photograph of Thelma and Duke entering the Embassy Club.
After sorting out the particulars of the reception luncheon, Thelma traveled to Paris with Gloria and Consuelo to find a wedding dress.
“Bois de rose, madame,” Jean Patou had told her, holding a subtle pink fabric against her face when she arrived for their appointment at the House of Patou. “Exquisite with your coloring.” Consuelo and Gloria sat in the fitting room with teacups in hand while Thelma stood on a platform between them, holding her arms aloft as a seamstress draped crepe de chine across her shoulders.
“An improvement from my first dress, don’t you think?” asked Thelma.
“Second marriages are an improvement in all respects,” said Consuelo.
Thelma smiled as the seamstress pulled the fabric tight across her chest. She didn’t feel the same wild triumph that she had felt when she’d married Junior, but rather, a contented sort of happiness.
“You have so much to look forward to,” said Gloria. She’d moved to Paris only weeks ago, installing herself—and Little Gloria and Mamma—in a narrow town house near the Bois du Boulogne. “Those first honeymoon months are such a joy.”
“Everyone congratulating you,” added Consuelo. “Wanting to hear about the ceremony, the presents.”
“And then you settle into routines,” said Gloria. “I always enjoyed that, whenever Reggie stopped somewhere long enough to build them. We had such fun. Even when Mamma criticized us, we had fun.”
Thelma swiveled, causing the seamstress to protest as several pins came loose. “How is Mamma?” she asked.
“She’s a nightmare,” said Gloria. “I’m surprised, really, that I didn’t anticipate it.” She paused, playing with a scrap of organdy fabric. “She seemed fine when Little Gloria was in America for the funeral, but she had a complete fit when I told her we were moving to Paris. She told me France is no place for a child.”
Consuelo smirked. “She told me Little Gloria was nearly kidnapped on the train from Le Havre.”
“I don’t know where she gets these notions,” Gloria said. “Mamma lost sight of her in the compartment. The conductor had to stop the train, she was so hysterical.”
“What happened?” asked Thelma. From somewhere near her midsection, the seamstress fixed the pins back into the fabric as Patou barked orders in rapid-fire French.
“Kieslich had taken her to watch the tracks from the caboose,” Gloria sighed. “Mind you, Kieslich is no better. Do you know, she refused to allow Little Gloria to eat food prepared by the Ritz? She brought a hot plate up to the room and cooked all of Little Gloria’s meals in the bathroom before I put a stop to it.”
“Have you considered dismissing her?” said Thelma.
“Many times,” said Gloria. “But Little Gloria loves her so...and with Reggie gone...”
“It might be heartless to deprive her of someone else,” Consuelo finished, nodding. “I understand, but you’re her mother. You have the final say in how she’s raised.”
“Do I?” said Gloria. “Between the lawyers, the financiers, Reggie’s family, Mamma and Kieslich, I feel as if I’m raising my girl by committee.”
“So long as they know you’re the head of the operation,” Consuelo replied. She turned to Thelma. “Darling, that color is divine on you. Truly.”
* * *
The morning of Thelma’s wedding dawned rainy and gray—an ill omen to anyone else, perhaps, but Thelma took it as a sign of her British life to come. The streets of Westminster were quiet as Duke’s car pulled out from the service entrance to the Ritz Hotel: to avoid reporters, Duke had let slip that the wedding was on Tuesday afternoon, but quietly arranged for the registrar’s office to open on Sunday for the ceremony. Glancing at the rainy entrance to the Ritz Hotel as they turned onto Piccadilly, Thelma could see that Duke’s ploy had succeeded: only one reporter was stationed at the front door, his shoulders hunched against the weather. He would be disappointed once he found out that his soggy vigil had been in vain.
Seated next to her, Averill grinned as they took side streets to Hanover Square.
“All rather cloak-and-dagger, don’t you think?” she said. “How are you feeling?”
Thelma flushed. “Nervous,” she said, plucking a stray petal from her bouquet.
Averill pulled a dainty hip flask from her handbag. “I brought it for Father,” she said. “You ought to have seen him at breakfast—he was just about green.”
Thelma took the flask, savoring the warm heat of the brandy as the car pulled up in front of the registrar’s office. Careful not to catch the hem of her coat on the motorcar—or to trail it in the puddles dotting the sidewalk—Thelma handed the flask back to Averill and stepped under cover of the chauffeur’s umbrella.
Gloria and Consuelo were waiting at the front door. Not for the first time, Thelma wished that the wedding could have been held in a church; she glanced across the green of Hanover Square to t
he bell tower of St. George’s, barely visible as it peeked over the rooftops. Even if she had been able to overcome Duke’s aversion to a religious ceremony, it would have been impossible to hold the wedding there—The Times had been parking a reporter outside the church for a week now.
“You look lovely,” said Gloria. Even accounting for her obvious partiality, Thelma agreed: Patou had designed a flawless gown, long-sleeved, with silk-covered buttons tracing down the line of her back. She wore a matching floor-length jacket with lynx-fur trim along the sleeves and hem and a silk turban that swept her features back in a manner she found exceedingly elegant.
Mamma, dressed in black, was inside. She wiped away a rare tear as Thelma came into the building with Averill. “You look so beautiful,” she said. “And on such a happy occasion. Think, mi belleza—in an hour’s time you’ll be a peeress.”
Gloria led the procession up an imposing wooden staircase with wrought-iron railings, pausing at the top to allow Averill to arrange Thelma’s train. At the far end of the second-story corridor, framed by an oak-trimmed window, stood Duke, dressed as immaculately as ever and accompanied by Dickie, light glinting off their matching copper hair. He looked up at the sound of Thelma’s approach, and any lingering nerves she may have had fled as she met his gaze.
It would have been awfully hard, Thelma later reflected, to be upset. Despite the clinical feel of the registrar’s office and Mamma’s tactless jabs, Thelma couldn’t have been happier when she allowed Duke to take her hand and lead her into the small office where they became man and wife. It would have been very difficult, she thought, to see how anything else mattered.
* * *
Late that evening, Thelma lay in bed, Duke sleeping softly beside her. He had been so different from Junior, thought Thelma, feeling her hips ache slightly as she turned and drew her hand along the side of his torso. He hollowed, only slightly, at the waist; she paused at the soft deposit of flesh around his hips, goose pimples rising at her touch. Thelma had despised any hint of excess fat on Junior: it made him look womanly, hips rounding over belt loops, the fall of his trousers catching on idle excess. On Duke, the bulk seemed to fit—a heavier figure, perhaps, for a man with more substance.
The Woman Before Wallis Page 6