“Why?” asked Thelma. “I would have thought she would be thrilled to have you married to a prince.”
“Not when it interferes with Little Gloria,” Gloria replied. “She’s livid—keeps going on about the importance of raising her American. Truly, it boggles the mind. You and I were brought up on the continent and we’re fine.”
“We were brought up on several continents,” said Thelma.
“See? Living in one place would be much more stable,” said Gloria. “I’ve told the Surrogates that I plan to raise Little Gloria in Germany with Friedel until she’s old enough for boarding school in New York.”
In the paddock, Averill had begun to lead the horse in slow circles, Little Gloria clutching the reins. Dust clouded up as the horse walked, catching the afternoon sunlight.
Gloria tapped a hand against the paddock railing. “Mrs. Vanderbilt approves of the marriage, so that really ought to be the end of it,” she said. “If she thinks Germany is good enough for Little Gloria, it should be good enough for the Surrogates.”
“Why don’t you apply for primary custody?” asked Thelma. If Gloria, now twenty-two, gained primary custody of her daughter, she could keep Little Gloria in Europe indefinitely.
“I’ve considered it,” said Gloria, “but my last visit got all tied up in bartering over the cost of our town house in Paris.”
In the paddock, Averill slowed the horse to a halt. Gripping the pommel, she swung up onto the saddle behind Little Gloria, reaching past the child for the reins as she nudged the horse into a gentle canter. Little Gloria shrieked with delight, gripping the horse’s mane between her fingers.
“It’s strange,” she said slowly. “Mamma can’t stand Friedel—she sits across from him at the dining table and positively scowls.” She waved to Little Gloria, who waved back, her arm pumping ecstatically as she bumped up and down in the saddle. “But Friedel can handle her. And he’s so good with Little Gloria—he says she needs a father figure. He thinks Kieslich spoils her terribly.”
“Does she?” asked Thelma.
Gloria laughed. “Of course. So does Mamma. She insists on calling her an heiress, but Little Gloria now understands what that means. The other day, she asked for a second helping of cake and told me she can have anything she wants because it’s her money keeping a roof over our heads. Mamma’s voice, coming out of a four-year old child...it was disconcerting.”
Thelma waved away a cloud of midges. “What did you say?”
“I told her it wasn’t proper to say such things, but I couldn’t stay and argue. I was on my way to meet Friedel.” She waved once more as Averill brought the horse up to a trot. “You ought to come to Germany this summer. Friedel’s invited me to meet his parents at Schloss Langenburg.”
“I’d love to,” said Thelma, “but with Duke and Tony...”
Gloria turned to look at Thelma. “How is Duke?” she asked.
Thelma shrugged. “Lady Sarah tells me he’s moved on from his latest conquest. Apparently, he was in Rome last week with someone new. A war widow.”
“I would never have believed it,” said Gloria. “When I think about the two of you in Paris...”
“I’m told it’s his way,” said Thelma. “Lady Sarah thinks I should get a separate flat in London.”
“Well, I hope you aren’t moldering out here on your own,” said Gloria. “Perhaps you ought to consider what living separately could mean. Find someone fun in London. What’s sauce for the goose, and all that.”
“A lover?” said Thelma. “Wouldn’t that make me as bad as him?”
“Better a lover than a martyr,” said Gloria. “Don’t allow Duke to have all the fun.”
In the paddock, Averill had begun to walk the horse toward them, Little Gloria bouncing with the motion of the horse. Averill looked up, grinning.
Fifteen
Thelma returned to London, at Duke’s request, to help him plan a dinner party.
“To keep up appearances, I suppose,” Thelma said to a sleeping Tony when she came into the nursery to say goodbye, but she knew it was more than that. For Duke, it was an opportunity to dine with business associates and return social favors; for Thelma, with Gloria’s words echoing in her ears, it was an opportunity to return to her life in London.
Duke seemed genuinely pleased when Thelma arrived from King’s Cross, pulling her into an embrace that was so easy, so natural that it felt as though the past few months hadn’t happened.
“How’s Averill?” he said, taking her hand as he led her through to the study. “And Tony? You know, I was thinking of coming to watch Averill at that county fair. We could make a day of it. Have Cook prepare a lunch...”
“That sounds nice,” said Thelma. In her absence, the orderly mess of Duke’s study had descended into chaos: stacks of paper had multiplied, spilling over the desk and onto the floor.
He sat on the couch and patted the cushion beside him. The butler had laid out a small luncheon of cold chicken and new potatoes on the coffee table.
Thelma looked at Duke as he poured two glasses of mineral water, noting his new tiepin, the slightly different way he combed his hair. “It’s good to see you,” she said, truthfully.
“And you,” said Duke. He smiled, and Thelma felt the corners of her mouth lift in response. “The country seems to be treating you well. Any luck with the horseback riding?”
Thelma laughed. “Averill tries her best,” she said, “but even she admits I’m better suited to a coach-and-four than a saddle.”
Duke put a hand on Thelma’s knee—casually, as though it had strayed there by mistake. “Then I suppose I’ll be buying a coach-and-four,” he said. He rested his head against the back of the couch. “It’s good to talk again,” he said. “The telephone just isn’t the same.”
Lightly, Duke’s hand began to move up and down her leg. His fingers brushed against lace overlay of her dress; her slip whispered, silk against stocking, under the weight of his hand as he inched it slowly past her garter.
She knew she ought to pull away. Duke didn’t deserve this—but it had been months since she’d felt true affection, true desire.
Duke kissed her. “I’ve missed you,” he murmured. He slipped his hand under her dress, her skin electric beneath the pads of his fingers. She shifted beneath him, kissing him as he pushed her skirt even higher.
* * *
Afterward, they settled down to the business of planning the dinner party.
“Cook’s sorting the menu—I don’t much care what we have, so long as it’s food,” said Duke. “What I need from you is help with the seating arrangements.”
He handed Thelma a list of names—thirty or forty, split down the middle by sex so they could determine who to put where.
Thelma barely saw the guest list. It felt as though nothing had changed: Thelma could suddenly see everything she’d given up these past few months—and for what? Duke had been as enthusiastic as ever. He didn’t care about the pregnancy, nor her appalling conduct at the Embassy Club. He cared about her happiness—and she, unbelievably, had pushed it away.
Impulsively, she leaned over and kissed Duke on the cheek. He chuckled as she leaned against him and began to read.
Her stomach dropped. A name at the bottom of the list, hastily scrawled in contrast to the neat penmanship of the other names, stood out on the paper. It had been added by Duke: a careless addition, it seemed, to even out the numbers.
All the buzz in Thelma’s head—the excited chatter, the restless hope—fell silent.
“I figured we can put G anywhere, he’s fairly easy to get on with—”
“Duke, darling,” said Thelma. “This name at the bottom of the list...”
Duke looked over, patting Thelma on the knee. “Who? Oh—yes, I figured we can put her somewhere near the Pevensies, they’re old friends.”
Thelma froze. �
��You can’t possibly think I’d allow her in the house.”
“Why not?” said Duke. “She’s a friend.”
“She’s more than a friend,” said Thelma. She stood. Duke was unbearable once more, the lingering feel of his hands dirty, clammy—
Duke stood, too. “I won’t have you sneering at her,” he said.
“I don’t believe you. I don’t believe you,” said Thelma. “You ask me to allow that woman into my home? After making love to me, Duke, you ask—”
“It’s my house, and you’ll accept her in it!” Duke slammed a fist on his desk, so forcefully that several sheets of paper slid off the tops of their piles and drifted to the floor.
He pointed at her. “You will accept her into this house,” he said. “I won’t hear another word against her, do you understand?”
Stunned into silence, Thelma nodded.
Duke smoothed his hair back. “Good,” he said. He sat on the couch and reached for her hand. “Forgive me, darling, I—I lost my temper. Cowardly.”
Thelma wrenched out of his grasp and left the room.
Sixteen
Thelma left London early the next morning, and though Duke apologized again for losing his temper, he refused to relent.
“Clearly, we are at an impasse,” he said, walking Thelma toward her idling car, “and I’m sorry for it. But there really is nothing more to discuss.”
For days afterward, Thelma drifted through Burrough Court, sliding from grief to seething anger to self-pity—and a weakening hope that she might one day find happiness in a life estranged from her husband.
“How do you stand it?” Thelma asked Lady Sarah over the telephone.
There was a pause at the other end of the line. “You stop feeling sorry for yourself,” she replied. “It’s happened to many women before you—it will happen to many women after. Duke will come to his senses, but don’t sit about in Leicestershire waiting for it to happen.” Lady Sarah paused again. “And Thelma? For pity’s sake don’t cause a scene.”
While Thelma brooded, Averill had Burrough Court in an uproar preparing for the Leicester Fair. As her first show since taking on management of the estate, Averill had a lot pinned on success. It would prove, she told Thelma, that she was more than a society girl with a hobby.
“Father only ever signed the bills,” she said, “but this place—it’s so much more. The farming, the shooting, the hunting—all those things don’t appear out of thin air. I want to learn how to run it.”
The evening before the Fair, Averill prowled the drawing room, fretting about the clouds that had settled heavily over the fields.
“Blasted rain,” she said. “Gordon tells me it’s going to start this evening—nothing for it, I suppose, although it will make transport a nightmare...”
Thelma, curled on the divan, barely registered a word. Duke had sent a telegram to Burrough Court that morning, wishing Averill luck in the Fair. Even after their last argument, Duke tended to include some polite message for Thelma in such missives, but this telegram ended abruptly, with nothing to indicate that he knew Thelma was there.
Averill trailed off. “You aren’t listening, are you?”
Thelma looked up. “No. Of course, darling.” She smiled at Averill—her relentless focus, so very much like her father. “I’m sorry. I’ve not been good company this evening.”
Averill sobered, the manic light of last-minute planning leaving her eyes. She circled back and sat. “I’m sorry, too, you know,” she said. “He can be so pigheaded at times.”
Thelma smiled. “So can I.”
“A Furness family trait, I’m afraid. It’s no wonder you fit in so well,” said Averill. “You know what? You ought to come to the Fair tomorrow. Help calm my nerves.”
Thelma thought of Duke’s telegram, sitting at the bottom of a wastepaper basket in the study. If he wasn’t going to be there for Averill, at least she could be. “Yes, why not?”
* * *
The next morning Thelma set out for Leicester Fair, bundled against the relentless drizzle in the back seat of her motorcar.
Don’t cause a scene, Lady Sarah had told her—and while Thelma felt she was sparing the world the sight of her misery, she clearly hadn’t considered the effect that her moping was having on Averill.
Thelma watched the gray fields pass by, the car slowing as it entered a small village. She never truly felt like a stepmother—she was too close in age to Averill and Dickie to feel any real sense of responsibility—but it was unfair to air her unhappiness in front of Duke’s children. Had Gloria been there, Thelma would have been able to rely on her, as a distraction and a source of strength. As it was, though, Thelma was letting her emotions get the better of her.
The car pulled around a corner and an immense warehouse covered in red-and-white bunting came into view.
“Just a few moments here, m’lady,” said the driver. The car joined a stream of automobiles and carriages slowing to let out the passengers that streamed into the warehouse, collars turned up against the wind. Many were under the temporary refuge of black umbrellas, while others held sodden newspapers over their heads.
The driver stopped in front of a series of wooden duckboards laid across the wet grass and Thelma stepped out, buttoning her coat. The brim of her hat lifted slightly, the breeze hinting at more inclement weather to come, and she snugged it down, the boards beneath her feet sinking into the muddy earth as she walked inside.
The Fair was bustling with visitors: farmers and their proud wives, townsfolk in rough-spun tweeds, small children darting like minnows between their parents’ legs. It was noisy, the assembled din of farmers, animals and visitors creating an incoherent buzz. From some unseen corner of the building she could hear a horn band, punctuated occasionally by the lowing of cows.
Thelma walked on. The building was as large as a football pitch, if not larger; tables and fencing created makeshift alleyways down which, presumably, she would find livestock. Signs hung from the rafters: Pigs and Sheep, Rabbits, Poultry. Thelma kept to the main thoroughfare, admiring the domestic offerings that lay on tables festooned with bunting: home goods and handiwork, preserves and pottery.
A large show ring stood in the center of the building, its white railings freshly painted. It was flanked by low stands filled with spectators—an oddly large crowd for a farm show, thought Thelma, but then what did she know of farm shows? Within the ring, a line of sheep stood in the company of freshly scrubbed farmers. A handful of men in suits and top hats huddled opposite, occasionally stepping forward to inspect the sheep more closely.
“They’ll be bringing in the cows next,” said a heavyset woman in a worn apron, sitting at a gingham-covered table laden with pies and tarts. She folded her hands comfortably over her stomach and looked up at Thelma with a matronly smile. “Shorthorns, then longhorns—then’s the ’orses—not sure ’ow many classes that’ll be—and after they’ll be moving on to baking.” She beamed. “Imagine—the Prince o’ Wales, eating one of my pies!”
“The prince?” said Thelma, looking at the show ring with renewed interest.
“Sure enough, m’lady. Come for the Fair.”
Thelma walked closer and people moved to make space for her next to the railing. She leaned forward—surely Averill would have mentioned whether the prince was going to be at the Fair?
In the ring, a white-whiskered man held up his hand, then pointed at one of the sheep. The crowd broke into applause and the farmer holding the sheep’s lead stepped forward and bowed in front of the slender judge holding a blue ribbon: the Prince of Wales. The farmer rose as the prince, smiling, pinned the ribbon onto the sheep’s collar. The crowd applauded, and the prince waved, sending them into cries of approval.
The white-whiskered judge announced a short break while the next set of livestock were brought in—“Shorthorns,” Thelma heard someone mutter—and the cr
owd broke into casual chatter.
The prince looked round and Thelma, instinctively, waved.
He met her gaze—then to Thelma’s astonishment, he broke away from his handlers and walked to the side of the ring.
“Lady Furness,” he said. Thelma curtsied, pleased—surprised—that the prince had recalled her with such ease.
“Your Royal Highness,” she said. The prince smiled, his eyes—that startling blue—fixed on her.
“I meant to congratulate you on the birth of your son. One hears these things in the clubs now and again.”
“Thank you, sir,” she replied. “We named him Anthony.”
The prince held up his handful of ribbons, weighing them in a gloved hand. “Quite the to-do, these shows,” he said. “My understanding of agriculture is rather limited but I must say, I think I’ve gotten rather good at the judging end of things.”
“It must make quite the change from London, sir,” said Thelma.
The prince reached for the knot of his tie and Thelma smiled, recalling the gesture from a long-ago ball.
“Indeed, it does,” he said. “I find I’m so much more at home in the country—particularly country as lovely as this. Have you been in Leicestershire long?”
“Several weeks, sir. My husband has an estate in Melton Mowbray.”
“But you’ll be returning to London soon?”
She thought of her last disastrous trip to Arlington Place. “I should think so, sir.”
“I don’t suppose you’d be game for having dinner one night this week—say, Thursday?”
Thelma nearly laughed out loud but caught herself at the last moment, turning the noise into a deferential cough. The prince looked at her expectantly. His eyes flicked, briefly, to the neckline of her dress.
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