“All the more reason for her to be raised here,” said Gloria. Mamma huffed, a flush rising in her cheeks; Thelma realized that Gloria was taunting Mamma, and wondered how many times this same argument had played itself out in France, Germany, America. Gloria brushed more glue across the top of the cigarette box, smiling—not looking at Thelma, Thelma knew, for fear of laughing. “In America she’s too recognizable. She should grow up in Paris, where she can be like any other common child.”
Mamma’s face was suffused with fury. “My granddaughter will never—never!—be European!” She pointed a shaking finger at Gloria. “I swear to God,” she said, “I will do everything in my power to keep you from ruining that little girl’s life.”
She stalked out of the room, and Gloria burst into laughter.
Thelma couldn’t bring herself to join. She’d seen Mamma lose her temper before, but not to such an extent—and not at such a slight provocation. Gloria, however, seemed unconcerned—perhaps because in pushing Friedel away, Mamma had already done her worst.
“Crazy,” she said, presenting Thelma with the finished box.
* * *
Thelma ran a nail along a creased fold of wrapping paper, bisecting the pattern of painted carolers down the middle as she ran the paper up the side of the box and secured it with a piece of Scotch tape. It was a cozy afternoon to be wrapping presents: a furious downpour had driven Duke, Averill and Dickie indoors after luncheon and the entire family was gathered in the sitting room. Mamma and Duke were caught up in books; Averill and Little Gloria were gathering cast-off scraps of wrapping paper and folding them into paper chains and birds. Gloria turned the wireless on, and the room filled with Christmas carols.
Thelma leaned over the arm of her chair to place the wrapped gift—a celluloid fountain pen for Averill—under the Christmas tree. Nearby, Dickie stretched out on the carpet next to Tony, lining up toy soldiers.
“Is that one for me?” he asked. He propped himself up on one elbow and reached for Tony, pulling him into a tight hug.
“Not too close to the fireplace,” said Thelma, as Tony’s shoe caught one of the toy soldiers and sent it toppling from the edge of the carpet onto the lintel. Dickie rolled onto his side and released Tony onto the safety of the rug.
“Come on. Is it for me?” Dickie repeated, grinning.
Thelma smiled. “Ask me no questions, and I’ll tell you no lies,” she said. From the front of the house, she heard the doorbell.
Dickie slid across the carpet and picked up the package, inspecting the card; Tony crawled toward Thelma and, using the leg of her chair, pulled himself upright. He swayed precariously and took one step, then another, before falling to the floor with a thump.
“Well done, Tony!” said Thelma. She picked him up, inhaling his baby-sweet scent as she cuddled him close. “Did you see that, Duke? I’ve not seen him walk before.”
Duke set down the book. “Well done, lad.” He walked toward Thelma and Tony, holding out his hand; Tony curled his chubby fingers around Duke’s thumb and yawned, resting his head against Thelma’s shoulder. “Now we’re coming to the tricky part. His poor nurse won’t be able to keep up.”
Pressing a kiss to Tony’s forehead, Thelma met Duke’s proud gaze and smiled. With a jolt, she realized they were closer than they had been in months.
Duke, too, seemed to realize they’d forged some small bridge across the invisible breach between them. With one hand still trapped in Tony’s grasp, he rested the other on Thelma’s arm.
A voice from the hallway broke through the calm. “Good afternoon—ho, ho, ho! Not interrupting anything, am I?”
Thelma blushed and looked up, registering Averill’s surprise and Mamma’s suspicion, Gloria’s wide eyes and Dickie’s smiling complicity. Duke’s expression hardened; Thelma stepped away, placed Tony back on the floor and curtsied, deeply, to the Prince of Wales.
David wasn’t expected. He hadn’t called ahead, nor had Thelma invited him, but here he was, cheeks red from the cold, his overcoat unbuttoned and a tartan scarf hanging limply from his shoulders. His usually smooth hair was ruffled; he had a canvas bag slung over one shoulder, giving him the impression of a slim Father Christmas.
“Don’t get up on my account,” he said, as Mamma gripped the arms of her chair to heft herself to her feet, her eyes wide. “Only a stop-in, I’m afraid. I meant to ask Finch to send these along but it slipped my mind entirely. Thought I’d drop them off on my way to Sandringham. Good afternoon, Lady Furness, how are you?”
“What a pleasant surprise,” said Thelma, and David’s smile broadened. She was absurdly happy to see him; she hadn’t expected to, not until long after the Christmas season ended and David’s responsibilities, his church services and Christmas cards, faded into the New Year. She resisted the urge to smooth his hair back into place as he hefted the bag onto an empty armchair and began to rummage through it.
Duke smiled. “Your Royal Highness. What an honor.”
David pulled out a box of cigars and handed them to Duke.
“A Christmas present,” he said, “To thank you for your hospitality over these past few months.”
Duke raised his eyebrows. “How kind of you, sir,” he said. “But entirely unnecessary, I assure you.”
“Nonsense,” said David, and dove into the bag once more. “Presents for the little ones—Gloria, Tony, here you are.” He handed the children toy airplanes, little model men sitting in the pilots’ seats with tiny glass goggles.
Little Gloria stared solemnly at David as she accepted the airplane. “You’re not wearing a crown,” she said.
David glanced at Thelma, suppressing a smile. “No, I’m not,” he said. He patted the top of his head, as if calling attention to the lapse. “I should beg your pardon.”
“Naney told me you wear a crown,” she said.
“Well, it’s only for special occasions,” said David. He lowered his voice. “And to tell you the truth, it isn’t very comfortable.”
Little Gloria giggled. “Naney said you’d be wearing a crown, and that I had to be on my best behavior if you came.”
“I suppose if I’m not in my crown, then you don’t have to be on your best behavior, do you?” he said. “Now, can you help me give this gift to Averill?”
With Little Gloria’s help, David passed out gifts to them all—a book on animal husbandry to Averill, a bottle of single malt for Dickie; silk scarves for Gloria and Mamma.
“Are you sure we can’t persuade you to stay for tea?” said Duke.
David shook his head. “I’m afraid I really must dash—Father will have my hide if I’m late. Lady Furness, would you show me out?”
Thelma walked David down the hall. “All a bit on the nose, I know,” he said in an undertone as they walked toward the door. “I hope you don’t mind.”
Thelma glanced back toward the sitting room. “Of course not,” she said. “I’m pleased, really. Won’t your family be upset?”
David sniffed, pulling on a pair of calfskin gloves. “Father will be upset no matter what I do,” he said. They reached the front door and Thelma grabbed a shawl from the front closet. “I might as well earn my criticisms.”
Thelma followed him out to his car, wind biting at her ankles. His roadster had its top up against the wind; she could see the prince’s terriers in the passenger seat, jumping at the windows.
David rested an arm across the top of the motorcar: with his task complete, he seemed to want to linger.
“Next time, you ought to call ahead,” said Thelma lightly. “Give Duke some warning.”
“He did look a bit taken off guard,” said David. “You don’t mind, do you? I needed to see you before I get swallowed by my family.”
“You make it sound so grim,” said Thelma. “Don’t worry. You’ll enjoy yourself once you get there.”
David snorted, but didn’t say anything. H
e squinted down the puddled drive: though the rain had ceased, black clouds still hung heavy over the house, threatening another downpour. Thelma’s skirt whipped round her legs. She hugged her elbows, the thin shawl doing little to keep her from the cold, and David moved to better shield her from the wind.
“You are pleased I came?” he said. He glanced up at the house, scanning the windows. Thelma looked, too, half expecting to see Mamma’s face pressed against the glass.
She slid her hand into his. “Of course, I am,” she said. “I just wish it weren’t all so tangled. I feel sorry for Duke, really.”
He chuckled. “Don’t we all,” he said. He reached into the inside pocket of his overcoat and pulled out a small velvet box. He handed it to her, then kissed her on the cheek.
“Happy Christmas,” he said softly.
She opened it. Inside, a pair of opal earrings, each stone the size of her nail, shimmered in gold settings.
“They’re beautiful,” she said. “Thank you, David.”
“These past few months...” said David. “They’ve been so—so peaceful, with you. I feel like I can breathe better, somehow. Does that make sense?”
“It does,” said Thelma. She knew what he meant. She felt a slow, steady joy when she was around him: a peaceful happiness, a release from reality.
David smiled. “Good,” he said. “I really must go now,” he said. “I’ll call you tomorrow. Happy Christmas, my darling.”
He got into the car and drove off, but Thelma waited, watching as the car shrank down the drive, wishing she was in the passenger’s seat, traveling to Fort Belvedere or London or Scotland—anywhere, so long as it was with him.
She returned to the house, folding the shawl over a coat hanger in the closet. She passed the velvet box from one hand to the other, then slid it into the pocket of her overcoat.
“He’s gone, then?”
Thelma turned. Averill had come out from the drawing room, and was leaning against the newel post at the foot of the staircase.
She brushed past Averill to climb to the second floor.
“He’s quite the showman, isn’t he?” said Averill. “I wonder that he had the nerve to come. Though, I am glad he continued on to Sandringham, didn’t try to budge in for dinner. It would have made for a rather awkward Christmas, wouldn’t it? Awkward questions.”
She was so like her father when angry: the same brittle fury, a fire stoked over hours—months—of resentment.
“This has nothing to do with you,” said Thelma. She wasn’t surprised—but she didn’t feel guilty.
“And Father? Does it have nothing to do with him, either?”
“Your father and I have an understanding,” said Thelma.
“An understanding—is that what you call it? And what, exactly, has His Highness offered him in exchange for his wife? Not money, clearly. I hope you’ve arranged for a share of the commission, it would be a shame if the men reaped all the benefits of your hard work.”
Averill might as well have slapped her. Thelma froze, lowering her own voice in the fervent hope that Averill’s words hadn’t carried.
“How dare you,” she said. “You know I did everything I could to repair things with your father. You were there, you know—”
Averill deflated. “That’s what I don’t understand,” she said. “You tried so hard...” She sat on the bottommost step, her back to Thelma: she looked so young, her cropped hair barely covering the back of her pale neck. “You were so upset with Father—and now you’re parading him, here. It’s as if you’re determined to make a laughingstock of him. Of all of us.”
Thelma joined Averill on the stair. “That isn’t fair,” she said, her own anger dissolving. “It all happened so fast—and of course I was angry—”
“And that makes it all right? Poor Thelma?” said Averill, bristling once more. “Don’t pretend this wasn’t as much your choice as his. You could have said no. You could have been there when Father finally saw sense.”
“And I’m meant to wait around until that happens? Sit and watch Duke take his latest mistress to Paris?”
Averill’s blue eyes were hard. “Don’t think I approve of what Father did.”
The seconds stretched between them.
“Tell me this,” said Thelma finally. “Do you honestly think I should have waited for Duke to see sense?”
Averill sighed. “I think he sees sense now,” she said. “He took you for granted, and now he regrets it. Father—he’s a fighter.” She sighed. “He would have fought to win you back, you know. It’s what he used to do with Mother—seek her forgiveness. She wasn’t a weak woman, and neither are you.” She looked at Thelma with faint acknowledgement, weary, now, without anger to sustain her. “I don’t know if Mother ever—did what you’ve done... She would be so mad when Father finally came home, but he always won her round, no matter how far he’d strayed. Bring her flowers, take her out to dinner...he’s a romantic. If Mother had ever gone with another man, Father would have fought for her.”
Thelma was surprised by Averill’s honesty. Was that truly how Duke saw it all: relationships as an ebb and flow of transgressions, past hurts and current remorse and future joy all bound together, over and over again in a tangled, torturous cycle?
“It upsets him, I know it does. He hides it well—tries to ingratiate himself, but he’s horrified, I think.” Averill crossed her legs at the ankle, one over the other. “If it had been any other man he would be able to win you back. But the Prince of Wales...” She smiled sadly, resting against the newel post. “How can he possibly compete with that?”
* * *
When Thelma returned to the sitting room, she wasn’t surprised to find that Duke had disappeared—some excuse about a telephone call, Dickie had said, covering his father’s embarrassment with a young man’s bravado. By three o’clock, the rain-laden clouds had passed on, the sky lightening enough for Averill and Dickie to chance a ride through the fields; shortly afterward, Kieslich came to take the children for their naps and Mamma followed, clutching her prize from David as she climbed the staircase.
Gloria, curled on the sofa with a copy of Tatler, looked up.
“Will you have a lie-down, too?” she said with a grin. “It must be exhausting, after all, juggling two men...”
“Oh, ha ha,” said Thelma. “I didn’t know he was going to come today. I feel rather bad about it, for Duke’s sake.”
“What did he give you? Something naughty, for him to have given it privately.” Gloria flipped to a new page, her attention only half-given.
Thelma glanced at the sitting room door. “Earrings,” she said in a low voice. “Opals.”
“Lucky you. I knew he had taste.”
Gloria flipped through the magazine. Was she searching for a mention of Nada, ensconced in Lynden Manor for the holiday season? Or of Friedel, whose engagement to Princess Margarita of Greece had been announced earlier that month?
“You know, I think I will go have a lie-down,” said Thelma. Gloria nodded without looking up, and Thelma retrieved her earrings from the entrance hall.
For months now, Thelma had been sleeping separately from Duke, both in London and at Burrough Court—if they went to Affric Lodge together, Thelma supposed, the arrangement would continue, Thelma choosing the best of the guest suites with a long view over the loch. The arrangement suited her—she preferred a room without memories. Of them all, though, Thelma was saddest to have lost the master bedroom at Burrough Court: it was where she’d spent her honeymoon with Duke—where Tony, she suspected, had been conceived. She was now staying in a bedroom at the far end of the hallway, with airy curtains and a view of the manicured gardens to the east of the house.
As she passed the master bedroom, she realized the door was ajar.
“Is that you, Thelma?”
Duke’s voice was gruff. He might have been dri
nking—or simply on the edge of a cold.
Thelma wished she didn’t have the jewelry box in hand, but there was nowhere to leave it so she concealed it behind her back.
Duke was sitting in one of the armchairs by the window, an unopened book in his lap, pearl gray clouds illuminating the room with soft light. Thelma hadn’t been here in months: even when Duke was away, she respected his privacy enough not to enter. His suit jacket hung on the back of the wardrobe door, where Thelma’s dress used to be.
“He’s left?” said Duke. He nodded to the chair opposite and Thelma sat. She’d always thought of the chair as hers: the one she used to sit in, reading, when Duke slept late, his mouth twitching as he dreamed.
“To Sandringham, yes,” said Thelma. “He’s hoping to arrive before teatime—hates to be late.”
“Does he,” said Duke without enthusiasm. “What have you got there?”
Thelma had hoped to spare him, but she showed him the box. It was easier to look elsewhere: the pattern in the bedspread, the grooves in the floor.
“A Christmas present,” she said, playing with the clasp. “Earrings.”
Duke nodded. “How generous.” He set down his book and exhaled heavily. “I don’t quite know how it all...” he said, drumming a finger on the book’s spine, “When I think of everything between us... It didn’t truly hit me, Thelma, how far gone we were until you came back from that weekend party.”
Thelma’s heart broke, wishing, in some small part, that she shared his sadness. “Oh, Duke,” she said, “We were long gone before that.”
He nodded, pursing his lips. “If I’d been more...if I’d been warier, when you said you were joining him for dinner—”
Thelma looked up, genuinely surprised. “You think we fell apart because of David?”
“Didn’t we?”
Thelma could have listed off the names of the women Duke had had affairs with in the past year. But what would that solve?
She shook her head, and Duke sighed once more.
“Perhaps not,” he said. He stood, his square shoulders rounded. “I can’t have this, Thelma.”
The Woman Before Wallis Page 18