The Shadow Queen

by Rebecca Dean

  “You said a couple of weddings. Who else is about to make a trip down the aisle?”

  This time it was Corinne’s turn to be wide-eyed. “Land sakes! You mean you don’t know?”

  “No. Why should I? I’ve been away for over a year and haven’t touched base with old friends and family yet.”

  “Maybe not, Skinny, but this is one bride you should have touched base with. It’s your mother.”

  Wallis wasn’t at all surprised that her mother was marrying for a third time, but she was almost robbed of breath that Alice hadn’t yet told her of it when Corinne, and doubtless all the rest of their Montague relations, knew about it.

  “Well, if that don’t beat the band!”

  Her expression was so comical that Corinne burst into full-throated laughter. “Guess it must have slipped Alice’s mind,” she said when she was finally able to speak. “For your mother, getting married is beginning to become quite commonplace!”

  Wallis hooted with laughter.

  Some of the hotel’s elderly residents who were seated nearby gave them disapproving looks, but Wallis and Corinne didn’t care. They had missed each other’s company over the last year, and they were Montagues. Unrestrained laughter came as naturally to them as breathing.

  “But honey, I was just waiting for you to visit me. Telling you I was about to become a bride again just wouldn’t have been any fun in a letter.”

  Wallis laughed and gave her mother a bear hug. “Tell me all about him,” she said when she finally released her. “All I know is that he’s a legal clerk at the Veterans’ Administration.”

  Alice giggled. “Well, I guess that’s all there is to tell about Charlie. He’s not much of a live wire, but we’re very comfy together.”

  “That’s swell, Mama. I hope you’ll be as happy with him as you were with Mr. Rasin.”

  “I will,” Alice said placidly. “God willing.”

  Mindful of her residency requirements, Wallis didn’t leave Warrenton too often. Most times when she ventured into what she was beginning to think of as the outside world, it was to go to Washington to visit her mother or her Aunt Bessie. Occasionally, though, she took the train to New York and visited friends from Oldfields with whom she had kept in irregular touch. When Christmas approached and she received an invitation from one of them to spend it in New York, it was an invitation she eagerly accepted.

  Anywhere would be better than trying to be festive at the Warren Green Hotel,

  she wrote to Pamela.

  It’s the nearest thing to a morgue I ever hope to be in. Plus, I like New York, even when it’s feet deep in snow. If it weren’t for your suggestion that the minute my divorce is a done deal I come and stay with you and John Jasper in London, I’d be looking for a way of staying in New York permanently.

  That she wasn’t going to do so was because she knew how much more interesting life would be in London. Pamela and John Jasper mixed among the very highest of high society. There was even a chance Pamela would be able to introduce her to Prince Edward.

  Who is beginning to cause anxiety in the British press,

  Pamela had written in her last letter.

  After all, he is thirty-two, and the general opinion is that he should be married and providing the country with an heir presumptive. It is his becoming an uncle which has brought about this latest avalanche of concern. Have there been photographs of the Duke and Duchess of York’s baby girl in American newspapers? There’s nothing adventurous about the choice of name, Elizabeth Alexandra Mary. Elizabeth after her mother—and, at a stretch, Queen Elizabeth Tudor—Alexandra after her great-grandmother, and Mary after her grandmother. It’s easy to imagine Bertie a doting papa, but a little harder to imagine Edward in the same role.

  It was the kind of letter that made Wallis long to be in London, gossiping with Pamela about the royal family, and all she had to do until she was doing so was to endure Warrenton for a few more months. One blessing was that at least her Christmas wouldn’t be boring, for there was no telling whom she might meet at a Christmas dinner party in New York.

  “Ernest Simpson,” the man seated next to her at dinner said, in an accent that sounded very English. “I arrived too late to be formally introduced to anyone. Do you like it that the drapes haven’t been drawn and we can see the snow falling in the moonlight? Christmas without snow would be a very poor affair, don’t you think?”

  “Wallis Spencer—and yes, I do like seeing the snow fall.”

  He was an attractive-looking man: square-jawed, dark-haired, and mustached. Superficially he looked very much like Win, but unlike Win his eyes weren’t arrogant and sexually appraising, and he didn’t possess Win’s air of barely suppressed violence.

  He looked like a man perfectly at ease with himself, and she immediately felt perfectly at ease with him.

  “Are you British?” she asked. “Your accent sounds very much like that of a friend of mine who lives in London.”

  “Then I hope he, or she, isn’t a Cockney.” There was amusement in his voice. “I’m a former member of the Coldstream Guards. It’s the oldest regiment in continued existence in the British Army. I’m afraid a Cockney would have rather a hard time of it fitting in.”

  “What is an Englishman doing in New York? Do you work here, or are you a tourist?”

  “I work here. Though my father is English, my mother is American, and I was born in America and educated here. At Harvard.”

  “Of course. Where else?” There was teasing laughter in her voice and, recognizing it, he chuckled.

  “Sorry. That kind of thing matters to so many people, always mentioning it has become a habit.”

  “As with the Coldstream Guards?”

  His eyes crinkled at the corners. “As with the Coldstream Guards.”

  She liked that he was able to take being teased so well and that he didn’t take himself too seriously.

  The rest of the table were being noisily jovial, but Ernest Simpson showed no desire to join in the general hilarity, and she had no desire to, either. Talking to each other was proving to be far more enjoyable.

  “What kind of work do you do in New York, Mr. Simpson?”

  His eyes were dark blue. They didn’t have the same effect on her that John Jasper’s eyes once had, or that Win’s and Felipe’s eyes had had on her the first time she had looked into them. They were nice eyes, though, and, having once looked into them, she found herself happily continuing to do so.

  He said, “I’m a partner in the family firm.”

  “Which is?”

  “Simpson, Spence and Young. We buy and sell ships—and do so on both sides of the Atlantic.”

  Wallis’s interest quickened. “You have offices in London?”

  He nodded. “Do you know London? Though I was born and brought up in New York, I’ve always far preferred it.”

  “I’ve never been—but I’m going to go and stay with friends in London before next year is out.”

  “I’m hoping to begin managing the London side of things before too very long, and so perhaps we’ll meet up there? I know the city very well and would enjoy showing you around it. As you’re a New Yorker, it would be presumptuous of me to offer to show you around New York.”

  “Oh, I’m not a New Yorker, Mr. Simpson.” Wallis took a belated sip of her wine, already knowing she was going to see a great deal of him long before either of them should find themselves in London and deeming that it was time she laid her cards on the table. “I’m a Baltimorean, although no longer living there. At the moment I’m living in Warrenton, Virginia.”

  Though he politely tried to hide it, he was surprised, as she had known he would be.

  “I’m sitting out a year’s residency there in order to get a divorce.”

  “How extraordinary.” Relief that she didn’t have a husband in tow showed in the dark blue eyes. “I’m in the throes of obtaining a divorce myself. I think you should call me Ernest, don’t you? I also think I should begin showing you roun
d New York. As a New York–born Englishman it’s the least I can do for a girl from Baltimore.”

  The next morning they walked in Central Park together down paths hard with glistening, compacted snow. In the afternoon they visited the Metropolitan Museum, discovering, with pleasure, that they both shared the same taste in art. In the evening they dined at the Brevoort, which was conveniently close to her friend’s home in Washington Square. When he said good night to her, he kissed her warmly and gently.

  It wasn’t the kind of overture to a love affair—something Wallis was certain they were on the verge of—that she was accustomed to. John Jasper, Win, and Felipe had all—in different ways—been hot-blooded and passionate. Though she had swiftly come to regret it where Win was concerned, Wallis knew herself well enough to know that sexually she was drawn to tigers.

  Everything about Ernest’s quiet, undemanding personality indicated he was far from being a tiger. Later, lying in bed and thinking about the calm, peaceful, and enjoyable day they had spent together, she concluded that it didn’t matter. A sexually undemanding man would be far likelier to accommodate himself to her physical disability than a demanding one. After the turbulence of the last few years, she needed a relationship that would be a haven of tranquillity, and even though she had known Ernest for barely twenty-four hours, she knew that being with him would always be restful and, because he was intelligent and cultured, never boring.

  From that night on, life settled into a very agreeable pattern. She began spending far more time in New York than her Warrenton residency requirements allowed, but no one seemed to notice, and her divorce petition continued to move slowly but steadily toward a satisfactory conclusion. Making it easier for them to be together more often, Ernest often traveled to Warrenton, and though Warrenton didn’t provide them with the diversions of New York—museums and art galleries and elegant restaurants and Broadway shows—Wallis still enjoyed being with him.

  Because of her experience in circumnavigating her physical disability, Ernest was as happy in bed with her as Felipe had been. If her pleasure wasn’t as great as it had been with Felipe, it was still satisfactory. She and Ernest were, in the words her mother had used about her third husband, “comfy together.” It wasn’t the world-shattering passion the Chinese astrologer had predicted for her, but she was now sure that the words imprinted so deeply in her memory were the result of hypnotism and her own deeply hoped-for wishes, not words that had actually been spoken.

  In late spring her Aunt Bessie, now financially well off thanks to a legacy from her late employer, asked her if she would like to accompany her on a lengthy trip to Europe, all expenses paid. Even though she was putting her residency requirements at risk, it was an offer Wallis couldn’t bring herself to refuse.

  Ernest was appalled.

  “But Wallis, sweetheart, that means we’ll be separated for the whole of the summer, perhaps for longer!”

  She curled her arm lovingly through his.

  “Please try to understand,” she said coaxingly. “I’ll never be given such an opportunity again, and if I don’t accept, I doubt if Bessie will make the trip. Not alone. I owe her a great deal and she’s relying on me to say yes.”

  Ernest, who had met Aunt Bessie and liked her a great deal, ran a hand defeatedly over his close-cropped, neatly trimmed hair. “I’m going to be understanding about this trip only on one condition, Wallis.”

  Wallis, knowing what the condition was going to be, leaned her head against his shoulder so that their eyes couldn’t meet.

  “My divorce is already finalized and yours will be finalized by the end of the year. When it is, I want you to marry me. I love you too deeply to care about whether we can have children or not. All I want to do is to spend my life with you. I’ve never been as happy as I have been these last few months.”

  Apart from the early days of her relationships with John Jasper, Win, and Felipe, Wallis had never been happier either, and she knew that unlike the others, Ernest would never be unfaithful to her and that he most certainly wouldn’t be physically abusive to her. The problem was that though she loved him, she wasn’t in love in an overpowering, being-swept-off-her-feet way, and settling for anything less was something she couldn’t yet quite bring herself to do.

  When she knew that her true feelings weren’t showing in her eyes, she turned toward him, sliding her arms up and around his neck. “I love you, too, Ernest.” Her voice was husky with truth. Seeing the flare of hope in his eyes, she added swiftly, “I’m just not sure that I’m ready to marry again yet. My marriage to Win was such a nightmare, and though I know things would be very different between the two of us, I’m just not ready to tie the knot for a second time. At least not yet. Ask me again when I’m back from Europe and when my divorce has been granted—and don’t in the meantime stop loving me, Ernest. You’ve become the center of my life. You do know that, don’t you?”

  He nodded, his arms tightening around her as he fought his disappointment. “Happiness is too precious not to take it when it’s there for the taking, Wallis,” he said thickly. “By the time you get your divorce I’ll be installed in Simpson, Spence and Young’s London office. I know you have friends in London. As we’ll be living there after our marriage, we could marry there. We’ll be happy together, darling. I know we will be.”

  Wallis was beginning to feel more and more certain that Ernest was right. He would bring stability into her life, stability her life badly needed. Her intention had always been to move to London after her divorce, and the thought of living there as a married woman, with a home of her own, was tempting.

  And so I’m cruising the Mediterranean with Aunt Bessie,

  she wrote to Pamela a few weeks later.

  At the moment we are berthed at Naples. From here our itinerary is Palermo and then Trieste, where we leave the ship. Aunt Bessie’s intention is that we then travel by either train or hired car back across southern Europe, stopping at Monte Carlo, Nice, Avignon, and Arles until we eventually reach Paris.

  As for my love life—I’m in a quandary and wish to goodness you were around for me to talk it all out with. Ernest has asked me to marry him—something I knew he would eventually do from the evening I first met him. He’s kind, sensitive, intelligent. His mother is American and he was brought up here, but he’s British, both legally and by inclination. He’s financially secure (after the way I had to live on my Uncle Sol’s charity in my Baltimore days and how since I’ve had to rely on a small Navy allowance and poker winnings, you can’t imagine how happy those words make me). I like being with him. He makes me feel safe—and that, I think, is the problem. I’m not used to feeling safe and secure and to tell you the truth, Pamela, I find it a little boring. I’ve gotten so used to excitement that now I’m living without it, I miss it. (Did I tell you that when I traveled alone from Shanghai to Peking, the train was boarded by bandits? They were terrifyingly scary but thankfully weren’t on a kidnapping spree.)

  So there it is. I can stop drifting. Marry Ernest and live happily and unexcitingly, ever after. Or I can not marry Ernest and wait on fate. So far, though, fate has not been overwhelmingly kind and I’m not growing any younger. I’m thirty-one, and what is the likelihood of a prince on a white charger carrying off a thirty-one-year-old middle-aged damsel?

  In the early autumn, when they were in Paris, Bessie said she was ready for home, but that Wallis could stay on in Paris for a little while if she wanted to.

  Wallis did want to. Ernest had now taken over the running of the family firm in London, and in every letter she received from him he was urging her to join him there and to marry him. Becoming Mrs. Ernest Simpson was something Wallis still hadn’t made up her mind about, and Corinne hadn’t helped matters when, in her last letter to her, she’d written,

  Remember the old jingle, Skinny? “To change the name and not the letter, is a change for the worse, not for the better.” As Spencer and Simpson have the same initial, I thought I’d better warn you!


  That her time for hiding in Paris had run its course came out of the blue. Walking down the boulevard toward her hotel, she paused at a newsstand and bought a copy of the early edition of the Paris Herald. Turning it over, she was stunned to read that her Uncle Sol had died the previous day. Back at her hotel, a cable from Alice was waiting for her.

  Uncle Sol dead. Heart failure. Funeral Friday. Mama

  Though there was no way she could be in Baltimore in time for the funeral, she knew then and there that it was time to go home. Their relationship had never been easy, but he was the only father figure she had ever known. She owed it to him to show her respects by returning home.

  Forty-eight hours later she was aboard a liner heading for New York.

  “I’m nervous about the will, honey,” Alice said as she and Wallis set out for 34 East Preston Street to hear the reading. “If it weren’t that you’re about to become divorced, I’m sure as God made little green apples Sol would have left the bulk of his fortune to you.” Wallis had never seen anyone literally wringing their hands, but her mother was wringing them now. “He was too furious with you for bringing shame on his family name. No Warfield has ever been divorced and he just couldn’t stomach it, Wallis. He said the very word stuck in his craw.”

  “Stop worrying, Mama. How could Uncle Sol not have left me any money? You’re wrong, though, in thinking there was a time when he might have left me all of it. Devout Episcopalians are duty bound to leave generously to charity. What I will get is a smidgen—but a smidgen of such a large amount will, for me, be a fortune.”

  The reading of Sol’s last will and testament took place in 34 East Preston Street’s parlor. Her Uncle Emory was seated in the rosewood rocking chair from which her grandmother had ruled the household. His wife was seated on the slippery leather couch that Wallis, as a child, had been unable to sit on without, much to her grandmother’s exasperation, sliding off it. Her grandmother’s voice rang in her memory as if it were yesterday. Bessie Wallis, can’t you be still for just a minute? Bessie Wallis, how will you ever grow up to be a lady unless you learn to keep your back straight?