by Rebecca Dean
As he walked across to her, Wallis gave him a smile of apology. “Sorry, John Jasper, I was trying to come to terms with the fact that if Prince Edward were suddenly to become king, Thelma would be maîtresse-en-titre.”
“Which wouldn’t matter if, as king, he had also had a queen and an heir—or at least the prospect of an heir. Something he not only doesn’t have, but doesn’t even show the slightest interest in having.” He took the martini glass from Wallis’s hand. “Even for a republican, that seems to me a dodgy situation for a monarchy. Especially one that rules a third of the globe.”
All through the year and into 1930, rumors as to King George’s health continued to be rampant. Wallis found it surreal to think that when he died and when Prince Edward became king, his mistress would be a woman whose sister she regarded as being a close friend. Even after over a year of being friends with George and Nada, she could never quite believe that George was Lord Louis Mountbatten’s brother.
Her memory of when she had seen Louis Mountbatten standing by Prince Edward’s side in the grand ballroom of the Hotel del Coronado was still vivid. Then, even being presented to him and shaking his hand would have been one of the high spots of her life. Now his brother and sister-in-law bandied his name across her and Ernest’s dining table so casually it made her head spin.
Common sense told her she was being foolishly snobbish, but the fact that she was friends with minor royalty gave her a great deal of pleasure. One reason was that she knew how much pleasure her grandmother would have gained from it. Another was that she knew how furiously jealous the people who had once sneered at her for living off her Uncle Sol’s charity would be. If Violet Dix or Mabel Morgan were in London now they would, she knew, be selling their souls in order to be invited to a cocktail party at which the marquess and marchioness of Milford Haven would be present.
What she had yet to achieve, though, was the presence of Thelma at one of her cocktail parties, for with Thelma would also—eventually—come Prince Edward.
She was in the back of a taxicab, thinking of a way of achieving this objective, when the cabdriver opened his glass partition and said: “Yer might loike to know, madam, that the Prince of Wales’s car ’as just driven up alongside of us.”
Wallis spun her head to the right. There was only one passenger in the limousine, and beneath a homburg hat his delicate profile was immediately recognizable. He was staring straight ahead of him, his expression somber.
“ ’E’s no doubt thinkin’ about the king,” the cabdriver said with a knowing nod as the limousine pulled away from them, heading in the direction of Buckingham Palace. “ ’E’s pretty bad, by all accounts. My missus ’as bin sayin’ prayers for ’im all week.”
Wallis leaned back against the cracked leather seating. She had now seen Prince Edward twice, both times fleetingly and both times at a distance. It had been ten years since she had seen him at the del Coronado and yet, despite his now being thirty-seven and despite his having a world of worry on his slender shoulders, the boyish handsomeness that was his trademark was undimmed.
For what seemed like an age, Pamela had been promising her she would arrange things so that she would be introduced to him, but so far, despite Pamela’s best efforts, it hadn’t happened. Her hands tightened on her snakeskin clutch bag as she wondered if it ever would.
When the occasion finally arose, it came completely out of the blue on a dank January day thick with fog. She had woken with a heavy head cold, and when the telephone rang she was uninterested in who it was that was calling.
“It’s Mrs. Bachman, Mrs. Simpson,” the butler who formed the nucleus of her and Ernest’s small household staff of five said.
“Please tell her I will call her back.”
He nodded and went back into the hall.
Seconds later he was again at her side. “Mrs. Bachman says it is extremely urgent, Mrs. Simpson.”
Hoping there hadn’t been an accident or other real emergency, Wallis forced herself into movement.
As soon as she heard the tone of Pamela’s excited voice she knew the matter of urgency hadn’t been connected to anything grave.
“Wally, darling! I have the most wonderful news.…”
“Sorry, Pamela,” she said, cutting across her, “but I’ve come down with a dreadful cold and I’m really not in the mood for whatever it is you’re about to tell me.”
“You’re going to be in the mood for this—and you’re going to have to get over your cold pretty damn quick.” Pamela’s voice wasn’t merely excited; it was jubilant. “I’ve just had a telephone call from Consuelo. She and Benny were due to spend the weekend as guests of Thelma’s at Burrough Court, Duke’s hunting lodge at Melton Mowbray. Prince Edward is going to be at his hunting lodge, Craven Court, which is only a mile or so away. Thelma is expecting Edward to be spending nearly all the weekend at Burrough and has arranged a small party for him. Nothing big, just a handful of people. As Duke won’t be there—he’s in Africa, on safari—Thelma needed Consuelo and Benny there to act as chaperones, and now Consuelo can’t go.”
Wallis sneezed, wiped her nose, and said, “All very interesting, Pamela, but what do Thelma’s romantic weekend arrangements have to do with me?”
“Everything, Wally! Absolutely everything! Benny’s mother has fallen ill, and Consuelo is leaving for Paris later this morning to look after her. She phoned me in a panic to ask if I knew who was likely to be able to stand in for her and Benny at short notice, and I immediately said that you and Ernest would absolutely love to do so. She will be phoning you any second, so good-bye, darling, and good luck!”
Before Wallis could even draw breath, the connection was severed. She was just about to call Pamela back in order to ask her to repeat everything she’d said, so she could make sure she’d hadn’t misunderstood her, when, beneath her hand, the telephone rang again.
“Wallis, sweetie.” Consuelo sounded slightly breathless. “Thank goodness you’re at home. I need the most awfully big favor. Thelma is entertaining you-know-who at Burrough, Duke’s place in Leicestershire, this weekend. Benny and I were to be chaperones—so silly, but you-know-who insists on the outward proprieties—and I now won’t be there as Benny’s mother is ill and I have to do the done thing and rush to her side—which very inconveniently happens to be in Paris. Benny is still going to Burrough, but Thelma needs a married couple for the chaperoning lark and so if you don’t mind, darling.…”
Wallis said she didn’t mind, put the receiver down, and succumbed to blind panic. At long, long last she had achieved what she had wanted to achieve for so long. She was not only going to be introduced to the Prince of Wales, she was going to be informally in his company—and for an entire weekend.
It was the kind of engagement for which days of preparation were needed, and she had only hours. Almost incoherent with haste, she phoned Ernest at his office, begging him to come home immediately so that he could ensure she made no mistake when it came to packing their weekend case. Melton Mowbray was deep in fox hunting country, and any weekend spent there would primarily be a hunting weekend. Neither she nor Ernest rode to hounds, and if the dinner table talk was going to be all about hunting—which she was sure it would be—how were she and Ernest going to take part in it? When it came to the clothes to take, she needed Ernest’s advice. To be not dressed appropriately for such a weekend would be an embarrassment that would haunt her to the end of her days.
“You need something in tweed for the daytime.” When Ernest arrived home he was flushed with elation at the prospect of meeting his future king in such an intimate setting. “Didn’t you buy a blue-gray tweed dress with a cape when we were in Paris? That and a couple of evening dresses should serve splendidly. I’ve spoken to Benny and he’s going to meet us at St. Pancras so that we can travel to Melton together.”
His dressing room was between their bedroom and the bathroom, and as he was talking he was rifling through his wardrobe for clothes suitable for both a horse-centered
weekend and a prince-centered one.
“By the way, darling,” he said, placing two dress shirts with stiff fronts into his case, “I forgot to tell you that Prince Edward’s brother, Prince George, is going to be at Burrough as well.”
“Dear Lord, are you telling me I’m going to have to do two curtseys?”
“I’m afraid so. Left leg as far as possible behind the right and a nice little dip. You’ll do fine, darling. Now how many collars and white ties do you think I should pack?”
Wallis’s nerves weren’t helped by her cold. “I’m sorry, Benny,” she said when he met them at St. Pancras station, “but after waiting a lifetime for this kind of opportunity, it’s come at a bad time. I think I’m coming down with flu.”
“Then I won’t kiss you. Just put extra powder on your nose and no one will guess you’re under the weather.”
They boarded the train, and in the privacy of their first-class compartment, Wallis said, “I’ve been practicing curtseys, Benny, but I think they could do with a little polish. You’ve attended enough court functions to recognize a curtsey properly done. I’m going to do one now, and I want you to tell me what you think.”
The train had begun moving and Benny said, amused, “You’re an American, Wallis. You are not obliged to curtsey either to the Prince of Wales or to Prince George.”
“Maybe not, but I’m going to. And you have a choice, Benny. You either help me perfect one or I get off this train at the next station!”
Benny’s attempts to give a demonstration of a curtsey in a swaying, lurching carriage were hilarious, and Wallis laughed so much that by the time they reached Melton Mowbray she had almost forgotten how dreadfully flu-like she was feeling.
Though it was only five in the afternoon, it was both dark and foggy. A car was waiting to meet them, and as they drove the short distance to Burrough Court, her inner tension mounted.
Being introduced to the Prince of Wales in a house party situation was far different from what it would have been if she had been introduced to him a decade ago at the Hotel del Coronado. Then, she would have been merely one young woman in a long line of young women and would have had no more hope of conversing with him than she would have had of flying to the moon. This evening she would not only be conversing with him, she would be dining with him and quite possibly even dancing with him. It was enough to make anyone feel sick with nerves.
“You’re the first to arrive,” a pleasant-faced young woman said when Burrough Court’s splendid oak-studded front door had been opened to them and they had entered the house. “I’m Averill Furness, Thelma’s stepdaughter. Thelma has been delayed on the road by the fog, and the Prince of Wales and Prince George are with her. Hopefully they’ll be here soon. I’ll have your bags taken up to your rooms. Meanwhile, please come into the drawing room, where tea is waiting to be served.”
Benny, who had been a guest at Burrough Court many times, was completely at home. “Many thanks, Averill,” he said, shrugging himself out of his overcoat and allowing it to be taken from him by a member of the domestic staff. “I hope there’s a log fire roaring away. The train from St. Pancras was damnably chilly.”
Relieved that she had a little more time to compose herself before coming face to face with Prince Edward and, as his brother would be arriving with him, executing not one, but two curtseys, Wallis allowed her tweed cape to be taken from her shoulders and then, with Ernest close behind her, followed Benny and Averill into the drawing room.
“A log fire is always a pleasure,” Benny said as they seated themselves comfortably on deep-cushioned sofas, “but to tell the truth, it isn’t an essential here. When Duke bought Burrough it was just a small, two-storied hunting lodge. He added the wings on either side, giving the house the shape of a square U, insisted that every guest bedroom should have its own bathroom, and had central heating put in—a luxury not to be found in many British country houses. When it comes to central heating, Britain is still way behind America.”
“That’s because we’re hardier than you Americans.” Averill was clearly happy to be in his company. “All we need to keep warm are fur coats and good old English wool.”
Benny cracked with laughter, and Averill flushed with pleasure at having made him do so.
Wallis shot a quick look in the direction of Averill’s left hand, saw there were no rings on it, and wondered if Benny realized that Averill didn’t mind in the least Consuelo’s being in Paris.
A round table between the sofas and in front of the fire had been set for tea. A maid came in with a tea tray, removed a silver teapot from it, and placed it on the table where Averill could easily reach it.
“Milk or lemon, Wallis?” Averill asked, beginning the task of pouring.
Wallis fought down a sneeze. “Lemon, please.”
There came the distant sound of car tires on gravel. Wallis’s stomach muscles clenched. In another few minutes the Prince of Wales would be entering the room. Would he be all she had imagined he would be, or would he, in the flesh, be a disappointment?
She heard the front door being opened and the sound of laughter and voices. Then the drawing room door opened and in came a radiant Thelma, a royal prince on each arm, a military-looking gentleman following behind them.
“Hello darlings,” she said gaily, her coal-black hair sleekly marcel-waved and wearing—much to Wallis’s relief—a dress of lightweight smoky-violet tweed.
The princes, too, were wearing tweeds, in their case suits patterned in startlingly loud checks.
Benny and Ernest rose to their feet and Wallis, weak-kneed, rose to hers.
Thelma led Prince Edward forward. “Sir,” she said, “allow me to introduce Mr. and Mrs. Ernest Simpson. Mr. Simpson is half American and half British, and a British subject. He was educated in America, at Harvard. Mrs. Simpson is American.”
Wallis could feel Ernest’s tension as he gave his future sovereign a stiff bow. Then it was her turn to make an obeisance.
With her mouth dry and her heart pounding, she put her left leg behind her right leg and dipped a deep curtsey.
“I’m pleased to know that when it came to making a choice, you opted to be a British subject and not an American citizen,” Prince Edward said in a friendly manner to Ernest, and then, to Wallis, “In which part of America were you born, Mrs. Simpson? I know parts of your country very well.”
His eyes were the bluest she had ever seen, his hair an even paler blond than she remembered it being when she had seen him from a distance in San Diego. Then, it had been silkily smooth. Now it was slightly and very attractively windrumpled. He was no taller than she was and as far removed in looks from every previous man she had ever been attracted to as it was possible to be.
It didn’t matter.
She was dazzled by him. Utterly, totally, completely bewitched—and she knew she would have been even if he hadn’t been heir to a kingdom and an empire.
She flashed him the wide smile that came so naturally it never occurred to her it might not be quite the done thing to do.
“I’m from Maryland, sir. The most northern southern state in America.”
As Edward was accustomed to only stiffly correct behavior and monosyllabic replies to any question he might ask, his eyes crinkled at the corners with amusement. “It isn’t a state I am familiar with, Mrs. Simpson, though maybe I will be one day.”
With a smile tugging at his lips, he turned his attention toward the patiently waiting Benny.
Thelma, not knowing quite how she felt about the way Wallis had so swiftly and unself-consciously made an impact, stepped forward and introduced her to Prince George.
Wallis executed a perfect second curtsey. Prince Edward’s youngest brother was much more like John Jasper, Win, Felipe, and Ernest in physical type, being tall and dark-haired. He didn’t, though, send her head reeling and her senses spinning. Nada had told her that George was the black sheep of the Windsor family. “He’s like me, dahlink,” she had said in her heavy Russian accent
, “in that he likes his own sex as much as he likes the opposite sex. He also prefers cocaine to cocktails. David is trying to help him break the habit.”
As Wallis wondered how long she would have to be on social terms with the Prince of Wales before being invited to call him David, Thelma introduced the tall, military-looking man to her.
“Brigadier General Trotter, groom-in-waiting to the Prince of Wales.”
“Please call me ‘G,’ Mrs. Simpson,” he said, shaking her hand. “Everyone does.”
Fresh tea was brought in. Small talk began. Benny, aware that Ernest and Wallis would be unfamiliar with many of the names being bandied about, deftly brought into the conversation people they knew well.
“The Milford Havens had a riotous country house weekend a fortnight ago,” he said, his manner easy and relaxed. “We played charades and Mrs. Simpson stumped us all as Pocahontas. It turns out Pocahontas is a distant ancestress of hers. The literary allusion, of course, is from William Makepeace Thackeray’s poem about her.”
From the expressions on their faces, it was obvious that neither Prince Edward nor Prince George was overly familiar with Mr. Thackeray, but both of them were interested in Wallis’s exotic ancestry.
“Just what is it your Native American ancestress is famous for, Mrs. Simpson?” Edward asked, leaning forward, his hands clasped between his knees, as if not wanting to miss a word of her answer.
Wallis took in a deep breath and, trying to keep her voice steady, said, “In the very early sixteen hundreds, sir, when Virginia was first being colonized, an Englishman, Captain John Smith, was captured by Native Americans and taken before Chief Powhatan. This mighty Indian chief ordered that Captain Smith be killed. At the last moment, just as the ax was about to fall and end Captain Smith’s life, Chief Powhatan’s thirteen-year-old daughter, Princess Pocahontas, threw herself on the captain’s neck, risking her own life in an effort to save his.”