To Marry an English Lord

by gail maccoll

  Indeed, the high-strung or merely sensitive American heiresses often took refuge in their ailments. Mildred Sherman, Lady Camoys, became a virtual recluse at Stonor and complained about the trains shunting at Henley (five miles away), which she said kept her awake all night. Pauline Whitney, after moving to England with her husband, Almeric Paget, divided her time between bridge and spas, which were supposed to revive her weak heart. Ethel Field, after her marriage to David Beatty (later naval hero Earl Beatty), suffered black depressions during which she could neither eat nor sleep for days at a time. Indeed, so prevalent was ill health among the late crop of American heiresses that the Tatler, writing about Lady Donoughmore, remarked that “unlike most smart Americans, [she possesses] fine health and high spirits.”

  Of course, this sort of hysterical reaction was common among unhappy upper-class women at the turn of the century. Edith Wharton suffered similarly after her marriage and was revived only by her career as a novelist and her subsequent independence from her husband. Nancy Langhorne Shaw, married to Waldorf Astor in 1906, was also afflicted with a series of mysterious ailments in the early years of her marriage. But then she discovered Good Works and abandoned invalidism in favor of the robust, somewhat self-righteous manner for which she became famous.

  Florence Breckinridge, English peeress in the making. It was not a successful role for her.

  THE SERIOUS SIDE

  Above: On a visit to the States, Consuelo made a much publicized stop at the New York prison called the Tombs.

  Below: After a decade with Sunny, Consuelo Marlborough turned to philanthropy and social reform. Here, she supervises the weighing of a baby at a Mothers’ and Babies’ Welfare Centre.

  Good Works turned out to be something American peeresses were terribly good at and the English aristocracy, particularly toward the turn of the century, terribly keen on. There were heiresses who made a success of life in England by rarely rising before noon, by exploiting their American thirst for fun and high adventure, by applying all their cleverness to entertaining the Prince of Wales. But there were other heiresses who rose early, had little to do with the Prince of Wales and exploited their middle-class sense of duty and propriety for their success. These heiresses, converting an American democratic sympathy for those down on their luck to an aristocratic concern for the lower orders, fit seamlessly into the English upper-class pattern. Eloise Breese, the New York girl who became Countess of Ancaster, was appointed a justice of the peace and eventually earned membership in the Order of the British Empire for her service. Virginia Bonynge, Viscountess Deerhurst (from a none too savory California background), worked with Princess Christian to further the cause of the Royal School of Embroidery. New Yorker Elizabeth French, Lady Cheylesmore, started a scheme in Ireland for less than prosperous local women to make and sell dolls that were caricatures of well-known personalities.

  These American peeresses proved they could do more than live in the grand style; they were capable of shouldering the burdens as well as the benefits of nobility. The feudal system that permitted the endless deference accorded the nobility was, at the end of the century, still a two-way street. Along with penning the dinner menus and placating a temperamental cook, being a châtelaine meant seeing that the leftovers went to the needy or interviewing the candidates to teach at the village school.

  Florence Gordon-Cumming, for all her other failings, was, according to her daughter, a “domineering” châtelaine. She kept close control of the school on the estate, set up model cottages for the tenants, browbeat them for their own good. May Goelet, growing carnations and playing bridge at Floors, was also very popular with the tenants for her evident concern with their lot. And though Sunny Marlborough deprecated her “Lady Bountiful” activities, such as reading aloud to blind villagers, Consuelo was a credit to him, and a credit to Blenheim.

  Such peeresses nobly ignored their husbands’ indiscretions and never considered indulging in any of their own. They became better Tories than their husbands and treated their visiting American brothers with an adopted English deference, according them a respect that the startled boys could never have hoped for back home. To one such American peeress went the ultimate accolade: “She does not bear the distinguishing marks of her nationality in the way many of her countrywomen do,” claimed the Tatler of Ellen Stager, Lady Arthur Butler, “and she is often mistaken for English-born.” What higher praise could the American heiress hope for?

  Consuelo sold flowers in the street to benefit Queen Alexandra’s charities. Her civic career climaxed with her election to the London County Council.

  * * *

  “Philanthropist, Patriotic Yank, Beauty, the used wife, what else!!!”

  THE 9th DUKE OF MALBOROUGH, about his ex-wife Consuelo

  * * *

  PORTRAIT OF A LADY: SITTING TO SARGENT

  A long with the “international” stories of Henry James, as well as Richard Morris Hunt’s Newport mansions, the portraits of John Singer Sargent (who, naturally, painted portraits also of Hunt and James) are the most lasting memorials to the American heiresses and their era.

  Sargent and James were, in fact, the best of friends: the round, balding writer and the lanky, ruddy painter were known in London drawing rooms of their day as “the inseparables.” James, an early admirer and champion of Sargent, wrote glowing appreciations of his work for Harper’s and saw that the artist was introduced to potential clients and invited to the interesting dinner parties. The two had much in common, with each other and also with the heiresses: the early years vagabonding about Europe with their parents, the dissatisfaction with society and culture in America; later years in Rome and Paris, learning to love the life of the beau monde; the crucial year or two in Newport, considered by Sargent the turning point of his career. (It was a point James had a hand in shaping, for just as the painter appeared in Newport, one of James’ essays on Sargent appeared in print.)

  Sargent in his studio with the famous “Madame X.”

  By the turn of the century, Sargent was well-established as the premier society portrait painter, able to pick and choose his clients, painting only those whose faces he found interesting. Royalty he steadfastly refused to depict, and in 1902 he turned down Edward’s invitation to paint the official coronation portrait.

  His daily routine was fixed and immutable. Sitters would be shown up the red-carpeted stairs at 31-33 Tite Street by Nicolo, his Italian manservant. Usually a friend came along to “assist,” as Sargent put it, by conversing with the sitter; this kept the sitter’s expression alive, he believed, and left him free to concentrate on painting. The studio itself would be empty of anything but the smell of paint, a few tapestries, the canvases Sargent was working on, and the portrait props: a chair, some fabric for a backdrop, a table or two. A single portrait might take as few as fifteen or as many as forty sittings. Dressed in his regulation blue serge, Sargent would move about a great deal (he once estimated he logged four miles a day in the studio), smoking a quantity of cigarettes and from time to time joining in the conversation, amusing client and friend with expert imitations of people they all knew. The first official viewing of the portrait might come on the first Sunday in April, known as “Picture Sunday,” when all the London painters lined their studios with their selections for the Royal Academy’s exhibition. Lady Randolph Churchill was usually present at these affairs, as was Henry James, though he “loathed the general practice.”

  Always considered a little daring and modern, Sargent was accused of “caricature” and “cleverness” in what seemed an informal, loose style of painting. Critics faulted him for failing to idealize his subjects (Sargent himself claimed he could feel the women pleading with their eyes to make them beautiful), but the fact was that English society’s stately image was being traded in for one with an emphasis on dash and verve, on liveliness and spirit, on fun. Certainly Sargent’s long, attenuated line, his exaggeration of height and slenderness, were perfectly in tune with Edwardian ideas of grace
and elegance.

  Three years before his death in 1907, King Edward would earn a snub from Sargent by recommending him (“the most distinguished portrait painter in England”) for a knighthood. The King had forgotten that although Sargent was in England, he was not actually English. “I deeply appreciate your willingness to propose my name for the higher honour to which you refer,” Sargent wrote the prime minister, “but I hold it is one to which I have no right to aspire as I am not one of His Majesty’s Subjects but an American Citizen. Believe me, with very great respect, John S. Sargent.”

  Top left: Mary Endicott Chamberlain, in 1902.

  Top right: Daisy Leiter, later Countess of Suffolk. Sargent was a wizard when it came to drapery.

  Bottom left: Though noted for his posed portraits, Sargent relished working outdoors.

  Bottom right: Nancy Astor (1906). Sargent also made several drawings of her.

  AT LONG LAST, LOVE

  If the heiress had been married for her American money, if she had gone to the altar flushed with Anglomania rather than amour, all was not necessarily lost. After a decent interval, romance could yet be hers. The social code of her class and era permitted seeking a soulmate outside the boundaries of marriage. Should she be willing to cast aside her middle-class prejudices against such behavior and play by the rules, she could find, at long last, love.

  The public, of course, never saw the shadow of a rift between the Prince and his Princess.

  The Hon. Mrs. George Keppel, model of an aristocratic mistress—beautiful, intelligent and discreet.

  The tone in extramarital affairs (as in every social realm) was set by H.R.H. the Prince of Wales, whose amorous intrigues were legion and expertly managed. Although there were some very close calls, only one affair erupted into a major scandal. And even his wife, the enchanting Alexandra, seemed not to mind—the Prince’s ladies were often invited for four-day stays at Sandringham. (There were those who thought the Princess would have minded if only she’d known; they contended that her unruffled accommodation was a result of her deafness, which she was too vain to correct and which thus ensured her never hearing whatever was being whispered about.)

  In any case, there was never any appreciable diminution of affection between the pair: Alexandra was reported to have said, “But I was the one he loved best.” Despite his Paris stays en garçon, when the pudgy royal body followed the lasciviously wandering royal eye, they were absolutely loyal to each other. In every crisis, they presented a united front. Her gesture, at the King’s deathbed, of summoning maîtresse en titre Mrs. Keppel to his side remains one of the great kind acts and places her in history as a singularly caring wife.

  The longstanding affair between Louisa, Duchess of Manchester, and the Duke of Devonshire was common knowledge in society.

  THE GROUND RULES

  If members of the Marlborough House Set were expected to follow the Prince’s pattern in conducting an affair, they were also expected to adhere to his example in maintaining a marriage.

  1. Don’t make a fuss. Never, never, never go public. No one really questioned the need to relieve the tedium of a life of leisure with romantic dalliance, but the details were not to go beyond the safe confines of ballroom gossip. Almost anything was tolerated in private, but ruthless ostracism awaited any lover who “let down the side” by allowing an affair to reach the newspapers and the courts. The instant the rule was broken, social disaster ensued—witness the case of the affair between the Countess of Aylesford and the Marquess of Blandford (later the eighth Duke of Marlborough). It was possible, in contrast, to maintain forever an affair that was handled with dignity. Louisa, Duchess of Manchester (mother-in-law of Buccaneer Consuelo Yznaga), was for thirty years the mistress of the Duke of Devonshire. When her husband finally died, she married Devonshire, earning herself the sobriquet “Double Duchess.”

  Left: One of Jennie Churchill’s longtime lovers was the Austrian Count Charles Kinsky, a gifted diplomat, musician and womanizer.

  Right: Lillie Langtry at the races. She would not have qualified for the King’s attentions without the existence of a dim but verifiable husband.

  Left: Easton lodge, Daisy Warwick’s home.

  Right: House parties at Easton Lodge were always tactfully arranged to make extramarital romance convenient. At this shooting lunch, Daisy sits in a white hat below the Prince of Wales (center) with her complaisant husband (in mustache and cap) at her feet.

  2. Married ladies only. Mrs. Langtry, the Countess of Warwick, Mrs. Keppel—these ladies were eligible mistresses. The Prince did not fool around with débutantes. He flirted, he teased, he admired, but he did not bed the unwed. Nor was any nobleman expected to so indulge himself. (Servant girls were a separate issue.) A single woman who let down her guard in this respect, even if she did not become pregnant, could expect her marital prospects to dim unto darkness. She would find herself hurriedly bundled up the aisle with someone no one else had heard of—if she was lucky. Love affairs were a reward for, not a prelude to, getting married.

  3. Keep the nursery well stocked. A woman’s first duty to her husband was providing a son and heir. Jennie Churchill, who always played by the rules when it counted, waited until her sons were toddlers and she’d been married six years before embarking on her romantic escapades. At that point, still only in her mid-twenties, she was considered fair game by any interested friends of her husband. A woman who had not yet had children, or had produced only daughters (one of Lady Aylesford’s big mistakes), had no business entertaining other men—and other men, if they knew what was good for them, would not consent to be entertained. Before making a single extramarital move, Edwardians made sure there were some lusty male babies bawling in their third-story bassinets.

  4. Be an obliging mate. Did Lord Brooke (later the Earl of Warwick) know that his wife Daisy was carrying on with the Prince of Wales? Of course he did. But that did not prevent him from being the perfect host when the Prince came to Easton Lodge, or from accompanying his wife to every great house in England when the Prince was also conveniently expected. A wife should be similarly helpful to her philandering husband. Lord and Lady Elcho accommodated each other’s love affairs for years, often inviting their respective partners down for the same weekend. Liking each other, as Edward and Alexandra did, made everything so much easier. Lord Londonderry was thought to be guilty of overreacting when, after being apprised of his wife’s infidelity, he refused to address another word to her outside of certain essential public exchanges, until the day he died thirty years later.

  5. Never comment on a likeness. This was supposedly the only word of advice from Lady Moncrieffe to her daughters as they left Scotland for their first London season. The wisdom behind these words was considerable—it was possible for a last child to appear in the nursery of a nice house a good decade after his brothers and sisters. (Daisy Warwick, for instance, managed to be seven months pregnant on the occasion of her daughter’s marriage, and not a soul at the wedding thought Lord Warwick responsible for her condition.) It was just as well, therefore, to pretend that the last arrival looked like his half-siblings even if he didn’t. No need to embarrass host and hostess with a thoughtless remark about blue eyes when everyone else’s were brown. As long as the husband had a son to call his own, he mustn’t be so indiscreet as to disown some later production of his wife’s. Accidents do happen. In a neat reversal of this credo, Daisy Warwick was known to have been furious with Lord Charles Beresford when his wife had a baby that looked just like him. How disloyal! He was supposed to be having an affair with her.

  COMME IL FAUT

  A husband and wife in the fashionable set need not go to the same parties in the evening.

  WHERE THERE’S A WILL . . .

  Conducting an affair was an arduous business. Reputations and the virtues of one’s servants had to be protected, and to this end the Edwardians did their level best to prevent situations in which women would find themselves in potentially compromising situations.<
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  1. Afternoon tea. A lady could never be alone with a man who wasn’t her husband—unless she was on or near her horse, or if, for some odd convenient reason, the man happened to drop by for tea. To indicate that he had in fact just dropped by, unexpectedly, he left his hat and walking stick on the floor next to his chair. (Surrendering them to the butler would mean he intended to stay.) It was possible, but only rarely, for the mistress of the house, if she and her caller were alone, to then ask the footman who was serving tea to remove himself belowstairs and tell his fellow servants she didn’t wish any further interruption. Suspicious servants were a pain—there was no better way to get a good rumor going—and Edwardian ladies considered themselves responsible for setting an example.

  A parlormaid answers the door to an afternoon caller. However discreet a mistress might be, her servants probably knew everything.

  An additional barrier was provided by the lady’s attire. All the layers of clothing, the lines upon lines of hooks and buttons, meant that a lady was not capable of undressing herself. It also meant that any activity while dressed was bound to be awkward as well as noisy. Corsets creaked. (Jennie Churchill, more daring than most of her contemporaries, solved this problem by wearing, in her boudoir, long, loose, free-flowing Japanese kimonos.) Yet another problem was presented by the gentleman’s carriage, which, if it remained waiting outside the house for any amount of time, would let everyone in town know what was up. Afternoon tea, particularly since husbands were customarily at their clubs, provided an opportunity for fanning the flames but not forgoing “all the way.” Glances, kisses, a little petting on the sofa was about all that time and clothing and discretion permitted. Of course, on select occasions, the many drawbacks could be, and were, overcome.