Dance on a Sinking Ship

by Kilian, Michael;

  Spencer cursed every country’s passports and the war that had brought them into being. Before 1914 there had been no such bureaucratic requirement except for the internal passports of the Russian Empire, and a gentleman could cross frontiers wherever and whenever he wished.

  He was no longer a gentleman, so it didn’t matter that he must carry a passport.

  “Je suis un journaliste,” he said.

  The officer squinted at him. “Pardon, monsieur?”

  “Je suis un journaliste. A newspaperman. That is why I have been traveling so much.”

  The man paused, then snapped shut the passport. “Avancez,” he said, handing it back to Spencer. He turned sharply, as if to attend to someone next in line, but there was no one.

  A young ship’s officer standing just beyond gave Spencer an idiotic servile grin, as if this submissive expression compensated for the passport official’s rudeness and any and all other inconveniences this voyage might visit upon him. Beside the officer was a very Dutch-looking young woman, wearing a sort of naval uniform—a blue double-breasted jacket with a thin gold stripe and shoulder boards and a crisp white skirt. Spencer tried flirting with her, but she dealt with him very seriously, in the manner of the Dutch.

  “Your ticket, sir.”

  He handed her the envelope, which he had not yet opened. She did it for him, with a quick tear, then pulled forth the folded document.

  “All is in order, sir. Welcome aboard.” She said this firmly but quietly, with only the faintest of smiles softening the line of her mouth. She seemed a little nervous.

  Spencer nodded and moved on, joined instantly by two ship’s porters in red jackets and red pillbox caps. They were Asian, Malays or Javanese, with merry eyes and happy faces. Each took one of Spencer’s bags and hurried on ahead of him, up the gangway that led to gaping doors in the side of the ship at the level of main deck. As Spencer stepped aboard, he was greeted by two lines of similar Asian crewmen on either side of a red carpet rolled out over the lobby’s purple carpeting. All smiles, they chanted “Welcome, sir, to the Wilhelmina” in something approximating unison. The porters, quickening step, hurried him over to the purser’s desk, where he was asked for his ticket again by another young officer he presumed to be the assistant purser.

  “Ah, yes, Mr. Spencer of Paris. Cabin 459,” he said to a clerk scribbling into register beside him. “Welcome; sir, to the Wilhelmina.”

  Spencer was handing tips to the two porters and his attention was distracted. As a steward came forward to carry his bags to the cabin, Spencer suddenly bade him stop. He had barely set foot aboard ship and already his enterprise was in trouble.

  “What cabin did you say?”

  “Cabin 459, sir.”

  “What deck?”

  “‘A’ deck, sir.”

  “That’s second class.”

  “Yes, sir. You have a second-class ticket.”

  “There must be some mistake. I can’t possibly have a second-class ticket.”

  The assistant purser examined another ledger, then turned it around to face Spencer, his finger aimed at an entry bearing Spencer’s name.

  “But, sir, there is no mistake. Your ticket was paid for by check, in the amount of second-class passage. You see? All very exact. Did you wish other accommodations, sir?” He glanced at Spencer’s rumpled British jacket, as if he might not be worthy of anything better.

  “No. No, thank you.”

  He could not believe Carlson’s infinite stupidity. The man had taken him off the Paris bureau’s biggest story of the year, perhaps of the decade, to pursue the extraordinarily elusive Charles Lindbergh. Everything depended on Spencer’s cornering Lindbergh on this crossing—on his doing so undetected by any other newsman—yet Carlson had now rendered that accomplishment virtually impossible. There was no class mobility aboard ship—certainly not upward. The wits he would need to track down Lindbergh and somehow engage him in conversation would instead have to be devoted to the task of crossing the barrier that separated second class from the upper deck exclusivity of first. Just where did Carlson think Lindbergh would be traveling? After his epochal trans-Atlantic flight, the government had sent a U.S. navy cruiser to fetch him. The fury Spencer felt for Carlson was overpowering. He was on the brink of unleashing it upon this innocent functionary.

  “Is there a problem, sir?” The purser had joined them.

  “Yes,” said Spencer. “I’m supposed to be in first class. My company purchased the wrong ticket.”

  The purser looked over the various entries. “Your company, sir?”

  “The Chicago Press-Bulletin. I—” Spencer caught himself. He had been about to identify himself as a reporter. Discovery of this could prompt Lindbergh to flee the ship here in Le Havre, or lock himself in his cabin until the voyage’s end.

  “My father’s newspaper,” he said. “My father is C. Jamieson Spencer, the publisher. I always travel first class.”

  His mind fetched up the remembered image of a dreadful train he had ridden through the uplands of India, sitting on the roof of a third-class coach with all the untouchables.

  The purser spread his arms, palms upward. “No problem, sir. We have many empty cabins on this voyage. We will simply change your accommodations.” He scribbled on the ledger. “If you will just write us out a check in this amount.”

  Carlson would kill him if he spent one penny more than had been authorized. He would report it to Chicago as evidence of Spencer’s prolifigacy.

  “The policy is the same for all the shipping lines, sir. Passage payment in advance.” He stood with arms folded, waiting. Perspiration was flowing down Spencer’s cheeks and neck.

  “I’ll take second class,” he said uncomfortably. “For now. If it isn’t suitable, I’ll come back to you.”

  “As you wish, sir.” The purser returned to other business abruptly. His assistant eyed Spencer with some triumph, as the steward took Spencer’s bags toward the staircase that led to A deck one humiliating level below. Lindbergh could be as many as three decks above and all the way forward, by the bridge, where the best staterooms and suites likely were. For Spencer’s purposes, the Great Hero might just as well be making the crossing in the Spirit of St. Louis.

  Edwina Mountbatten had opened a porthole by her bed, but with the ship still fast to the dock and not a breath of wind, it only seemed to increase the volume of heat-soaked air in her stateroom. She had removed her skirt, blouse, and jacket to change into clothes more appropriate for late-afternoon drinks, though she had not decided on which. Despite her very important guest, she wore only her slip. While she pondered what to wear, she would keep herself as comfortable as she could be in this infernal sweaty sog. Holding up one dress and then another, and then another, she finally tossed them all on her bed and sank wearily into a plushly upholstered chair, picking up her glass of vodka, lemon, and melted ice.

  Her husband Dickie prided himself on being able to change clothes within three minutes, to the point of designing a damned foolish set of evening clothes with zippers he could get into in sixty seconds flat. Sometimes it took Edwina hours to change.

  She crossed her still quite lovely legs circumspectly. She often sat about her bedchamber dishabillé, but the person with her now was not her husband or a lover or a servant but Mrs. Wallis Warfield Simpson.

  Glancing up suddenly from her drink, Edwina caught Mrs. Simpson staring at her. The woman blushed and looked away, but not soon enough.

  A chill ran over Edwina’s shoulders. There were uncertainties about Mrs. Simpson that made her very nervous. The woman was the prince’s mistress, but curious things were said about their love life and of that the prince had enjoyed with his previous mistress, Thelma Furness.

  Memory increased Edwina’s agitation. Thelma’s sister, Gloria Morgan Vanderbilt, had lost custody of her daughter because of an outrageously public scandal over her liaison with Lady Nada Milford-Haven in a Cannes hotel in 1931. Gloria’s sister, Consuelo “Tamar” Thaw, anothe
r notorious lesbian, was part of the traveling party. So was Wallis Warfield Simpson. She had ended her holiday abruptly, leaving the other three behind, but she nevertheless had been with them for several days, traveling with them all across France. And she did have such a masculine face.

  She had often spoken to Edwina of her beauty. Lady Mountbatten assumed it was only envy. The woman herself was decidedly unbeautiful but, in her way, despite the manly countenance, deep voice, and brittle manner, she was still oddly attractive. Her nose, forehead, jaw, hands, and feet were all too large, but harmonious when observed ensemble. She was quick, smart, and carried herself well, and her body was lean and lithe enough to show her chic, understated clothes off to good advantage. The jewelry Edward showered upon her was excessive, but she wore it becomingly.

  Another of Edward’s earlier mistresses, Freda Dudley Ward, was vivacious and feminine and heterosexual enough, and he had stayed with her for nearly ten years.

  Edwina flushed these soiled thoughts from her mind as she might pull the chain of a water closet. They were irrelevant to the needs of her relationship with Mrs. Simpson, which was strictly utilitarian. Besides, she had had her own run-in with Lady Milford-Haven, who was married to Dickie’s brother.

  “We should be underway soon,” Edwina said, leaning back her head and closing her eyes a moment. She thought of sea breezes with great yearning.

  “I’m not looking forward to it, actually,” Mrs. Simpson said. Une belle laide, Cecil Beaton had called her. Beautifully ugly. “I’m not looking forward to it at all.”

  “It’s only a fortnight, darling,” Edwina said with a sleepy yawn. “Think of it as rather a long party.”

  Mrs. Simpson took a folded piece of blue letter paper from the pocket of her dress, glanced at it, then folded it more tightly.

  “He wants to have a party this afternoon, when we cast off,” Mrs. Simpson said. “When everyone is supposed to be out on deck. Lord Brownlow and Fruity Metcalfe insist that David stay inside, at least until the ship is under way. They think there may be reporters about. There’s supposed to be an American movie actress aboard. They always attract photographers and press people. It’s so loathsome.”

  If she spoke so contemptuously to impress Edwina, she erred. Edwina and Lord Louis doted on actors and actresses.

  “Really?” said Edwina. “What fun. Who is it?”

  “Norma? No, Nora. Nora Gwynne. She’s quite common. Irish, I believe.”

  “She’s supposed to be very charming. Norma Shearer says so, at any rate.”

  “Duff Cooper said she gave him a violent erection in one of her films. I told him he shouldn’t exaggerate.” She smiled, almost sweetly. Wallis Simpson had one of the most lascivious tongues in Mayfair. It was supposed to be one of her charms. She had made a few indiscreet comments about Edwina, all of which Edwina had heard about and let pass. For the duration of her liaison with Edward, Edwina would be her friend, no matter what.

  “I didn’t know Duff was so keen on the cinema,” Edwina said.

  “Perhaps not, but he’s certainly keen on his erections.”

  Edwina said nothing. The woman wanted something but was holding back.

  “I’d really rather not have a party just now,” Mrs. Simpson said. “He’s so out of sorts. Do you know that silly game he plays, when he tries to build a tower of matchsticks balanced on the top of a champagne bottle? He makes everyone who’s around him stop what they’re doing and watch. That’s what he’s been doing since lunch. But the ship keeps rocking. The silly towers keep falling over and he keeps flying into a rage. It’s quite impossible.”

  Edwina felt up to a pretty good scream herself. Instead, she drank deeply of the warm lemony vodka. “Wallis. It’s because he’s out of sorts that he wants to have a party. After the terrible time we had in Paris, he deserves one. We all do.”

  “I just don’t want him to start in with that heavy drinking again.”

  It was the most visible measure of Mrs. Simpson’s domination over the prince, her having put an end to his practice of often getting hopelessly drunk at night. If he began to lapse, some might begin to think her hold over him was slipping. She obviously was not entirely happy with the relationship, but she seemed in no hurry to abandon it.

  “Wallis. You’re simply going to have to indulge him some of the time. He’s been indulged all his life, and it won’t be long before His Royal Highness becomes Rex Imperator. That we’re his friends doesn’t change who he is.”

  “I know, Edwina. I’m much more aware of that than you might imagine. I—”

  She leaned forward now, the folded blue note clenched in her hand.

  “Edwina,” she said, “You are my friend, aren’t you?”

  “Of course, darling. How could you think otherwise?”

  “And I can count on your discretion? Your complete discretion?”

  “Absolutely. I shan’t even tell Dickie. What is it?”

  Wallis leaned forward farther. Her voice a little tremulous. “I’m very troubled, Edwina.”

  This was a confidence already shared by half of Mayfair. “I’m sorry to hear that, Wallis.”

  “In fact, I’m afraid.”

  “We’re quite safe now, especially once we’re out to sea.”

  “No. I don’t mean that. I’m afraid of what’s about to happen, to my friendship, my relationship with David.”

  “Don’t be silly. He utterly adores you.”

  “That’s what I mean, Edwina. That’s why I’m afraid.”

  The two women looked into each other’s eyes for a long moment, Mrs. Simpson searching, Edwina watching and waiting. The whistle of some boat sounded not far away. When it ceased, they could hear the loud scree of startled gulls. Suddenly Mrs. Simpson stood up.

  “Here,” she said, pressing the folded blue notepaper into Edwina’s hand. “I really don’t want you to read this. But someone must. I have no one to turn to. Edwina, I really, really need your help.”

  She turned and left the stateroom in clumsy haste, banging her leg against a side table but paying no mind. Edwina stared after her, not moving until she heard the door click shut.

  The handwriting on the note was compellingly familiar. The prince and Lord Mountbatten corresponded frequently—at least as much as either of them did with anyone. “Tuesday, 1:30 o’clock A.M.,” it began.

  Wallis—A boy is holding a girl so very tight in his arms tonight. A girl makes drowsel, but a boy cannot. He lies awake. He will miss a girl very much tomorrow, because he must travel separately to Le Hve. But he will see her again tomorrow night and will be such a happy boy.

  A girl must know that not anybody or anything can separate WE, and that WE belong to each other for ever. WE love each other more than life. WE must be joined for ever and ever as one, in every way. A boy thrills to think of holding a girl’s hand, if she will not mind, far out on a beautiful sea, with eanum cares left far behind. God bless WE. Your David.

  Edwina sat back, utterly astonished, as she rarely was at this cynical stage of her life.

  “Make drowsel,” she knew, simply meant to sleep. She had overheard them using this term with one another. The “WE” was easy enough to decipher—“W” stood for Wallis and “E” for Edward. The meaning of “eanum” was beyond her, except that it seemed to connote something weak, small, and pathetic.

  The essential message of the note was absolutely unmistakable, however, for all its banality. The silly little man intended to marry her. The next King of England wanted to marry a divorced, married American woman from Baltimore.

  Edwina picked up her drink and began to walk about the room. Freda Dudley Ward and Thelma Furness had been ideal companions for the prince because they were so irretrievably married to men important in London society, men who conveniently viewed their wives’ royal attachments as something required of their high station. Wallis had seemed almost as logical and safe a choice. Though the Simpsons were hardly so prominent, Ernest Simpson, a Harvard-educated America
n who had joined the Coldstream Guards and become a British subject during the war, seemed to consider Wallis’s connection with the prince as something good for the family ship brokerage business. That she had been married once before and divorced had made her doubly safe. Anything beyond “friendship” with Edward was unthinkable, was too, too ghastly to even imagine.

  Yet the whimpering little fool must be bent on it. He was steaming on through all obstacles toward inevitable disaster and caring not at all. If nothing was done about it, the monarchy could find itself in its biggest trouble since the rise of Oliver Cromwell. The great British general strike and the rise of the Socialists were not that long ago. Times were very, very bad for many of the people in England. They were weary of all British governments. If the common masses still held the royals above all the political muck, they would not for long once Edward’s scandalous self-indulgence became widely known. And there was nothing the stuffy, imperious Windsors could do about it, save hire someone to have Mrs. Simpson kidnapped. Once he became king, their royal house was a shambles.

  Edwina felt a genuine pity for Wallis. Her sin wasn’t social climbing, which was a way of life for most in her circumstances, but that she had been too good at it. Her scheming pursuit of the prince’s attentions had taken her far beyond the pale, and she now had good reason to be terrified. Yet Edwina sensed something else in the ugly woman—a small, still-burning hope, a little flame of unquenched ambition. It was as if deep down she somehow yet believed that it was possible for her to become the wife of the man who would be king, that for all her fears it was worth hanging on, no matter what she might be dragged through. In asking Edwina for help, she was also seeking approving counsel, some sign that what she was doing was indeed the wisest course, that the slim chance that was the object of her small hopes actually existed.