“She calls him Peter Pan.”
“Honestly, Kath! You wouldn’t catch me calling my beloved Felix silly little names behind his back… Wallis Simpson doesn’t deserve to have our king!”
“No,” Kathleen says. “I don’t suppose for a single moment that she does.”
A Midnight Feast
Blenheim, June 1936
“Close your eyes,” Edward VIII says with all the authority he can muster. He’d been drinking quite heavily since breakfast and it’s now five o’clock on a balmy June afternoon. His hands shake as he opens the large red-velvet box.
“Oh, David!” Wallis Simpson tightens her white leather belt. She might use it on her besotted lover tonight if she feels in the mood. “Not another surprise!”
“The biggest of your life!” Edward cannot undo the clasp of the stunning necklace of emeralds he’d specially commissioned from Cartier. Wallis has to do it for him.
Even so, when she sees the gift around her neck, her jaw drops, her eyes glitter, her pulse races with delight and triumph.
“David!” she drawls. “How perfectly marvellous! How can I ever thank you?”
Edward kneels at Wallis’s feet. The softness of the carpet lapping that much closer to him is incredibly inviting. “You know how, Wallis, darling,” he says.
And then he passes out.
Wallis stands there for some time, looking down at her lover but fingering the emeralds. Eventually she rings for her maid, pointing in silence to the disaster flopped out over there.
“Deal with him,” Wallis says, her lips hardly moving, the manicured nails pointing. “You know the drill. And fast. We take cocktails with the bigwigs at seven.”
Wallis has planned her wardrobe for this summer’s Friday-to-Monday at Blenheim Palace with her usual obsessive care and attention to detail. Her maid, her jewels, her clothes are all near at hand. She likes to have such things as maids close by, just in case, and for the flimsiest of reasons.
But for the Friday evening dinner, fully dressed, stunningly bejewelled, as she checks her appearance even she with all her social skills has to admit to apprehension. The list of distinguished guests is rather overwhelming. Of course, Aunt Bessie is so proud of her! But something feels… how can she put it?
Something is not quite right.
Perhaps it’s that she’s been driven out of London. She’s definitely not in her natural milieu.
She glances fearfully out of an elegant window onto the stretch of glittering water: the “marvellous lake” as David calls it. She loops her arms around her body and shivers. The trouble is: there is no escape in Blenheim. She admires the building, of course, but what if she suddenly decided to leave? Where have they parked David’s car? She has absolutely no idea how the layout of this palace works.
It’s all right for the others, she thinks bitterly. They’d been born into a life of luxury and privilege. None of them knew what it was like to go hungry, the humiliation of having to earn one’s living by—
Wallis shuts down her memory bank, snap! She tightens her lips and tries to smile. The result is not particularly successful.
Her maid manages to haul the new King of England to his feet. He looks the colour of freshly mown grass. She dumps him in a tub of cold water where he comes round, apologises, tells Wallis she looks ravishing and gets dressed in his own room. Other flunkies take over while Wallis, breathing a rare sigh of relief, paints her lips a dangerous shade of blood red.
On the dot of seven, their mouths stretched into two emptily loving smiles, their fingertips touching, the king and his rake-thin, snake-thin consort glide carefully down the stairs. They make for the already crowded room where cigarette smoke wafts into their eyes and the pungent aroma of gin lurks in every corner.
Half an hour and several glasses of pink champagne later – Wallis cannot get enough of it – she realises she has a biting headache. Her eyes feel dry and sore. David has once again thrown caution to the Blenheim wind. He’s almost rolling around the room – the Long Library, isn’t that what they call it? Wallis tries to claw at her memory but it’s filled suddenly with memories of having that abortion nobody ever knew about – and quite honestly, she can hardly bear to be within sight of the man.
She eats whatever’s put in front of her. The headache eases, her thin stomach feels bloated. Suddenly there she is, in a room filled with women who all seem to be smiling at her. What are they smiling about? It’s as if they’ve created a web; as if they’ve conspired to keep her occupied, made sure she eats even more: cheese and fruit, petits fours, mint chocolates, coffee. Heavens above, now she feels sick.
Wallis looks over the creamy shoulders of the women surrounding her.
Where the devil is David?
And where’s that sensible husband of hers?
Where the hell’s teeth is Ernest?
When she asks one of the pair of creamy shoulders, they shrug. The men have gone off with their brandies. Give them an hour. They’ll be back.
Wallis excuses herself. She strolls up to her room. Eyes follow her ascent. So does a sudden hushed silence. Somebody breaks it with a mirthless snort of laughter.
David is neither in their suite, nor in his. Wallis calls for her maid and some whisky. She’s just stepped out of her frock and silk underwear when the King of England and ruler of Empire comes thrashing in.
He catches Wallis in his arms, burying his drunken head in among her hair.
He says, “Now you are really mine!”
Wallis draws carefully away. The emeralds still bask in their glory on her dappled skin. “And what exactly do you mean?”
Her sickening headache has returned, her maid will need to find those special tablets. David can forget about the white-leather-belt routine: tonight it will be cuddles only and he’ll be darn lucky to get those!
The king stands straight-backed in front of her, his large eyes wistful.
“Your husband, Ernest, has just this very minute sold you to me for the largest sum of money in the world.”
It’s Monday evening. The guests have gone, piling into their cars, their summer furs, holding their cigars, smiling and bobbing and whispering in corners.
Servants have spent the entire day wiping every fingerprint from the Friday-to-Monday visit.
It never happened.
Nobody was here.
Except wait a minute. Not so galloping fast.
There is the record of the Friday-to-Monday weekend: the red-leather tombstone of a volume, a signed visitors’ book.
Edward’s signature sits on the left-hand side.
And Wallis Simpson’s?
Why, if that isn’t a sight for sore eyes!
Proof, if ever it were needed, that the whole darn thing did happen.
The whole darn thing.
There she is, sky high, riding the crest of the potentially royal waves.
Top of the Blenheim list. Ten out of ten. Even more distinguished than any of the others.
The king’s favourite.
If that doesn’t take the biscuit and a very large sherry.
There she is. Consort, queen, ruler of the Empire, Hitler’s bosom pal, and seducer of every creature on God’s good earth…
Now it’s midnight. The clocks chime the hour. One by one the lights in Blenheim Palace flick out as the sky holds onto its last slivers of crystal light.
There is the sound of horses.
Four of them.
They gallop in, very fast, from four different directions: Bladon, Oxford, Combe, Witney.
Their riders wear leather. They each carry a bottle of something celebratory.
They tether their foaming steeds on the pegs along the stable wall.
Nobody else has noticed their arrival.
There’s nobody else about.
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One by one, they walk silently out of the stables, across the marvellous space of the Blenheim courtyard, down to the lake.
They’re big men but they move like silent panthers, reeking of triumph and the successful kill.
“We’ve achieved everything we could possibly have hoped for,” one of the voices says.
“And now we’re home and dry.”
Birthday Surprise
Woodstock, 1936
Running the tea-room becomes the most demanding work Eleanor’s ever done. Getting a place at Somerville had been tough. Coping with her father’s death emotionally crippling. Handling her mother difficult. But she’s never had to deal with so many people before, make daily decisions, be a continual part of the busyness of life. She’s been worried that “going into trade”, as Anne had so patronisingly put it, would leave her feeling like a second-class citizen. But she hasn’t the time to bother with the occasional snub from her customers. The cut and thrust of the tea-room’s challenge is exciting and rewarding. The days fly by in a blur of ferocious activity.
Eleanor’s, from the day it opens, is a resounding success. But she knows its standards need maintaining, its menus altered and refreshed, and that only her own vigilant eye will ensure its health and success.
Kathleen asks Eleanor what else she’s been doing. Eleanor sighs and laughs.
“There’s no time for anything else, Kath. My life’s been taken over by my new enterprise. I feel as if I’ve been eaten by a giant shark.”
“And how’s that Felix of yours?” Kathleen says carefully, her eyes on Eleanor’s face. “Is there any sign of him on your horizon?”
Eleanor flushes. “I think about him all the time. He must be terribly busy in St Ives… His paintings, The Hideaway… He’ll soon find time to be with me, I hope.”
And never a day goes by when she doesn’t pray for his appearance at the door of Eleanor’s, and never a night when she doesn’t dream about being in his arms.
The days of July tumble into August. Regular customers disappear on holiday. More tourists arrive. Eleanor hires a waitress called Fran, a pleasant young girl with a ready smile, who doubles up in the kitchen, cleaning while Vera cooks. When a fortnight of sultry heat arrives in August, Eleanor looks at the garden with a business-woman’s eye, thinking about an extension in the spring. The tea-room generates its own energy. Her exhaustion is replaced by feelings of satisfaction and achievement. Anne looks at her and treats her with a new respect.
Sometimes at the end of a particularly busy day, Vera gives Eleanor a hug.
“Always knew you could do it,” she says briskly. “Now, how much shortbread do you want for tomorrow? And shall we try a new rhubarb crumble?”
Eleanor’s nineteenth birthday, on the 22nd of August, falls on a Saturday. She wakes dreading the hours ahead, remembering the same anniversary last year, and thinking about her father’s gift of the beautiful pearls. Her adult life was just beginning: how exciting an adventure she’d hoped it would be.
Tonight, Anne and Jonny have invited her to a birthday dinner at The Trout. Eleanor hasn’t been back to Wolvercote since the evening Jonny proposed. She feels as if she hasn’t been anywhere since that evening, except for the one day in London and that sweltering week in Juan-les-Pins. She glances across the room at the exquisite painting of the tulips. Wouldn’t it be a wonderful birthday gift if a letter from Moira arrived with the morning’s post?
Eleanor doesn’t really want to have dinner with Anne and Jonny but she has no excuse to turn down the invitation. If she spends the evening alone, she’ll only brood about how much she misses her father and Felix.
Anne makes a special effort. That afternoon, while Eleanor’s working, she goes to the hairdresser, coming home at four looking sleek and glamorous. She dashes upstairs for a bath.
Eleanor’s feet ache. It’s been a long, hot day and she’s jealous of Anne’s leisured freedom. She walks into the kitchen with three orders for Vera, and collects a plate of sandwiches for two young tourists. She carries them into the tea-room.
Sitting at the corner table by the window is a man in a loose linen jacket and pale blue trousers. His hair flops onto his forehead. He looks up and across the room – directly at Eleanor. The hazel light from the man’s eyes seems to create a rainbow between them, shimmering with astonishment and desire.
Eleanor manages to put the sandwiches on the correct table. She moves towards the man, feeling as if she’s being pulled by a giant magnet.
“Good afternoon, Eleanor!” Felix says. “And a very happy birthday!”
Eleanor falls into a chair opposite him. “Felix.” Her voice chokes. “How are you? How did you know it’s my birthday? When did you arrive?”
Felix laughs. “Walter told me the date of your birthday a month after you were born. He came down to Newlyn to tell me he had a daughter. I was so jealous. I realised you’d see him every day, and I’d take second place… The date stuck in my head. Last week I promised myself: however much I had to do in St Ives, everything could wait until I’d seen you again.”
Eleanor’s heart races with delight. “And when—”
“I arrived an hour ago. I’m staying at The Bear, but I have to go home on Tuesday.”
Eleanor feasts her eyes on his face, his hair, his hands, longing to kiss him. He has a summer tan that makes him look lean and rugged.
“I’ll bring you the most delicious tea you’ve ever had!”
She dashes into the kitchen, emerging with a tray crammed with cucumber sandwiches and strawberry tarts.
“You look so efficient and professional.” Felix watches her laying out the food. “What time do you close?”
“At five. I have to go to a birthday supper with Anne and a friend. I’d ask you to come, but Mummy doesn’t know anything about you yet—”
“I understand.” Felix’s eyes flicker at her. He drops his voice. “I’m the big bad wolf. The villain who stole Walter’s money and snatched his daughter’s heart.”
She blushes. “I’ll get away as soon as I can and meet you at The Bear. Will you wait for me?”
“All night, if I have to.” He touches her hand. A stab of desire surges through her heart. “Now go and serve those customers before there’s a riot in the aisle.”
“Give me an answer”
Woodstock, August 1936
They drive to Wolvercote in the Morris, Jonny at the wheel, Anne beside him in her oyster-satin frock. Eleanor sits in the back, burning with impatience for the meal to be over. During supper, Anne and Jonny talk endlessly about Giffen Antiques. Eleanor eats rapidly, hardly noticing the food, not listening to them, longing to be with Felix.
On their return, Anne and Jonny disappear into the kitchen to make coffee. Eleanor tells them she’s off to meet Kathleen for a drink. She makes a dive for the door, racing towards The Bear, charging through the crowded street. Felix has changed into his linen suit. He’s pacing up and down outside the hotel.
Eleanor hurtles into his arms.
“The trouble with being in Woodstock is that everyone knows me.” Eleanor is sitting beside Felix at a small table in the bar, drinking champagne, surrounded by the buzz of voices and laughter. “In St Ives I was blissfully anonymous. I had the freedom to do whatever I wanted. But here…”
“If I invite you to my room,” Felix says teasingly, “the whole village will notice and be aghast at the scandal.”
“Exactly.” Eleanor laughs along with him, but her heart stabs with disappointment. She and Felix clasp hands under the table. “It doesn’t matter. As long as you’re here… Sunday and Monday are both days off for me. I’ll spend as much of them with you as I can.”
“I’ve brought your birthday present. It’s one of the portraits. I finished three, but this is the best. It’s in the car… Drink up. I’m longing to show it to
you.”
They walk slowly through to the car park behind The Bear.
Felix stops beside his Austin Seven. “How do you like this little beauty? I bought it second-hand, so I could drive to Woodstock.” He opens the boot, lifts out the wrapped painting.
“We can take it to Daddy’s studio. It’s a mess but Mummy never goes there.”
“So you can’t even hang it in the house?” Felix slams the boot. “Are you frightened of your mother, Eleanor?”
“Not exactly.” She slips an arm through his as they walk towards the studio. “But I’m still treading on eggshells. Maybe I’ll always have to.”
“You can’t let the shadows of the past cloud everything.” Felix glances down at her. “Sooner or later, Anne has to know about me… Hasn’t she?”
“Of course. But not yet. She’s happier than she’s been for months. We’ve money in the bank and the tea-room’s a success. She even has a part-time job in a local shop. But I keep an eye on her all the time.”
“She’s lucky to have such a devoted daughter!”
“I’m doing it for Daddy. When he was alive, I needed his approval for everything. I can’t switch off that habit like a lamp.”
“Do you think he’d approve of your loving me?” Felix’s voice is light and mocking but she knows it’s a serious question.
She reaches up to kiss him. “He’d be over the moon… Now, let’s get that painting indoors before we get hit by a car.”
Eleanor switches on the studio light. Felix stares around, absorbing every detail.
“So this is where Walter worked.”
“Yes, this was Daddy’s world… When he died, I couldn’t bear to open the door. It wasn’t until after his funeral that I managed to step in here again.”
“It’s marvellous! I can almost see him sitting at his easel.”
“I sold some of his paintings of Blenheim at our exhibition. Otherwise, the room’s pretty much as he left it.”
The Choice Page 29