Left to his own devices, Laycock would doubtless have continued to accommodate both women. In the words of the old song, “I could be happy with either ’twere other dear charmer away.” However, Daisy had other ideas. While Laycock was in London shopping and packing for a game-hunting expedition in West Bengal, Daisy let herself into his apartment, rifled through his desk, and seized the love letters sent to him by Lady Downshire. Armed with this evidence of Kitty’s adultery, Daisy went straight to Lord Downshire. When Laycock found out what Daisy had done, there was a blazing row, and Laycock sailed for India in a towering rage.
Once again, Daisy’s possessive and jealous nature meant she had broken the golden rule: Thou shalt not get found out. On this occasion, however, Daisy had no George Lewis to protect her and keep the case out of court. Lord Downshire launched divorce proceedings against his wife, Kitty, and the press soon caught the whiff of scandal:
We are likely to be startled next week by one of the prettiest scandals that have amused London society for a good many years. It is the story of a countess, a marchioness and a man. The countess, who is one of our most beautiful women, was in love with him first, but he had the bad taste to weary of her and attach himself to the marchioness, who is rather a commonplace young person … they say nothing will stop [the marquess] from bringing divorce proceedings.11
During the Downshire divorce trial it emerged that Lord Downshire, already deeply suspicious, had hired a firm of private detectives to spy on Laycock. The detectives confirmed that Laycock had stayed at Kitty Downshire’s hunting lodge at Leesthorpe in Leicestershire while Lord Downshire had been away. Evidence gathered from Kitty’s servants demonstrated that Laycock had not even made a pretense of sleeping in his own bed. Laycock’s bedroom, adjoining Kitty’s, had never been used. Further instances of adultery had occurred, and Lord Downshire had discovered his wife to be sending telegrams to Laycock. In addition, he had found a large bundle of letters from Laycock to his wife. Once again, Daisy’s interference had made a bad situation even worse. Now that Lord Downshire had launched his divorce petition, there was a real danger that Laycock would feel obliged to marry Kitty, as her divorce would leave her a social outcast. To top it all, Daisy fell from her horse while out hunting and suffered a concussion and a broken arm.
Another unusual element in the case was that Kitty had never been seeking a divorce in the first place. Kitty had been perfectly content to stay married to Lord Downshire, and Laycock had had no plans to marry her prior to the divorce petition being launched. As a counteroffensive, Laycock set private detectives on Lord Downshire to see if he had any dalliances that could prevent a divorce. Sadly for Laycock, this proved to be an expensive and futile gesture. Lord Downshire emerged as a model landlord who butchered his own sheep and drove a cart around his Berkshire estate, selling the mutton to his tenants. Downshire was highly respected for his willingness to work alongside his laborers and join them with his bread and cheese when it was time to rest. And as far as a mistress was concerned, he appeared to have no interest whatsoever in the opposite sex.12 Lord Downshire remained adamant that he would go through with the divorce, even when his own sister knelt down in front of his horse and cart in tears and begged him to reconsider for the sake of the family name.13
Meanwhile, Daisy did everything she could to stop Laycock from marrying Kitty when the divorce became final. Not only did Daisy send dozens of letters, she lobbied Bertie, begging him to agree that it would be a terrible thing if Laycock were to marry Kitty. But Daisy had become an embarrassment, and Bertie was no longer inclined to meddle in her private life and rescue her from the consequences of her own foolishness. Seventy years later many of these letters to Bertie were discovered: unopened. In a last ditch attempt, Daisy even attempted to make Laycock jealous by insinuating that Charlie Beresford wanted her back, “accidentally” enclosing a note from him suggesting they meet while he was in London.14 This did not make the slightest impact on Laycock, who, for all his faults, was not the jealous type.
The divorce was finalized in April 1902. Lady Downshire was awarded a decree nisi and custody of her daughter, and the sons went to live with their father.
With the pressure of this failing relationship and her increasing commitment to charity work, Daisy fell ill and was diagnosed with “nervous prostration.” Her letters to Laycock make sad reading: “Joe, my Joe—if you could see how my hand shakes when I write your name.…”15 In a further letter, Daisy refers to a more troubling development, the fact that she was pregnant: “The big worry we won’t talk of [the divorce case], dear one, and about my condition—I must do something but think I’ll leave it till we have talked it over.… Only it makes me shudder!”16
It came as no consolation to Daisy that her rival was suffering, too. Lady Kitty had paid the price for her affair with Laycock by becoming a social outcast. But Laycock turned out to be enough of a gentleman to marry Kitty, on November 20, 1902. Laycock wrote to Daisy explaining that he felt compelled to stand by Kitty, but Daisy took the news badly. Daisy’s anger rises off the page and so, too, does another emotion, that of the aging beauty who feels she has been humiliated by a younger and more attractive woman.
Daisy wrote back to Laycock in outrage and disbelief: “I cannot believe you to be so utterly callous, heartless and crooked.… After all the years of love and unchanging loyalty and devotion I have given you, that you can sit down and write to me that offhand note … you and that woman have combined to make a fool of me.… I was to risk and compromise myself, believing that you wished to get out of this horror, and have been simply the dupe of you and Lady Downshire!”17
As one biographer remarked, “Fate can be very unkind. Daisy Warwick would meet the great love of her life when she was thirty-eight, beautiful still but over-voluptuous, and he would be five years younger. It was her bad luck. The ages would matter, not very much, but a little, and had they been reversed she would not have lost him.”18 Harsh words perhaps, by modern standards: no woman would consider herself “too old” for a love affair at the age of thirty-eight, but Anita Leslie summed up the situation effectively.
While Laycock and Lady Kitty were on honeymoon at the Paris Ritz, a message arrived that Daisy had taken an overdose. Laycock rushed back to London, to be greeted by a perfectly healthy Daisy, who said: “I thought you’d had enough of that!”19
Daisy was, however, facing a serious medical issue. It appears that she had finally decided to “do something” about her condition. In 1900, when termination was illegal in the United Kingdom, this was a daunting task. Failing to find any doctor in London willing to perform the procedure, Daisy went to Paris and visited an abortionist. On the way back to the hotel, Daisy’s train was involved in a minor accident and Daisy and her fellow passengers were forced to walk a mile down the track. This, and Daisy’s fatigue, upset “the arrangements” put in place by the abortionist, but by Sunday Daisy was back at Warwick Castle, with a sympathetic girlfriend, Blanchie Gordon-Lennox, to look after her and deflect inquiries from a concerned Brookie while she waited for the planned miscarriage. Laycock came to visit the following day, and then, despite being in excruciating pain, Daisy was up and about again. But, while carrying out an engagement, Daisy contracted a chill. That night, there was a reception at Warwick Castle, but Daisy was too ill to come downstairs.20 Despite this, Daisy left the castle at Laycock’s behest and traveled to London, where her condition deteriorated. After seeing a sympathetic doctor, Daisy managed to return to Warwick Castle in a state of “unspeakable pain and suffering.”21
“I tried to crawl about Sunday but had to go to bed and Monday night the ‘thing’ happened. On Tuesday 1 I was very ill, blood poisoning, followed by inflammation of the kidneys and only my strength of will has brought me through the most awful time of pain I have ever known.… Please burn this at once. It is awful to have to write but your denial made it necessary.”22 Laycock’s refusal to burn after reading does at least provide an insight into their relatio
nship and the shocking truth about abortion in the 1900s.
The following night Daisy developed septicemia and was critically ill for several days, saved only by the eminent surgeon Sir John Halliday Croom and her own formidably strong constitution. Despite being weakened by hemorrhage and morphine, Daisy managed to write to Laycock: “I find it difficult even today to put words together so as to reach your heart my darling.… Don’t let’s ever mention ‘love’ again. It has bought hell to us both.”23
This was not entirely the end of the affair. Although Kitty had become chatelaine of Wiseton Hall, Laycock’s country house in Nottinghamshire, and her horses were in the stables, and her curtains at the windows, Laycock continued to visit Daisy. While Kitty was pregnant with their first child, Laycock took Daisy to Paris. Some months later at the age of forty-two, Daisy discovered that she was, once again, pregnant. This time, she chose to keep the baby, despite the discomfort of being heavily pregnant at her daughter Marjorie’s wedding to Viscount Helmsley. The baby was born on April 3, 1904, and christened Mercy because that was Daisy’s response upon hearing that she was pregnant again.24
Although Laycock did not rush to see his new daughter, over time he maintained his relationship with Daisy. On one level this is understandable, as they had not one but two children together, Maynard as well as Mercy. Daisy and Laycock continued to meet and correspond, and Laycock genuinely seems to have been the love of her life.
Meanwhile, Bertie increasingly sought comfort from an unusual source: a prim, unmarried woman named Agnes Keyser who ran a nursing home for army officers in Grosvenor Crescent. Agnes Keyser was the most unusual of Bertie’s close female friends in two respects: Agnes was unmarried, or in the words of Anita Leslie, “Miss Keyser was the only ‘bachelor girl’ in the King’s life and she really loved him.”25 Also, Agnes did not conform to Bertie’s physical type. Rather, she appears to have fulfilled the role of nanny and nurse toward the aging Bertie: the couple became acquainted when Agnes was forty-six and Bertie fifty-eight. Leslie’s theory is that by this stage of his life, although Bertie desired female company, he also longed for peace and quiet.26 Agnes Keyser could provide this—making her role in Bertie’s life unique. A “well-born girl who devoted her life and personal fortune to nursing,”27 Agnes Keyser was born in Great Stanmore, Middlesex, in July 1852, the daughter of Charles and Margaret Keyser, a wealthy Anglo-Jewish couple comfortably assimilated into the British upper classes. Charles Keyser, a member of the Stock Exchange, had read for the bar but never practiced as a barrister, and devoted himself to scholarship and philanthropy. Agnes had a comfortable and conventional childhood and was presented at court, but it soon became obvious that Agnes was not going to marry simply because it was expected of her. Indeed, the independent-minded Agnes had no desire to get married at all, despite the fact that she loved men and had very poor relationships with women.28 Agnes also possessed the distinction of independent wealth, giving her considerable freedom. To the bewilderment of her rich, respectable family, she decided to take up a career in nursing, when nursing was considered a less than respectable occupation and there were no professional careers open to women.
Agnes was introduced to Bertie in 1898, and he dined regularly at the family home, 17 Grosvenor Crescent. When the Boer War broke out in 1899, Agnes and her younger sister, Fanny, tried to set up a nursing home for officers at Grosvenor Crescent, but when this proved too costly, Bertie set up a trust and asked his rich friends for donations. Among those who subscribed were Sir Ernest Cassel, Arthur Sassoon, Nathaniel Rothschild, Lord Burnham, Lord Sandwich, Lord Iveagh, and the Hambro banking family. As a result, 17 Grosvenor Crescent became the King Edward’s Hospital for Officers, which would nurse 275 officers during the Boer War. Gentlemen from the Household Cavalry and the Guards Brigade were especially welcome, but Agnes, who was something of a snob, could not tolerate the prospect of entertaining other ranks. Agnes and Fanny’s nursing home offered congenial conditions for the wounded officers: medical and surgical care was given for free by eminent physicians and surgeons, and the butler poured drinks before dinner every evening.29 Subsequently, officers were charged a nominal sum for their care—around twenty-five shillings a day. Following the end of the Boer War in May 1902, Bertie suggested that there was a need for such a hospital during peacetime. He gave it his name and Agnes’s hospital became the King Edward VII’s Hospital for Officers: Sister Agnes Founder.30 Agnes lacked formal medical training, but was an excellent administrator. In another period of time, Agnes would have made a formidable matron.
There was something of the dominatrix about Agnes. It was said that “she liked men, sick men, wounded men, impecunious men, men she could dominate and scold and pamper. She liked men stretched out in bed or in wheelchairs; best of all she liked to hold their hands as they went under their anaesthetic. The nursing staff feared her, and so did ladies who visited her patients.”31
Bertie was a natural patron for Agnes’s hospital. Genuinely interested in scientific progress, and in medicine in particular, Bertie once told his doctors that he wished a cure for cancer might be found before he died. The hospital at 17 Grosvenor Crescent also provided respite for Bertie, located as it was so close to Buckingham Palace. Bertie seemed to find “absolute content with this handsome, formidable, middle-aged woman, especially in moments of stress when he could dine alone with her without arousing gossip or envy.”32 Unlike Bertie’s other mistresses, Agnes was not interested in society and had no interest in competing with ambitious hostesses. Instead, she made sure she was always available whenever Bertie dropped in, as a good listener with medical knowledge who could take his pulse while he unburdened himself. Perhaps that unflappable, patient, no-nonsense Agnes provided Bertie with the “cosy comfort of an English nanny—that cosy fireside glow which most of his subjects had enjoyed in childhood.”33 The royal family respected the fact that Agnes studiously avoided all publicity and asked for nothing more than funds to keep her “home” running. Bertie dropped in frequently when in London, and Agnes did a formidable holding operation keeping the press at bay. The staff, and the military patients, must have known that Bertie was a regular visitor, but they wisely kept their mouths shut.
Agnes also took an active, professional interest in Bertie’s health. Instead of offering him elaborate rich meals, Agnes offered simple nursery food: wholesome Irish stews and rice puddings, and discouraged him from smoking “those wretched cigars which aggravated his bronchitis.”34 A wonderful picture emerges of the greatest libertine of his age sitting with a nurse and spooning up his rice pudding, to be reprimanded by Agnes, in her starchy nurse’s uniform, if he asked for second helpings.35 “And if the worthy matron of this charitable establishment occasionally thinks it is time for a lie-down—well, honi soit qui mal y pense (shame on him who thinks evil of it).”36
Chapter Twenty
THE LAST MISTRESS: ALICE KEPPEL
That terrible moment when the King would “drum with irritable fingers upon the arm of his chair or upon the dinner table.”
—VITA SACKVILLE-WEST, THE EDWARDIANS
Alice Keppel was the ultimate mistress; she was also Bertie’s last mistress. During her reign as the mâitresse en titre, or mistress in chief, Alice Keppel carved a special place in history. The fame of her liaison with the Prince of Wales “resounded throughout Europe and gave her terrific réclame in France, where the power of a wise mistress has always been regarded with respect … a mistress is the one who rules and gives favours, not merely a woman who sleeps with a man out of wedlock.”1 Alice was born to the role: a product of the Scots upper classes, she was sensible, practical, and diplomatic; indeed, in Alice’s case the post of royal mistress could be classified as a profession, like being a lady-in-waiting or an ambassador. A tomboy at heart, Alice possessed that combination of high spirits and independence that Bertie always found so attractive.
Alice Frederica Edmonstone, or “Freddie” to her family, was born on April 29, 1868, in Strathblane,
Scotland. Alice’s father was the 4th Baronet Edmonstone and a retired admiral in the Royal Navy, and her maternal grandfather had been a governor of the Ionian Islands. Alice grew up at Duntreath Castle, the Edmonstones’ home since the fourteenth century. It was a wedding gift from King Robert III of Scotland to his daughter Mary Stewart, Princess of Scotland, when she married her fourth husband, Sir William Edmonstone of Culloden in 1425. They had a son whom they named Sir William Edmonstone of Duntreath.2
At first glimpse, Duntreath is an austere castle, set among rugged moorland. But once inside, far from being “a dour Scottish fastness, reeking of Balmorality,” Duntreath was “romantic … gay with a touch of Frenchness in its salons en enfilade and premeditated perspectives. One fled from terror to enchantment. The atmosphere of the place was complex: half mediaeval, half-exotic. The Greek goddess wedded to the Scottish ogre.”3 “The masculinity of the castle, as characterised by the gun-room, the billiard room, the armoury, the dungeons and even the haunted Oak Room, was compensated for by the overpowering scent of the tuberoses, grown in the greenhouse, with which Alice’s mother kept the rooms filled throughout the year.…”4
Alice’s mother had refurbished the castle fifteen years earlier, making it comfortable and luxurious despite the forbidding exterior. Alice was the youngest of seven sisters, and had one little brother, Archie. Growing up, it was the shy delicate Archie to whom Alice felt closest; but, like Lillie Langtry and Daisy Warwick, Alice was happiest out of doors, playing boys’ games with the gillies’ sons. The little education Alice received was at the hands of her governess, and designed to prepare her for the marriage market: while Archie expected to go to Oxford, Alice needed to find a husband. The Edmonstones were not a wealthy family, and when their father died in 1888 it was essential that Alice, the only daughter still unmarried, make a good match.
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