Sheila

by Robert Wainwright

  October 12, 1927

  Daily Express

  I went on later to the inauguration of a new restaurant, once famous as a nightclub and found the crowd so great it was almost impossible to move. I saw the keen yachtsman Sir Duncan Lewis, who spends most of his time on the sea; the honorary Bruce Ogilvy, one of the Prince of Wales equerries, and Sir John Milbanke, the boxing baronet. Beautiful women were there in large numbers and among them I noticed Lady Ashley, Miss Poppy Baring, Miss Tallulah Bankhead, Lady Gibbons and Lady Loughborough, who has just returned from Paris and is one of the keenest supporters of the London ice club.

  Sheila had indeed been in Paris, where she was already making a name for herself in the restaurants and clubs along the Champs-Élysées. Her name and her companions there were picked up not only by the British media but by the scribes of major US newspapers, particularly on the night she dined with controversial American socialite Alice de Janzé. Alice had gained international notoriety after shooting her lover, Sir John Milbanke’s old boxing compatriot Raymond de Trafford, and then shooting herself on a platform at Gare du Nord railway station. Both of them survived; indeed, they would later marry (and divorce) each other in a tale immortalised in the film White Mischief, based on James Fox’s book.

  Chicago Tribune

  PARIS Oct 20: For the first time since she shot her purported admirer, Raymond de Trafford, member of an aristocratic English family, and then turned the weapon on herself, the Countess de Janzé, the former Alice Silverthorne of Chicago, appeared tonight amid the bright lights of Paris. Looking well, the countess slipped back into her old place in the smart international crowd in Paris. She went to Ciro’s and to the opening of the Blue Room, the French capital’s newest nightclub. She was a member of the gay party, which Michael Framer gave for Grace Moore, Lady Loughborough and a number of others. It was the most brilliant opening in Paris in years.

  Back in England, Sheila’s activities were followed it seemed almost weekly. She appeared in society ballets and tableaux vivants, in which costumed participants created living static pictures; she helped organise charity functions and even competed in sporting events, like the ice hockey match organised by one of the leading members of the Bright Young Things, Lady Ponsonby, later the Duchess of Westminster. She was also among a number of society beauties, including her friend Lady Diana Cooper and the actress Lillian Gish, who were immortalised in plaster representations exhibited by the renowned Russian-American sculptor Gleb Derujinsky.

  At times, the columnists didn’t even require an event to discuss socialites; on one occasion simply their names were enough to justify breathless reportage, such as the Daily Express of August 23, 1928: “Beautiful women often have beautiful names. Look at Lady Diana Cooper—the type of all Dianas. Look at Sylvia, a bewitching incarnate of Lady Ashley. Look at Lady Loughborough, an incomparable Sheila. And I can’t think of too many lovely Rosemarys, Annes or Dawns.”

  The notion of beauty had changed in the late 1920s; Vogue declared it an era of the jolie-laide—translated literally as “pretty-ugly”. Beauty was now more than simply the physical; it was spiritual, which the magazine said perfectly described Sheila Loughborough, while Diana Cooper was “elusive ethereality”, Zita Jungman “divinely fair” and Edith Sitwell a “Gothic Madonna”.

  Cecil Beaton expanded on this in his 1930 Book of Beauty:

  In the old days it was enough that a beautiful woman should be gracious and charming; the beauties were seen rather than heard. A Grecian goddess, however dumb, justified herself; but today it is more essential for a woman to be bright and attractive, and good looks do not signify unless backed up by intelligence. In this beauty-glutted age personality is more important, perhaps, than looks. The old belle is not a contemporary figure, for she is unamusing and has but a little and formal sense of humour.

  Sheila was not afraid to make use of her royal connections. Victor Perosino was a struggling nightclub owner who ran a small club, appropriately called Chez Victor, in a back street of Mayfair. The club traded well into the morning hours, offering food for theatregoers and revellers who wanted to kick on after the cabaret venues had shut; it specialised in what was known as the “Bacon and Eggs Hour”. Sheila was an occasional patron and had taken a liking to Victor, because he was discreet but also because he was a former waiter trying to make good.

  When she asked him one night how business was doing, he shook his head and replied: “Badly, your ladyship. Expenses are big and money is slow.”

  Sheila thought for a moment, then declared: “I promise you that this shall be the most successful place in London within a month.”

  The next night the Prince of Wales booked a table at the club. Within a year, guided by Sheila’s suggestion that Victor poach from the Kit-Kat Club an American blues singer named Aileen Stanley, whom the prince liked, Chez Victor had been transformed into the favoured late-night club of London’s younger blue-bloods, who clamoured for membership.

  But in doing so, it had attracted the attention of the police. In late February 1928, amid a crackdown by Scotland Yard on the illegal sale of alcohol at late-night venues, Chez Victor was raided. Police created a fake traffic accident in Grafton Street outside the club, complete with a screaming woman; the doorman felt compelled to leave his post and investigate. This allowed officers, who had been waiting around the corner, to file into the club unannounced, where they examined glasses and took names and addresses of the high society clientele. The timing had been carefully arranged to ensure that the Prince of Wales would not be there and cause embarrassment to the royal family.

  Lady Loughborough watched impassively from the table she often shared with the absent prince and Victor remained unperturbed, as he told a reporter the next day: “It was all done so calmly that no-one seemed disturbed and the dancing went on as usual. I don’t think anyone was upset. When the police left they wished me good night in a friendly way and, so far, not a word has been heard from them officially.”

  Vincent Astor had continued his pursuit of Sheila, arriving in London in the early summer of 1927 to oversee construction in Germany of the world’s largest private yacht, the Nourmahal which measured 80 metres long with eleven staterooms, a library, a dining room for 18 and a 42-man crew.

  He joined Sheila who was staying on the Isle of Wight with a group of friends that included Serge Obolensky, his wife Alice and their baby son, Ivan. Buffles Milbanke, whom Sheila was keeping at arm’s length romantically, was not among them perhaps because she knew the handsome American would be arriving:

  “I gave Vincent a golden sovereign to put under her mast for luck,” she wrote later. “I continued to sing ‘Wedding bells are all bunk’. We had many arguments and Vincent returned to America rather cross with me.”

  It seemed that the relationship with Astor was problematic, attracted as they were to one another and yet, not unlike Sheila and Buffles, faced with a barrier that prevented a fully-fledged love. They would remain lifelong friends. She would keep photographs of them in her albums, a handful of grainy prints taken as they relaxed in their dressing gowns among a group of children, including Tony and Peter, on the windswept hills above the sea.

  Vincent’s fabulous riches obviously did not interest her. She was simply not ready to commit again so soon after divorcing Loughie. Besides, he was a married man although it was a complicated relationship.

  Vincent had married childhood friend Helen Huntington in 1913 but it became clear soon afterwards that they shared few common interests and they quickly drifted apart. Helen also preferred the company of her female friends, once having been described by the novelist Glenway Westcott as “a grand old lesbian”. Rather than divorce, Vincent and Helen simply led separate lives until 1940 when he finally ended the marriage.

  Despite her resistance to his charms, Vincent wanted to see Sheila again when he returned to London in early 1928 to collect his yacht. Before sailing it back to the US, he took the Nourmahal for a trial run to the Channel Isl
ands. Other than the crew, there were only six people aboard, including Sheila and Poppy—and no Buffles. But nothing had changed with Vincent, even arguing over nationhood: “We quarrelled so often over England versus America. I told him he was anti-British. There were too many arguments. My mother always said: ‘The largest yacht in the world is too small if you are in it with someone you don’t really love’!”

  Spurned yet again, Vincent sailed away alone across the Atlantic, a package of gramophone records chosen by Sheila his only reminder of the woman he wanted but money could not buy. When at sea he opened the parcel to find two dozen copies of “Rule Britannia”, each played by a different band or orchestra. He was livid but couldn’t help laughing. It was Sheila’s revenge in an ongoing argument between them about the United States and Britain.

  In the background was Buffles, the athletic action man who could see he had serious competition and had to make his move. He proposed marriage not long after Astor left on the Nourmahal, but Sheila said “no” because “I had several proposals of marriage in the next few months, but I wanted to stay free”. Buffles tried again during the summer and Sheila turned him down again although she was beginning to question her lifestyle, particularly as both boys were now at boarding school, which gave her even more time. Being “free” was beginning to wear thin for a woman who still hankered for “true love”.

  It was when Buffles travelled to the United States for business in the autumn of 1928 that Sheila began to realise that she wanted more from life. In the summer she went to stay in the country, in Oxfordshire, where her social calendar overflowed and the events blurred and became unremarkable: “I don’t remember much about 1928,” she would write. “We continued to dance. Someone said: ‘Life seems to be composed of picnics, parties and balls.’ There were many weekend parties—I supposed it was fun?”

  In September she got a cable from Buffles, who was still in America: “I am telling people we are engaged. It makes life so much easier.” Sheila was shocked but admitted to her friends Freda, Poppy and Paula Gellibrand that the thought of him surrounded by American girls bothered her: “I was obviously in love with Buffles,” she wrote later. “I cabled Buffles: ‘Tell them anything you like.’”

  When he returned a few weeks later Buffles asked her again but she stubbornly refused, the fourth time she had done so. He’d had enough of these rejections: “If you don’t marry me then I’ll return to America and you will never see me again.”

  The dramatic declaration stopped her for a moment and forced her to rethink. He was being serious. Was she doing the right thing or would she regret it if he walked away? “What should I do? In the end I told him if Tony and Peter approved then I would marry him.”

  Sir John Milbanke had finally worn her down at a time when her sons needed the stability of a family. But before accepting, she needed their approval: “Do you mind if Mummy gets married again?” she asked after driving down to their school one weekend. The brothers—aged 10 and 11—looked at one another, as if expecting the question, and left the room to talk it over while their mother waited nervously.

  “Does Daddy mind?” Tony asked when they returned a few minutes later.

  Sheila shook her head: “No darlings. Daddy doesn’t mind.”

  “Oh well, as it is old Buff then we don’t mind either.”

  Sheila invited Loughie to lunch with her and Buffles the next day to tell him. He accepted the decision graciously: “He said to Buffles, ‘I hope to God you can make her happy, old chap. I never could. Bless you both.’ It was touching and typical of Loughie.”

  The engagement of Sir John Milbanke and Lady Sheila Loughborough was announced by the Daily Express as a front-page news story on November 3, 1928, trumpeted as a society scoop. Alongside it was a portrait of Sheila, described with equal exuberance: “Lady Loughborough is one of the prettiest and most popular of the younger women in society. She is a great friend of the Prince of Wales, and her petite figure, always exquisitely dressed, and her dark shingled head are to be seen at all fashionable parties of the season.”

  They were married eleven days later in what seemed to be a rushed affair, given her reticence and that Sir John had only just arrived back in London three days before. Sheila made no mention of the timing in her memoir and her account was perfunctory compared to the happy memories of the initial days of her marriage to Loughie. The initial attraction to Buffles had been instant and physical but now, five years later, it seemed to have waned, and the relationship was now about comfort and the fear of regret.

  Sheila’s confusion showed in her response to Loughie’s request to be allowed to attend the wedding. Not surprisingly, she refused it as being inappropriate but then, inexplicably, carried a bouquet of white lilies sent by her former husband. Neither would she let her children attend: “On looking back, I can’t really think why,” she wrote.

  News of the union was greeted by the media with odes to the bride, such as this from “The Dragoman”, in his “About Town” column:

  The beauty of Lady Loughborough has been sung so often in these columns that it is difficult to say anything new about so lovely a lady. Her slim figure, soft, clear voice and perfectly shingled head are frequently in evidence in the newest and smartest dance clubs and restaurants, where her infallible flair for dress, coupled with her essentially feminine charms make her always a “sight for sair een”.

  They were married quietly at the registry office on November 14 and then attended a service in front of friends and family in the 400-year-old Queen’s Chapel of the Savoy, which attracted hundreds of onlookers and caused a traffic snarl in the Strand. The Daily Mirror the next morning carried a front-page photograph of the couple at the altar while The Sketch devoted most of its column “Mariegold in Society” to it and declared itself delighted by the informality of the wedding invitations and the turnout of the rich and famous:

  Lady Loughborough and John Milbanke’s wedding “made history” from the social point of view, not only on account of the extremely informal invitations they sent out to summon their friends to the ceremony—just cards signed “Buffles” and “Sheila” and asking “Will you come to our wedding”—but also because of the very large number of well-known people who managed to tuck themselves into the limited space at the tiny Savoy Chapel, and of the many beautiful and smart young women who attended the ceremony. The Boxing Baronet was resplendent in a cutaway coat, light waistcoat, and large spotted tie of the old-fashioned Ascot type. Lady Loughborough—now Lady Milbanke—wore a sleeveless coat over her beige lace dress, and did not carry a formal bridal bouquet . . . very simple and unassuming.

  Presumably all women are subscribing to the oft repeated classic belief that black is universally becoming. Lady Denman wore a black velvet suit spotted over with white dots, Lady Brecknock, who was accompanied by her husband, had a narrow roll of Astrakhan to her black suit; while Mrs Dudley Ward’s dark coat was relieved by a beige suit. Lady Diana Cooper, in brown and cream flecked tweed suit, came as a relief from the general blackness, and other notes of colour were supplied by Lady Victor Padgett’s beige dress and Lady Louis Mountbatten’s great cluster of greeny-brown orchids.

  Any amount of smart men came to the wedding. The Duke of Sutherland looking very thoughtful, strolled into the chapel wearing a blue lounge suit, and Sir Philip Sassoon was a late arrival; while the energetic dashers included Mr Channon and Mr Belleville. The distinction of being the last to arrive—next to the bride herself, of course, who was brought and given away by Captain Benson—fell to Miss Poppy Baring, Lady Loughborough’s greatest friend, and a bride of the near future herself. One of the most striking figures at the church was Maharanee [sic] of Cooch Behar, whose exquisite blue and gold sari peeked out from beneath her sable coat.

  Even the columns that were more slanted toward men were impressed. “A Man about Town” in the Mail, whose writer went under the pseudonym of “Jack Londoner”, mentioned that the bride and groom had invited the media inside th
e church. He also liked the invitation: “I thought this was quite a refreshing change from all the long rigmarole about the bride’s parents requesting the pleasure etc etc,” he wrote, adding: “It is an idea which will probably be widely copied.”

  Even the new Lady Sheila Milbanke’s wedding invitations were setting a trend.

  17

  A TEMPORARY UNSOUND MIND

  Life as the new Lady Milbanke continued without incident into 1929, even with the change of name and title to a lesser one. After returning from a honeymoon in Paris and the south of France she was reintroduced to the court in a ceremony arranged by Eileen Sutherland and wearing the tiara of Lady Dudley: “It was made of pearls and diamonds and was so heavy it gave me a headache. The fashions at the time were ugly—my belt was around my hips, skirt to the knees, a long train hung from the shoulders and three white feathers wobbled on my head. I felt foolish and no doubt looked it.”

  There were friends aplenty. Sheila was now firmly at the centre of London society particularly after the success of two Derby Balls, which was already regarded as the city’s premier charity fundraising ball. On May 25, as she finalised details for the third ball, Sheila joined a host of society women including Edwina Mountbatten, Venetia Montagu, Diana Cooper and Jeanie Norton to dine with the press baron Max Beaverbrook for his fiftieth birthday.

  The dinner was held in his mansion near Hyde Park. Storno–way House had fourteen bedrooms, six reception rooms and even a ballroom, a mark of the business success of this Canadian-born son of a Presbyterian minister. Lord Beaverbrook had hinted at surprises for the women, all dressed in their jewelled finery, and they sat down to find cheques for £100 each under their plates (the equivalent of £5000), as Sheila recounted two decades later: “Max had thought it over carefully and decided to give us each £100 instead of a box or something from Cartier, as he knew we would change anything he gave us the next day.