Willow Grove Abbey: A Historical World War II Romance Novel (The Somerville Trilogy)

by Payne, Mary Christian

  “I don’t care a mite whether he’s proposed to her. One only has to look into his eyes when he speaks to you. He still loves you, Sophia.”

  “Oh, Edwina. I thought that for a moment too, but I think we’re both seeing things that aren’t there. I’d like to believe that’s the truth, although I’m not altogether certain what difference it would make. Too much has happened. Still, I’d like to think that he does still love me. It truly makes me sick to think of him with Charlotte Ross. Remember? Neither of us could bear her at school? The night Spence is referring to is the night I broke it off with him. Before that took place, Charlotte and her beau were there in the Thames Room, and Spence asked them to join us for a drink. She practically slobbered all over Spence. She was obviously very taken with him... said he looked like a professional polo player, or a dashing RAF pilot.”

  “She doesn’t seem his type. Not in the least,” said Edwina.

  “She’s very taken with herself,” I responded.

  Lapsing into silence again, I pondered what I might do if that was truly the case. Things were vastly different. I was no longer dependent upon my parents. What would happen if Spence still loved me? Then, I remembered Isabella. It was impossible. Completely impossible. Spence didn’t know that I had a child, and I was certain that he would be furious if he knew the truth. I allowed myself to speculate upon a renewed romance, but quickly reached the conclusion that such a dream was futile, and could only lead to more heartache. Much later that night, after tucking Isabella into her bassinet, following a particularly long session of rocking and lullabies, I had an odd feeling of uneasiness. I felt that something was about to happen that would tear my secure, comfortable world to shreds. I forced the feeling away, but didn’t forget it. I was to remember that strange premonition many times in the coming years.

  My remaining time in Paris flew by, and that sense of impending doom didn’t return. Edwina and I were able to get out a bit more. Taking Isabella with us only added to the joy of our excursions. I finally met Edwina’s German neighbor, Dieter Schoen, who seemed to have improved his command of the English language. I wondered how much his wishing to know Edwina better had influenced his language lessons. I didn’t particularly care for him, but supposed that had more to do with my innate dislike and fear of Germans, which my mother had instilled. In truth, there was no reason to dislike him, In fact, he made every effort to be charming. He was typical of his race…practically white haired, and blue-eyed, with fair skin. He was tall, and erect, and looked as though he might click his heels together at any moment.

  We visited the couture fashion houses, where I had a marvelous time. It seemed forever since I’d been able to purchase a frock with a waistline. Since I’d fully regained my figure, I indulged myself with several purchases. I ordered a stunning white Worth evening gown, a chic midnight blue cocktail dress of velvet and taffeta, designed by Hattie Carnegie, and a black and white satin -backed crepe Chanel suit. I knew that the coming Season promised to be a festive one, with Edward the Eighth’s coronation planned for May. I suspected that there would be several formal occasions and although I was still in mourning, I would be able to attend some of the functions. As a special ‘thank you’ to Edwina, I also told her to select any frock she desired. She chose an incredible Chanel gown, in pale butter -crème. We were young ladies on a spree that pretty day in Paris.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  2 December, 1936

  Past the White Cliffs of Dover

  Finally my self-imposed exile ended. I’d stayed much longer than planned. On 2 December, I bundled Isabella into a white, hand crocheted dress, which Edwina had purchased from an elderly nun outside of the Sacre Coeur, and said goodbye to my shining friend. There were tears, and promises to see one another in only a few weeks’ time, when Edwina would be in London after her Christmas holiday visit to Bury St. Edmunds. I felt sad saying goodbye to her, and to Paris, but was also eager to be going home again.

  Traveling with a small baby was a bit more difficult than I had imagined. It seemed that such a long time had passed since Edwina and I had left Winnsborough Hall in July. My entire life had changed so dramatically in such a short span. I’d arrived in France, anxious and frightened, still a young girl in so many ways. Sometime during that period, I’d left my girlhood behind. I was returning to England a more serious, mature woman, and a mother. Together, Isabella and I boarded the ferry at Calais, which would carry us across the English Channel, past the white cliffs of Dover, and home to England. As we settled into the First Class lounge, I picked up a copy of the Daily Mirror, which someone had discarded on the seat next to mine. I was astonished to see an enormous studio portrait of Mrs. Simpson gracing the front page. The British newspapers had finally broken their silence, and there was no doubt that all Hell was about to break loose. However, I had far greater things to occupy my mind, as Isabella was grizzling. I devoted my attention to making her comfortable, and settling her down. When we reached Dover, I was happy to board the train to London for the final leg of the journey. As I settled into my compartment, with Isabella snuggled securely in a basket next to me, I felt joyous to be back in Britain. I’d no idea what the future held, but I knew that I had weathered a great storm…more than one great storm… and that whatever lay ahead would be faced with a changed attitude and stronger self-confidence.

  The train rolled swiftly through the English countryside as I glimpsed signs designating small villages. I adored the names of English hamlets... Wivenhoe... Frittenden... Appledore... Each had a special charm. No matter where I traveled, I always felt that England was a very special place. I thought about the things I wanted to teach Isabella someday about her ancestry... about Willow Grove Abbey, and the Somervilles. For the first time it struck me that my daughter would undoubtedly want to know about her paternal heritage as well. That meant I’d have to recite the Winnsborough linage as though it were Isabella’s own. I was terribly glad that I wouldn’t be faced with such a task until many years henceforth. I’d already learned that the best way to cope with life twists and turns was to face them one day at a time. There was simply no point in worrying about things that might happen years or decades ahead or perhaps never.

  The train arrived at Victoria Station in the afternoon, and I was exhausted. Rather than continue on to Willow Grove that evening, I decided to spend the night at the flat on Sumner Street, and complete the trip to Bedminster-with-Hartcliffe the next day. I hadn’t been back to Sumner Street since the nightmare encounter with Owen and his friend, and I decided that it was time for me to face old ghosts. I was fortunate to find a porter on the train platform upon arrival. He retrieved the baggage and placed Isabella and me into an unoccupied taxicab. Within fifteen minutes, I found myself exiting the lift which deposited us into the foyer of the flat on Sumner Street. The door assistant helped with my bags, I tipped him appropriately, and sighed with relief at my final arrival. I immediately set about undressing Isabella, and putting her into a nightsack.There was no baby cot in the flat, but there was the little basket she had travelled in. It served as an excellent substitute for a cot, cradle or bassinet. I took a soft quilt from the linen press in the hallway, and folded it several times, placing it in the basket. With that in place, I gently settled Isabella into the center, where she seemed right at home, and quickly fell asleep. After I was certain that she was resting well and safely, I slipped out of my traveling clothes and into my own nightdress. Then, I padded to the parlor barefooted, and poured a small glass of Sherry from the decanter on the sideboard. Returning to the bedroom, I slipped between the smooth linen sheets. Placing the pillow against the headboard I propped myself in the bed.

  As I lay there relaxing, my thoughts turned again to Spence and our serendipitous meeting in Paris. And the kiss. Glancing over at the sleeping form of the child Spence and I had created, my eyes traced the outline of Isabella’s face. I could see Spence’s likeness. Isabella had only been in the world four months, yet I could scarcely remember an
existence before her. She was the embodiment of everything that Spence and I had shared. A tangible reminder of our love. I wondered where he was on that December night. Was he with Charlotte? Did he find her beautiful, and did she love him as much as I had? As much as I still did. More importantly, did he love her? It was hard to imagine that he did, but over a year had passed since we had spoken our last true words of passion. I knew that I’d be a fool if I thought that Spence wouldn’t or couldn’t love again. I so clearly remembered our conversations about soul mates and wondered if he still believed that there was only one person for every other. My eyes began to grow heavy as I tried to recreate the conversation at Les Deux Magots. More than the conversation, I recalled the exact way he’d looked. Closing my eyes, I remembered the feel of his lips when he’d kissed me goodbye. As I continued with my memories, I drifted into a restless sleep, and dreamed that Spence and I were about to be married. However, when I started my walk down the aisle, his face turned into that of a bloodhound. I awoke with a start, trembling. After checking on Isabella I switched off the light, and finally fell asleep.

  I awakened the next morning when Isabella began to grizzle for her breakfast. I checked her nappy, and, indeed, it needed changing. After taking care of that, I retrieved a bottle from the icebox, where I had placed it the night before. I warmed it, and brought Isabella into the large bed with me, holding her close. She took her bottle with no fuss. Gosh, I was getting very experienced at taking care of a baby. I basked in the joy of motherhood. Sunlight splashed upon the crème colored duvet, creating tiny designs, as well as on the pale blue walls. It was a bright, day, and I could hear birds singing in the square outside of my window. Isabella seemed very much at peace. She looked up at me with her wide blue eyes, which held a look of such innocence that they astounded me. I never stopped being overwhelmed at the realization that this little creature’s total existence was under my protection. I held her future in my hands. Reaching down, I put my finger into her hand, and she grasped it. I gazed at her tiny face and vowed that nothing would ever hurt her, so long as it was in my power to prevent it. With a sigh, I placed her back into the basket, after she had finished her bottle, and I had put her on my shoulder to burp her. Then, I rang my parents at Willow Grove, telling them that Isabella and I were in London. I spoke with Papa, who sounded delighted. He insisted that Joseph be sent with the car to retrieve us. I wasn’t about to argue, as I’d already had my fill of traveling with a baby. Consequently, on 4 December, 1936, at almost precisely noon, my parents welcomed me and their new granddaughter to Willow Grove Abbey. They were more effusive than they had ever been in the past. Papa was particularly unrestrained when he first set eyes upon Isabella. Even Mummy was positively rhapsodic as she took the baby into her arms. I didn’t remember her ever being so demonstrative. I’ve wondered since if Mummy was that enthusiastic about her own children when they were tiny. I believe she loved the fact that babies are so helpless, and therefore, she could impose total control. The first words out of her mouth were more characteristic of the mother I knew.

  “Sophia, fortune has shined upon us. Thank the Good Lord. Isabella does not have one feature of Owen’s. There is not a Winnsborough trait.” I certainly could not deny that. “She is pure Somerville, through and through. Just look at that hair and those eyes. She is the spitting image of your father.” I laughed to myself, as there was no question that Isabella was the absolute mirror image of Spence. However, it was my good fortune that Mummy didn’t see the resemblance. I couldn’t wait to tell Edwina about my mother’s first reaction to seeing Isabella.

  “No,” I agreed, she doesn’t look at all like Owen. She is a Somerville, except that she has your blue eyes, Mummy.” I knew that would please her enormously, and it was a fine way of explaining Spence’s lovely blue eyes on the baby’s face. Mummy and I entered the drawing room, still chattering about the baby. I was most relieved that neither of my parents seemed to think the baby looked older than she was supposed to. She was still small for her age, and it would have been very difficult, if not impossible, for anyone to discern whether she was three or four months old. I planned to stay at Willow Grove Abbey until after the holidays. Then Isabella and I would settle in London. I was still very new at caring for a baby, and it was nice to have the support of others... even Mummy. I intended to take things slowly, as I’d never lived alone, and even with a nanny for Isabella, it was going to be a new experience. I had placed the duty of hiring a nanny into my parents’ hands, while still in Paris, and I had to admit that they’d done a superb job. Her name was Martha Hunt. She was twenty-four years old, quite near my own age, had excellent credentials from a Swiss school, and was originally from a small hamlet north of London. She immediately adored Isabella. The nursery at Willow Grove had been refurbished, and a small sitting alcove next to that room made over as a sleeping chamber for Martha. It was very nice to be back in my old bedchamber, and to have Isabella securely ensconced in the lovely nursery where I’d slept and played as a child. I placed her into the cot, and then allowed Martha to look after her while I changed clothes. After that, I gave Isabella a quick kiss, and proceeded downstairs for luncheon.

  The house was buzzing with the latest news of the Royal situation, which at that point, had reached crisis proportions. As I seated myself at the table, Mummy was relating what she’d only just learned from Wallis Simpson’s’ confidante, ‘Foxy Gwynne.’ Apparently the King, as far back as November 25, had provided the Prime Minister with the means to bring the situation to a head. He had suggested that he marry Wallis in what is known as a morganatic union. In such a marriage, Mrs. Simpson could be Edward’s wife with certain restrictions. Most importantly, any children they might have would be denied the rights of succession. Mrs. Simpson was apparently in favor of that course. Edward asked that the proposition be brought before the Cabinet, but he also wanted to seek the advice of the various Prime Ministers of the Dominions. Telegrams were sent to the Dominions requesting that a choice be made. The choice offered was between the King marrying Mrs. Simpson, upon which she would be recognized as Queen, or a morganatic marriage. Alternatively, the King would abdicate in favor of his brother, the Duke of York.

  Nearly imprisoned at Cumberland Terrace, her home, which was also a Royal residence, with her Aunt Bessie, there were strangers hanging about on the pavement outside, and Mrs. Simpson apparently began to feel like a trapped animal. She received cruel, threatening letters. A rumor began that her house would be bombed. The King begged her to go to the seclusion of Fort Belvedere, his personal home. She did so, but as soon as she arrived, near a state of nervous breakdown, she began to feel that it was not at all the lovely home she’d once thought. She announced to her friend, Foxy Gwynne, that everything was terribly wrong. She felt she needed to leave England. She asked for a small get-a-way, to give everyone time to calm down. On the very day that I sat eating luncheon with my family, Baldwin confirmed that the Cabinet and the Dominions were unanimous in their rejection of the morganatic marriage. Having left the King with no alternative but to abdicate, Baldwin begged him to reconsider. His arguments fell upon deaf ears. Edwina had been right. The King was indeed potty over Wallis Simpson.

  Later the evening of December the second, Edward returned to the Fort in a somber mood. He apparently explained to Mrs. Simpson what the outcome was for them. She decided to place a call to her dear friends Herman and Katherine Rogers who lived in Cannes, France, in a gorgeous villa named Lou Viei. After reaching them, she begged for a safe haven. She left her little dog, Slipper, behind as she traveled toward Newhaven, the cross-channel ferry, and the start of a horrendous journey, brought about by the scandal her romance with the King had created. When I heard that news, I felt a lump in my own throat. England was in the midst of one of the greatest Constitutional crisis in her history. Yet, I was weeping for a woman I had never met. The primary reason for my sadness was the fact that Mrs. Simpson had been forced to leave her beloved pet behind when she fled.


  All of England waited expectantly to see what the outcome would be. Between the fourth and seventh of December, almost nothing else was talked about. The newspapers and wireless became the focus of all attention, as did Mummy’s frequent telephone calls to and from Foxy Gwynne. Of course, Papa had information from the official, governmental point of view, but only Foxy was able to provide the intimate details of conversations between the King and Mrs. Simpson. Although during that time the King’s friends, including Foxy and Emerald Cunard, made rigorous efforts to turn the situation round, all was lost. The King made up his mind to abdicate on Sunday afternoon, December Fifth. England seemed to agree with Baldwin, his Cabinet, and the Dominions. Members of Parliament, including my father, listened to their Constituencies and then returned to London. They said that the people were against morganatic marriage, Edward the Eighth, and especially Mrs. Simpson.

  Edward signed the Instrument of Abdication. Less than twenty-four hours later, he gave a heart-wrenching speech from Windsor Castle. My father returned from London exhausted, and the entire family congregated at Willow Grove. I wept, and everyone was caught up in the drama of the moment. My heart was with the newly abdicated King. On the other hand, Papa said that the King was a bloody fool, and my brothers naturally, concurred. The consensus among the men in my family was that the King was a weakling. Nevertheless, I tended to believe that it took immense courage and honor to renounce a Kingdom for the love of a woman. My perspective upon an individual sacrificing everything for the sake of love was to change greatly over the next decade. When I looked back years later, I was astounded by how much the various points of view held by my family in December, 1936, had altered.

  ***

  After that momentous occasion, everything changed, but nothing was really very different. My life continued in 1937 much as it had before. There was, of course, my devotion to Isabella, as well as my enrolment at The University of London. On 12 May, 1937, Edward’s brother, the Duke of York, was proclaimed King, as George the Sixth, and England set about restoring the dignity of the monarchy. George and his wife, Elizabeth, were definitely a much better choice. They gave off a very nice picture of domesticity, with their two little girls, Elizabeth and Margaret Rose. They seemed to be quite a normal family, especially for royalty. From a personal point of view, I thought them an immensely nice family, but I still had special feelings for the departed King Edward, thereafter known as the Duke of Windsor. On Thursday, 3 June, 1937, the Duke married Wallis Simpson at the Chateau de Cande at Tours, France. With their union, she became the Duchess of Windsor. The Royals never did accept her. They absolutely refused to allow her to use the title Her Royal Highness, which I thought beastly.