Lightfoot drove over immediately to collect me. He believes there’s a plot to murder Wally and that I may get blown up by mistake.
30th November 1936, Wilton Place
The news from the Fort is that Wally is prostrate with sickness of the nerves and is not to be disturbed. HM has had three doctors to see her, and they all agree the only thing is for her to rest in a darkened room, so it seems unlikely we’ll be traveling for a while. I’ve given in to Pips’s pleading and am moving to Halkin Street this evening before I need three doctors.
Freddie thinks it’s all up for Wally, even though Mr. Beaverbrook appears to be championing HM and trying to find a solution. He said, “Beaverbrook’s only in it to bait Baldwin. He doesn’t give a damn about the King. Well, only in the way one might feel a pang for a cat squashed on the roadside. What Beaverbrook wants is for Baldwin to bungle this and have to resign.”
It’s all such a horrid muddle, and I must say, some of the blame must rest with Ernest. If he’d kept the situation under control and not allowed Wally to get in too deep, we’d all be able to sleep safe in our beds.
1st December 1936, Halkin Street
Great excitement last night. The Crystal Palace Pleasure Gardens burned to the ground. The sky was quite red as we went to dinner. They say every Hook and Ladder was called out, so just as well I hadn’t stayed on at Cumberland Terrace waiting to be firebombed on behalf of Wally.
I mentioned to Freddie Wally’s idea that HM should speak to the nation by wireless. President Roosevelt’s fireside chats have proved very popular, and something similar would remind the British public that the King is a man just like themselves. However, Freddie says the King can’t just sit in front of a microphone when the urge seizes him. He’d need the Prime Minister’s agreement, and the Cabinet would want to check in advance that they approved of what he intended saying. Very puzzling. What’s the point of the King having a government if he has to go to it, cap in hand, every time he wishes to open his mouth? And I suppose the same would apply to Wally, which leads me to think she might not be so suited to be Queen, after all. She’d just come right out with it.
2nd December 1936
Further alarms. Beaverbrook says the British press is about to break their silence on the Wally situation. He says it’s already started in the provinces. A North Country cleric made a speech yesterday, questioning whether HM is approaching the Coronation with the correct sense of duty, and the local papers reported it. This morning, the Manchester Guardian has picked up on it and asked if the British public are really willing to accept a divorced American as their Queen? Well, it had to come out before long, and now is as good a time as any. HM has never been more popular. I’m sure all those dusty little miners will scrape together their farthings to send him a wedding gift. King Edward VIII and the Duchess of Lancaster will be loved and remembered when Stanley Baldwin and the Bishop of Bradford are long forgotten.
Tried to do a little Christmas shopping, but it was hard to concentrate, and then I found myself having a dizzy spell among the neckties. Wally isn’t the only one feeling the strain. One can’t be braced for action day after day without the body eventually breaking down. And as sweet as Pips is, I think I need to go home, unpack my bags, and sleep in my own bed. We’ll look back on this in a few years and laugh at all the fuss and drama.
4th December 1936, somewhere in France
Yesterday was the longest, most extraordinary day.
Hattie Erlanger woke me early to tell me every newspaper had front page photographs of our cruise on the Nahlin, photographs in which Wally had magically reappeared. Then Lightfoot called to tell me the Bertie Yorks had cut short their visit to Scotland and were on their way back to London in an absolute fury with HM. He said, “The fat’s well and truly in the fire now, Maybell. It’s decision time for HM.”
I no sooner got him off the line when Wally called.
She said, “It’s all over. We’ll leave after dark this evening. Bring no more than two valises. A car will collect you at four.”
I said, “Where are we going?”
“Abroad,” she said. “You’re not to tell anyone, particularly not Violet. This morning, I need you to go to Cartier and collect everything of mine they’ve had for cleaning or remounting, ready or not. Ask for Phillips. He’s expecting you.”
Pips was very sweet. She promised not to tell anyone else, at least until we were clear away. She said, “Ignore what Wally said about luggage. Two valises sounds pretty mean to me. She’s sure to have at least forty.”
I dropped by the Grosvenor Chapel on my way to see Lightfoot and Doopie. Just sat there awhile. I don’t know why. They had all the newspapers at South Audley Street. Lightfoot said Beaverbrook and Harmsworth had written up HM in a very complimentary vein, but Wally is going to be harder to sell. He thinks she looks too angular and polished. He said, “We British like our royalties to have womanly hair and a generous prow, to carry off the regalia. While you’re away, see if you can’t fatten her up a little.”
I said, “Do you think she’ll be coming back to wear the regalia?”
He said, “Actually, no, I don’t.”
Doopie said, “Where you going, Bayba? Wan Dordie da gum with you?”
Flora was allowed down from her schoolroom, but we didn’t tell her I was going away. She said, “Hurrah! Are we going to a Gorner House?”
Doopie said, “Negs dime, Vora. Negs dime.”
I wish I could have seen Rory, too. If we have to stay away until after Wally’s divorce, we’ll miss our pantomime. Passed Gladys Trilling as we turned out of Curzon Street, but she didn’t see me. All the newspaper placards said the same thing: THE KING AND MRS SIMPSON.
The fog was rolling in by the time I got to the Fort. Wally was very pale and quiet and hardly greeted me. HM was bustling about, full of light chitchat. Perry Brownlow was there. The plan is to catch a ferry boat to France and then drive south to stay with Herman and Kath Rogers. They expect us by Sunday or Monday. Two cars. One for me, the luggage, and Wally’s maid. The other for Wally with Perry Brownlow and a Scotland Yard detective named Jimmie. Tea was brought in at five, but no one touched it. Wally had her sable on already, anxious to be gone. It was HM who was reluctant to let us leave.
When she went out to the car, he said, “She’s everything to me, Maybell. Take care of her. Make sure she eats properly.”
We left the dog behind. HM lifted it up and waved its paw as we pulled away. He looked so lost. He reminded me of how Rory used to look when it was time to go back to school.
I didn’t get another opportunity to speak with Wally till we reached our cabin. We were on the ten o’clock, sailing from Newhaven. She said all she felt was relief. She’s felt in constant danger these past few weeks, from the Palace plotters, from any crazy who got it into his head to remove her from the scene. Even from David.
She said, “He’s a weak man ordinarily, but he’s had such a strong grip lately. They say that about drowning men, don’t they? That they can pull a stronger person under.”
Just as well the maid wasn’t there to hear that unfortunate comparison. She told me in the car that she’s a nervous sailor. She lost a brother at Jutland, and her stomach has never been right since Walter Guinness sailed us through that hurricane off Biarritz.
We docked just after midnight and drove to this hotel, God knows where.
Perry B. decreed that the drivers had to get a few hours sleep, and Wally seemed happy for him to take charge. She’s tired, I suppose. We all are.
Perry says my job is to paint a bright picture of the future and not allow her to dwell on thoughts of HM. But I don’t think she is. I think she’s completely resigned. HM is the one who’s obsessed.
Perry says HM told Wally he’d soon be at her side, but he won’t be going anywhere. He’s going to be kept busy in England, safe from acts of romantic folly, until he’s safely crowned. He said, “If Wally understands that, good. But she may waver, especially if he sends h
er letters full of wild promises. So you must help me keep her steady. Plan trips. Chat to her about gowns. Encourage her to notice eligible men.”
The sheets are coarse, and the pillows are like rocks, but Wally is fast asleep.
6th December 1936, Villa Lou Viei, Cannes
Arrived at the Rogerses last night after battling with snowstorms, and roads without signposts, and uncooperative French peasantry. Where Wally and Brownlow are, we have no idea. The decision to travel separately instead of in convoy was made by Perry when he realized the press were on to us.
That was Wally’s fault. She’s grown so accustomed to giving orders she’s lost all idea of how to be a discreet presence. If she hadn’t started complaining the minute she walked through the door, I don’t suppose the patron would have paid us any attention. I don’t like to see stale flowers in a hotel lobby myself, but we were only there for the briefest stay and we were trying to travel incognito. But Wally started up, a phone call was made, and reporters began. They set up camp in the car park to prevent our slipping away, so Perry decided we had to create a diversion. Wally’s maid and I were to leave by the front door and take the Buick, while he and Wally slipped out through the kitchens and into our station wagon. I said, “No one’s going to mistake me for Wally, you realize.”
He said, “Paint on a beauty spot. Wear a headscarf. We have darkness on our side.”
How little men understand of what it is that makes every woman uniquely herself. No cosmetician in the world could turn me into Wally, I’m glad to say. But the press, being simple-minded men, saw me dash for Wally’s car and fell for the ruse. They gave chase, and it was only when we had to stop for gas and they saw me with my hair prettily ruffled and the beauty spot wiped away that they realized their error. It was a rather amusing moment.
The weather worsened the farther south we drove. Ladbroke telephoned to the Rogerses that we shouldn’t arrive here before midnight, and Herman told him the reporters were here, too, watching for Wally, so someone has blabbed. It’s a pity Wally made enemies of so many of HM’s staff. People like that are quick to turn.
What Herman had described as “a small press presence” was at least a hundred, and more have arrived since. I can see them from my window. There are gendarmes down there, too, keeping the photographers from mobbing every vehicle that tries to get through to the house.
Herman and Kath have made me as comfortable as they’re able, considering they’re in the middle of refurbishments. Herman says it was the most astonishing phone call he’s ever received, HM begging him to take in Wally on short notice.
Kath keeps saying, “It won’t suit her. I know Wally. There’s brick dust everywhere.”
Herman says they had no choice. It was tantamount to a Royal Command.
HM has been telephoning at all hours, checking to see if Wally has arrived. Herman said, “The next thing will be he’ll be on his way here.”
I said, “That’s not the plan. They’re going to keep him in London until he’s gotten over her.”
He said, “Well, I suppose if there’s anyone resolute enough to deliver the death blow it’s Wally, but I can’t imagine anything she could say to him at the moment that would do the trick. The man seems to be out of his mind.”
I hope we’re not going to spend the rest of our lives on the run from HM King.
7th December 1936
Wally and Brownlow arrived last night. By the time they got here, there were so many reporters and police outside the gates it looked like an army camp down there, but they didn’t get the photograph they’d been waiting for. When the car pulled up outside the house, there was no sign of Wally. She was on the floor beside Brownlow’s feet, covered in a tartan rug. She thought the whole thing was a great lark and was in very good spirits, until Herman told her HM had been telephoning all day and was likely to call again at any minute.
She said, “I’m not speaking to him. This craziness has to stop. Put Maybell on. Maybell, tell him I’m not here yet. Tell him spies are listening in.”
I refused. Kath and I have discussed this and are agreed, Wally is far too free with her orders, and now that she’s withdrawn from Royal circles, she’d better accustom herself to behaving like a mere mortal again. So, she was left with no choice but to speak with HM, and I believe there were tears, at both ends of the line, especially when he put the dog on to say good-night.
Kath had given me a bed in the dressing room adjoining Wally’s room. She thought Wally would be glad of my company after the terrors of the journey, but Wally has insisted that Brownlow have the dressing room and that he keep the door open. She said, “I’ll sleep better with a man nearby.”
Her last words before she retired were, “Tell Herman to turn up the furnace. Kath keeps this house so damned cold. And has she got my special soap?”
Herman joked that someone had better warn Kitsie Brownlow about the sleeping arrangements, because if Wally’s back on the loose, Perry’s virtue may not be safe. But Wally’s not going to be interested in a minor courtier. As a matter of fact, I think she’s altogether bored with love.
The news from London is unsettling. Before he turned in, Brownlow spoke to Fruity Metcalfe. The Stock Exchange is jittery, and public sympathy seems to be moving away from HM. Fruity says the Socialists are certainly against him. Well, that’s no surprise. They’re always against everything. Then the Conservatives are against him, because of the way he keeps visiting paupers and raising their hopes, and the Court wives have let it be known they have no intention of curtsying to a woman who grew up in a boardinghouse. Which, as Perry says, leaves only the true romantics and perhaps those chafed by the chains of their own imprudent marriage who may be hoping Wally is going to make divorce the latest thing.
8th December 1936
Wally emerged just before luncheon. She slept through all the ringing of telephones. HM, desperate to talk to her. Fruity, desperate for her not to talk to HM, in case she weakens. The secretary of the lawyer Goddard, to say he’s on his way here. Freddie Crosbie, with bulletins. Also, Daisy Fellowes sent a wire. She’ll be arriving off Cannes tomorrow and has offered to keep her yacht steamed up and ready to whisk Wally away at a moment’s notice. I’ll bet Hattie put her up to that.
Perry said, “Let’s keep that one up our sleeve. It might provide a useful emergency exit, but we don’t want Wally going anywhere else until she’s made it clear to the King that they’re finished. She has to deliver the death blow.”
The puzzle is why is Goddard coming? Wally can offer no explanation.
Herman said, “You didn’t slip any Crown Jewels in your bag, did you, Wally? We don’t want to get arrested as accessories.”
HM telephoned throughout the afternoon. Wally says she wishes they’d find some extra Despatch Boxes to keep him occupied.
At dinner, Perry floated a new suggestion. He said, “Wally, if you were to withdraw your divorce action now, wouldn’t it send the clearest possible signal to HM that marriage is out of the question?”
She said, “It should. But it’s David. I don’t think he’d take any notice. I don’t think anything is going to stop him now.”
It seems to me it’s worth a try, if she really wants to disengage herself. That’s the crux of it. I’m not sure she does want to. I never saw her dither like this before.
She’s said she’ll sleep on it. She went to bed as soon as dinner was over, with orders that she wasn’t to be disturbed, but she heard the telephone when Fruity called just before midnight and came out in her wrap to find out if there was any news, which there certainly was. HM has begun negotiating for a title and an income in the event of his abdication.
Kath gave her a brandy and soda, but she didn’t drink it. She just sat twisting the glass around and around.
She said, “You see? This is what I was afraid of. He’s only saying these things because I’ve gone away and left him. Talk to him, Perry. Tell him to stay calm. Tell him I’ll wait quietly until after the Coronation,
and so must he.”
She started to go back to bed, then she stopped again. “Tell him I have no interest in being the Queen of Nowhere.”
I stayed down and had a nightcap with Kath. She said, “She has an escape route staring her in the face. All she has to do is stop the divorce. Why is she hesitating, Maybell? Can it be she actually loves him?”
I think perhaps she does, just a little. And she could still be the Duchess of Lancaster. It surely has to be better than being Mrs. Simpson.
9th December 1936
The lawyer Goddard has arrived, and not alone. He’s brought a physician with him, because HM is worried Wally’s health is breaking down under all this strain. Perry B. is livid. He said, “Just what we need! Five hundred hacks outside the gate, watching every move we make, and we get a house call from a Royal doctor. You realize what everyone’s going to think?”
He delegated me and Kath to find out from Wally if she’s carrying HM’s child.
She shrieked with laughter. She said, “I’ve got ulcers and palpitations and my hair’s falling out, but not that, thankfully. Never that. David isn’t heir-conditioned.”
The doctor has prescribed rest and plain food. I think I could have been a doctor.
The purpose of the Goddard’s visit is rather serious. On Monday afternoon, a person in London swore an affidavit that he can show good cause why Wally and Ernest’s divorce shouldn’t be finalized. He’s called a Common Informer, with the emphasis on “common,” I’m sure. It’s just some elderly clerk who has obviously been paid to do it, but Goddard says it places HM in a very dangerous position, the allegation being that Ernest’s infidelity was a charade performed to oblige the King.
Herman said, “Of course, this Common Informer is only saying what everyone has known all along.”
Gone With the Windsors Page 32