Hattie says Emerald Cunard cut her in the Ritz Grill. Of course, it’s possible Emerald simply didn’t remember her. Hattie has one of those faces.
She says the news from Spain isn’t good. There’s been fierce fighting, and someone Penelope Blythe knows has arrived home without any legs. I do hope Lightfoot has come to his senses and returned to London.
31st May 1937
HRH summoned us all to the apricot drawing room and told us that yesterday’s announcement is to be ignored. He said, “My wife will be addressed as Her Royal Highness and will be curtsied to. Kindly inform your staffs.”
Wally is calm after yesterday’s storm. She said, “They’ll be shamed into giving it to me someday, and in the meanwhile, the world is going to find out I’m a thousand times more regal than Queen Cotton Candy.”
Main Bocher and his people have arrived, and so has the chapelier, and clothes always cheer her up. Tomorrow Mr. Beaton arrives to take the official photographs. Dudley Forwood has set off for Cherbourg to meet Wally’s Aunt Bessie and bring her here. The secretaries can hardly keep pace with the gifts. Mr. Mussolini has sent a clock. Mr. Hitler a gold candy box.
1st June 1937
Baba and Fruity Metcalfe are here, and the Rogerses are driving up today. All we need now is the vicar, and the party is complete. Aunt Bessie is a game old bird, dashing around the chateau with her sleeves rolled up, looking for things to do. Plain-spoken, too. She said, “Wally had better make this one work. Three husbands is enough for anyone. And why aren’t there more guests? Where are their friends? I disapprove of hole-in-the-wall weddings. It’s not a good way to start.”
I think everyone found this “propose yourself” idea very confusing.
Mrs. Spry has arrived to do the flowers. I’m giving her a wide berth. In spite of there being a Mr. Spry, she is apparently of the same persuasion as Nada Milford Haven, and I’m in no mood to find myself cornered in some turret of the chateau by an invert with a pair of secateurs.
Mr. Cecil Beaton is buzzing around downstairs, making all kinds of demands. Aunt Bessie doesn’t approve of the wedding clothes being worn before the event. She says it brings bad luck. Worse luck to have Mr. Beaton here on the wedding day, moving vases.
2nd June 1937
As Mr. Beaton left, the Reverend Jardine arrived. A blustering, red-faced man, but he wears a dog collar and seems to be the genuine article. He and Charlie are ordering people around, trying to create a more chapel-like ambience. I came upon them, sleeves rolled up, huffing and puffing, ransacking a linen press for something suitable as an altar cloth. They’re like a pair of removal men from Maples.
Telegrams have come from the old Queen and from the Yorks, but no eleventh-hour appearance by any family member. George Kent could have hopped over in an airplane in no time. It would mean everything to HRH. The Erlangers have just arrived. The Crokers are expected any minute.
Burke has everything laid out ready in Wally’s dressing room, and it all looks magnificent, except for the hat, which I always did think was a mistake. To me, it looks like something one might use to decorate a cake stand. I much prefer my own little confection. HRH’s wedding gift to her is a tiara of diamonds. I just hope she’s going to find opportunities to wear it.
No sign of nerves in Wally. Well, it is the third time. She said, “Thank you for everything, Maybell. I couldn’t have got this far without you.”
I said, “All the years I’ve known you, I finally get to your wedding.”
She said, “And this is the wedding that matters.”
I said, “Did you know, the first time you met David? Did it cross your mind?”
“No,” she said. “It didn’t. To tell you the truth, he didn’t impress me. But it all seems perfectly obvious now. We’re a good fit.”
We took one last turn around the house before dinner, checking that everything is in order. Mrs. Spry has really done a very fine job. There can’t be a peony left standing in France tonight. Wally had the help move a gilt mirror behind the altar, to give an even more sparkling effect when the candles are lit. The weather forecast is good.
3rd June 1937
The deed is done. Little Bessie Wallis Warfield is now the Duchess of Windsor, and whatever Buckingham Palace may have said about it, everyone here curtsied to her when we went in to lunch. The convoy with the honeymoon luggage left at breakfast time, then Herman went down to the gates to brief the newspaper people. They’ve promised to leave Wally and David in peace at Wasserleonburg.
Lily says that’s because they’ve seen where it is!
The mayor came just before noon, swathed in an enormous red-white-and-blue ribbon—in honor of the British groom and the American bride, I suppose. A nice gesture, although the red argued a little with the pink of some of the flowers. He did the French part of the marrying in the drawing room. It was over in no time at all, then we processed to the salon for the Reverend Jardine to do his part. Herman gave Wally away.
David actually wept a little, which led to a slight fluffing of his lines, but Wally was word-perfect, and she was so right about having that mirror placed where it could reflect the candlelight, too. Her sapphires and diamonds were dazzling. More tears from HRH when they were pronounced man and wife, so Wally postponed the traditional kiss rather than muss up her makeup. I saw a look pass between Baba Metcalfe and Walter Monckton. I don’t think they’ll ever forgive Wally her American polish.
I’ve also heard a few sniggers about the statue Fern and Charlie have given as a wedding present, because it’s new. The British hate anything new. I suppose, certain parties think one of Mr. Elgar’s armless old marbles would have been more appropriate.
Lunch was lobster, strawberries, and champagne. The newlyweds plus dogs left at three, with motorcycle outriders and cars full of detectives and staff fore and aft. David all smiles, Wally looking a little tense, I thought.
Tonight, dinner for the survivors, as Herman calls us.
4th June 1937
I had Fruity on my right last evening. He’s very charming. I can’t imagine why Wally doesn’t like him. He said it was the most melancholy wedding he’d ever attended. “All perfectly staged,” he said, “and pretty as a picture, but not fitting for a man born to be king.”
I said, “Well, that’s all over. Now he’s starting a new life.”
He said, “He was greatly loved, you know, till this? There were men who would have laid down their lives for him. I still would. But we’re a diminishing band.”
I believe it was the champagne talking.
He said, “Wally had better be good to him. He’s sacrificed everything to be with her.”
I said, “He’s not the only one who’d made sacrifices.”
Aunt Bessie said, “Yes, let’s not forget poor Ernest.”
Fern said, “And Wally. Her life is never going to be the same again. She’s setting out with David into the unknown. That’s love for you.”
Baba Metcalfe said, “Well, she doesn’t behave as though she loves him. I didn’t see a single loving gesture from her today. Not one.”
Of course, Baba is famously generous with her loving gestures.
Herman told Freddie that some of the press photographers down at the gate described Wally as “having a tang of the dockyard” about her.
I said, “What can they mean?”
Pips said, “Darned if I know. Apart from her big beefy hands and that hyena laugh, she’s a picture of femininity.”
Dudley Forwood has asked to see me before we leave for Italy. He has something for me from His Royal Highness and Her Grace, the Duchess. I think I can guess what it is. HRH knows I’ve always admired the silver rose bowl that used to stand in the Octagon Room at Fort Belvedere, and now Daisy Fellowes has sent an almost identical one as a wedding gift, so I believe I may be the lucky beneficiary of the original.
5th June 1937
Forwood handed me a bundle, an absolute bundle of accounts this morning. I told him, now the royal mon
ies have been agreed, Wally has no need of me to keep her creditors happy. He said, “I see. Her Grace gave me the impression …”
I said, “I never mind picking up a few things here and there. I was raised to be open-handed. But these are major expenses.”
He said, “Yes. Of course, if it’s a question of timing, I’m sure some of these people would be prepared to wait.”
Freddie says Forwood is about to discover the real cost of being David’s equerry.
Pips said, “And what about the honeymoon expenses? I wonder what they’re doing for jingle up on that mountaintop?”
I said, “Wally told me the blockage in the tube had been cleared, and David’s funds are now flowing freely.”
Hattie said, “Dribbling, Maybell. Not flowing. Dribbling. David doesn’t have enough a year to cover Wally’s gowns, let alone anything else.”
No rose bowl, either. But Forwood has put the bills back in the letter tray. He’s off to Austria, as Honeymoon Equerry. And I refuse to be in a bad mood. Tomorrow, Italy!
10th June 1937, Portofino
We are at the Splendido Mare. Wally would be so jealous if she knew. Dozens of people are in town. Tonight, the Genoas are giving a party.
15th June 1937
Walked as far as the lighthouse with Kath and Herman. Portofino is such a pretty town. I could settle here in a moment. Rent one of these adorable pink houses and hire a handsome Italian driver. The Gandolfis are throwing a cocktail by the saltwater pool. Afterwards, to the Regina di Liguria, for dinner with friends of Lily Drax-Pfaffenhof.
17th June 1937
Boss and Ethel’s yacht put in this morning. They have the Bajavidas on board and two other couples from Palm Beach, the Dekuypers and the Orly-Guzmans. They saw Bernie and Zita Cavett in Monaco. Ethel says Zita’s still in a huff about missing the wedding. They sent a very good tea service, apparently.
I think a lot of people sat around shyly waiting for an invitation, but if Boss and Ethel understood that they had to invite themselves, I don’t see why Bernie and Zita couldn’t have done the same.
Betty Dekuyper wears so many gold bangles she can barely lift her cigarette to her lips. The Orly-Guzmans made their money in sisal and have a Degas in their gymnasium.
20th June 1937
Boss Croker says HRH may live to regret allowing Charlie Bedaux to arrange his foreign tours, especially to America. He says Charlie may be known over here for his generosity, but in the States he’s known for taking on the trade unions and squeezing the life blood out of the working man. Lily says she doesn’t know anything about that, but Charlie’s the perfect man to arrange something in Germany. He knows everyone worth knowing, and with HRH speaking German so well, it’s bound to be a profitable partnership.
On Thursday, we move on to Como, and on Tuesday, to Sirmione. Bought some smart new luggage and a selection of lace dressing table mats. The Crokers and their party are continuing on to Capri.
25th June 1937, Mistral Blu, Sirmione
Everything is going to seem second-rate after the Villa D’Este. Our rooms here are meant to have lake views, but the rain has so far prevented us from judging them. There doesn’t seem to be anyone of consequence in town. Lily may be taking us to meet her friend Prince D’Annunzio of Montenevoso, who has a place nearby. She says he’s a poet, a war hero, and a general all-round scalawag. I believe he’s an old beau of hers.
2nd July 1937
The visit with Prince D’Annunzio finally took place. He said, “I had ten thousand centurions at Fiume. I was a Duce before Mussolini.” He’s a pint pot, but small talk seemed not to be his forte. He was in leather, in spite of the heat, and his coat dragged on the ground.
The gardens were beautiful, but his interiors were very dark and cluttered. Masks, elephants, crystal buddhas, Lalique statues, tapestries, daggers, silver tortoises, saddles, vestments, clocks, telescopes, bowls of glass fruit. He showed us his amphitheater, where he does recitations of his poetry. Seats for more than a thousand people!
Pips whispered, “Wow! I’ll bet they go like hot cakes.”
She says he reminded her of a crazy old rooster. Lily said, “They don’t make them like him anymore.”
She leaves us tomorrow to prepare for houseguests, and we’ll probably head down to Venice on Tuesday or Wednesday. Pips is already thumbing through her Baedeker, earmarking paintings she wants to gaze at yet again.
4th July 1937
No celebrations. The Italians appear not to know about the Fourth. This is the first year since I became a cosmopolite that I’ve evaded a sentimental phone call from Randolph Putnam. One of the bonuses of keeping on the move.
8th July 1937, The Excelsior, Venice Lido
Received such a warm welcome. All the staff remember me.
Kath has heard that Wally’s old Peking flame, Ciano, is in town. We’re going to try and see him. He’s now married to Mr. Mussolini’s daughter, apparently.
10th July 1937
With Pips and Herman to a tiny, mosquito-ridden island to see mosaics. No shops.
This evening, to Freddie’s old college friend, Bobo Farinacci. He has a palazzo but not an important one.
12th July 1937
It’s a small world. At Bobo Farinacci’s, we met Ludo and Fancie Fannulloni. Behind these difficult foreign names one often finds an American. Fancie is from Savannah and, it turns out, was at school with Breeze Bajavida. Also came little Barbara Hutton, no longer married to that Russian and minus her new husband. She was being squired by a Woolworth cousin.
Rory’s sixteenth birthday.
13th July 1937
To lunch with the Fannulloni. They’re sending their boat.
18th July 1937
I have met Wally’s Count Gian Galeazzo Ciano! Devilishly handsome. I can see why she fell for him. He and his wife were lunching at Herman’s favorite fish restaurant, and we invited ourselves to join them. I felt Herman was rather showing off his Italian, ordering platters of this and vats of that, most of it ugly little creatures that ought to have been thrown back into the ocean. How hard it is to find a good broiled steak in this town.
Ciano believes democracy will soon be a thing of the past.
23rd July 1937
Pips and Freddie are leaving on August 1st. I may go with them. So many things to do, and there’ll be no one left in London to snub me.
27th July 1937
The honeymooners are here.
We realized something was about to happen this morning, because the lobby was suddenly buzzing with pressmen. Then a concierge told Pips that the Duke and Duchess of Windsor were on their way from the railroad station in a motor launch. Wally pretended to be surprised when she saw us, but I’ll bet she’s had every hotel in Italy telephoned, trying to track us down.
Herman said, “What’s this, Wally? Is the honeymoon over?”
“No,” she said, “This is part two. The schloss was all right, but once I’d reorganized the furniture, there wasn’t really anything to do up there. There comes a time when a girl needs to see civilization.”
We’re all having dinner tonight. I grabbed a moment with her when she went up to bathe.
I said, “Well? How has it been?”
She said, “Maybell! I’m hardly a child bride. It’s been fine. Boring, but fine.”
I said, “You’ll never guess. Count Ciano’s here.”
Not a flicker.
She said, “Is he? Well, I suppose a lot of people are. Venice is that kind of town.”
28th July 1937
HRH has gone to Alberoni to play golf with Judson. Wally joined us by the pool. She’s desperately looking for volunteers to tag along when she and David move on to their next destination, another of Charlie Bedaux’s residences. Borsodivanka. She thinks it’s in Czechoslovakia, but it may possibly be in Hungary.
Kath said, “I always thought honeymooners wanted to get away from people.”
Wally said, “We’ve already had six weeks of that kind of hon
eymooning. Now David needs diversions, otherwise he just pads around behind me. I can’t even go to the bathroom without him missing me. So far, the only time he’s left my side was when I got Forwood to suggest a hike, and even then he kept signaling me with a damned pocket mirror so I’d know how far they’d progressed.”
Complaints already, as Kath says, but all very lighthearted. I think she loves being a duchess. The staff here are meticulous about bows and curtsies.
We took a launch into town after lunch.
Pips said, “Hold on to your purse, Maybell.”
But those days are over. Wally picked out dozens of table linens at Asta’s and she signed her own chits without hesitation. I knew Forwood was mistaken about those wedding bills.
Babs Hutton is giving a party tomorrow night at the Grand.
30th July 1937
The Hutton party was well attended. Came, among many: Ludo and Fancie Fannulloni, Bobo Farinacci, Tori and Paola Nasibruni, Clarice Sfogginomi, and the Count Galeazzo Cianos.
Kath and I waited with baited breath to see how Wally handled meeting the Count again, but she was as cool as a cucumber. He might have been no more than a nodding acquaintance from long, long ago. HRH chatted with him, too. There was apparently one sticky moment, when Ciano demanded to know why Mr. Selassie, the sacked Emperor of Abyssinia, had been invited to the Coronation. He said it was an insult to Italy. HRH said, “Nothing to do with me. It wasn’t my Coronation.”
Gone With the Windsors Page 37