by Karen Harper
“Back to earth,” he said and gave his men below the sign to pull them down. “But, whatever befalls, I shall always be your admirer and your friend. From afar, from across the Channel, from whenever you look up in the sky, know that I love you, Consuelo Vanderbilt Marlborough.”
All I could manage was, “And I you . . . too.”
God forgive me, I was madly in love with Jacques Balsan, but I would not be like so many others to have him once in a forbidden, secret while, yet never really have him for my own.
THE NEXT WINTER Sunny and I went to Russia with others in a delegation for court celebrations of the Orthodox New Year and to meet the czar. I do think Sunny just wanted an excuse to buy more outrageously grand costumes and jewels, to enjoy the pomp he so admired. He bought me a diamond and turquoise dog collar to go with a new blue satin gown. We took with us a retinue of valets, maids, even an armed detective to guard our jewelry. Yet I could not help but think that one single stone from our array could probably feed the Woodstock farmers or old ladies at the almshouse for years. Dear Mrs. Prattley had died soon after the queen, and I missed her terribly—Mrs. Prattley, I mean.
Despite the excitement and anticipation, I fell into a periodic depression while on our trip. The Russian landscape seemed stark and barren. In St. Petersburg, Russia’s capital, we stayed at the Hotel de l’Europe. The décor and furnishings seemed stiff, strained, and stuffy. We went sightseeing and attended many an elaborate party, but I felt as frozen as the River Neva we so often drove by. Even sleigh rides and the lively dancing to Russian mazurka music did not lift my spirits during the long, dark nights—dark nights of the soul, I thought.
I missed my sons. I missed Blenheim. I missed Jacques, and could share that latter ache with no one.
We attended three stunning events at the czar’s court. One was a ball at the Winter Palace that I shall never forget for its grandeur and glitter. Gold plate was fixed to some of the walls, and countless footmen stood about in scarlet livery. Sunny and I were surely attired for the grand occasion: I wore white satin with a draped skirt and a tulle train held to my waist by a belt of diamonds, a tiara in my hair and ropes of pearls dripping from my neck. Sunny looked magnificent in his Privy Councilor’s uniform with a blue coat with gold lace, white breeches, and a plumed hat under his arm.
When the Imperial family entered to the music of the Russian anthem, we all stood amazed at the parade of Grand Duchesses and the Grand Duke, the heir to the throne since no sons had yet been born to the czar and czarina. Scuttlebutt about the czarina said that she was not only bewitching but bewitched by some of her advisors. It was said she ruled the czar, and that they were desperate for an heir despite the fact she had strange illnesses. I felt for her, for the pressure to bear a son.
At another, smaller event called the Bal des Palmiers, the Ball of Palms, since those trees had been brought in for decorations, I wore my blue satin gown and matching dog-collar necklace. I felt not as weighed down with that around my neck as I had by the stories and sights of some of the starved-looking Russians in the streets. Did not guilt hang heavy on this ruler for his people’s grievances?
At the Bal des Palmiers, I was astounded to be seated next to the czar himself, perhaps by his request. He entered late, so I was rather taken by surprise. Seeing the thirty-two-year-old ruler of all the Russias at such intimate range, I noted how much he resembled his cousin, our new king’s son and heir, George: same beard, pale blue eyes, and, shockingly, the kind smile and mild manners.
Small talk suited everyone during the meal, but I could not hold back on a question—a careful protest—burning in my mind. So others would not hear, I asked quietly, “Why is it Russia has no democratic government that works so well in England?”
The moment the question was out of my mouth, I feared his reaction, but he replied quietly and calmly, “I would like nothing better, but Russia is not ready for that. We are two hundred years behind Europe in the development of our national political institutions. Russia is more Asiatic than European and so must be governed by an autocracy for the people’s good. Madame, I have inherited a government where my powers must be absolute. The great millions of Russia are ignorant, superstitious . . .” He cleared his throat and took a swallow of wine as if that ended the conversation.
I was relieved I had not brought up my dear, rambunctious, and rebellious America. Whatever would the poor, powerful man have said to that? Although I had hoped his answer might tear away the pall of doom I felt hanging over me here, after he said all that, it was worse, especially when he went on, “I tell you, Madame Duchess, this is how it is here in Mother Russia, what I inherited.”
I saw people lean closer in the sudden hush of voices. It reminded me of how our guests at Blenheim had hung on every word Bertie, Prince of Wales, had spoken at our table.
But when the czar glanced and nodded at nearby guests, nervous conversation began again. “I must tell you something else, so you understand how things are here,” he told me sotto voce. “I know everything you and the duke have done since you first came to Russia. My secret police send me dossiers on the movements of foreigners. We must keep control here, to know all, including the actions of the masses I have described to you.”
That silenced me, though I wanted to make another remark about the poor people I had seen standing in the streets. All of that only worsened my view of “Mother Russia” as our hosts were wont to call it.
The weather worsened, too, and I fell ill with a cold and fever that crept into my throat and even my ears. I had to keep yawning or cracking my jaw to clear my hearing. We went on to Moscow, where I tried to stay warm but felt so cold inside. I attempted to bolster myself by thinking of the coming coronation in England, but we learned a sudden appendix attack on our king had delayed the first celebration date.
I came to hate Russia. I felt I was living in a barrel, with voices, music, church bells muted. I could not wait to go home and consult an English doctor.
But it was not until we returned home and my ear and throat problems hung on, after I saw a doctor, then a specialist—even after I saw Golden singing her heart out and could not hear one note of her tune—that I realized, to my horror, I was going deaf.
Chapter Seventeen
I say, but they are cheering us so bloody wildly!” Sunny told Winston and me as the Marlborough ducal coach rolled toward Westminster Abbey for King Edward’s coronation. “It is hardly for you, dear coz Winston, however proud we are of you for being a Member of Parliament for Oldham these days. The Marlboroughs are back in popularity indeed!”
“Such homage would be for Consuelo before you, Sunny,” witty Winston teased him. “But I deduce the crowd madness is because the Marlborough coach colors come close to the royal ones. I wager those masses waiting in the heat too long think we are the king and queen. Consuelo is as beautiful as Alexandra and all decked out today, but neither of us have the girth or beard to be King Bertie.”
Looking crestfallen and embarrassed, Sunny stopped waving. I had to bite back a smile, not only of amusement but as a silent thanks to Winston who understood my hearing problem and always spoke loudly and clearly around me. Queen Alexandra had included me in her lip reading lessons at the palace, though that did not help me much. Sounds seemed so muted, and it was such a challenge to stay in conversations. I only prayed that today, with all the vocal buzz and music, the pomp and tradition in the vast Abbey, I would be able to hear the service.
Winston had teased me earlier that I would be a fine ambassador to Russia, for Czar Nicholas had not only sent me a photograph of himself but had requested one in return as a memento of our conversation at dinner. “Not many,” Winston had said, “could challenge his despotic rule and suggest British democracy and get away with it. He is smitten from afar, as are the rest of us, dear duchess.”
Except for my husband, I almost said. Sunny and I sometimes avoided each other and did not speak. At other times, we bickered, even in public. I knew his family�
�except for his sisters and even Albertha, who were on my side—knew full well things were worse than ever between us, though we did try to be civil in front of the children. What we both especially detested were rumors and reports of our troubled marriage in both the British and American gossip papers.
Once we arrived at the Abbey, it took me a while to carefully emerge from the carriage, for I was dressed to the hilt to be one of the queen’s canopy bearers today. At rehearsal, I had dared to suggest that four pageboys carry the poles of the ceremonial canopy when she walked, and that—to not trip over her trains or each other’s—we then take the poles when she was seated. The other three duchesses so honored were those of Portland, Montrose, and Sutherland. I was the only American. I felt honored that my request to have help from the pages had been incorporated into the many hidebound ancient rules and regulations of this crowning ceremony.
But then things were in flux and a bit streamlined today, for the first coronation date had been set aside when His Majesty had suddenly been taken ill. His life was even despaired of, but it had turned out to be appendicitis, and a quick operation had saved his life. So here we were, not on the original date of June 26, but August 9.
It was warm, and I was swathed in a heavy, traditional Marlborough velvet robe trimmed with miniver over my heavy gown, my collar of pearls, and diamond belt. Sunny was robed, too, and would have the great honor of carrying the monarch’s crown on a velvet pillow in the procession. The robes smelled faintly of the herbs and camphor they had been stored in, for they only came out for such rare, special occasions, and the last coronation—Queen Victoria’s—had been so long ago.
When the new monarch’s crown would be placed on his head, all the peers of the realm would also don their coronets. I had tried mine on and had it stuffed a bit to fit exactly over my coif and tiara, for it had been made for some earlier duchess with a larger head. I also had a chocolate bar hidden in a pocket that I had ordered put in my gown so that I would not feel faint from hunger or have my stomach rumble during the five-hour service where I would be mostly sitting on a hard wooden chair.
I did not mind one bit the blare of trumpets during the procession. Thank the Lord, I could hear them. And I could feel the vibrations of the great Abbey organ music through the floor. For at home, even my sons’ high-pitched voices were difficult now unless they were facing me, and Golden’s sweet songs impossible to enjoy. The sounds of my boys and the birds singing were what I missed the most, I thought as the Abbey’s choir burst into a hymn that sounded so soft. But I would fight this. I had an appointment for treatment with a doctor in Vienna, and if that did not help enough, Mother knew of a surgeon at home who could operate.
I blinked back tears of dismay for my plight but also for the majesty and beauty of the service. For once, I almost felt more British than American, especially at the blessing and the crowning. But I had to stifle a laugh instead of tears when we peers of the realm lifted our coronets to our heads, for though mine settled in place as I had planned, I saw several men and women whose coronets had not been fitted, or evidently even tried on.
One too large ancestral coronet came down so low that it covered a man’s entire head, and, when he had to hold it up, the ties to his heavy robe nearly choked him. I saw yet another coronet practically dangling from a man’s ear. Just the raising of all the arms made several of the heavy, old ceremonial robes slide off and nearly topple their wearers. On top of all that, one countess I knew was evidently so famished and dizzy she could not even stand.
So thanks to a chocolate bar and planning and practice—good, old American ingenuity—despite the fact I could not hear half the service, I survived and even enjoyed the day and felt the most English since I had become Duchess of Marlborough.
THE NEXT IMPORTANT event we were part of came at the end of 1902 and into the new year. It was held in India and was called the Durbar, a magnificent ceremonial gathering of the Crown’s Indian subjects so they might pay homage to the emperor, our king, now that the empress, Victoria, was dead. Sunny and I, along with other titled British subjects, had been doubly invited by the king—who would not attend—and by Lord George Curzon, Viceroy of India, who would oversee the days-long ceremony.
Blandford, age six, and my dear Ivor, age five, stayed home, and I missed them terribly the moment we embarked on the steamer Arabia for Bombay. We traveled with sixty-some guests, mostly friends of Lord Curzon and his American wife Mary Leitner. She was, as the American newspapers had rudely referred to some of us, another “Dollar Bride,” a woman from a wealthy American family who had married a British title.
But I saw the Curzons were indeed a love match, and I envied them that. How far away did Paris seem now and that balloon adventure and kiss from Jacques, for I had not seen him for nearly two years, although he wrote letters full of his life and I dared to write back. Papa said he saw him seldom these days, but had not heard he was married or engaged.
If I needed to get my mind off missing my boys, my problems hearing, missing Jacques, and, actually, the sad and bad state of my marriage, at first India did that for me. We stayed with the Curzons in what could only be described as a fabulous palace, something out of The Arabian Nights tales. True, the representative of the new king and ruler of India must impress the people, but I, who had seen grandeur from my earliest days, was stunned at the extent of their posh, luxurious living quarters and servants.
Especially stunned because, once again, the gap between the ruler and the ruling class called maharajas was as wide as the ocean and the gap beyond that to the people of India a vast chasm.
“It took me a while to get used to the opulence and splendor, too,” Lady Curzon told me as the two of us strolled the perfumed gardens of the palace amid mist-blowing fountains. The sun was warm within these walls, which stifled the breeze, so we both had parasols. I had told her of my hearing problem, and she was kind enough to speak loudly and directly at me. “Especially because of some of the sad things—many—to be seen, well, out there,” she told me, gesturing at the inlaid mosaic wall.
“Yes, I saw the masses,” I admitted. “You know, it is not so different from what I saw in Russia, even just outside the beautiful Winter Palace.”
“We Americans have seen poverty, too,” she said, almost defensively.
“Of course, both at home and in England,” I agreed. “But to see the dead carried through the streets here in open litters to be burned . . . And the worst—I could not turn away from the sight of several corpses of dead infants floating in the Ganges. Mary, that was terrible enough, but there were cows as well as women and children bathing in that same water!”
“I have seen it. Time and British civilization brought here will surely help. In my position as vicereine, I will try to make a difference, and George, of course, is striving for that. At least the horrid tradition of suttee has been abolished, where the widow of a dead man threw herself on her husband’s funeral pyre as if her life was over without him. And that poor water boy who walked in on you when you were bathing . . . I apologize again.”
“He was horrified and terrified. I had to be certain he would not be beaten, you see, that is why I told you. I heard that used to be what happened if a male servant, even inadvertently, glimpsed in any stage of undress, an Indian woman of the higher classes.”
“Castes, they call it. Yes, he would have been severely beaten or even killed, but not today. See,” she said, reaching out to touch my arm as we stopped by a fragrant jasmine bush, twirling the handles of our parasols, “progress will be made, and I intend to help.”
I thought again of the poor folk in the villages near Blenheim, of dear Mrs. Prattley in the alms house, even of the ill child I had taken gifts to when I was young and stayed at Idle Hour on Long Island. But I could put no mental distance between myself and the faces I saw packed together in the streets of Delhi, the lepers, naked children, the masses of beggars.
And so later, as I watched the parades of elephants with sil
ken-clad riders vowing obeisance to the viceroy and the king, as I toured the beautiful Taj Mahal or watched fireworks gild the skies, or went on a falcon hunt, mounted on a beautiful horse, I still saw the poor in my mind and heart.
It was not fair. It was not right. It was not moral. I decided then, however much Sunny might protest, once I was home, that I would try, at least in my own small realm, to do more to help those in dire need.
ALTHOUGH MY HEARING was not improved by the painful drainage and scraping treatments I underwent in Vienna, and Sunny kept me overly busy being duchess, two events occurred that warmed my heart. My father planned to remarry very privately in London to keep the Vanderbilt-hungry press away, and Sunny and I were to be among the few guests. And the London house Papa had paid to have built for us was finally finished.
But there was a sad event, too, which was a warning to me, I thought, not to try anything too dangerous to amend my hearing. Poor, beautiful Gladys Deacon, our mutual friend, had a beauty treatment go all wrong.
She wore a veil and did not remove her hat when she came to explain to us at Blenheim after our return from India. “I have something shocking to share,” she told us. “Please sit down. I must have the light through the window exactly right to explain this.”
Whatever was she talking about, I wondered. I expected a scar she could somehow cover up. She sounded and seemed all right to me. Sunny, however, looked ready to leap off the settee beside me to comfort her.
“I always wanted to have a classic Greek nose,” she told us, gripping her hands together as she stood before us. “I have often been told of my—my cameo beauty, and I suppose, in a way that went to my head, and I do not mean that as a pun.”
Sunny cleared his throat and sat farther forward. I sensed a certain tension between them. Did she have me here for some sort of admission because I was her friend, too, or because she needed support if Sunny erupted as he often did at me?