The Viceroy's Daughters

by Anne de Courcy

  Lady Irene insisted that she is getting no benefit from the maintenance of your various houses because she said there was no staff of servants kept up at them and if she wanted to stay temporarily at either of the houses she would have to take her own servants with her. She also denied that she wished to spend the whole of her income on herself but claimed that the margin between her income and expenditure should be invested by herself in her own way.

  We discussed the position very fully and in the result, Lady Irene said she is willing for the present to agree to your suggestion that you should receive her income from America and pay her such a sum as would bring up her net income after deducting income tax to £4,000 a year.

  The solicitors, who also acted for Curzon, added a warning note: “I think it is probable that, later on, Lady Irene will ask exactly what is the income received from America in respect of the Settlement funds and the Leiter estate.”

  Two months later Irene wrote an affectionate letter to her father to say that she had managed to find the “only house left” in the Bicester and Whaddon Chase countries, at Bletchley.

  It is a tiny little house, but with very good stabling for 11 and a coachman’s cottage. It is only eight guineas a week and I have taken on the three servants. The cottage is unfurnished so Fox [her groom] and his wife must bring their things and I shall hire the rest for the extra grooms and chauffeur.

  Can I have the linen I had at Bletchingley—you remember it, worn out remnants of Hackwood linen—and could I have the same silver set teapot, or is that in use? As to a car, are you willing to let me have the Fiat? or as it gobbles up petrol, would it be cheaper to hire one that uses less? What are your views?

  A second letter, two days later, showed how much she felt herself a stranger in her father’s life. “I am going down to Heathfield to see Baba’s play. Might I stay the night at Carlton House Terrace? I will come up after hunting and arrive in time for dinner. Hoping that will not put you out.”

  She was twenty-three and he treated her, she felt, as though she were a wayward seventeen-year-old for whom he did not particularly care. When she traveled to Geneva in a party with a man to whom she had mistakenly been linked and his two sisters, Curzon wrote her a damning letter that hurt her badly. “Darling Daddy,” she replied on September 20, 1920, “I am quite sure I would have seen the force of your arguments regarding the likelihood of our activities being misconstrued if only you had put it another way. Your imputations of a mean love affair made me furious. As always, you take me the wrong way and make any understanding impossible by the offensive manner in which you put things and the ungrounded aspersions you lay at my door.”

  From Curzon’s point of view the real sting lay in what followed. Irene’s letter concluded:

  As you continually tell me what a “failure” I am and that you can have no “filial affection” for me owing to my unbalanced actions, I suggest that I relieve you of all further responsibility in the following way: that I take all my money and pay my own taxes and make an arrangement with my bank allowing you so much which will enable me still to have the right to enter Hackwood as a house.

  You can let the world know exactly what action I have taken, so that the responsibility for any further action of mine cannot be laid at your door.

  It was the beginning of an irreconcilable breach.

  7

  “She Must Do As She Pleases”

  Curzon was aware that his relationship with his children was deteriorating. Writing to Gracie from Kedleston in August 1919, he described how even Baba had lost her sweet and affectionate ways and become silent and moody. “I get very little consolation from their society. They have become so used to a purely selfish existence that they make no effort to please. Sandra is absolutely silent and I have to make conversation the whole time, while Cim is in her rather arrogant, defiant mood. I suppose they regard themselves as doing me a great favour by coming here at all but I own I shall be rather relieved when they go.” It did not seem to occur to him to wonder why they seemed to have changed so.

  Cimmie was in truth nervous as to how her father might react to hearing that the young man who had been pursuing her so vigorously was slowly winning her. For Curzon had spent so little time with his daughters—and even less since he had married Grace—that they had come to regard him as a stranger. Nor did they make allowance for the debilitating effect of his constant pain—but then, they did not see their father after he had returned from a Cabinet meeting at 2 a.m., reduced to sobs of anguish as he pored over the week’s butcher’s bill.

  For Irene and Cimmie, the usual gulf between the generations was exacerbated by the effect of the war. Girls who had constantly read of the deaths of the young men they knew, who had worked in some capacity to help the war effort and who were in any case full of the exuberance of youth, could not force themselves back into the rigid mold of the disciplined Edwardian young. They also resented their lack of privacy over friendships: though they might not see their father for days, no one could call them up without his being aware of it and often intercepting the call. Curzon always answered the telephone himself in his London house; even when in bed, he managed this by means of a receiver fitted with an extending arm.

  With the much younger Baba, his relationship was still distant but serenely uncomplicated. He wrote to her often, sometimes a few lines twisted into a tiny package (“Darling Baba, you are a sweet girlie and I love you very much”), sometimes longer letters: “Darling Sandra, Although I did not get to bed until three this morning I am writing this in bed before dawn as I awoke very early—about four hours sleep. Too little! I have been wondering how my little girl is getting on . . .” But he seldom saw her.

  All the sisters suffered from the lack of an older female confidante. Their mother had died when they were so young that any memory of the real person had been overlaid by an idealized image of her. They had become extremely fond of Elinor Glyn and then she had suddenly and dramatically vanished from their lives—although they did their best to keep in touch by writing to her frequently in Paris—and they undoubtedly realized that their father was responsible for ejecting this loved figure from their lives. They liked the kindhearted Grace, but she had begun to absent herself with increasing frequency, taking long holidays in Paris and refusing to go to Kedleston, which she complained had not enough lavatories and no telephone. Both Irene and, in particular, Cimmie were very fond of Nancy Astor, but love—or rather, Love—was undoubtedly Elinor’s subject. And Cimmie’s feelings were confused about her new suitor.

  Cimmie stayed with Elinor in Paris during the Peace Conference of 1919 where, the only woman in the Salle des Glaces, Elinor was reporting on the Treaty of Versailles for the Hearst newspapers. After an official dinner at Versailles to which Cimmie, who had lost her luggage, had to wear a sapphire-blue satin tea gown of Elinor’s, they sat up late talking and gazing at the stars through the windows of Elinor’s apartment. “God is up there watching us, and I know he will always bring me through,” Cimmie told Elinor confidently.

  She had resisted Tom Mosley’s advances for some time. Though she found him fascinating as a friend, she was frightened both of the intensity of his feelings and of his experience with women (one of her earlier boyfriends had written: “There is a reason for knowing your Tom very thoroughly, and this is best discussed with a married woman”). Finally, after he had persuaded her to come to Leicestershire and hunt with him, she fell in love with him; it is likely that there, on his home territory, he succeeded in seducing her.

  “I fear that side of me is very vital and strong,” he wrote to her after what he described as “tonight’s few moments,” continuing, “but I do love you with all the strength of the other side, which is the only side that matters and which I have never given to any other woman.” Poor Cimmie could not know what agonies “that side” would soon cause her.

  Theoretically, there was no reason for Curzon to refuse his consent to the marriage and, in any case, Cimmie at tw
enty-one did not need her father’s approval. But she was aware that he wished his daughters to make grand matches and she longed for him to like the man she loved. Her apprehensions were justified. Curzon was quite prepared to send Mosley away if he did not think him suitable. He was always on his guard against fortune hunters and he was also anxious for his daughters to be as happy in marriage as he had been with their mother. On March 22, 1920, he wrote to Gracie: “Lady Salisbury has given me a good account of young Mosley. He is coming to see me this evening and I am making independent enquiries. I do hope he is all right. I shall soon find out, I hope, if he is really in love with Cim and what are his ideas and prospects. Don’t send your congrats to Cim until you hear from me whether I find him all right.”

  Mosley passed. The following day, Curzon wrote again to Gracie:

  The young man Mosley came to see me yesterday evening. Very young, tall, slim, dark, rather big nose, little black mustache and rather a Jewish appearance. I put to him the whole case about a young man at 23 taking a young girl of 21 for life, and all that it meant. Was he sure of himself? of her? of both of them? were they prepared to join for the big things for a lifetime? She was strong, independent, original. Could he promise her fidelity? devotion? could they take the rough as well as the smooth?

  It turns out he is quite independent, etc, and has practically severed himself from his father, who is a spendthrift and a ne’er do well. The estate is in the hands of trustees who will give him £8–10,000 a year straightaway and he will ultimately have a clear £20,000 per annum. He did not even know that Cim was an heiress.

  Yesterday I had a satisfactory report about him from Edward Talbot, our whip in the House of Commons, and today Bob Cecil, for whom the young man has worked, came and told me he regarded him as a keen, able and promising warrior, with a good future before him. So I have done what I could and have no alternative but to give my consent.

  Everyone was delighted by the engagement. Irene and Baba, already magnetized by Tom’s dark good looks and aura of sexual power, felt a deep, vicarious involvement in his love affair with their sister. For the twenty-four-year-old Irene, this marriage represented something almost magical. “My thoughts will fly to you both tonight with all the prayers and wonder and sacredness that surround that little wedding ring,” she wrote on the evening of their marriage.

  Baba, a sixteen-year-old schoolgirl, was affected still more. As her sister’s future husband, Tom Mosley became the first man in her own generation to be on an intimate footing with her. This close relationship, charged with his powerfully masculine presence, was both intoxicating and overwhelming. Her hypnotized fascination was so noticeable that one day Grace remarked: “I believe Baba is even more in love with Tom than Cimmie is.”

  Nancy Astor, devoted to Cim, and impressed as well as grateful to Tom for his work on her behalf, wrote, “I do love Tom too. You will be just the kind of wife he needs and wants. I feel he must have a great soul, or he would never have asked you to share it.” And from Elinor Glyn came the dramatic comment: “You two will rule the world.” Curzon himself was pleased that his daughter was marrying a rising politician of whom his close friends spoke well and who was, into the bargain, rich and landed.

  The original plan of a wedding in Westminster Abbey was abandoned, as Cimmie wanted only a small number of guests. She would have liked Kedleston but it was too far away. Eventually the Chapel Royal in St. James’s was settled on and here they were married on May 11, 1920. Cimmie, noted several newspapers, defied superstition: first by marrying in May, and then because her Molyneux white silk crepe dress had a long train embroidered with lilies in silver and pearls (a symbol of tears) and with leaves of pale green (symbolizing jealousy).

  Curzon, as always, did everything en prince. There were lilies everywhere, seven bridesmaids in green chiffon dresses with petal skirts, King George, Queen Mary and the king and queen of the Belgians in the front pew and Princess Alice and Lord Athlone behind (the last four had stayed at Hackwood beforehand). Afterward there was a glittering reception at I Carlton House Terrace, where Gracie’s boudoir, awash with carnations and lilies, was reserved for the royal party and twelve selected guests.

  Curzon showered his daughter with presents: a long rope of pearls, a chinchilla cape, a fur coat, an emerald-and-diamond ring. The Mosleys’ first home was at Guildford, after a honeymoon at Hackwood and then in the Italian coastal village of Portofino, en route to which they had to pass through Paris. Here they saw Elinor Glyn, who emphasized to Cimmie the importance of loyalty, telling her: “You will be Tom’s chief of staff always.” Curzon predicted a desperate struggle between Cimmie and Irene over their joint lady’s maid, Andrée, which he thought—correctly—that Cimmie would win.

  Though Cimmie’s marriage had brought a rush of family love and affection, this united domestic front soon splintered. Grace gave vent to one of her hormone-enhanced spasms of jealousy, causing Curzon to write to her bitterly at the beginning of August 1920 about her “great wickedness” to him:

  It springs in this case from a suspicion for which there is not the slightest foundation. I go down to Lympne for a Saturday afternoon conference. Only on my arrival do I find the remnants of a country house party which apparently you regard with jealousy . . . what you mean I have no idea. All I realize is that, as usual, my one poor little holiday is sacrificed and I find you on the other hand having one of your monthly quarrels with me out of nothing. Surely after three and a half years of married life you might be a bit more trustful, a little less jealous and a little more kind.

  The Curzons were soon reconciled; their mutual desire for an heir would alone see to that, and a few weeks later when Grace wired him with “good news” their letters were as loving as ever. He responded delightedly when she told him what her gynecologist had said. “His report about womb and chance of child-bearing is very encouraging and you must feel much happier, as I do. My precious girl, it is most splendid news.”

  In April 1921 he wrote to her of his eldest daughter in terms that suggest an undesirable hanger-on rather than a child. “It is very good of you to allow Irene to come to you [in Paris]. I hope that she will not be a nuisance and that you will not allow her to sponge. Her suggestion of coming was rather a crafty one in her own interest. I trust you to be firm as regards my position. It is now regularised by her initiative and wish and I do not desire to alter it.”

  For the disagreement between Irene and her father had rumbled on. Although she had threatened to remove all her money from his hands, she had agreed to continue with the old arrangement, whereby he paid her an allowance, for a further year.

  It was seldom that Irene came home. During the hunting season she lived near Oakham, Rutland, where she had taken the Albert Street stableyard, which had a small house attached, on a three-year lease. With her went her groom, William Fox. Setting herself up in this new life cost more than Curzon seemed prepared to allow her and she was forced to write to him frequently for more money. A typical letter (in March 1920) makes clear how grudgingly Curzon dealt with his eldest daughter. “Daddy, I don’t quite understand about this motor bill. I thought that when you offered to lend me the Fiat you were setting it up ready for me. I never for one moment thought you expected me to repair it before using it. I had to pay £60 for six weeks for a hired car while waiting for it so that if I have to pay for it it will total about £200 and for that I might have bought a tiny car and had it for good.”

  Even the lawyer hinted delicately that Curzon was trying to make his daughter pay too much. “I cannot help thinking that a mistake has been made. It is quite clear that Lady Irene cannot carry on the arrangement agreed unless she receives the first quarterly payment of £500 at once.”

  It was perfectly true: she had had to buy a cottage for Fox, and though she started the season riding “old Dandy, game as ever at 23,” she needed new, fast horses for the great Leicestershire grass countries. With the ones she bought she acquitted herself so well that in Decemb
er 1921 the master of the Quorn hunt club, Algernon Burnaby, wrote to her asking if she would do himself and his joint master, Mrs. Paget, “the honour of accepting the Quorn hunt button.”

  Curzon put up resistance to every attempt to make him release the money that Irene needed for hay, oats and saddlery and to set up her stables. He had always complained of being short of money, chiding Grace for the amount she spent on flowers (“Stevens’ minimum charge, even for a lunch, is £22”), complaining of a bill for linen of £100 and talking of the high cost of servants.

  In April 1920 he wrote to his wife:

  I lie awake at night worrying about money matters. I have nothing in the bank and don’t know how to go on. On top of this, while Irene is sheltering beside you, comes a further demand from her lawyer for her super tax of last year, making altogether over £2,000 that I have been asked to pay over the past fortnight to her. Needless to say, I have not got it.

  I must say, I feel rather hurt at her profiting by you in Paris while her lawyer continues to bombard me here and I don’t think it ought to have been done. If she wants to have things on a legal basis, so be it. Let her exact her full legal claim and go. But she can’t do that and at the same time claim your protection. I see that my daughters will be the end of me.

  As usual, he saw things from his point of view only. The fact that he owned four main houses—Kedleston, 1 Carlton House Terrace, Hackwood and Montacute—as well as Bodiam and Tattershall Castles, which he was restoring and repairing, seemed to him wholly proper, and Irene’s suggestions for economies that would benefit them both fell on deaf ears.