The Viceroy's Daughters

by Anne de Courcy

  While the former king expected everyone to conform to his wishes, Kitty, as a great beauty, was accustomed to have men fall in with hers. Out of courtesy he would go for a drive with her if she suggested it, hoping to entertain him, but these expeditions would irritate him intensely since all he really wanted to do was wait by the telephone for a call from Wallis Simpson.

  Wallis, out of her depth, scared and angry, was not bearing up well. During hours of hysterical telephone conversations she berated her lover over virtually every detail of her life and his (in the three months the duke stayed at the schloss, he spent over eight hundred pounds* on telephone calls).

  Christmas at Denham was also characterized by tensions and misery. There were thirteen for lunch, with only one servant to cope, and as Tom had given his manservant the day off Irene had to summon a housemaid from London to help out. Only after church did Tom appear, followed by Baba, Fruity and their children, for lunch. Tom’s Father Christmas performance at four o’clock went off as brilliantly as usual and tea, with Christmas cake and crackers, followed by dancing around the tree and presents, was a great success.

  From then on, things went steadily downhill. At six o’clock Fruity was delegated to drive Nanny and the twins back to London. Miserable at leaving his wife with the man he so detested, he said goodbye to Irene with tears in his eyes. Boxing Day was marked by a flaming row at dinner, instigated by Tom, in a foul temper at being away from his new bride and the more adult delights of Wootton. Since none of them knew that he was now married to Diana, they could not understand such an outburst of vitriol, triggered by so trivial a cause—the cook’s not sending in a green vegetable at dinner. Working himself up, he swore that he would sack the entire staff, adding that Irene and Baba could get out too. Viv became scarlet in the face, tears sprang from Baba’s eyes, Nick’s spectacles misted up, Granny Mosley talked wildly to get to the end of dinner and Irene, who could take no more, ran out of the room.

  Two days later Fruity returned and the season of goodwill ended with another monumental row, this time between him and Baba. Almost at once, Fruity left to ski in Kitzbühel. Baba concentrated on settling into the new house in Wilton Place, dumping her children on Nancy Astor, whom she managed to annoy by her casualness. “I do think you might have the decency to drop me a line when I am looking after your children,” wrote Nancy on January 12, 1937. Baba also heard from the irrepressible Dino Grandi:

  Your letter has given me much pleasure and I thank you, darling. I enclose the photo you wish and I hope you will not forget entirely your “impossible” friend, who is and will remain—in his own way—nearer, much nearer, to you than you can possibly believe.

  You ask me why I told you of being “dead.” I did it only because I felt, after everything which has happened, that that was the only decent way through which I could ask your forgiveness. The dead are easily forgiven and forgotten . . .

  How is Irene? And your children? I am missing London so much, much more than you may imagine. But the future is open and I have many hopes in many ways . . . Naldera, darling, my sweet friend, I am yours.

  G.

  At Schloss Enzesfeld, Dudley Forwood was finding the crosscurrents of emotion a desperate strain.

  It was a very bad time [he recalled later]. The Duke was in a great great state. I was only 24 and not very capable of dealing with a 42-year-old ex-King. I knew he had this curious devotion to Fruity so I telephoned him in his house in Wilton Place and said: “We really need you badly. Joey Legh has left and I’m not coping very well.” And Fruity in a typical Fruity way said: “I’ll be on that airplane first thing tomorrow morning, boy.” And he was.

  Before flying, Fruity telephoned the duke to ask him if he would like him to come for a short stay. “Would I like you to!” responded the duke enthusiastically.

  Wallis thought otherwise. She now wrote to the duke: “Darling, I have just read in the paper that Lambe [a young naval officer appointed equerry in July 1936] is to return to London on the 19th [January]. Who is coming out in his place? You cannot be alone with Fruity. In the first place, he is not capable of handling the post and dealing with servants etc. In the second place, it is necessary that you have an equerry at all times. Surely you have some friends or your family for you to send someone to you. You must not be alone with Fruity: I won’t have it.”

  She may have genuinely felt that Fruity could not deal with letters or servants (although as an army officer dealing with men had been a prerequisite); more likely she feared Fruity’s influence on the duke. They had shared a past long before Wallis came on the scene, they enjoyed sports in which she took little or no part—riding, skiing, golf—and a word or phrase could set them off into uncontrollable schoolboy giggles that mystified onlookers.

  After an uncomfortable journey Fruity was met by an army of press photographers. At the schloss, where he was warmly welcomed, there were only Kitty Rothschild, the duke, Charles Lambe and Dudley Forwood, in a household run almost as if the duke were still king. At about nine-fifteen every morning Forwood would enter his bedroom, bare of personal possessions save for a number of large photographs of Wallis, to ask the duke, then just waking up, if he had any special plans. “Nao,” the duke would reply in his curious half-cockney accent, “I think we’ll play a bit of golf.”

  Forwood would pass this information on to the senior valet, who would set up a long table, spread with baize, on which he would place all the duke’s golf suits, each with its matching shoes, shirt and socks. From these the duke would select his outfit, have his bath and descend in his dressing gown to a breakfast of kippers (sent from Fortnum and Mason) and Oxford marmalade, after which he would dress. Forwood, who would have arranged a game with the golf pro, would accompany him around the course, walking the three dogs, Cora, Jaggs and Wallis’s dog Slipper, all on leashes.

  Back at the schloss, the duke would change into a suit for the light luncheon—a little cheese, some fruit—that he invariably favored. Dinner in the evening, cooked by the French chef, was more elaborate—and meant another change of clothes. Apart from the work of the servants, whatever the duke did required the attention of someone, at once, no matter what they happened to be doing.

  “All his life he went on behaving as if he were still what he once had been,” commented Dudley Forwood. “He could never accept that he was now, in real terms, a nobody.” In this he was aided and abetted by Mrs. Simpson, who nagged him violently over the telephone about the way he was living, the people around him and her own fears and problems, all with the underlying refrain that he must stand up for his rights and extract more money from his brother.

  When Fruity arrived he was delighted to find the duke in his old friendly, affectionate, amusing form. That night, they sat up talking almost until dawn; the next morning Fruity discovered that, just as in the old days, the duke’s energy was formidable, with everything done to excess. Now that he had a skiing companion they skied until it was too dark to see, then played poker all night.

  From Schloss Enzesfeld Fruity wrote Baba a series of letters that reveal an immediate and accurate grasp of the situation, from the duke’s frenetic desire to cram his days until his wedding to his utter subjugation to Wallis.

  “I’ve never seen HRH better,” begins the first, written on January 22, 1937.

  Happy, cheerful, no regrets about anything—he talked to W for hours after we’d finished playing poker. The conversation did not seem to go well. Talks of marriage early in May, no date fixed. Has NO idea of returning to England for a year or two at least. Do not think he misses England or anything connected with it one little bit—he seems glad to be free of it. I think Kitty has got on his nerves. She won’t leave. He gets quite short with her at times. Says he wants to be with men only and doesn’t want any women about. Yesterday spent the day in Vienna. Turkish bath all evening, he and I, then shopping, then big cocktail party at the Embassy. I never leave him.

  Lambe left today for England but Greenacre has just a
rrived—he was sent out from England before they knew I was coming. I’m glad, as he does the letters etc. Tonight he was told at dinner that H. M. wanted to talk on phone to him. He said he couldn’t take the call but asked for it to be put through at 10 p.m. The answer to this was that H. M. said he would talk at 6:45 tomorrow as he was too busy to talk at any other time. It was pathetic to see HRH’s face. He couldn’t believe it! He’s been so used to having everything done as he wishes. I’m afraid he’s going to have many more shocks like this.

  Fruity’s comment was all too true. The negotiations for a financial settlement were dragging (they were eventually resolved satisfactorily) and the duke, who all his life had played the role of elder brother to the full, continued to telephone the new king with advice on the questions of the day which, as Walter Monckton wrote, “often ran counter to the advice which the King was getting from his responsible Ministers in the government.” Eventually, Monckton was charged with the delicate task of visiting Schloss Enzesfeld and conveying to the duke that these calls must cease.

  The rest of Fruity’s letter was equally accurate. “[H.R.H.] is just living through each day until he can be with W. The 27 April is the date. He ticks off each day on a calendar beside his bed. Lots of people are marked down as never having heard from them, e.g., Hugh and Helen and Emerald he’s mentioned. He tells me he didn’t know till about an hour before he left England when he was going to. Goodbye dearest one, all my love I send you. You’ve been very wonderful to me and helped me so much. Without you I wouldn’t be here; and this is a great success, and I am so happy I am here.”

  Two days later, exhausted from day-long skiing on poor snow and talking until the small hours every night—the duke would wander in and out of Fruity’s room until 4 a.m.—he repeated that Kitty was getting on the duke’s nerves.

  He is frightfully keen to have the place to himself. You know how he loves to run his own show—but the fact is she loves to be acting as hostess for him. I am very happy and HRH couldn’t be a more delightful companion—he’s not had one bad day since I arrived.

  Of course he’s on the line for hours and hours every day to Cannes. I somehow don’t think these talks go well sometimes. It’s only ever after one of them that he seems a bit worried and nervous. She seems to be always picking on him or complaining about something that she thinks he hasn’t done and ought to do (this sounds as if I hear all the conversation—of course this isn’t so but as my room is next to his and he talks terribly loudly it’s awfully difficult not to hear a certain amount that he says anyway).

  He is like a prisoner doing a time sentence. All he is living for is to be with her on the 27 April. As we come back every night after skiing he says “One more day nearly over.” Never have I seen a man more madly in love. The telephone never stops and his mail is enormous, sometimes 300 letters, etc, mostly from mad people! Gosh but some of them are abusive! We never show him any of those of course. They come from all over the world. I wish you were here but there is no chance. He won’t have any women at all!

  The duke’s growing obsession with his financial position soon manifested itself: on January 27 Fruity’s letter reported: “HRH is frightfully close about money, he won’t pay for anything. It’s become a mania with him. It really is not too good. But once more let me say; HRH is a 100 per cent and the most delightful companion. If he’d remain as he is now I’d give up anything to serve him for the rest of my life. I really am devoted to him.”

  Fruity felt immense pity for his friend, flagellated daily by the woman with whom he was obsessed. “She is at him every day on the phone. He always seems to be excusing himself for something or other. I feel so sorry for him, he is never able to do what she considers the right thing. 3:00 a.m.—HRH came in and stopped till now. I will not have time to write more as we are to leave for skiing at 8:00 to do our first run.”

  On February 3 Fruity wrote from the Hotel Bristol, Vienna. “Kitty left yesterday! Terrible show! as HRH was late getting dressed owing to his infernal Cannes telephone call!! Missed her! never saw her to say goodbye or thank her! She was frightfully hurt and I don’t blame her. He is awfully difficult at times and this is the worst thing he’s done yet. I went down to the station with a letter which I got him to write to her, and that made things a bit better. He also never saw the servants to tip them or thank them etc, all due to more d—mn talking to Cannes. It never stops. Isn’t it too awful? Nothing matters when Cannes is on the line.”

  Even Fruity’s sweet nature was tested. “The evenings lately have been dreadful!” he wrote to Baba on February 2, 1937. “He won’t think of bed before 3:00 a.m. and now has started playing the accordion and the bagpipes. Last night there was almost a row on the phone. W. said she’d read he’d been having an affair with Kitty! This is d—mn funny but I can tell you it was no joke last night. He got in a terrible state. Their conversation lasted nearly two hours.”

  A visit by the duke’s sister Princess Mary and her husband, Lord Harewood, made a welcome change from the exhausting routine of skiing and late nights. By early March the tensions, fatigue and stressful emotional atmosphere were beginning to tell even on Fruity, who had been there longer than anyone else in the duke’s retinue. Soon after telling Baba, “I love being here with HRH but it is very tiring,” he was writing, “I am really very unhappy at the prospect of another month at least of this life. It is a dreadful strain. I am definitely feeling it now. However he needs me and wants me so I must do it for him.”

  The duke had again refused to allow Baba to join them. Instead he wanted Fruity to accompany him to a new, more secret temporary abode—the duke of Westminster’s hunting lodge, Château de Saint-Saëns, as Fruity confided to Baba with many underlinings as to secrecy (in the event, the duke did not go there).

  Baba was in no hurry for her husband to come home; she was busy planning a motoring trip in France that would take her away shortly before his arrival. She sent him a wire suggesting he put off his return, to which Fruity replied that he had important things to discuss with her.

  He explained why he did not wish to stay on longer than March 24. “I’ve carried on here and made a great success of it and HRH is very grateful to me but sweetheart I am very tired and can’t stand it much longer. You have no idea what a strain it is. I am on duty all day and all night and no one person can stand that for long. Dickie arrived yesterday and leaves tomorrow and he will take this letter and will tell you something of what the life is like. Is it too much to ask you to stay in England till I get back?”

  Mountbatten had been visiting his lady friend Yola Letellier in Paris and on March 11 flew on to see the duke. The following day was devoted to discussion of the situation. What the duke was chiefly anxious to know was when, in Mountbatten’s opinion, he could return to the Fort—he still had not grasped that giving up the throne also meant giving up England.

  “Talking with David and Fruity nearly all day,” runs Mountbatten’s diary. “Also wrote. Important talk with David, and possibility of return.” Next day it was: “Breakfast at 7:15 with David. Very sad saying goodbye on both sides. Caught 9:00 plane for Prague, changed and went on via Nuremberg and Strasbourg. I was terribly sick in the storm.”

  Baba refused to put off her trip despite her husband’s pleas. “I am frightfully sorry that I will miss you,” he wrote, “but if nothing will put you off doing your trip as arranged I want you to go and really enjoy it there and have a lovely time—you deserve it after all the work you’ve put in at the house and as you say you’re not looking well it is essential that you get away. It is just unlucky that I am not going to see you. I would have loved it. Is it just you and Edwina doing this trip? I’d have thought you would be very bored with her alone after a bit.”

  Fruity’s suspicions were correct. As well as Edwina, and Ronnie and Nancy Tree, the party included Jock Whitney.

  25

  “I Should Have Kissed Her but I Just Couldn’t”

  The day on which Fruity left Sch
loss Enzesfeld was momentous also for Irene, who took the Mosley children for the first time to her new house, 10 Cornwall Terrace, one of the Nash houses overlooking Queen Mary’s Rose Garden on the south side of Regent’s Park. She had left Deanery Street because the highly fashionable Dorchester Hotel, opened a few years earlier, generated so much traffic noise and its high roof took away much of the light.

  Her friend Victor Cazalet was also moving. He had finally been able to buy the house he longed for, Swifts, at Cranbrook in Kent, which he planned to transform to his liking. “Already it is utterly altered in atmosphere—orchids, central heating,” wrote another of their friends, Blanche Dugdale, who lunched there the same month in a party full of the leading politicians of the day, including Neville Chamberlain, then chancellor of the Exchequer but known to be succeeding Baldwin as prime minister at the end of May 1937.

  On February 7 Irene wrote Nevile Henderson a long letter of congratulations and good wishes on his appointment as ambassador to Berlin. “And I might have been Ambassadress there, if I had married Nevile,” her diary notes wistfully. She spent Easter with the children at Denham, giving them Easter egg hunts all over the garden. Their father did not appear. When she was preparing to leave, Nick said to her: “I do not want you to go to London, Aunty. I want you to stay here with me.” “I want nothing better than that to be said to me,” she wrote in her diary that night.

  At the end of March she lunched with Fruity, who was full of news about his time at Schloss Enzesfeld. Many things had pained and annoyed the duke, Fruity told her, such as the wholesale desertion of his servants, the abuse of Wallis Simpson by his society friends and the strictures of the archbishop of Canterbury. “He was determined on a royal wedding for this awful woman and Fruity says he is more punctilious than ever over HRH medals and proper procedure than ever he was as king.” Interspersed with this gossip were continual questions about Baba. “Will she come back better pleased with me?” Fruity kept asking pathetically. “Is she well?” Irene found reassurance difficult.