That Churchill Woman

by Stephanie Barron

  “If you’re a man,” she retorted, feeling a pinch of anger as she turned away from him. “Women are the gatekeepers of Society, Charles. Your mamma knows this better than anyone. Only you seem not to understand the laws that make or destroy women’s lives!”

  * * *

  —

  The stadtpalais, or city palace, of the Kinsky family sat on a triangular park known as the Freyung. The word, Charles had told Jennie, meant “free area,” because next door to the palace was an ancient monastery of Benedictine monks. By law, neither the Emperor nor Vienna’s burghers could impose tax on the clergy—so the name stuck, even after the quarter became the very heart of the city.

  Jennie was startled to see that the Freyung was filled with peddlers’ stalls and people browsing among the wares. Carriage traffic around the park was thick and slow. When her cab finally arrived at No. 4 and she made to pay off the driver, he offered her a single word of apology.

  Christkindlmarkt.

  German was her least accomplished language, but even Jennie could parse the idea; it was a Christmas fair of some kind. She wished, suddenly, that she could wander among the people selling baskets and blown glass and finely turned wood carvings and find treasures for the boys’ Christmas stockings—but she had a duty call to pay. Resolutely, she turned her back and studied the Palais Kinsky.

  It was a baroque confection of a building, soaring some seventy or eighty feet above the street, the stucco painted pale yellow and overlaid with decorative white plasterwork. Marble statues gazed down at Jennie from their position on the edge of the roof, as though contemplating suicide. She made out the Kinsky crest above the portal, with its three slashing teeth. She smiled.

  A porter stood at attention behind the massive iron grille that filled the palace entryway. She handed in her card. Lady Randolph Churchill. The porter glanced at it, then swept her with an assessing gaze. She had taken care with her dress that afternoon; she was beautifully turned out in a midnight-blue velvet coat with deep collar and cuffs of Persian lamb. Her toque was the same blue velvet, pitched forward on her forehead, with a plume of black ostrich dangling fetchingly over her ear. A luxurious Persian lamb muff concealed her gloved hands. The porter bowed, stepped back, and opened the portal. Jennie entered.

  She was standing beneath an enormous entrance portico with a second door directly opposite. It was thrown open, and she glimpsed a long courtyard enclosed on all four sides by the soaring walls of the palace. Jennie glanced to her right; a footman in a powdered wig and Kinsky livery was waiting. From his earnest and attentive expression, he had been instructed to convey her immediately to the Princess. There was no loitering here while her card was scrutinized and debated. He bowed, and turned up a massive baroque staircase as wide as a ballroom. Jennie followed him up the marble steps to a principal floor above. Two stories higher still floated a painted ceiling that must have been executed by an Italian master. The space reminded her of Chatsworth—Hartington’s Derbyshire seat.

  The Palais Kinsky was magnificent. One day, it would be Charles’s.

  It was almost as extraordinary as Blenheim.

  Jennie had long been accustomed to England’s most glorious palaces. She had moved through their rooms and dined at their tables in the company of British royals. Before that, she had known the Tuileries and Compiègne. So why did her stomach lurch and her fingers clench with anxiety? Papa used to say that in America, she was a princess’s equal! She had learned enough over the past two decades to know that he was utterly wrong, but his puckish words gave her courage. Americans made their own rules. As the footman threw open the last set of doors, Jennie lifted her head.

  The first thing she saw in the opulently draped salon was Charles, staring broodingly into the fire, his booted foot resting on a massive bronze firedog. He was dressed in some sort of Austrian uniform—he had once been a cavalry officer, Jennie knew, before his diplomatic career—and looked as though he were expected at court. His head swung around at the sound of the opening doors and his eyes met hers, searching and intent.

  “Lady Randolph Churchill,” the footman announced.

  “My lady,” Charles said, and crossed rapidly to her. “Mamma, Papa—may I present to you my friend Lady Randolph? Lady Randolph—Prince Ferdinand Bonaventura Fürst Kinsky and the Princess Marie of Liechtenstein und Kinsky.”

  Of course his mother was royal. It must be an actual law in this empire, not just for the Hapsburgs but for all nobility. Royalty married royalty. Precedence and power and position were lost otherwise, not just for oneself but for generations.

  Jennie curtseyed low and bowed her head, as though she were in the presence of Victoria.

  Prince Ferdinand stepped forward, clicked his heels, and kissed her hand. “Enchanté.”

  In his black frock coat and gray trousers, Jennie decided, he might have been any gentleman of means sauntering through Piccadilly. He had neatly clipped hair that had once been as dark as Charles’s, and a trimmed beard that had begun to gray. He was tall, broad-shouldered, fit from years of riding punishing horses—Charles at sixty, in fact. She felt her heart lurch as she met the Prince’s blue eyes.

  Charles at sixty.

  Princess Marie was a small woman with a prominent nose and snapping dark eyes. Her lips were thin and colorless, her cheeks gaunt, and her hair a dark brown shot with silver. She was gowned in a rich saffron-colored velvet trimmed with mink, a woven silk shawl draped about her elbows. She inclined her head to Jennie but did not offer her hand; her fingers were clasped. One flashed a ruby that glowed dully, like clotted blood. It matched the decoration of the room, which was oval and enormous: crimson draperies trimmed in metallic gold, paneled walls painted with trompe l’oeil marble. The ceiling, forty feet above, was covered with draped classical figures disporting themselves in a vivid sky.

  A brief visit. Chillier than the heat thrown out by the massive tiled stove in one corner. They sat, the Princess rather farther from Jennie than was conducive to conversation, Prince Ferdinand in an Empire-style armchair at her right hand, his thumb and forefinger stroking his beard. Charles took a seat on Jennie’s other side.

  “I hope you find the Sacher comfortable,” the Prince said in French.

  “Entirely so,” Jennie assured him, smiling. “It offers every convenience, as one must expect of a hotel that ranks so high in the Prince of Wales’s estimation.”

  “A hotel, nonetheless,” he remarked disparagingly. “I should not like to see any of my daughters or my wife alone in one. But my son assures me that American ladies”—he glanced at Charles—“are far more daring.”

  He might have chosen confident or independent; but this was a deliberately charged word. Prince Ferdinand was insulting her.

  Jennie quelled a spurt of anger. “I have been fortunate enough to live and travel for much of my life in Europe, Your Excellency. The Princess Metternich, a very old acquaintance of mine, was once forced to escape from a violent mob at her dressmaker’s in Paris by lying on the floor of her carriage, with a horse blanket over her head. That may be daring, to be sure, but I confess I admire her. Daring is so often synonymous with courage and common sense, isn’t it?”

  “Pauline von Metternich once fought a duel with another woman over the matter of flower arrangements,” the Prince snorted, “naked from the waist up. Do you also fence, Lady Randolph?”

  “Only with words.” She would not betray that she felt his contempt. “But my son is quite an adept swordsman, as Count Kinsky may attest.”

  “He nearly spitted me last summer,” Charles volunteered.

  “Indeed? Your husband is a son of the Duke of Marlborough, is he not?” Prince Ferdinand inquired. “Absent this year from his home, I understand, hunting gold and sensation in Africa? I have seen the news reports.”

  “Yes,” Jennie agreed amiably. “Although Lord Randolph is his own best advocate—he
has written most of the reports himself. And it appears he has actually found gold, and claimed it for the Rand Company. We expect him to reach London early in the new year.”

  “How providential,” the Prince murmured, looking profoundly bored. “Domestic matters will claim your attention, when one might most wish it.”

  “Mamma,” said Charles, turning to the Princess, “shall we show Lady Randolph the music room?”

  “If you wish.” Princess Marie rose immediately and glided to the door, where she turned and waited.

  Prince Ferdinand stood and bowed. “It was a pleasure, my lady. I wish you a safe journey home to England. You leave tomorrow, I assume?”

  “The following day, Your Excellency.”

  “Tomorrow, Lady Randolph has kindly agreed to accompany me to the Royal Opera,” Charles broke in.

  His father smiled faintly. “Mascagni’s new work. L’Amico Fritz. Have you seen his Cavalleria Rusticana, Lady Randolph?”

  “Yes—in Paris, with the soprano Emma Calvé.”

  “Not even the divine Calvé can rescue Fritz. It’s a slight story, about a misalliance—between a wealthy landowner and a nobody.” His blue eyes met hers squarely. “But perhaps you’ll enjoy it.”

  * * *

  —

  Jennie fought down her hurt and fury—her desire to strike the smug complaisance from Prince Ferdinand’s face—as she followed the Princess through the corridors. She had not taken Charles’s arm. He seemed to sense her mortification, and kept his distance.

  The music room’s windows overlooked the interior courtyard. It had the same breathtakingly high ceilings, which Jennie thought must affect the acoustics. The walls were painted in cream, with white and gold boiseries depicting musical instruments. A harp was placed to one side of the tiled stove; a piano filled the other end. In between was a music stand with a violin resting on it.

  “Is this where you learned?” Jennie managed to ask Charles in English, when his mother had led them into the room’s center. The Princess’s cheeks were faintly pink as she studied Jennie’s profile.

  Charles shook his head. “Most of my instruction took place in Prague, where I spent much of my childhood. All of us prefer Bohemia to Vienna; the land is in our blood.”

  “Not all, Charles darling,” the Princess said suddenly in French. “I am no Bohemian. Now, Lady Randolph, my dear friend Princess von Metternich informs me that she was recently privileged to advise you on the arrangement of a charity concert—which I believe you lately held on behalf of the Duchess of Marlborough. Pauline told me so much about the arrangements—the tableaux, the sets, and the remarkable appearance of Paderewski. Did everything come off to your satisfaction?”

  Jennie stared at her in surprise. The snapping black eyes were bright with interest. The thin lips were smiling.

  “Indeed,” she stammered. “The Princess von Metternich offered a great deal of excellent advice—by letter, of course, once Count Kinsky informed her of my event. Her management of such things is effortless, as no doubt you know. When I was a girl in Paris, her soirees and picnics at the Austrian embassy were a particular treat.”

  “So, too, with her parties here in Vienna. You must play for us,” the Princess insisted. “The instrument is old, but well tuned.”

  Jennie glanced at Charles; he leaned in and kissed his mamma on the cheek. “Ask for Mozart. Then you might accompany her.”

  Princess Marie hesitated an instant. “The Piano Sonata in E-flat Major? Or perhaps C Major?” she asked Jennie.

  “I could attempt one or both,” Jennie said, “but I warn you, I have not looked at the music in ages.”

  “Neither have I.” The Princess raised her violin. “We shall stumble through together. How very daring of us, my dear!”

  * * *

  —

  Long after Jennie had rolled away from the Freyung and the Kinsky family had dined—Charles’s youngest sister, also named Marie, being allowed to join them for a glimpse of her dashing eldest brother—Prince Ferdinand summoned him to his library and offered him a glass of apricot brandy.

  Charles held the glass aloft and said, “Na zdraví.” He downed the digestif in a single draft, as was the custom.

  His father repeated the words. Then he set down his glass. “Come home to Vienna this Christmas,” he urged, his voice unwontedly gentle. “Indeed, as soon as possible, Karl. Your mother has agreed to assist the Emperor with his young heir—and you might be infinitely useful, as Franz’s companion. You know the world, you know men—it would be a natural role. I’m told the Archduke loves horseflesh and hunting. You excel at both.”

  “Franz Ferdinand slaughters more animals than any decent man should countenance—it’s madness,” Charles retorted. “And he’s tubercular. I’m told he isn’t expected to live long enough to take the throne.”

  “Your mother says he is quite passionate about roses.”

  “Wonderful! He can present them to every girl he hopes to marry.” Charles waved his hand dismissively in a gesture that echoed, had he known it, his father. “I have only just returned to London from my Paris posting.”

  “And that was a mistake,” the Prince said. “You are my eldest son. You’ll be thirty-three next week. You ought to give up this diplomatic nonsense and tend to our estates. Spend some time in Vienna. Go to balls with the Archduke and meet all the pretty young women. Marry one of them, even, and take her with you to your embassies in Berlin and Paris. But settle down, my son. I won’t live forever.”

  “Nonsense. You look fitter with each passing year.”

  “Karl.” The Prince slammed his desk with his fist.

  Charles stiffened.

  The Prince took a deep breath, poured himself another brandy, and offered the bottle.

  Charles shook his head.

  “Your brother has been married already for ten years,” his father pointed out. “He has only daughters, Karl. I need an heir. You need an heir.”

  “Do I?” Charles asked levelly.

  The Prince tossed back his drink. “If you want to inherit my title—my power in the Emperor’s court. My palaces. My stud farms and hunting lodges. My dignities as a member of the Order of the Golden Fleece, and my knighthood in the Holy Roman Empire—yes, Karl. If you wish to be the Eighth Prince Fürst Kinsky von Wchinitz und Tettau, you must come home, and take up your duties as my son.”

  There was a silence. The two men, so terribly alike, studied each other.

  “I pay an unending stream of bills.” Prince Ferdinand lifted a few papers from his desk. “Your hunters. Your racers. Your lodgings in London. Your flat in Paris. Your carriages. The cost of your guns—do you really have to buy them in Bruton Street, Karl? Not to mention your bootmaker and your tailor. I wonder how you would contrive to live if I suddenly stopped meeting your obligations?”

  “Are you threatening to disinherit me?”

  The Prince smiled sadly. “Well. I do have other sons. Far less expensive, I might add.”

  Charles rose and bowed.

  “Lord Randolph Churchill’s wife is an extremely beautiful and accomplished woman.” Prince Ferdinand’s eyelids flickered. “Your mother tells me that you are in love with her.”

  “More than I have ever loved anyone.”

  His father shrugged. “Keep her on the side if you must. But by God, Karl—you must find an acceptable wife. One of impeccable birth and breeding. Of your own.”

  CHAPTER FORTY

  Winston sat on Chobham Common, the empty heath not far from the Royal Military Academy at Sandhurst, with a piece of charcoal in his hand and a large pad of drawing paper on his knees. He was wearing the scarlet coat and pillbox-shaped forager’s cap that made up a subaltern’s uniform, and he was utterly absorbed in his task: the composition of a topographical map. He had always possessed a facility for drawing—a skill not muc
h valued among dukes’ grandsons, although his mother encouraged it. Frowning furiously, he alternately scanned the horizon and peered back at his paper. It was a bright June day—Tuesday, the twenty-sixth—and the short-brimmed forager’s cap did nothing to shield his eyes from sun. His Topography instructor expected the map tomorrow, and though Win longed to chuck it and return to his quarters for tea, he compressed his lips and narrowed his eyes. Most of his fellows couldn’t draw half so well. He’d get full marks for the map if it killed him.

  He had been at Sandhurst nearly a year. It had taken him three tries to pass the final entrance examinations, but once admitted, he had found the academy to be glorious. It was as unlike Harrow or any other boys’ public school as could possibly be imagined. Although the schedule was grueling, Winston thought Sandhurst was as good as a holiday. He was allowed—commanded, even—to dig trenches and construct breastworks. He revetted parapets with heather and sandbags. He cut railway lines with something called guncotton, which was explosive, and he was taught to set charges that blew up masonry bridges. He learned how to replace the rubble with pontoons, so that horses and men could cross, and he learned to construct fougasses—primitive land mines. It was the world of his nursery soldiers magically brought to life, and he was ecstatic at his luck.

  His entrance score was low, of course—too much maths and French—which placed him in the cavalry instead of infantry. A cavalry commission meant Winston would have to set up a stable—not just several chargers, but also hacks for every day. Lord Randolph had written him an unhappy letter upon learning the news. Horses cost too much.

  The charcoal faltered for an instant in Winston’s fingers and he felt almost physically sick. The handwriting had been shaky—Father was always unwell lately—but he could read the fury in the half-legible words.

  In that failure is demonstrated beyond refutation your slovenly happy-go-lucky harum-scarum style of work for which you have always been distinguished….Never have I received a really good report of your conduct….With all the advantages you had, with all the abilities which you foolishly think yourself to possess, with all the efforts that have been made…this is the grand result….I no longer attach the slightest weight to anything you may say about your own acquirements and exploits. If you cannot prevent yourself from leading the idle useless unprofitable life you had during your schooldays and later months, you will become a mere social wastrel, one of the hundreds of public school failures, and you will degenerate into a shabby, unhappy and futile existence. If so, you will have to bear all the blame for such misfortunes yourself.