Churchill waved his cigar, sending ash over the rug. ‘She is only a girl. There is no need to bother her with affairs of the state, either now or then. By the time she is twenty-one you will have held the reins of power for long enough that it would seem impossible to everyone, including her, that you should ever relinquish them. The Princess Elizabeth will marry and have children. But we will also write into the abdication agreement that even when she is Queen Elizabeth your Regency will remain, for continuity in the Empire. She will have the title. You will have a title and the power.’
‘And Wallis?’
‘She cannot be queen. Can you accept this, Sir?’ It was James who spoke now. ‘But as a royal duchess she can be by your side.’
David stood still and small by the piano. Sophie realised that was how she would always remember him most clearly — that small still figure standing alone. ‘King Regent,’ he said quietly.
‘Yes, Your Majesty,’ said James quietly. ‘No diminution of power. I am afraid no coronation, either. And no wedding, of course, until the divorce is final, and it should be in America perhaps — quite reasonable, that the bride should wish her wedding to be in her home country. The American papers adore you already. They will love you even more once you have married one of their own.’
‘Thus cementing the American alliance,’ muttered Winston Churchill with deep satisfaction, scattering cigar ash this time on the polish of the piano.
‘Perhaps in a few years your wife can be named Queen Regent too,’ offered James.
David looked at Sophie. Only at Sophie. ‘Sophie, do you really think that this is what I should do?’
Standing and walking over to him was perhaps the longest journey she had ever made, and she made it unwillingly, for couldn’t James and Churchill see that this was no solution, but an even worse disaster?
A King Regent would have even more freedom than a king. Simpson, von Ribbentrop, Herr Hitler, Dolphie, all would have won.
And yet she took David’s cold hand in hers, which was no less cold, and kissed his cheek. ‘Trust them, David, my darling. Say thank you, Winston, for cutting through this mess and giving me the woman I love.’
He almost smiled. ‘Thank you, Winston.’
‘We will have the papers ready for you to sign tomorrow. If Your Majesty would like help with your speech?’ added Winston Churchill tactfully. ‘Two speeches actually — one for the abdication and the other for when you accept your new role.’
‘Say thank you Winston again,’ prompted Sophie, with what she hoped was a light, loving, profoundly helpful tone.
He did smile then. ‘Thank you, Winston,’ he said obediently. He looked at Sophie. ‘Will you be there tomorrow? Wallis is in France. I . . . I need you there.’
‘I will be there,’ she promised. ‘You won’t be alone, David. Your friends will be with you the whole way.’
‘My true friends.’ He almost seemed about to cry. ‘Sophie, darling, I’m sorry that . . . I mean, I do truly love Wallis.’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ she said quickly. ‘Nothing matters but your happiness.’ She tried to smile. ‘You are our king, Sir. One must always please a king.’
James pressed a whisky into the king’s hand. David sipped it and suddenly looked deathly tired. ‘I think perhaps I can sleep now,’ he said wonderingly. ‘But I must call Wallis first.’
‘Not till all this is over,’ said James. ‘There could be listeners at the exchange. We cannot let the press get wind of this until it’s done. Once your brother has named you regent there is nothing anyone can do.’
The room whirled about her. She felt hot, then cold. Dimly she was aware of James swiftly coming to David’s side, talking to him so David did not notice when she sat again, or when Churchill pressed a small glass of something bitter into her hand. She sipped. It helped.
More words. She stood, as David kissed her cheek, took her hands, then hugged her, his slight body meeting hers. He did not even seem to notice how much weight she had lost. Or perhaps he thought she had lost it for him, for the extreme slimness he found so attractive.
Then he was gone. Sophie sat again and let her head fall back, till James returned, Daniel with him this time, and Lily too.
‘You know what has just happened?’ she asked them.
‘Yes,’ said Lily, sitting opposite her. ‘We knew.’
Not we know. We knew.
Her head felt like an axe had been buried in it. ‘Don’t you realise what we’ve done! Wallis Simpson is secure for at least eleven years! Untouchable as the wife of the King Regent . . .’ Her voice rose, despite her thumping headache.
‘No,’ said James quietly.
She stopped and looked at him.
‘His Majesty will abdicate tomorrow. The Duke of York will not.’
‘I . . . I don’t understand.’ Then she did. ‘Was this . . . was this what you planned all along? Not for me to replace Wallis Simpson, but for David to trust me enough to abdicate, because I told him it wouldn’t be real?’
‘No. We needed you to divert Nazi intelligence. Suddenly you were the real threat to their plans. Simpson focused on retaining her hold on the king, not on his promise to abdicate, because if David were to be charmed by someone acceptable there would be no need for him to consider abdication.’
‘So you always planned to trick him into actually abdicating?’
‘Yes,’ said James. He gave a wry smile. ‘But you succeeded in becoming his trusted advisor far more brilliantly than we ever expected. I should never have underestimated you.’
‘No,’ said Sophie flatly. ‘You shouldn’t underestimate me.’
‘For a short time it even seemed possible that you could find a way to make David see sense about Germany and to leave affairs of the state to parliament. If the bishop had been more discreet, if you’d had more time, perhaps there would have been no need to force an abdication. Instead the Nazis moved quickly to remove you. I’m sorry — you were guarded, of course, but you slipped out of the guard’s sight in the fog that morning.’
She should have felt fury, indignation, other emotions she could not imagine because she had no strength to do so. ‘Why didn’t you just tell me you wanted him to abdicate?’
‘Because that was not your part in all of this. In my experience,’ said James flatly, ‘it is best to work on a need-to-know basis. You did not need to know. It might even have compromised your performance.’
And it would have, Sophie realised. Because it had been her momentary fury at Simpson’s cruel control of the king — His Majesty, King Edward VIII of Great Britain and the Dominions, not David himself — that had given her the impetus to act so quickly and effectively.
But she would not tell James that. She suspected he already knew.
Miss Lily took her hand. ‘Forgive him. Forgive us all, for the part we have played in this. But this is a desperate time, and the next few years will be even more so. Germany and fascism is a threat to the entire world, not just Britain or even Europe. It has been obvious for at least a year, even to Winston . . .’
Winston gave a small cough. Miss Lily ignored it. ‘. . . that England needs a king who can lead the country through what, inevitably, will be another war with Germany. David could never have been that.’
‘But the Duke of York?’ asked Sophie incredulously.
‘Don’t underestimate him. He seems diffident because of his stammer. He’s avoided the limelight for just that reason too. But he is unbreakable, and the duchess even more so. They will be formidable.’
And tomorrow she must watch David, poor stupid David, relinquish his throne and his Empire, and receive nothing in return, not even love, for that woman did not love him. Wallis Simpson loved his influence and power, which he would no longer have, his money, of which he would have far less, and his position, which would also be greatly diminished, probably to that of a royal duke, the least he could be given.
‘And public opinion?’
‘There will be s
ympathy for David. A great deal, I imagine. But one of the conditions of abdication — I doubt David will even read what he is about to sign, especially if it is long and complex — will be that he does not reside in this country, or even visit Britain without permission.’
‘Then where will he go?’
‘Germany, I imagine, or possibly Austria, until he and Wallis can be married. A visit there will lose him sympathy remarkably quickly.’
They had it all worked out. Her role as well. Which she had played. And they had won. And yet . . .
‘You used me,’ she said coldly.
‘Yes,’ said James flatly. ‘You agreed to be used. As I would hope I might be used in the service of my country.’
‘I did not agree to be tricked into roles I did not expect to have to play. Nor did you need to.’
‘No?’ asked James. ‘You did not have the . . . craft to ignore Hannelore’s note and come to me as you ought that morning. You of all people know what the Nazis are capable of. You knew that you were foiling a carefully engineered plan to control the entire empire, and yet you went out into the fog, alone, at six-thirty in the morning, refusing to be escorted by a woman with far more experience and training than yourself. What other errors might you have made, in your inexperience?’
She stared at him, trying to ignore the white lightning zigzagging through her head again. ‘Excuse me.’
She ran for the lavatory and made it just in time. She had vomited twice when she felt Daniel’s arms about her, his hands guiding a damp cloth to wipe her mouth. ‘Come to bed. You need to sleep. Rest.’
‘No more drugs.’
‘No. No more drugs.’
‘Daniel, did you know . . . ?’
‘About any of this? No. I don’t think I could have brought myself to agree to it, just as you could not. But now that it is done —’
‘Will be done,’ she corrected, for there was still tomorrow to get through.
‘It is the best that could happen. And it would have been a disaster if it had not. Winston Churchill plays a long game indeed. And this time, at least, he has succeeded, unlike his gamble at Gallipoli.’
Where tens of thousands had died, Australians, New Zealanders, English, Japanese, Indians, Turks and Germans. All for Winston Churchill’s plan.
But this time Winston Churchill had won. Perhaps.
She felt Daniel’s arms warm and solid about her as he carried her up to bed.
Chapter 49
A woman chooses whether or not to wear lipstick for many reasons: she may wear it to appear powerful, to say, ‘Notice me.’ She may wear it to appear seductive, for the lips hint at more intimate areas. Or she may not wear it, because she wishes to kiss, or plans to kiss, and does not want the mess . . .
Miss Lily, 1906
And yet she didn’t sleep. Had used up sleep, perhaps, in the horror of the week that had passed. Daniel slept beside her as she lay still, keeping her breathing even so he wouldn’t sense she was awake, for he needed rest badly, almost as much as she did.
How much had this scarred him? It was unfair that a man who had been through so much, who had conquered so much mental pain, must be put through this as well. And what did she feel now? She lay and looked at the ceiling dappled with light from the fireplace. Pity for David, and anger that he was so weak and bigoted the agents of his own government had needed to have him removed from power. Anger, still, at Simpson, for without her Churchill might have been able to craft Edward VIII into a good king.
And Lily, who had exposed her to — what? Danger? Betraying David for the good of the empire? But Lily expected her to do less than she might have done herself, nor did she believe that Lily had known of James’s and Churchill’s true plans before they had came to England. Lily had not needed to know, and so James would not have told her.
James? This was his job. James had sacrificed himself many times over for his country, had given his life for his country just as much as any soldier dying on the Somme, for James had no life, except what his country needed.
Eventually she realised she had no anger left, no bitterness. It was done, or almost done. Sometimes choices had to be made where there was no ‘right’ but only a ‘less wrong’.
She rolled over, then felt something hard under the edge of her pillow. She pulled it out and turned on the bedside lamp.
It was a cross, a small edition of the many large ones the man called John had carved. She fingered it, staring at its colours. Shillings stone was grey, and did London even have its own stone? No, this was Thuringa stone, yellow shading to pink or even red. Had Daniel brought it for his own comfort, or for her? Or had he brought the stone itself, to steady that part of himself who was John?
It didn’t matter. The stone felt warm, as if it had stored the clean Thuringa light. And finally, she slept.
Beatrice brought the tray in early, just tea and thin crisp unbuttered toast lightly covered in plum jam: exactly what she needed. She ate two slices, drank two cups of tea and allowed Green to dress her in dark blue wool — inconspicuous, reliable, elegant, trustworthy.
Lily kissed her cheek at the front door. She would not accompany them. Nor would their chauffeur, as the fewer who knew about Sophie’s presence at Windsor that day the better. Daniel drove her to Fort Belvedere, the estate David had used since 1929, where his affair with Wallis Simpson had begun.
It was at the extreme south end of Windsor Great Park, twenty-two miles from London, though David had once boasted to her he could see St Paul’s Cathedral through a telescope from there. He had installed a swimming pool where the lily pond had once been and a guest wing where, it was rumoured, Wallis had a set of rooms. Yet the fort still looked like what it once had been — a turreted folly.
Folly indeed, thought Sophie, as the car wound its way through the grounds.
A footman opened the car doors and showed them in. The receiving room still seemed to smell of Wallis’s perfume. ‘Sir,’ the man looked slightly uncomfortable. ‘If you would not mind waiting here . . .’
Daniel nodded. No tea had been offered, or even a whisky.
‘If you would follow me, madam.’
He does not even know my name, she thought. Or has been told not to know. Daniel is not here. I am not here . . .
A corridor. A room. A hard narrow chair had been placed by the door. The king’s three brothers waited, the Queen mother, and David himself, looking both smaller and stronger than she had ever seen him. They did not notice her as she sat down behind them, nor did Mr Baldwin or two men Sophie did not recognise. But David met her eyes and gave her a tense smile. She gave him the smallest of nods in return.
I trust you, his look said. Her smile meant that he should trust all the people here. His family, Winston Churchill, his friend.
The document lay on the desk. She had never betrayed trust before. She forced herself back to the last day of the war, a corpse with its eyes pecked out by crows hanging on barbed wire. No one had bothered to retrieve it. By then all energy available was for the living, not the dead.
If David did not sign today, that would happen again. Worse would happen, to England, to France, even to faraway Australia.
Suddenly she wondered if Churchill was wrong, if James was wrong. If David did somehow manage to engineer an alliance with Germany perhaps war never would happen . . .
. . . and the German Brownshirts would join Mosley’s Blackshirts and fascism would stalk the streets of England, and yes Australia too — it might be far away but it had plenty of bigotry as well as its own fascist movements a cunning leader could exploit.
She watched as David lifted his fountain pen. He did not read the document. Perhaps he had already. More likely, as Churchill had suggested, he had not bothered, once again leaving mundane details to others.
What exactly is he signing? wondered Sophie. Merely abdication? It seemed too long for that. Page after page, each of which required his signature and the date.
But he was signing. And sudde
nly she could bear no more — knew she was not needed any more, for after this he could turn publicly to Wallis Simpson. The image of a king laughing with two children, and their mother smiling in the background, and all that might have been, must be forgotten.
This was to be the greatest love story in history, the king who gave up his throne for love. And if every single part of the tale was a carefully crafted myth — that the king believed he was not permanently renouncing the throne, that the woman held him in contempt, that what David felt was not even love, but a desperate need — then it was all the more important that Sophie vanish, from London and from history, leaving that one public meeting at the park as a simple treat for an old friend’s children.
The myth would soon be all that David had. And Wallis, forever outcast, for none in this room — or those waiting outside it — would ever welcome her into the royal family and she would be condemned to playing out a love story where no love had ever been.
Sophie stood and found the door opened for her and footmen bowing. The one who had held the door open escorted her down the hall to where, somehow, by some signal of the servants’ bells, Daniel had been summoned and waited for her, his hat and coat in hand.
The footman held out her own coat. Daniel buttoned it for her, for the wind bit at the stray fallen leaves fluttering aimlessly on the grass outside. Two brown leaves even blew through the outer door as yet another footman opened it. Not a butler, thought Sophie. The Countess of Shillings was due a butler to open even this door for her, but she was not herself that day. She was the Woman Who Was Never There.
The car was waiting for them too, just beyond the doors, the engine already warmed. A royal chauffeur drove it up as they came down the stairs, opened the front passenger door for Sophie — the front door, not the back, for servants knew everything, including, she was sure, all that had happened there today, though perhaps not what was going to happen. A footman almost simultaneously opened the other door for the chauffeur to step out and for Daniel to seat himself behind the steering wheel.
Lilies, Lies and Love Page 26