Dark Palace (9 page)

When she returned to the apartment, Robert and she seemed to avoid each other, although that happened in the natural flow of things, and communication was now mostly by businesslike notes left on the table, a sad reversal from the earlier days of marriage when the notes had been those of loving and witty exchange.

Over the next few days at the office, Edith followed the story of Edwina Mountbatten in the bits and pieces of tittle-tattle which came up in conversation.

All the English on the staff were following the case, but she did not wish to show to them any uncommon interest, a caution which came from an absolutely ridiculous fear of revealing her burning personal preoccupation.

She went daily to the League library and furtively checked
the London papers and saw with some puzzlement that Edwina Mountbatten had taken the
People
newspaper to court for libel.

This was something she would've loved to have talked to Robert about but there was no one really who could answer her questions.

In the court proceedings, Edwina Mountbatten denied ever inviting any coloured man to her house or of knowing any coloured man.

She read that on the day after the court case, Dickie and Edwina had lunched with George V and Queen Mary at the Palace. So the Palace was forgiving them or standing by them, it seemed.

Robert and she, alone of all the English people on the Continent, did not talk of the matter, although communication after a week or so resumed at a housekeeping level.

She wanted to know more and wondered who she could ask about the scandal who would be reliable. She could, she supposed, write to Ambrose who would
know all
.

Yet Ambrose was an approach not without qualms and snares either.

She had been in the company of Ambrose on that night in Paris when she'd been in compromising circumstances, to use the language of the newspapers, with Jerome.

Her own incident had arisen at a visit to a jazz club in Paris. Ambrose had come looking for her after she had been absent—probably for longer than was polite—and it was he who'd found her in the Room
Artiste
with Jerome.

How much Ambrose had seen, or what he had surmised that night had never been discussed nor resolved between Ambrose and herself.

For her to take an interest in the Edwina Mountbatten story now would perhaps inflame his imagination as much as it had inflamed Robert's.

Was there anything to be lost in inflaming Ambrose's
imagination? Ye gods, he
lived
for aberration. She could've told him back then. Of all the people in the world, it was he with whom she should have talked about it all.

Or were there things which could never be told to anyone without setting in play unforeseen repercussions of an unguessable magnitude? Better consigned to eternal silence?

Yet, in those earlier days, all the candour she had risked with Ambrose, and he with her, had created a fineness of life. Their mutual candour had exhilarated them.

God, how she now missed him.

It brought home to her how many boundaries there were to the conversations and friendships which she had around the League. Even among the progressives and the radical reformers. There was on the one hand so much propriety among those of conservative leanings and, on the other, so many things which were not worthy of serious moral discussion among the progressives.

There had been no taboo on the salacious with Ambrose. If something had been seen as salacious in the respectable world, it became a giggling lark in Ambrose's world.

It was Ambrose she needed to speak with and she began her letter to him—and, with a deep breath, decided once again to risk the candid approach.

‘We, or at least I, are all agog at the Edwina Mountbatten scandal,' she wrote. ‘I am dying to hear more. You must be close to that crowd. Of course, you will be saying to yourself, “Edith has every reason to be interested in that
affaire
” or is it more that it would be for me an
affaire de goût
. Recalling, of course, our infamous night in Paris.'

There, it was out and plain between Ambrose and her.

She had decided to write on the assumption that he knew what had happened that night between the black musician and herself. If he did not indeed know, she prayed he would enjoy having his suspicions confirmed. That he would relish it.

If he did not—if he were hurt or offended—then the possibility of finding their way back to their outrageously candid relationship was lost.

That was the risk.

It could be that she was asking too much of that former intimacy, just as she had asked too much of her marriage.

Her statement in the letter—‘an affair of taste'—had such ambiguity in this particular matter. She hoped that Ambrose would enjoy the vulgar ambiguity of it.

She recalled that in Ambrose's and her affair, this particular carnal pleasure had been, for a time, a favourite thing for both of them. And he was the only man who had ever pleasured her with his mouth.

The more she thought about it, that particular sexual act had never gone out of season in their affair. In fact, it had seemed to be more the natural thing for their affair and its nature.

She then realised that the letter to Ambrose had other yearnings hovering about it—a yearning to tell him of the crumbling of her marriage.

She was not yet ready to tell of the crumbling of her marriage. That was, as yet, too personal and undigested a mess. She hoped their letters would in the future allow her to blurt out the sorry mess.

She finished the letter, though, with some of her yearnings expressed: ‘I miss you dear Ambrose … oh, how I miss you,' she wrote.

Tears fell to the page. She blotted them with her sleeve, glad to see that they had swollen the fibre of the letter paper. She hoped he would see the tear stains.

Unbelievably, in the days after she had sent the letter, her relations with Robert slowly healed and warmed, and even approached a cheerfulness.

They were able to resume eating together and doing things in public together. A marriage of appearances.

They did not mention the Edwina Mountbatten affair again.

In moments of reverie, her heart and mind were now more and more retreating into the world of her past to those times when she felt intrepid and free. Not trammelled in spirit, as now she felt.

She did not have the energy or time, though, to confront either her needs, nor the deceit of allowing routine and appearances to run her life.

Inevitably, Robert came to her bed again, and she pulled back the covers to let him in, and while in the bathroom inserting the diaphragm, she liberally applied the lubricating cream inside herself to compensate for her lack of arousal.

A reply came from Ambrose. ‘… I hear there was a gold cigarette case indiscreetly engraved by Edwina and given to the Black, known in some circles as ‘Hutch' (as in ‘rabbit'? Breeding as?) which he has shown to everyone in the world who can read. Discretion is not, evidently, in the character of the Black. Nor, now that I think about it, in the character of any colour I have known (and I've known at least three of the colours—how many are there???!!).'

He was hearing much of the case by being rather close to Peter Murphy who was very much in the Mountbatten entourage, ‘… but that is a story in itself …' Ambrose wrote.

He told her that Edwina had so offended the Palace that she was now
persona non grata
despite the Very Public Luncheon on the day after the case.

The other story was that London's coloured artistic community, especially the opera singer, Paul Robeson, was outraged by Edwina's denial of knowing them when they had, in fact, been at Brook House many times by her invitation.
So there were convulsions of temper among the artistic and black crowd, as well.

He'd heard that Dickie's naval half-stripe was in doubt. ‘Of course, he has always closed his eyes to his wife's “social” life but now he has had his nose rubbed in it. But that is all very well, after all, he prefers to mix with sailors. Don't we all? The word is: They May Not Last As a Couple.'

Edith could not help but feel the queer coincidence that now further identified her with Edwina. They both had marriages which were strained because of their relations with black men.

She laughed. She might write to Edwina. A girl from Jasper's Brush writes a personal letter about shared Scandalous Things and about Marriage, to a woman out of the top drawer of English high society.

‘… There is a wonderful story going around. Following the
scandale
, Dickie whisked her off to Malta where he's based. The story is that there was a command ball, well, you see, it was ALL SAILORS—no women—what can I say? There was a long line of sailors formed to take part in the Palais Glide and Edwina, the only woman there, leapt into the dance. Dickie was not amused at having his wife, already the talk of London, now frolicking with 50 SAILORS. In a ballroom (how aptly named). Well. After Brook House and its “
Fétes Pour les Sauvages
”, and Wild West Parties, and Circus Parties, and Almost Naked Parties in St John's Wood … what is left for a girl to try? We hear she's planning to go to the US—alone—and
for a long time
. The best joke around London is that Edwina is going through “a very black time”—well, it sounds better after a few gins. A Prince Obolensky is also mentioned in connection with Edwina. Of course, George and Mary have a little problem with the heir—and a woman named Mrs Simpson—yes,
Mrs Simpson
. Of that More Later. Dear, sweet Edith, it is so good to be talking to you again even if by mail, and talking about Things That Really Matter. And you must tell me all the
delicious details of
that outrageous escapade of yours those years ago in Paris
. Whatever I might have said or not said at the time, I was filled with admiration at your
absolute audacity
. Yours as ever, Ambrose.'

The letter charged Edith with loving delight and deeper longing for his company. She cried for it. She forgave him everything. She would forgive him murder. She needed a Rotten Friend like Ambrose, in her life, desperately.

Best of all—best, best, best of all—the letter told her that Ambrose had forgiven her for her hopelessly misdirected behaviour those years ago.

As she was pouring herself a port in her parlour one evening, Robert came to the door.

‘Hello,' she said, ‘did you get your copy off?'

‘Yes.

‘Did you write up the League's radio station?'

‘With photographs. Including one of Sweetser broadcasting to the world. How was your day?'

‘The Disarmament Conference seating plan. Final draft.'

They no longer touched, no longer kissed. She did not offer him a drink.

He no longer fitted into her room, her parlour, or the way she had rearranged it.

‘I have news,' he said.

‘What?' She felt on guard with him most of the time. Although his voice was not threatening, she prepared herself. In fact, if anything, he seemed sheepish.