The Duchess Of Windsor (17 page)
Read The Duchess Of Windsor Online
Authors: Greg King
On April 26, 1923, Bertie and Elizabeth were married in Westminster Abbey in London and received the titles of Duke and Duchess of York. Elizabeth easily won over her new relatives. The King was utterly under her spell, writing, “She is a pretty and charming girl, and Bertie is a very lucky fellow.”
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And she succeeded with Queen Mary through sheer subservience. The Queen’s lady-in-waiting, Mabell, Countess of Airlie, recalled: “She was very unlike the cocktail-drinking, chain-smoking girls who came to be regarded as typical of the nineteen twenties.”
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And she succeeded with Queen Mary through sheer subservience. The Queen’s lady-in-waiting, Mabell, Countess of Airlie, recalled: “She was very unlike the cocktail-drinking, chain-smoking girls who came to be regarded as typical of the nineteen twenties.”
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David himself, however, was less successful in his serious romantic endeavors. His first real love affair seems to have been with Lady Rosemary Leveson-Gower, daughter of the fourth Duke of Sutherland. They had first met when she was working as a Red Cross nurse in a field hospital he toured in France during the war. Like Elizabeth Bowes-Lyon with his brother Bertie, Rosemary Leveson-Gower at first refused the Prince’s proposal, not wishing to subject herself to the public scrutiny life as a royal would entail. When she finally seemed on the verge of relenting, David was informed by his parents that he would not be allowed to marry her.
The King and Queen seemed to object to the proposed match for several reasons, all relating to Rosemary’s family background. Five years earlier, her father had died, and within twelve months, her mother, Millicent
Duchess of Sutherland, had married Brig. Gen. Percy Desmond Fitzgerald. This marriage soon failed, and Millicent instigated divorce proceedings. As soon as she was free, the Duchess immediately married Lt. Col. George Hawes. She soon discovered, however, that Hawes kept a male lover, and they were divorced almost immediately thereafter.
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Such marital antecedents were deemed too controversial for the mother of the would-be Queen of England.
Duchess of Sutherland, had married Brig. Gen. Percy Desmond Fitzgerald. This marriage soon failed, and Millicent instigated divorce proceedings. As soon as she was free, the Duchess immediately married Lt. Col. George Hawes. She soon discovered, however, that Hawes kept a male lover, and they were divorced almost immediately thereafter.57
Such marital antecedents were deemed too controversial for the mother of the would-be Queen of England.
David’s isolation from his parents increased dramatically as he entered his thirties. George V, deeply suspicious of the changing world around him, became even more reactionary. He had no understanding of, or sympathy for, the emerging generation of which his eldest son was an idol. To the King, flappers, bathtub gin, jazz, and nightclubs reeked of indolence and moral irresponsibility. Instead, George and his queen carefully began to cultivate the idea of the Royal Family as a representation of all that was good in England and the Empire. In fairness, it cannot be said that the idea originated during George V’s reign, for certainly Queen Victoria and her large family had been held as moral examples to the nation. But it was during George V‘s tenure that the news media were first called into action to support the notion of the nation’s ideal family. Books and newspapers hailed the virtues embodied by the King, Queen, and their children; here was a true picture of domestic happiness and moral rectitude with which the lower and middle classes could identify. The arrival of the Duke and Duchess of York’s first daughter, Princess Elizabeth, was cause for national celebration. Neither the Duke nor the Duchess was slow to recognize the value of their happy family life, and photographs and accounts of their domestic bliss soon flooded the burgeoning media. This idea of perfect family life was promoted to such an extent that authorized books were produced, and the rapidly growing public appetite for news about the Royal Family’s private life was encouraged, decisions which would come to have fatal results a generation later.
While the press and public were fed this idyllic view, life within the Royal Family was far different. The King was so suspicious of his sons and fearful that they would somehow fall prey to corruption that he had them followed by agents who would report to Buckingham Palace any indiscretions. His sons continued to live in fear of his frequent outbursts. One morning, David and his brothers were all expected, as usual, to breakfast with their parents. According to rigid custom, all were to be standing at the table when the King entered. Harry, however, happened to be detained; he rushed through the door just as his father entered the room. The King fixed him with a deadly stare, and Harry, terrified, fell away in a dead faint.
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David, as heir to the Throne, was subject to even more intense criticism. His father was particularly concerned about his appearance and would dispatch hastily written warnings if his son dared wear the wrong kilt, a pair of cuffed pants, or suede shoes. Once, when David entered his study to ask a favor, his father looked at him and thundered, “You dress like a cad. You act like a cad. You are a cad. Get out!”
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Not surprisingly, such occurrences did little to endear David to his temperamental parent. “My Father doesn’t
like
me,” he once said to a friend. “Not at all sure I particularly like
him.
“
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And, perhaps more tellingly, when Lord Louis Mountbatten’s father, the Marquess of Milford Haven, died, David told his cousin Dickie, “I envy you a father whom you could love. If my father had died, we should have felt nothing but relief.”
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like
me,” he once said to a friend. “Not at all sure I particularly like
him.
“
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And, perhaps more tellingly, when Lord Louis Mountbatten’s father, the Marquess of Milford Haven, died, David told his cousin Dickie, “I envy you a father whom you could love. If my father had died, we should have felt nothing but relief.”
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The isolation of life at court did little to strengthen the bond between the King and Queen and their children. “This resistance to change and rejection of gaiety puzzled the sons of the King and Queen,” noted James Pope-Hennessy. “They became restive, and seized upon or manufactured opportunities to avoid family evenings which ended at ten or ten-thirty, and during which the King would interrogate one or other of them as to what he had been doing latterly and why he had been doing it.”
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Even the staid and dutiful Bertie once complained to Lady Airlie about Ascot weekend house parties at Windsor Castle: “No new blood is ever introduced, and as the members of the party grow older every year there’s no spring in it, and no originality in the talk—nothing but a dreary acquiescence in the order of the day. No one has the exciting feeling that if they shine they will be asked again next summer—they know they will be automatically, as long as they are alive. Traditionalism is all very well, but too much of it leads to dry rot.”
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Such apathy inspired Max Beerbohm to compose a one-act play, in the form of a poem, called
Ballade Tragique a Double Refrain,
in which a lady- and lord-in-waiting exchanged complaints in verse detailing their boredom, each example ending with the alternating lines “The Queen is duller than the King” and “The King is duller than the Queen.” Finally, unable to suffer their dilemma any longer, they agree to a murder-suicide pact to escape service at court.
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Even the staid and dutiful Bertie once complained to Lady Airlie about Ascot weekend house parties at Windsor Castle: “No new blood is ever introduced, and as the members of the party grow older every year there’s no spring in it, and no originality in the talk—nothing but a dreary acquiescence in the order of the day. No one has the exciting feeling that if they shine they will be asked again next summer—they know they will be automatically, as long as they are alive. Traditionalism is all very well, but too much of it leads to dry rot.”
63
Such apathy inspired Max Beerbohm to compose a one-act play, in the form of a poem, called
Ballade Tragique a Double Refrain,
in which a lady- and lord-in-waiting exchanged complaints in verse detailing their boredom, each example ending with the alternating lines “The Queen is duller than the King” and “The King is duller than the Queen.” Finally, unable to suffer their dilemma any longer, they agree to a murder-suicide pact to escape service at court.
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In November 1928, while David was on safari in Africa, an incident occurred which has repeatedly been used to tarnish his reputation. The only account we have comes from David’s assistant private secretary, Alan Lascelles, who was admittedly prejudiced and who bore a grudge against his master. Interestingly, just before the occurrence, Lascelles wrote to his wife: “A good private secretary ought to be wholeheartedly devoted both to his man and to his aims. I’m very far from being either, I fear, and the result is I’m always having to be deceitful, which is very bad for one. Even if I were red-heatedly convinced that Monarchy is a flawless and indispensable institution (which I’m not), his interpretation of the duties and aims of royalty is utterly discrepant from mine.”
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One day during the safari, the Prince received word from Prime Minister Stanley Baldwin that his father was terribly ill. “I don’t believe a word of it,” David is reported to have said. “It’s just some election dodge of old Baldwin’s. It doesn’t mean a thing.” But Lascelles declared, “Sir, the King of England is dying, and if that means nothing to you, it means a great deal to us.” The Prince looked at him, said nothing, and spent the night seducing the wife of a local British official.
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The next day, however, David duly returned to England.
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The next day, however, David duly returned to England.
Whatever hesitation David showed in returning to England is indicative of two factors in his life. First, it clearly shows the breach that had developed between him and his father. Relations had become so strained that as David had earlier told his cousin Dickie Mountbatten, the thought of his father’s death brought not sorrow but a sense of relief. Second, this incident, in whatever form it occurred, undoubtedly shows what undeniably existed: a darker side to the Prince, a self-indulgent preoccupation with his own interests. It was this last trait which so grated on Lascelles. When they returned, he resigned, telling the Prince exactly what he thought of him. Typically, David accepted the scolding good-naturedly and even gave Lascelles a car as a thank-you gift for his years of service.
David increasingly turned to his own pursuit of pleasure. He had first met Freda Dudley Ward in an air-raid shelter during a dance in March 1918; ironically, the dance was given by Maud Kerr-Smiley, sister of Ernest Simpson. Freda (née Winifred Birkin) was the daughter of a wealthy lace manufacturer from Nottingham; she was the wife of the Right Honorable William Dudley Ward, a member of Parliament and vice chamberlain of the royal household. By 1918 the Wards were largely living separate lives. Everyone who knew Freda liked her. Lady Cynthia Asquith described her dismissively as “a pretty little fluff,” but she was rather more substantial.
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She had a quick sense of humor and was good-natured, intelligent, and charming.
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She had a quick sense of humor and was good-natured, intelligent, and charming.
The relationship between David and Freda soon became, at least for the Prince, a sustaining passion in life. She cheered him when he was depressed, and within her house, surrounded by her small daughters and Freda’s motherly attentions, he even managed to experience something which had thus far been denied him: a happy family life. She cared for him, nurtured him, and convinced him to drink and smoke less and to be more attentive to his responsibilities. As a mistress, Freda was entirely safe: a married woman, discreet, and perhaps more important to David, sympathetic to his emotional needs.
Although David’s feelings for Freda ran deep, they were not exclusive, and he let himself wander into less binding liaisons as well. A mutual love of London’s vibrant nightlife drew David and Lady Thelma Furness together. “We talked a great deal,” she wrote, “but mostly about trivialities. The Prince was not a man for abstract ideas or ponderous thought; nor was he interested to any extent in the theatre, books, or art. Our talk was mostly about people we knew or had known, and about places we knew and liked. And this was enough. There was a special rapport that seemed to exist between us, and this rapport was intuitive; we did not have to build it slowly through a discovery together of complex issues.”
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Together David and Thelma went on safari in Africa. “This was our Eden, and we were alone in it. His arms about me were the only reality; his words of love my only bridge to life. Borne along on the mounting tide of his ardor, I felt myself being inexorably swept from the accustomed moorings of caution. Every night I felt more completely possessed by our love, carried ever more swiftly into uncharted seas of feeling, content to let the Prince chart the course, heedless of where the voyage would end.”
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Thelma’s Eden would end on the day she introduced the Prince to her friend Wallis Simpson.
9
A Fateful Weekend
I
N THE FIRST WEEK
of January 1931, Wallis received a telephone call which would change the course of not only her life but also British history. Benjamin Thaw’s wife, Consuelo, rang Wallis and explained that her sister Thelma, Lady Furness, was having the Prince of Wales and a small party up for a weekend of hunting at Burrough Court, her husband’s estate at Melton Mowbray in Leicestershire, on the week-end of January 10, 1931. The Thaws were to have acted as chaperones, but Benjamin’s mother had unexpectedly fallen ill, and Consuelo was forced to go to Paris to look after her. Although Benjamin would attend, Thelma still needed a married couple, and Consuelo asked Wallis if she and Ernest would agree to attend in Consuelo’s stead.
1
N THE FIRST WEEK
of January 1931, Wallis received a telephone call which would change the course of not only her life but also British history. Benjamin Thaw’s wife, Consuelo, rang Wallis and explained that her sister Thelma, Lady Furness, was having the Prince of Wales and a small party up for a weekend of hunting at Burrough Court, her husband’s estate at Melton Mowbray in Leicestershire, on the week-end of January 10, 1931. The Thaws were to have acted as chaperones, but Benjamin’s mother had unexpectedly fallen ill, and Consuelo was forced to go to Paris to look after her. Although Benjamin would attend, Thelma still needed a married couple, and Consuelo asked Wallis if she and Ernest would agree to attend in Consuelo’s stead.
1
Wallis later wrote that she was not overly enthusiastic at the prospect. All of the guests except Benjamin would be strangers, and although she was interested in meeting the Prince of Wales, she was also extremely nervous. The entire weekend would center around riding, hunting, and royalty, topics about which Wallis knew next to nothing. She did not even know Thelma Furness particularly well. At first, Wallis declined, but Consuelo persisted, promising that the week-end would go smoothly and that the Prince adored Americans.
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2
Wallis telephoned Ernest at his office and discussed the proposal with him. Excited, he immediately told her to ring Consuelo back and say that they would attend. Wallis, still nervous at the thought of the weekend, dutifully did as he requested. A few hours later, Thelma herself rang to thank her, and she, too, insisted that all would go well.
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3
In the days leading up to the weekend, Wallis caught a cold, which quickly worsened. Her temperature rose and fell, her body ached, and she could scarcely breathe. Nevertheless, there was no pulling out. On Saturday afternoon, she and Ernest met Benjamin Thaw at St. Pancras Station in London, and together the three boarded a train for Melton Mowbray. As they sat in their compartment, Wallis asked Benjamin to show her how to curtsy to the Prince; her only previous attempt had been seventeen years before, during her presentation at the Bachelors’ Cotillon in Baltimore. Benjamin replied that as an American she would not be obliged to curtsy, but Wallis, terrified of giving offense, threatened to get off the train at the next stop. Finally, he rose and attempted to lead her through the procedure.
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They arrived at the siding at Melton Mowbray just after six and immediately began the drive to the house. The rich Leicestershire countryside was shrouded in a veil of thick fog swirling about the leafless trees like a specter. Eventually, Burrough Court, a long, low brick mansion set in a groomed garden, appeared. Averill Converse, Thelma’s stepdaughter, waited on the doorstep to greet them. She explained that the royal party had been delayed by the fog but were expected to arrive shortly.
Wallis wanted to disappear upstairs to rest; her cold was worse, and her head ached. Not knowing when the Prince and his party might arrive, she waited in the drawing room with Ernest and Benjamin. They sat before a roaring fire, taking tea and trying to warm themselves. Eventually, servants appeared, drawing the curtains across the dark windows, then clearing the table of its used china and replacing it. Still, there was no word from the expected guests.
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5
Finally, at half-past seven, Wallis heard the sound of a motorcar in the court outside; voices followed in the hall. The thick curtains separating the drawing room from the hall parted, and Thelma appeared, accompanied by the Prince of Wales and his younger brother, Prince George. Wallis, Ernest, and Benjamin stood as the brothers were presented; Wallis successfully executed her curtsy to the Prince of Wales and followed it with another to his brother. Everyone then took tea, Wallis and the others for the second time in less than two hours.
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6
Here, standing before Wallis, face-to-face, was the most famous man in the world, a man whom, until now, she had only seen in photographs or in brief glimpses from a distance. She was struck by how boyish he appeared for a thirty-seven-year-old man, how much the Prince of Wales resembled his photographs, with his rumpled golden hair and sad eyes. George, much taller than the Prince of Wales, had inherited most of the family’s physical beauty and was the best looking of the brothers. Wallis felt immediately at ease as the two Princes questioned her about life as an American, and she was surprised at how natural they appeared.
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7
Prince George was collected by some friends with whom he was to spend the weekend and said goodbye. Dinner was to be served at nine, and Wallis and Ernest disappeared upstairs to dress. She felt even more ill and soaked herself in a hot tub, wishing she could curl up in bed and fall asleep. She took two aspirins and girded herself for a lengthy ordeal. Ernest, however, clearly awed by his encounter with royalty, was filled with excited anticipation. “I have come to the conclusion that you Americans lost something that is very good and quite irreplaceable when you decided to dispense with the British monarchy,” he declared as he dressed.
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That fall, Wallis had gone to Paris and purchased several new dresses, one of which now made its appearance. More unknown faces greeted her as she and Ernest descended the staircase to partake of dinner with the Prince of Wales. Talk at the table centered on hunting—a subject which Wallis knew of only from tales of her ancestors. Years later, the Duke recalled turning to Wallis and asking if, as an American living in England, she missed central heating. “I am sorry, Sir,” he remembered her saying, “but you have disappointed me.” “In what way?” he asked. “Every American woman who comes to your country is always asked the same question. I had hoped for something more original from the Prince of Wales.”
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Wallis herself, writing her memoirs after the Duke wrote his, declared that she could not recall or imagine any such conversation, while Thelma Furness, who was present, wrote, “This meeting has been the subject of an enormous amount of fiction.” She declared that the conversation about central heating almost certainly never took place, a conclusion bolstered by Wallis’s memoirs. “It would have been not only bad taste,” wrote Thelma, “but bad manners. At that moment Wallis Simpson was as nervous and as impressed as any woman would have been on first meeting the Prince of Wales.”
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After dinner, the guests broke into small groups, playing bridge or poker, or chatting; Wallis, unused to the high stakes, grew nervous and ended up losing eight pounds before the Prince said good night and the guests could retire.
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10
After dinner, the guests broke into small groups, playing bridge or poker, or chatting; Wallis, unused to the high stakes, grew nervous and ended up losing eight pounds before the Prince said good night and the guests could retire.
11
The next morning, she slept late and took breakfast in her room. She felt much better by the time she again encountered the Prince of Wales, who was accompanied by his equerry, Brig. Gen. Gerald F. Trotter, a slightly older gentleman who had lost his right arm in the Boer War.
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At luncheon, Wallis sat next to the Prince; she could not later recall the conversation, only that she was careful and conscious of trying to put her best foot forward.
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At luncheon, Wallis sat next to the Prince; she could not later recall the conversation, only that she was careful and conscious of trying to put her best foot forward.
After bidding goodbye to the Prince of Wales, Wallis and Ernest left for London. The weekend had been an exciting adventure, a privileged glimpse of a world of wealth, power, and royalty. But it was an anomaly; neither Wallis nor Ernest expected to meet the Prince of Wales again. Still, following the weekend party at Melton Mowbray, she began to follow accounts of his life as reported in the London papers “with,” as she recalled, “more than a casual interest.”
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However, they soon met again by accident. After the Prince of Wales returned from a tour of South America, Thelma gave a party in his honor at her house on 21 Grosvenor Square and invited Wallis and Ernest. As Wallis stood chatting with fellow guests, Thelma arrived with the Prince. As he made his way through the crowd, he stopped before Wallis and Ernest and said how delighted he was to see them again before moving along. Wallis thought he looked exhausted, but both she and Ernest were immensely flattered that he had recalled their encounter.
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Wallis began to deliberately nurse her relationship with Thelma. She managed, through her charm and wit, to ingratiate herself into her privileged circle. She came to know Thelma’s twin sister, Gloria Vanderbilt, who was, at the time, living in England with her young daughter, known as Little Gloria and soon to be the subject of one of America’s greatest custody battles.
Wallis genuinely liked Thelma and enjoyed the social whirl in which she moved. For several years, Wallis had had to content herself with small dinner parties at the flat or evenings out at cafés and nightclubs. Thelma‘s invitations offered a world of titles and grand houses, of dinners at the best restaurants and private boxes at the theater. Wallis’s head had been turned, and she was determined to enjoy whatever benefits her acquaintance could reap. It does not seem likely, however, that her relationship with Thelma was cultivated expressly for the purpose of striking a closer bond with the Prince of Wales. At this time, Wallis had no indication that there was any crack in the liaison between Thelma and the Prince, nor was she confident enough to assume that she could rise to such dizzying heights. It is also of interest to note that Ernest, fully aware of the liaison between Thelma and the Prince, expressed no moral objection; he understood both the honor of being selected as the Prince’s favorite and the European tolerance for such affairs.
On June 3, 1931, Wallis and Ernest attended the derby at Epsom Downs; a week later, she was formally presented at the Court of St. James’s. This event had been in the works for several months, however, and was not related to her meeting with the Prince. For the once-impoverished girl from Baltimore, this was truly a surreal experience. Maud Kerr-Smiley, Ernest‘s sister, had just presented her own daughter as a debutante and thus had to wait, according to the heavy protocol of the court, three years before she could sponsor another lady. Wallis had to be presented as an Englishwoman, since the court considered her British by marriage, not American. Eventually, one of her American friends, Mildred Anderson, who had also married an Englishman, agreed to present her at court.
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King George V, with his prim Victorian morals, presided over a court which had refused to countenance such things as divorce. For many years, no divorced person could be presented at court; when this was finally altered, the applicant had to prove that she was the injured, blameless party in a divorce action and provide legal proof to the office of the Lord Chamberlain. Wallis therefore had to obtain copies of her divorce decree from the United States and forward them to St. James’s Palace.
In an effort to save money, she borrowed Consuelo Thaw’s presentation dress and Thelma’s presentation train, feathers, and fan.
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She bought a large, imitation aquamarine cross to wear around her neck and regulation elbow-length white gloves. The ceremony at Buckingham Palace was impressive. She and Ernest, handsomely attired in his Grenadier Guards uniform, arrived at the palace among a long line of cars stretching down the Mall. Inside, officials in scarlet tunics covered with gold braid and medals directed guests up the grand staircase, lined with plumed gentlemen-at-arms standing rigidly at attention. Wallis joined the other women who waited for their presentations. She followed as they slowly snaked their way through the corridors, listening eagerly for the loud announcement of her name which signaled that it was time. Wallis entered the white-and-gold ballroom, following the crimson carpet to the massive, scarlet-draped dais where the King and Queen sat on their thrones. George V, attired in full dress uniform, and Queen Mary, in a beaded evening gown with the blue sash of the Order of the Garter across the bodice, nodded politely as Wallis swept a deep curtsy before them. There was no verbal exchange; behind her, far above the heads of the audience, an orchestra was playing. She rose from her curtsy, backed away and turned, exiting the ballroom and entering the state apartments of the palace. It was all over in thirty seconds. Afterward, the King, Queen, and other members of the Royal Family circulated among the guests. As the Prince of Wales passed, Wallis overheard him say to his uncle Arthur, Duke of Con-naught, “Something ought to be done about the lights. They make all the women look ghastly.”
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She bought a large, imitation aquamarine cross to wear around her neck and regulation elbow-length white gloves. The ceremony at Buckingham Palace was impressive. She and Ernest, handsomely attired in his Grenadier Guards uniform, arrived at the palace among a long line of cars stretching down the Mall. Inside, officials in scarlet tunics covered with gold braid and medals directed guests up the grand staircase, lined with plumed gentlemen-at-arms standing rigidly at attention. Wallis joined the other women who waited for their presentations. She followed as they slowly snaked their way through the corridors, listening eagerly for the loud announcement of her name which signaled that it was time. Wallis entered the white-and-gold ballroom, following the crimson carpet to the massive, scarlet-draped dais where the King and Queen sat on their thrones. George V, attired in full dress uniform, and Queen Mary, in a beaded evening gown with the blue sash of the Order of the Garter across the bodice, nodded politely as Wallis swept a deep curtsy before them. There was no verbal exchange; behind her, far above the heads of the audience, an orchestra was playing. She rose from her curtsy, backed away and turned, exiting the ballroom and entering the state apartments of the palace. It was all over in thirty seconds. Afterward, the King, Queen, and other members of the Royal Family circulated among the guests. As the Prince of Wales passed, Wallis overheard him say to his uncle Arthur, Duke of Con-naught, “Something ought to be done about the lights. They make all the women look ghastly.”
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After the presentation, Wallis and Ernest attended a small party given by Thelma. Inevitably, the Prince of Wales soon arrived. He greeted Wallis and complimented her on her gown.
“But, sir, “ she replied with a rather bold playfulness, “I understood that you thought we all looked ghastly.” The Prince of Wales was speechless for a moment; undoubtedly, he was unused to this sort of pointed humor. Then he gave Wallis an apologetic smile and declared, “I had no idea my voice carried so far.”
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The Prince left the party before Wallis and Ernest; but as they walked down the stairs, they spotted him and Gerald Trotter, his equerry, standing at the curb by his motorcar. The Prince offered them a ride, and they eagerly accepted. On the way to Bryanston Court, the Prince explained that he was on his way to his country house, Fort Belvedere, in Windsor Great Park in Berkshire. He described for them how he had found and fallen in love with the Gothic structure and was busy restoring both the house and its gardens. When the car came to a halt, Wallis asked the Prince if he would like to see their flat; he declined, then added that he was eager to do so one day, hoping that he might be inspired with ideas for his own house.
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Months would pass before they met again.
19
Months would pass before they met again.
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