The Viceroy's Daughters (10 page)

But Baba's affections were not engaged. She was very young and she had plenty of other suitors. Most, like Lord Westmorland, could be invited to lunch or dinner at 1 Carlton House Terrace but one, she knew instinctively, had better not be mentioned just yet.

The Prince of Wales—always called by his fourth name, David, by his family—had arrived back a month earlier from an extraordinarily successful tour of India, whither he had been sent to still the disaffection felt after a war in which Indian troops had fought gallantly, laying down their lives for a country which was not their own. “He has brought back from India a young Indian Army officer named ‘Fruity' Metcalfe,” wrote Frances Stevenson (later Lady Lloyd George) in her diary for June 22, 1922. “The two are inseparable and his family are furious about it.”

Captain Edward Dudley Metcalfe—who had acquired his nickname in his university days—was an Indian cavalry officer who had been attached to the prince's staff on his Indian visit and who had become the prince's best male friend. He was tall and good-looking, with reddish hair, blue eyes and a soft brogue he kept until the end of his life. He was completely outside the small network of people who made up what was called “society” (“Who is this ‘Juicy' Metcalfe?” inquired the elderly, deaf Queen Alexandra) but he was high-spirited, good-natured and a superb horseman. Although always perfectly respectful and efficient, he treated the prince exactly as he would have treated any other man friend and the prince loved him for his charm, gaiety and naturalness.

Fruity, born on January 16, 1887, was the son of the head of industries in the Irish prison service. His parents led a busy social life, centerd around the racing for which Dublin was famous. He was educated privately and, after leaving Trinity College, had entered Sandhurst in 1907 and joined his regiment, the 3rd Skinner's Horse, in November 1909 as one of nine squadron officers of whom four, like himself, were subalterns.

In 1914 he sailed with his regiment for France, where they were moved about as reserves and, like most cavalry, saw little fighting. On September 1, 1915, he was promoted captain and in June 1916 sent back with his regiment to India. Told that they would remain there, Fruity and a friend volunteered to serve with the 7th Meerut Cavalry Brigade in Mesopotamia; here they fought the Turks on the Tigris front. In August 1917 he won a Military Cross and shortly afterward was mentioned in dispatches. By May 1919 he was back with the regiment, now involved in the Third Afghan War. When the armistice was signed in September 1919 the regiment returned to Quetta and in 1920 he was seconded to serve successively in three princely states. When the hunting-mad prince arrived in India, Fruity, with his personal friendships with many of the maharajas, encyclopedic knowledge of horses and perfect manners, was a natural choice as an aide-de-camp.

The prince had not wanted to go to India: he was madly in love with Mrs. Dudley Ward, and the tour promised only hard work and unpopularity. He went out on the
Renown
, which dropped anchor in Bombay early on the morning of November 17, 1921, nervously aware of his responsibilities. With him as companion was his friend and cousin, Lord Louis (“Dickie”) Mountbatten; also in the prince's suite was Admiral Sir Lionel Halsey, at forty-nine a much older man, sent by the king to keep an eye on his son and act as ballast. To the prince and Mountbatten, Halsey was known as the Old Salt.

Almost immediately, Fruity and the prince became fast friends; Lord Louis, too, liked him immensely. “Fruity Metcalfe, the nicest fellow we have. Poor, honest, a typical Indian cavalryman,” he wrote to his fiancée, Edwina Ashley, the beautiful heiress granddaughter of Edward VII's friend Sir Ernest Cassel.

Admiral Halsey disapproved of Fruity thoroughly while unwillingly falling victim to his charm. “He is an excellent fellow, always cheery and full of fun but far, far too weak and hopelessly irresponsible. He is a wild, wild Irishman and no one knows anything about his family.” Fruity had entered the prince's bedroom one afternoon while he was having a siesta and asked him if he would like to play polo because, if so, several of his maharaja friends would like to lend ponies. Twenty-five polo ponies subsequently arrived, necessitating an extra train to transport them.

Fruity provided much-needed relief and relaxation for the prince after the strain of being “on duty” so often. With Mountbatten, they soon became known as a trio. Mountbatten's diaries of the trip are full of references to things “we three” have done, from early-morning polo practices to paper chases. Nor was Mountbatten jealous of Fruity's superlative riding (“In the finals I was up against Fruity who of course beat me”); when Fruity took a crashing fall in a polo match Mountbatten was first out on the field to help carry his unconscious body back. After the prince, Fruity was the first person that Mountbatten and Edwina, who had come out to stay in India, told of their engagement.

The prince could not bear to part with his new friend. When he came home he brought Fruity with him. In August 1922 Fruity was gazetted major and awarded the Medal of the Victorian Order; in September he was made an extra equerry to the prince, but he was already an integral part of the prince's life and circle. With the prince, he was the only other guest at the first dinner party given by the Mountbattens after their marriage in July; with the prince, he went evening after evening to the nightclubs that were springing up all over Mayfair.

These temples to the new religion, dancing, were frowned on by the older generation, led by the king and queen, who deeply disapproved of cocktails, jazz and dancing cheek to cheek. But for the Prince of Wales and anyone of his generation, dancing was as much part of life as cinema-going would be in the next decade. The prince's favorite restaurant-nightclub was the Embassy, at the Piccadilly end of Bond Street, where he could be seen every Thursday night and quite often other nights as well at his own sofa table by the wall.

Here he would take Mrs. Dudley Ward in a party of his intimates—one or more of his brothers, Fruity, Lord and Lady Brecknock, the Mountbattens and Mountbatten's older brother Lord Milford Haven and his wife. In Mountbatten's absence at sea, Fruity would act as Edwina's escort when the prince arranged a party for the Co-Optimists Revue, the Cabaret Girl or the Midnight Follies, always followed, of course, by dancing, at the Embassy, Kit-Cat Club or Grafton Galleries, where Fruity and Mountbatten were honorary members.

It was after an evening at the Grafton Galleries that the Prince of Wales, his brothers, his friend Fruity and Baba decided that they could not bear to stop dancing—especially as it was the first time Paul Whiteman's band had played there. The solution, decided Baba, was for them all to go to 1 Carlton House Terrace. Curzon and Grace were away and the only remaining servants slept in the basement, so there was little chance of them being discovered. The Prince of Wales collected some champagne from York House while Baba and Prince George went ahead to the silent, shuttered house. In the dining room they pushed the long table aside and pulled dustcovers from the furniture. Baba fetched tooth mugs from all the bathrooms—the only glasses she could find—and when the Prince of Wales, the band, and the rest of their friends arrived the impromptu party began. It ended at six in the morning. Baba and Prince George, due to stay with Philip Sassoon at Trent, changed in their respective houses into the tweeds suitable for a country weekend and set off at 7
a.m
. for the Trent golf course.

All would have gone unnoticed except that Prince Harry, the heaviest of the four royal brothers, sat on Curzon's superb dining room table and cracked it badly. Baba was so terrified that she told Gracie, who smoothed it over with Curzon. If anyone else had committed such a crime—or anyone else had told him of it—Curzon would have been furious.

9

The Absentee Wife

For Christmas 1922, Gracie and Baba were at Hackwood, Cim and Tom in the South of France, Irene at Melton Mowbray and Curzon in Lausanne for the Peace Conference. With Lloyd George now out of the picture, Curzon's decision to stay on as foreign secretary was ratified by Baldwin's recognition of his powers. “I have suddenly been discovered at the age of 63,” he wrote to Gracie. “I was discovered when I was Viceroy of India from 99–06. Then I was forgotten, traduced, buried, ignored. Now I have been dug up and people have found life and even merit in the corpse.”

Unhappily, the creature comforts in Lausanne were not up to those in any of Curzon's houses. “Having no valet I now have to dress myself,” he wrote plaintively, requesting Gracie to bring or send brandy, soda, a box of cigarettes and a bottle of his favorite shampoo. His back was causing him more trouble than ever. “My new cage is broken and the fractured pieces of steel cut into me and tear my skin and clothes.”

Though Grace wrote her husband letters breathing misery at his absence (“it almost breaks my heart, the thought of Christmas there without you”) she spent as much time away from him as she could. After a series of balls in November she had made one of her regular visits to Paris, where she was feted (“flowers as usual from the Aga Khan, Mme. de Castellane and Charles Mendl [first secretary at the British embassy in Paris]”), with dinner parties and luncheons galore.

Immediately after Christmas she set off for the smart resort of Saint Moritz, giving as her reason fun for Baba, who was joining her there on January 9. “I am so sad not to be able to spend our anniversary with you,” she wrote from the Palace Hotel. Many might have wondered why, with cars, private coaches on trains, servants to pack for her and accompany her and endless time at her disposal, she could not manage it. But Curzon recognized resignedly that the Saint Moritz whirl had priority, though he wrote wistfully: “It is nice to think that we are in the same country.”

In
Saint
Moritz,
where
the
season
was
at
its
height,
Grace
was
a
noticeable
figure,
wrapped
in
opulent
and
becoming
furs
as
she
drove
about
in
a
scarlet
sleigh.
To
Curzon's
alarm,
one
of
Baba's
suitors,
Lord
Westmorland,
had
also
arrived
in
Saint
Moritz.
When
Gracie
suggested
that
Baba,
suitably
chaperoned,
remain
there
after
she
herself
left,
Curzon
would
have
none
of
it.
He
was
becoming
disenchanted
even
with
Baba,
the
only
one
of
his
daughters
he
still
considered
loyal.
He
believed
that
she
was
incapable
of
affection
and
he
constantly
complained
that
she
never
kept
in
touch
with
him
(“No
good
expecting
Baba
to
write”).
Nevertheless,
he
sent
her
a
Christmas
check.

According
to
his
lights,
he
had
tried
to
be
a
good
father,
but
was
uneasily
conscious
that
he
had
failed.
From
his
women
friends
among
the
Souls
he
received
attention,
flattery
and
warm
affection;
from
his
stepdaughter,
little
Marcella,
a
happy,
unquestioning
devotion.
Why
could
not
his
daughters
be
more
like
these
templates
of
desirable
female
behavior?
He
was
far
fonder
of
Marcella
than
of
any
of
his
own
children.
“To
me,
the
happiest
moment
in
the
24
hours
is
when
darling
little
Marcella
comes
in.”
It
was
more,
though,
a
question
of
Marcella's
personality
than
her
age
(she
was
fifteen):
she
was
gentle,
serene
and
so
intuitive
that
they
were
always
in
sympathy.
Her
undemanding
presence
was
a
contrast
to
the
girls
who
had
inherited
his
own
strong
will.

He did not soften toward Irene, for instance, when at her instigation he allowed her to visit him briefly in the spring of 1923, which she followed by a humble letter of thanks: “Dear Daddy, I came away profoundly grateful for having seen you for those few minutes. It has made such an immense difference to me. I take things that touch you so deeply to heart that it would make all the difference if you felt I might see you from time to time and so hold onto ties that deep down mean everything to me. Thank you again for those minutes which, though short, meant the world to Your grateful daughter.”

By contrast, his attitude to Grace was subservient, with constant pleas that she might spare some time to come and see him, requests that she would write more often, demands that she should rest and free herself from cares (“your holiday seems to be one long course of self-sacrifice,” he wrote without the slightest trace of sarcasm). These expressions of devotion only varied when he was forced to defend himself against Gracie's jealous accusations.

Occasionally he was able to dismiss some baseless charge (“Ever since that fatal evening when we dined with Maud and I committed the seemingly unpardonable error of talking after dinner to Diana Cooper you have been different”); more often than not he did not know why she was attacking him. “You say I will understand why your feelings toward me have so changed. I have read those words and I have not the faintest inkling to what they refer. I am not conscious of having failed in the smallest respect in loyalty to you. I am not capable of that. I have not the slightest idea what I am supposed to have done or not done.” Sadly he concluded: “You show affection to almost everyone else until I almost feel I am the person who comes last and counts least.”

Gracie's self-chosen role as absentee wife did not prevent her from doing what she could for Baba. She took her to balls and parties; she took both Irene and Baba to the Buckingham Palace garden party that concluded the season on July 29, 1923—Grace in white lace with amber feathers in her white hat, Irene in a champagne-colored frock and Baba in white.

Baba, like Irene and Cimmie before her, was treating Cliveden more and more like a second home. For her there was another attraction: Nancy Astor's twenty-five-year-old son (by her first marriage), Bobbie Shaw. A glamorous young officer in the Blues (the Royal Horse Guards), he was an ornament of the Cliveden circle, known for his wit as much as for his good nature. He was the only person who could stand up to his mother in full flood, stopping a stream of argument or direction with a single dry remark that reduced her to a helpless gust of laughter.

He was very attracted to Baba and she, at nineteen, equally drawn to him. They made a striking couple; with their looks, slim, elegant figures and chic, they seemed, said one of the Langhorne uncles, like the two juvenile leads in a musical comedy, ready to glide effortlessly into a stylish dance number. It was assumed by everyone that one day in the near future they would announce their engagement.

But Bobbie had a secret. He was homosexual. It was not something Baba could possibly have known or even guessed. No one would have dreamed of discussing such a subject in front of a young unmarried girl and homosexuals themselves were extremely careful not to betray their sexual orientation—it was, after all, a criminal offense—so much so that many married and fathered children. Bobbie, however, was an extremely honorable man who had no intention of marrying Baba in order to provide himself with a “blind” and who was far too fond of her to deprive her of the chance of real sexual happiness in the future. Gently he made it clear that marriage was not in the cards, so tactfully that he always remained one of her best friends.

She had many other admirers. Prince George was still pursuing her, to the displeasure of the king and queen when they were linked publicly in the press. “Another row about you, my dear, which was trying, however it is all right and I had it out with them, and it was only the papers,” he wrote from Balmoral in September 1923. On another occasion, after playing in a golf foursome, Prince George, the Prince of Wales and Fruity Metcalfe playfully signed a pledge promising to pay Baba one hundred pounds (about two thousand five hundred pounds in today's money) if they smoked too much.

 

We the undersigned swear, on oath, that we abide by the following compact.

(1) P of W two cigarettes before five o'clock, plus pipes

(2) P.G. four camel cigarettes before five

(3) E.D.M. four cigarettes before five o'clock.

This agreement to commence May 23rd and to expire June 25
or
we agree to pay £100 in default to be equally divided.

Signed: Edward P, George, E. D. Metcalfe.

 

(They kept their pledge, as a note in Baba's handwriting shows.)

It is an interesting document, if only because it shows the prince's signature on the same piece of paper as his brother George and Fruity—the two men of whom he was fondest (years later, Lloyd George told his equerry Dudley Forwood that these were the only two men in his life whom the prince really loved).

For Fruity, since their return from India, the prince had come to feel an affection so deep and all-embracing that it could have been called love, as a letter written the previous autumn (September 19, 1922) from Balmoral shows. It is worth quoting in full, if only because if it had been addressed to a woman, one could be forgiven for mistaking it for a love letter:

My dear old Fruity,
I am so sorry I have not written before. I have been meaning to but I'm too
bloody
(£50 to you) sleepy after dinner, which is the only time I get for letters as I'm out all day after the stags. I
loathed
having to come north on Tuesday and leave you behind, the first time in nearly a year, that's all. I'm missing you
a whole lot
. I most certainly am!

But I'll be back south in a fortnight and it's my duty to come here for a bit, not only to see my family but also to see all the keepers and ghillies and servants, some of whom I've known for 20 years. It's desperately cold and I feel much as I would in the Antarctic, all tucked up, and it's my first taste of real cold for two years and I hate it worse than ever!! I missed two stags yesterday but shot well today and got
four
so I'm quite pleased with myself for once and they were all long downhill shots. But stalking seems very tame after riding, as everything else does, and I'm missing my riding terribly, and hope to God I won't loose [
sic
] the very little I feel I've picked up in the last six weeks! And what about all my lovely boots? I feel that every step I take on the hill is making my chances of getting into them again smaller and smaller!! This feeling haunts me.