IT WAS A MUGGY EVENING WITHOUT A BREATH OF breeze. Mary wore a loose white cotton dress with apricot embroidery and sat fanning herself by the open window. Ernest had telephoned earlier to say he would drop by and she waved when she saw him turn the corner. Despite the oppressive heat, he was wearing a suit and tie with a bowler hat on his head, and she giggled at the quintessential Englishness.
‘Aren’t you positively baking?’ she called as he climbed the front steps, tipping his hat at her.
‘Like a hog roast,’ he grinned as the maid opened the door for him.
‘Ernest, good man, what’s your tipple?’ Jacques greeted him. ‘Mary’s having a mint julep and I’m on the vin rouge.’ His words were slurred and Mary could tell he was drunk already, although it was only just after six. She sighed.
‘Mint julep sounds delicious.’ Ernest laid down his hat and asked Mary’s permission to remove his jacket, then rolled up his shirt sleeves, taking a chair close to hers.
She asked after Dorothea, and he said that unfortunately her health continued to be poor, then added: ‘On that front, I have some news for you.’
Mary scrutinised him; he seemed uncharacteristically sombre and was avoiding her eye. ‘Don’t keep us in suspense,’ she prodded, as Jacques handed him the drink.
He took a sip. ‘I think you know that I have always felt torn between my British and American sides. My father has recently been in touch to ask if I will go back to London to run the office there, so he can begin to step down from the business. My sister Maud is also based in London and keen for me to be nearby. So I have said I will sail within the next few weeks, just as soon as arrangements can be made.’
‘You can’t go!’ Jacques exclaimed. ‘Where will we find someone else for our bridge tournaments? Seriously, mon ami, we’ll miss you terribly.’
Mary had a lump in her throat. She missed him already. ‘How does Dorothea feel about the move?’ she asked.
He gave a little cough. ‘In fact, Dorothea and I have . . . I’m afraid we’ve decided to divorce.’
There was a shocked silence. Mary’s mind was whirling. Wallis was in France, on the same side of the Atlantic as London. ‘You’re not going because of . . .’ she started, then stopped, remembering that she had never told Jacques of the affair.
‘Our marriage has been unhappy for some time, and recent strains have proved insurmountable. It’s best for all concerned.’ He stared at his lap as he spoke, clearly embarrassed.
‘Wallis is in Europe just now. Perhaps you’ll bump into her,’ Mary said tartly.
At the mere mention of the name, she saw his eyes go sappy and it enraged her. The first thought in her head was: What about me? Ernest had been her confidant since the day she had told him about her miscarriages, and until the Wallis debacle she had felt she could talk to him about anything. They had their shared love of books, and he was a good influence on Jacques, restraining his drinking by example. He was her safety net, her shoulder to lean on, and he couldn’t go to London. She wouldn’t allow it.
Then another thought came into her head, one she had never put into words before: If he is leaving his wife, it should be for me.
It surprised her as soon as she formed the thought because it was patently obvious. In her fantasy life, Ernest was her ideal husband, someone who was both friend and lover. He would ask her opinion in a way that Jacques never did; there would be no subjects she was not allowed to raise, no restless nights spent listening to his drunken snoring. She had sometimes imagined his face when she and Jacques made love, always with a twinge of guilt afterwards. But it had never seemed possible that they could be together because he was with Dorothea – and now Wallis had turned his head and he was chasing off to Europe on her trail. Of course, she would treat him with contempt, as she did all her admirers. She would take his heart in her hands, drop it on the floor and grind it beneath her heel.
‘I always thought you were more of a gentleman than that,’ she said sharply. ‘I guess I was wrong.’
‘Mary!’ Jacques rebuked. ‘It’s none of our business what goes on in Ernest’s marriage.’
‘I’m just surprised that he should be so easily taken in,’ she continued, aware that Jacques would have no idea what she was talking about. ‘You men can be so gullible.’
‘Hey, what have I done?’ Jacques exclaimed, while Ernest looked as though he wished he were anywhere but there.
‘I’m disappointed in you. You have plummeted in my estimation,’ she told Ernest, and he mumbled a few indistinct words that sounded like an apology.
‘Is someone going to tell me what’s going on?’ Jacques asked.
Mary stood up. ‘I’ll let Ernest tell you. I have a headache and am going to retire. Goodbye, Mr Simpson.’
He rose to his feet but she did not stop to give him her hand as she fled the room. She was so angry she felt she might cry. Why did Wallis always get what she wanted? It simply wasn’t fair.
The week after Ernest sailed, Mary received a letter from Wallis on the Côte d’Azur. She and Aunt Bessie had befriended a young Philadelphia lawyer who at first had seemed sedate but turned out to be the most exceptional dancer. When he got on the dance floor, others drew back to admire his Charleston and his Black Bottom. She also mentioned a very amusing Irishman, who entertained them at dinner. It was clear she was not pining for Ernest. Mary ripped the letter into tiny pieces and dropped it in an ashtray.
On 25 October, the front page of the New York Times ran the story that Wallis’s Uncle Sol had died. Mary read his obituary with curiosity. She had known he was director of a railroad company but not that he was responsible for the extension of the Seaboard Air Line Railroad to southern Florida. She had ridden on that very line when she visited Wallis in Pensacola. Various worthy businessmen wrote of his great contribution to the country’s transport infrastructure and of his fortune, estimated to be around five million dollars. Of course, it meant that Wallis would be coming home from France. She must have high hopes of an inheritance, since Sol had never married and had no children of his own.
By the time Wallis returned, Uncle Sol was already lying in the family vault and his will had been read to family members. Wallis was met at the station by her mother Alice, who explained the terms, and she was soon on the telephone to share them with Mary.
‘Can you believe it? He’s left the bulk of his fortune to a home for impoverished ladies of gentle birth. I will receive a minuscule trust fund – and even that will cease in the event of my remarriage.’
‘Why would he do that?’ Mary sympathised. ‘Why not look after his own flesh and blood?’
Wallis sighed. ‘Because he never forgave me for leaving Win, against his express orders. Looking on the bright side, at least I don’t have to sit through another of his tedious moral lectures. He had no respect for me, or for any women. In his book we were frail creatures without principles or common sense.’
Mary’s recollection was that Wallis only ever visited Uncle Sol to wheedle and cajole money for one thing or another: a new dress, a trip to Europe, a divorce. Perhaps he got fed up with it.
‘I’ll appeal, of course,’ Wallis finished. ‘He’s not getting away with it.’
‘Are you coming back to live in America now?’ Mary asked.
‘Not for long. I’m going to Warrenton to finalise my divorce in early December, then I wondered if I might impose on your hospitality over Christmas? I sail for Europe early in the New Year.’
Mary paused. Wallis clearly had no idea how cross she was with her. It would have been easy to make some excuse, to say that Jacques’ family were staying, but she couldn’t resist the allure of her old friend. She heard herself saying the words: ‘Yes, of course you can stay.’
For the first day or so of the visit, Mary did not ask Wallis about Ernest. She couldn’t bear to torture herself. But before long her curiosity got the better of her.
‘Did you know that Ernest is in London and is divorcing Dorothea?’ she asked, watching for the reaction.
‘He’s such a dear,’ Wallis replied, tipping her head to one side with a distant smile. ‘He keeps asking me to marry him and I really can’t make up my mind. I’m very fond of him, and he is kind, which would be a marked contrast to the last husband. But I’m not sure he is temperamentally my type.’
‘I’m not sure that anyone is,’ Mary replied, unable to keep the acid from her tone.