WALLIS’S COCKTAIL HOURS WERE RENOWNED BY now, and so popular she often had to refuse those who called to invite themselves so she could keep the numbers around twenty. She made the drinks herself in a silver shaker, and was skilled at pouring the correct proportions by eye.
Mary stood back and watched her hostessing. Wallis made sure she conversed with everyone, remembering to ask after children, ailing parents and new business ventures. The guests revolved around her like planets round the sun.
‘I declare you are the most popular hostess in London,’ Mary complimented her when she came to the bar for a refill.
‘Only because they hope to bump into the Prince of Wales,’ Wallis confided. ‘You see them enter the room and glance around, then a shadow of disappointment crosses their faces if he is not here.’
This was true of a new guest one evening, a German diplomat by the name of Joachim von Ribbentrop, who did not attempt to hide his chagrin.
‘Mrs Simpson, I had it on good authority that the Prince of Wales was a fixture in your drawing room. Is he going to arrive later?’
Wallis smiled as she handed him a gin martini with two olives. ‘He has an official engagement this afternoon. You picked the wrong day to grace us with your presence.’
‘I was very much hoping to see him. Perhaps another time.’
‘As long as you promise not to discuss politics all evening. I don’t want to hear about workers’ housing and the evils of Judaism in my KT hour.’ She turned to Mary. ‘May I introduce my old schoolfriend, Mrs Mary Raffray? I want you two to talk about entirely frivolous subjects,’ she instructed, before crossing the room to greet a newcomer, leaving them alone together.
Mary took against von Ribbentrop on sight. His forehead was too high, taking almost half the height of his face, and beneath it his eyes were too close together, too calculating.
‘Do you live in London, Mrs Raffray?’ he asked.
‘No, I’m here for a visit, to bask in the glow of Wallis’s glittering social circle.’
He didn’t smile. ‘And how long do you plan to stay?’
The question was delivered rudely, but Mary assumed the directness was a German quirk. ‘Until they throw me out. How long that will be, I have no idea. What brings you to London, Mr Ribbentrop?’
While they’d been talking, he’d kept gazing over her shoulder, his eyes roaming the room as if looking for someone more worthy of his attention, but now he fixed his stare on her. ‘I work for Herr Hitler, and travel wherever he asks me to.’
‘How fascinating! What kind of a man is he?’ Mary asked.
Von Ribbentrop smiled. ‘He is a genius who will save our country. We are very lucky to have him. If you will excuse me, I see a friend I must talk to. Enjoy your evening, Mrs Raffray.’
He walked off, leaving Mary to gawp at the rudeness.
‘How long have you known Ribbentrop?’ she asked Wallis the following morning.
‘I’d only met him once before, at Emerald Cunard’s. He’s supposed to be some sort of spy. Isn’t that glamorous? I find him charming.’
Mary certainly didn’t.
Later that day, a huge bouquet of blush-pink roses was delivered for Wallis, and she smiled when she read the card, before tossing it onto the fire. ‘Ribbentrop,’ she said. ‘Aren’t they lovely?’
One Sunday in late November, Ernest asked over breakfast whether Wallis or Mary would like to visit Petworth with him. Although the house was not open to the public, there was a park by the great landscape designer Capability Brown.
‘I’d love to,’ Mary said straight away, and both of them turned to Wallis.
‘I’d rather have a lazy day,’ she said, stretching. ‘You two go. Have fun!’
It was clear but cold, and Mary bundled herself in hat, coat and fur muff for the drive over the South Downs, with their glorious views to the silvery streak of sea beyond. As they strolled in the grounds, Ernest explained that they had previously been formal gardens but that in the 1750s Capability Brown had persuaded the owners to opt for a more natural style. He’d introduced an S-shaped lake, great sweeps of grass and winding paths that took advantage of the stunning vistas.
Two red setters came bounding towards them, with glossy coats in a rich shade of rust. Ernest stroked them and they rubbed their heads against his legs. Mary glanced round to look for their owner and saw a woman in tweeds with a scarf tied around her head. As she got closer, she called: ‘Don’t encourage them. They think you have food.’
There was something familiar about her brown hair, friendly face and very upper-class accent, but Mary couldn’t place her.
‘Excuse me,’ the woman said. ‘Aren’t you Mary Kirk from Baltimore?’
‘Ye-es,’ Mary agreed cautiously.
‘Eleanor Jessop,’ she said. ‘We met at Oldfields. I was there from 1913 to 1914.’
‘English Eleanor!’ Mary exclaimed. ‘My goodness, how are you?’ She reached out to shake hands. ‘Ernest, this is a schoolfriend of Wallie’s and mine.’
Ernest shook hands, and Mary explained that he was Wallis’s husband.
‘You’re still in touch with her then?’ Eleanor seemed surprised.
‘I’m staying with her in London. Ernest and I just came out for a drive.’
Eleanor’s eyes flickered from one to the other, clearly curious. ‘Can I invite you for tea? My house is a mile down the road, in the direction of East Lavington.’
Mary looked at Ernest, then said, ‘I’m getting rather chilly, so tea would be welcome.’
‘I assume you came by car. Do you have room for three in the back?’ Eleanor indicated the dogs.
Ernest looked uneasy, and Mary could tell he was worried they would scratch the leather seats, but in the event they just made them rather muddy. Eleanor gave directions and they turned up a drive towards a pretty manor house with a circular parking area outside.
‘What a glorious house,’ Ernest remarked. ‘Eighteenth century?’
‘Yes. It’s been in my husband’s family for generations. Do come in.’
Once they were seated in the spacious drawing room in front of a log fire with a grand pillared fireplace, Mary began to thaw. A maid brought a tray of tea and home-baked scones and Mary and Eleanor chatted about Oldfields days, remembering the Miss Nolands, and some of the other girls.
Ernest was gazing round the room. He spotted a portrait of Eleanor with her hair scraped back into a tight bun and wandered over to have a closer look. ‘That’s terribly good,’ he said. ‘The artist has captured a clever likeness.’
Eleanor smiled, pleased at the compliment. ‘It’s by my husband, Ralph Hargreaves. He would be delighted to hear you say that. I’m sorry he’s not around this afternoon, but he’s off painting somewhere and I won’t see him till dusk. Do stay to meet him.’
‘Another time, perhaps.’ Ernest looked at his watch. ‘Wallis is expecting us at six.’
Before they left, Eleanor and Mary swapped addresses and telephone numbers. Mary gave the Bryanston Court ones as well as those in New York.
‘If you’re in London, come to our cocktail hour,’ Ernest offered. ‘Six o’clock most evenings.’
Eleanor replied, ‘I’m afraid we don’t tend to travel to the city, but I would love you to come here for a longer visit. It’s so good to see you, Mary.’
In the car on the way back, Mary told Ernest how Wallis used to do an uncanny impersonation of Eleanor’s accent, and how they used to pump her for information about the Prince. ‘Funny to think of it now,’ she laughed.
As soon as they arrived at Bryanston Court, Mary found Wallis. ‘Guess who we met? Do you remember English Eleanor?’
‘Oh, her,’ Wallis said, making a face. ‘Is she still dull as dishwater?’
‘On the contrary,’ Ernest chipped in. ‘She’s charming, and lives in a beautifully kept manor house of some distinction.’
‘Houses. Yawn.’ Wallis was tidying her cocktail bar. ‘Chop, chop, you two! You’ve got five minutes to change before Peter Pan arrives to lap up his martini.’
As she walked past the hall table, Mary noticed a new bouquet of blush-pink roses, the exact shade of the ones von Ribbentrop had sent before. She looked but couldn’t see a card beside them.