A FEW DAYS AFTER THEIR RETURN TO LONDON, Mary set out to catch a train to Pulborough. It was a tiny station, with just two platforms, one of them shaded by an awning, and a stationmaster sitting in a brick office who was happy to telephone her hosts and offered her a cup of tea while she waited.
Twenty minutes later, an open-topped motorcar pulled up and a very tall man wearing a long scarf leapt out. ‘Ralph Hargreaves,’ he said. ‘And you must be Mrs Raffray.’
She shook his hand, saying, ‘How do you do,’ and was taken aback when he stood staring at her.
‘Is something wrong?’ she asked.
‘No.’ He shook himself. ‘It’s just that you are so very beautiful. Gosh, that must sound as though I am trying to seduce you. Please forgive me.’ He grinned. ‘I don’t know if my wife mentioned that I am an artist? I specialise in portraiture, and you have the loveliest face, with those merry eyes and pretty mouth . . . There I go again.’
Mary laughed. ‘That is quite the nicest greeting I’ve had in a long while. Thank you.’
She got into the passenger seat and was amused to note that there were smears of paint on the legs of Ralph’s trousers and one sleeve of his jacket.
‘Have you ever had your portrait painted?’ he asked, and she said no, she had never known an artist before.
‘We must discuss it,’ he insisted, and as he drove, he kept shooting her sidelong glances, as if trying to decide the best angle from which to paint her.
Eleanor greeted her and they sat in the cosy drawing room, picking up the threads of conversation where they had left off, the dogs sniffing hopefully at their clothing. In another week Eleanor’s two teenage sons would be home from Eton for the Christmas holidays and she was dying to see them; she asked where Mary would spend Christmas, and Mary found herself telling Eleanor about the end of her marriage.
‘I still love Jacques. I will always care for him, but I’ve realised that it is impossible to cure someone who has a drink problem.’
Eleanor agreed, but said, ‘I’m sorry for it, though. He is losing a wonderful wife.’
Mary laughed. ‘I must come here to be flattered more often. You and your husband are terribly good at it.’
‘How is Wallis?’ Eleanor asked, pouring more tea. ‘Is she happy?’
Mary hesitated. ‘I think so. Why do you ask?’
Eleanor mused. ‘She always had the air of a person who was searching for something more and would not be satisfied with an ordinary life. But you know her better; perhaps I am mistaken.’
‘She is a complicated character,’ Mary agreed.
‘Mr Simpson did not seem the type of husband I would have imagined her with . . .’
Mary twisted her mouth to one side before answering. ‘He’s solid and clever and a good man. Wallis might seem frightfully confident and gregarious but underneath she gets anxious and Ernest anchors her. He’s the security she never had as a young girl.’
Eleanor was surprised by this. ‘But she strikes me as so independent! I heard she spent a year in China on her own.’
‘Not quite on her own. She was staying with a couple, Mr and Mrs Herman Rogers. She has an extraordinary number of friends.’
‘And now that she is one of the Prince of Wales’s set, I imagine she has more than ever.’
Mary could tell Eleanor was fishing for information. It was tempting to blurt out what she knew, to get another woman’s perspective on the complex situation Wallis had gotten herself into, but loyalty stopped her. Loyalty to Wallis or to Ernest? She wasn’t sure.
‘She and Ernest are very close to the Prince,’ she replied. ‘He’s a lonely character and they’ve taken him under their wing. Ernest talks to him endlessly about history and politics and they seem to see eye to eye.’
‘Is that so?’ Eleanor replied, her gaze searching Mary’s face. ‘How lovely for them.’
On her return to London two days later, Mary found Wallis in the drawing room wearing a beautiful Chinese-patterned dress in a blue fabric printed with roses.
‘Is that new? It’s divine!’ Mary approached for a closer look and saw that it was in fact a tunic worn over a slender ankle-length skirt.
‘Do you like it? It’s from Mainbocher’s fall collection. A thank-you from the Prince for helping with his entertaining.’
‘That’s very kind of him.’ Mary tried to catch her eye, to give her a knowing look, but Wallis turned to reposition an ornament on the mantelpiece.
‘How was your stay with English Eleanor?’ Wallis imitated her accent.
Mary spoke with enthusiasm. ‘It was fun. There’s no ceremony, no dressing for dinner, no silver service. Their dogs run amok through the house and her artist husband wears paint-spattered clothing. I like them both.’
‘Only a few more days till you sail. How will I manage without you?’ Wallis asked, sounding plaintive.
‘Perhaps you shouldn’t take on so much,’ Mary advised, choosing her words with care. ‘It’s easy to over-commit yourself then find you have obligations you can’t fulfil.’
Wallis gave her a sharp look. ‘Darling Mary, who knows me better than I know myself: how would you advise that I divest myself of obligations without hurting a certain person’s feelings?’
‘You need to draw a clear line and not step over it.’
‘That’s just the problem, though: where exactly to draw the line.’
‘Perhaps you need to draw it behind you and take a step back,’ Mary suggested, wondering yet again what Wallis had been doing in the Prince’s bedroom.
Wallis frowned, then glanced at the clock. ‘Don’t you want to change? It’s almost six.’
‘I suppose I had better, so you don’t completely outshine me in that stunning outfit.’ She kissed Wallis on the cheek. ‘I do understand,’ she whispered, with a sympathetic look.
On the way to her bedroom, Mary heard the doorbell ring and hovered to see if it was an early guest. Instead, she watched the maid take delivery of yet another huge bunch of blush-pink roses. Wallis came to the drawing-room door, plucked the card from the bouquet, read it, then folded it in half and stuck it in her pocket.
She’s up to something, Mary thought. But surely not with Ribbentrop.