April 1895, London
‘Mrs Louis Hamersley is one of the handsomest women in New York.… Add to this great beauty the fact that she owns some five or six millions, and the natural result is that her opera box is constantly filled with the most attractive men in the town.’ – THE BROOKLYN EAGLE
Lily Beresford would have cast her eye around the large reception room at Number 3 Carlton House Terrace. The room looked perfect, just as she had imagined it. For once she had got the wedding breakfast of her dreams, and she couldn’t have been happier. This time she would have been determined to leave nothing to chance. A young Winston Churchill wrote to his mother, Jennie, that it was ‘a most excellent breakfast which must have cost a great deal’1. It had, but as a woman of means, she could now afford to do things properly, and properly she would, without the interference of her mean and eccentric first husband or her second husband, an impoverished duke keen to make as little fuss as possible. This time, her third as a bride, she would put on the occasion that everybody expected and she had longed for. Her marriage to Lord William Beresford would be different, of that there was no doubt.
The wedding had been set for ten o’clock on 30 April 1895 at the fashionable St George’s Church on Hanover Square. The morning was clear and bright as the guests filed through the six vast stone Corinthian columns at the church’s impressive entrance to take their seats. Awaiting them lay an interior festooned with Lily’s trademark white orchids, a tradition she had established many years before when she became notorious for decorating her opera box with them. Today, they acknowledged her past life, as it would never be far away from her thoughts. She was conscious of the turbulent journey she had taken to arrive at St George’s and she wouldn’t be forgetting what she had learned along the way.
The wedding guests, including the Duke of Cambridge, the United States Ambassador and Winston Churchill, turned to look at the thirty-nine-year-old bride as she was slowly revealed at the rear of a procession headed by the choir and the Queen’s chaplain, Reverend Edgar Shephard. She took slow, deliberate steps, arm-in-arm with her stepson, Sunny, the 9th Duke of Marlborough. Today, she would cease to be the Dowager Duchess, as she had been since 1892 on the death of Sunny’s father, the 8th Duke. She wore a dress of satin brocade trimmed with point lace and finished with beautiful diamond buttons, and a small grey velvet bonnet trimmed with pearls, ostrich plumes and a flamboyant white aigrette. Ahead of her at the bottom of the chancel steps stood William with his best man and younger brother, Marcus. William represented everything her two former husbands had lacked: a future bright with possibility. He was popular, beloved by all those who met him, and Lily was hopelessly in love. His older brother Charles Beresford wrote that ‘… he had the most lovable nature, the most charming character, the pluckiest spirit and most generous mind that I ever met. He was always thinking of others and never of himself.’2 William’s friend Lord Cromer agreed: ‘He was the cheeriest of companions and the most gallant of soldiers – in a word, one of the best fellows I have ever come across during a long life.’3
Lily felt sure that she had chosen well this time, although it had taken a long time and much heartache for her to find herself standing opposite a man she truly loved. Born Lilian Warren Price in Troy in New York State in 1854, she was the daughter of Cicero Price, a commodore in the United States navy. The Prices were decidedly middle-class and when they moved from the relatively sleepy Troy to the burgeoning New York, they lived simply and comfortably. They certainly could not have imagined that their daughter would capture the heart of one of the wealthiest men of the city. There was no doubt that Lily was beautiful, virtuous and good-natured, but nobody expected her to make a socially ambitious match. Elizabeth Drexel Lehr described her as ‘Lily of Troy, with no money or social position, but a face as fair as the legendary Helen’s’4. Perhaps Lily was underestimated by a New York society so concerned with position and family connections that it failed to notice the inroads she was making into the hearts of its young gentlemen. She had by now changed her name to Lily. Some suggested it was to reflect her pure, delicate flower-like beauty, others thought it was because Lilian rhymed with million and she wished to disguise her true intentions from potential suitors. She made a point of always wearing white, to ensure her porcelain skin looked alluring and was offset by her caramel-blonde hair. Gradually, Lily began to receive invitations to balls and dances and then, in 1877, she was invited to a Patriarchs’ Ball, where her beauty and grace caused a sensation.
It wasn’t long before she met and married Louis Carre Hamersley, who had made his money in bonds and real estate, in 1879. Louis was fourteen years older than Lily and lived at 257 Fifth Avenue with his father. The Hamersleys were considered peculiar by New York society and were largely shunned owing to the close bond between father and son, who never seemed to be seen apart. When Louis’ father died in 1883, his son quickly followed four months later. Lily became a wealthy widow overnight, receiving over four million dollars from her husband’s estate, although she would have to fight a long court battle with disgruntled relatives convinced they had been cheated out of their share by a wily gold-digger. This dispute persuaded Mrs Astor and her exclusive set that Lily’s name should not be included on the guest list for the smartest events, but she remained undeterred. Aided by friends who were willing to accept her, like Marietta Stevens, and with a fortune that put almost limitless funds at her disposal, she gave elaborate dinner parties and musicales and attended the opera religiously. In May 1888, a reporter for The Brooklyn Eagle described Lily’s opera excursions for its readers:
‘Mrs Louis Hamersley is one of the handsomest women in New York, and is to be seen during the Season at her box in the opera calm, fair and beautiful, and generally in white, with heaps of snowy furs drawn about her and a huge fan of white curled ostrich plumes in her languid hand… Add to this great beauty the fact that she owns some five or six millions, and the natural result is that her opera box is constantly filled with the most attractive men in the town.’5
Lily’s beauty and wealth were an enticing attraction for any eligible gentleman, but Lily wanted acceptance into society and therefore entertained another interesting proposition, the Duke of Marlborough. Widely known as the Marquess of Blandford, which had been his title until his father’s death in 1883 (and formerly the Earl of Sunderland), the 8th Duke of Marlborough was perilously in debt. Blenheim Palace, the Marlboroughs’ magnificent country seat in Woodstock, Oxfordshire, had been one of the most impressive stately homes in England for generations and a source of great pride to the family, but the sheer scale of the palace threatened to derail their future. It was outdated, uncomfortable and in desperate need of repairs, yet the income from the estate was dwindling as a result of declining rents from tenant farmers. Blandford’s father had attempted to stop the rot in the late 1870s and early 1880s by selling off land, auctioning the Marlborough gems at Christie’s and putting up for sale the priceless collection of books that formed the Sunderland library but his efforts weren’t enough. When Blandford inherited the dukedom in 1883, he embarked on another sale, this time of the family’s collection of paintings, including Raphael’s Ansidei Madonna and Van Dyck’s Time Clipping the Wings of Cupid. These paintings, along with other priceless canvases by Rubens, Titian and Rembrandt, enabled Blandford to purchase equipment for the tenant farms, as well as indulge his passion for orchids by installing hothouses at Blenheim, but again it proved insufficient to meet the needs of the great palatial residence. While the aristocratic system of primogeniture was designed to protect the family fortune, forever consolidating its wealth in the heir, it also put intolerable strain on the eldest son. The responsibility for dowries for numerous sisters and allowances for younger brothers and other family members could prove excessive, particularly in large families, which were common among the aristocracy. Blandford’s duties as Duke were extensive and expensive, and he was increasingly desperate to find a way out of his financial difficulties.
In the summer of 1887, Blandford attended a house party thrown by Jennie Churchill’s sister Clara Frewen at Lavington Park, with Minnie and Arthur Paget. Just a few weeks later he would be on his way to America, where his first stop would be Marietta’s villa in Newport, Rhode Island. The play The Title Mart, which was produced on Broadway in 1906, features an aristocrat very like Blandford, who comes to America in search of a rich bride. In Act 1 he says: ‘Well here I am in America, with fifteen thousand pounds’ worth of debts, two country places, mortgaged up to the leads, – assets, a letter of introduction to Mrs Blackwell, stepmother to an heiress worth twenty millions.’6
Unfortunately, although Americans typically loved the aristocracy, the puritanical side of the American press won out in Blandford’s case and, having heard lurid reports of his philandering throughout his first marriage, which had ended in divorce in 1883, it was in no mood to welcome him with open arms, reporting, ‘Everything his Grace of Marlborough [sic] brought with him was clean, except his reputation.’7 At first Newport society felt the same way, scuppering Blandford’s plans to attract a rich heiress. Fortunately for him, the pragmatic Marietta Stevens felt differently, reasoning that making an alliance with any duke, no matter how debauched, was better than snubbing one altogether. Forewarned about about the Duke’s visit and his dubious reputation by Minnie, nevertheless she was poised to extend an invitation for him to stay as her guest in Newport as soon as he stepped off the boat from England. She then began the familiar process of ensuring he was seen at the most exclusive events of the summer and identifying an American heiress who had the fortune and face to become the Duchess of Marlborough. It was a strategy Minnie and Marietta had been discussing and honing on Marietta’s regular trips to visit her daughter in England. Establishing themselves as conduits for Anglo-American relations made sense and might prove to be lucrative. Now it began to bear fruit.
By the autumn of 1887, Marietta and Blandford were attending the Metropolitan Opera to see a production of Tristan and Isolde. As usual, Lily was there, as Marietta knew she would be, and for the first time she laid eyes on her future husband. Eventually the two were introduced, with both Marietta and Leonard Jerome, Jennie Churchill’s father, playing their part in the courtship. Lily seemed particularly taken with Blandford’s intelligence, as he was a keen inventor, often spending days at a time in a makeshift laboratory he had created at Blenheim. He even worked on an early communications system for the palace, installing Britain’s first internal telephone system, and spent time with Alexander Bell when he was visiting America. Blandford was undoubtedly attracted to Lily’s money, but he also appreciated her submissive nature and the way she indulged his ideas and fancies. They became engaged and, although her family opposed the marriage, telling her to break it off on the grounds of his divorce and commenting that Lily was ‘as uncontrollable as a horse without a bit in his mouth’8, the wedding went ahead on 29 June 1888.
Marietta was travelling in Europe when Lily and Blandford said their vows, rather unromantically at the mayor’s office in City Hall. Blandford was careful to ensure that the legal papers regarding Lily’s fortune were all in order before they began, and then insisted on a second ceremony at the tabernacle Baptist Church on Second Avenue afterwards, as divorcees were prevented from marrying in an Episcopalian church. The couple held a small dinner party with friends at Delmonico’s that evening before sailing for England on the Aurania the next day. Once they arrived in London, Blandford escorted Lily to another wedding ceremony at the registry office on Mount Street. His determination to legally secure the marriage apparently knew no bounds. Two years later, Cosmopolitan would acknowledge the place money occupied in such unions, writing, ‘They are married with few exceptions for their money or the money they are supposed to have – an ugly fact but nevertheless a fact. The charms so much talked about are thrown in and are appreciated… after marriage rather than before.’9
Awareness of the attraction of her fortune to Blandford did not prevent Lily pursuing the marriage. Even as a duke of dubious reputation, he was a duke all the same, and provided her with a position that would surely admit her to the most exclusive circles. The newlyweds travelled from London to Blenheim, where Marietta was one of their first visitors.
The new Duchess found the imposing and majestic Blenheim Palace impressive but uncomfortable. She was used to a palatial and modern mansion in the heart of the bustling city of New York, equipped with the newest technology to ensure the comfort of its occupants. Blenheim stood proud but isolated in the heart of the Oxfordshire countryside. It was vast and cold, with a labyrinth of passageways that saw servants bustling up and down, day and night, attending to the Duke and Duchess’s every need. There were no convenient ensuite bathrooms – instead servants were forced to trek long distances with hot water to fill Lily’s bath, which was positioned in front of her bedroom fire. Mealtimes were a problem too. There was no accomplished French chef to devise gluttonous menus at Blenheim, as Lily had been used to at home, and the dining room lay so far away from the kitchen that the basic food that made its way out of the kitchen was almost cold and inedible by the time it was served. Lily set about using some of her fortune to improve Blenheim, contributing to the repair of the three-acre roof, restoring the boathouse, repairing the family’s chapel and crucially adding central heating and electricity, which greatly improved her comfort during the eternally long days and nights when the Duke and Duchess were in residence. She also had the Grand Willis organ installed, which bore the inscription:
In memory of happy days
And as a tribute
To this glorious home
We leave thy voice
To Speak within these walls
In years to come
When ours are still
LM and MM
189110
Remarkably, Lily and Blandford were happy together. Blandford had been finally released from the pressure of inevitable financial ruin into the arms of a woman who pandered to his whims and had the means to meet all his demands. Lily, as a duchess, had achieved an unassailable position that meant she would never again have to endure the humiliation of being left out of society. She made a triumphant journey back to New York, where Marietta held an ostentatious dinner in her honour and The Four Hundred inundated her with invitations to an array of occasions.
Lily still encountered obstacles, namely her failure to conceive a child and Blandford’s stubborn continuation of an affair with Lady Colin Campbell, a passionate infatuation that saw him hang his mistress’s portrait in his bedroom, much to Lily’s embarrassment. The aristocracy also failed to accept her with open arms at first, the Churchill family making particularly cruel comments about her appearance. ‘I don’t think the Duchess Lily looking at all well in health and the moustache and beard are becoming serious,’11 wrote Blandford’s brother Lord Randolph Churchill to his mother. Whether these observations are true is difficult to ascertain, as many contemporary reports emphasise her beauty, although it is conceivable that by this time the middle-aged Lily’s looks were fading.
Her attempts to win over the Churchills would not be unsuccessful for long. One morning November 1892, Blandford was unexpectedly found dead in his bedroom by his valet. Lily was devastated. Lord Randolph wrote to his wife, Jennie, ‘I had a long talk with the poor Duchess while the post mortem was going on. You were really quite right about her and I quite wrong. Nothing could exceed her goodness and kindness of disposition, and my belief is that she means to do nothing but what is right, liberal and generous by the heir.’12
The Churchills were impressed by Lily’s ability to maintain her composure faced with the gravest of circumstances, but it was a situation she had already experienced. A widow once more, after only five years of marriage, she would have known time was limited to carve out a new position for herself in English society and manage a smooth transition to the next generation, Blandford’s son from his first marriage, Sunny, now the 9th Duke. She did allow herself one act of defiance, however, tearing to shreds the portrait of Lady Colin Campbell that had so tormented her throughout her marriage and posting every piece to her rival.
In December 1893, she took a twenty-one-year lease on Deepdene, a country estate in a valley at the foot of the North Downs, near Dorking in Surrey. Its highly likely that she was advised by her friends, including Consuelo Manchester and Minnie, to establish a visit to Deepdene as an essential part of the racing season. She scheduled a house party for June 1894 to coincide with the Derby at Epsom. Lily knew that the race always attracted high society, particularly elements of the Marlborough House Set who had an obsessive interest in horse racing, such as Arthur Paget and his crowd of gentlemen friends. Once more using the connections of her friends and acquaintances to draw up the guest list, she invited Lord William Beresford, who immediately impressed Lily with his impeccable military record, including the Victoria Cross for valour, and a reputation for being one of the most daring cross-country riders in England. He was warm and good-natured, and his blue eyes twinkled with humour, contrasting favourably with his silver-grey hair. He was completely different from Louis and Blandford, and Lily fell deeply in love. For William, who at forty-seven had resisted matrimony for many years, his introduction to Lily was a major turning point. The stability of her fortune must have been an attraction, but he was a man more used to primitive conditions after postings in Zululand and India than aristocratic country estates, so it appears there was much genuine affection on both sides. In 1895, Lord William Beresford proposed to Lily, once an American heiress, now a woman of means who had been widowed twice.
Maybe this time Lily would get everything she wanted. As her guests enjoyed the wedding breakfast she had always imagined, entertained by a groom who represented a life she had always desired but never quite achieved, the future showed potential to be different. The steps she had taken to become Lord William Beresford’s wife had been necessary, educational and valuable, but she was older and wiser and now and it was her chance to enjoy the spoils.