1881–1883
Mama says he’s completely unsuitable because he has no money or family name. I don’t care about any of that.” Clarita lifted her chin in the drawing room of my home in Connaught Place, as if I was the one who must be persuaded. “Moreton Frewen might not be titled or rich, but I’m about to turn thirty. All I’ll ever be is alone if I refuse him again.”
“Again?” I rang the bell for tea. “How many times has he proposed?”
“Three.” Her accusatory tone indicated I’d been remiss in not keeping abreast of her situation during my time away. “Shortly after I met him at the season, he claimed he was besotted. I couldn’t indulge such a precipitous declaration, but he followed me to Paris and proposed again. Naturally, Mama dispatched me forthwith to Papa in New York. He showed up on our doorstep there, if you can believe it. He’s acquired land in Wyoming and has plans to build a ranch. Apparently, there’s a cattle boom in the state. He talked it over with Papa, who told me he admires Moreton’s adventurous spirit and gave us his blessing.”
“I see.” I decided not to remark that Papa’s blessing was hardly decisive, given his own erratic financial trajectory. “And in all of it, do you have any care for this Moreton?”
“Of course,” she said at once, though I heard the falter in her voice. “He’s handsome and ambitious. He says he loves me, so I suppose I should love him in return.”
“You can’t suppose yourself into love.” I paused as the maid entered with our tea. “Clarita, trust me. Love is the beginning. Maintaining the marriage is what tests our forbearance.”
As I poured tea into her cup, I felt her stare. “Why would you say that? You fell in love practically overnight and look at you now: esteemed Lady Randolph, with two sons, a rising politician husband, and position in society. Whatever has tested you?”
I lifted my gaze. I thought of confiding in her, only doing so wouldn’t make me seem any less culpable. “You know how trying my life has been since our falling-out with Bertie. Only the Rothschilds have stood by us, and by virtue of their fortune, they can afford to. Otherwise, we may as well have stayed in Ireland or removed ourselves to Blenheim. No one else dares incur His Highness’s wrath by receiving us.”
She took up her cup. “He can’t stay angry forever. Randolph is making quite the impression with those fiery speeches of his in defense of Ireland. He’s been in all the newspapers. The prince will have to come around eventually, if only for diplomacy’s sake.”
“One can hope. Still, none of this comes without its cost. I had to canvass Woodstock for votes to help Randolph re-win his seat, and Lady Frances was furious that I was out courting the people like a vendor. And after he drafts his speeches, I must revise each one to ensure he doesn’t stray too far and anger the prince even more.”
“Well, Moreton won’t be giving speeches to cattle, so we needn’t worry about angering anyone,” she huffed.
“Except Mama,” I said.
Her face turned plaintive. “Can’t you write to her, or better yet, go visit and tell her that you approve? She might pretend your marriage wasn’t to her liking, but I’ve heard her in her salon, boasting to everyone about how her daughter married into the Spencer-Churchill family and started a trend for others to follow.”
“A trend?”
“Didn’t you know? They’re publishing a quarterly in America listing prospective titled bachelors. Mama has a copy of it. You’re cited as being one of the first: Jennie Jerome, the New York millionaire’s daughter who enraptured a British lord.”
“Honestly.” I had to laugh. “How absurd. Do these American girls check off potential prospects in the quarterly before setting sail with their trousseaus at the ready?”
“They do.” She set her cup down with a determined clink on the saucer. “And all of them come with family names and, more importantly, reams of family money. Jennie, I can’t keep attending the season year after year in hope someone better will take notice of me. Moreton is who I have. I want to marry. Start a family. It’s time.”
Looking at her voluptuousness, which was tending toward Mama’s portliness, though for now she was too young yet for it to merit remark—I saw that I had indeed been remiss. My older sister, whom I’d so often envied, was on the verge of desperation. Told since childhood that she must make a superb marriage that had failed to materialize, she now faced the unthinkable: spinsterhood. In my current predicament, I couldn’t do much to help her. I hadn’t lied. Since our return to England, I’d barely been received, though I’d redecorated my new townhouse and ordered new gowns for the season. Bertie of Wales’s displeasure hung over us like a scythe; without entrée into his coveted circle, I couldn’t present either myself or my sisters to anyone of importance.
“Jennie, must I beg? I supported you when you wanted to marry Randolph. I need your support in return. Mama will heed you; I know she will.”
I had my doubts about that, but I smiled anyway. “I should probably meet him first. Bring him here for dinner next week.”
MORETON FREWEN WAS indeed handsome and well-built, with an impressive mustache and a head of thick auburn hair. He reminded me of Papa, with his grandiose assertion that in America he would make his fortune. I didn’t fail to notice how he kept glancing adoringly at Clarita and how she returned his gaze in limp-eyed awe. It would have taken a far stronger character than hers to resist such a man, even if I feared she might be in for a disappointment.
Randolph shared my misgivings. “I’m afraid Moreton is known for these harebrained schemes,” he told me after they left. “I’ve made inquiries. His father once served in the Commons, but the family has no pedigree to speak of. Moreton is a superb sportsman, however, with a passion for all those outdoor pursuits we revere, so he’s admired. Unfortunately, he also has a knack for investing in ventures that come to nothing.”
“Clarita doesn’t seem to care,” I said. “She’s quite determined to marry him.”
He inserted a cigarette into his mother-of-pearl holder, an absurd concession to his doctors’ advice to curtail his intake, as he smoked just as much. “I suppose she could do worse. He hasn’t incited any scandals, to my knowledge. Everyone seems to like him well enough to receive him.”
“Unlike us.” I watched him turn to pace the drawing room. “My darling, when shall our disfavor end? We can’t possibly further ourselves without the prince.”
Randolph scowled. “Believe me, I’m very much aware. Bertie refuses to hear a word in my defense, much less anything from me in person. When Gladstone approached him to suggest a rapprochement after my last speech, which brought the entire House to its feet, Bertie gave him an earful. I’m afraid we’re excluded indefinitely from His Highness’s favor.”
“But Her Majesty invested your mother with the Royal Order for her famine relief. If the queen can forgive us, why can’t His Highness do the same?”
“Because Bertie makes a point of countermanding anything his mother does. His obstinacy is equaled only by his perversity.” As Randolph smoked his cigarette to its stub, I recalled what Fanny had told me: If there’s one name in your husband’s family that His Highness will still tolerate, it’s yours.
“Perhaps I could bring about a rapprochement,” I said.
He went still. “Absolutely not.”
“Why not?” I stood, wincing. I had ordered my maid to lace my corset too tight, in the hope of restoring my sixteen-inch waist, which childbirth had widened to an unacceptable twenty-four. “Her Highness has always been very courteous to me. I might be able to persuade her to—”
He held up his hand. “Have you forgotten how our past attempt at persuasion went?”
“This is about your career,” I told him. “Everyone is taking notice of you, including Gladstone. He once espoused Home Rule. In time, he might champion you as his successor.” I set my hands on his shoulders as he regarded me warily. “Randolph, you might be prime minister one day—but only if we have Bertie’s support.”
“Gladstone’s espousal of Home Rule tore a breach in our party that lost us influence for twenty years. And now you think I could be his successor?” He chuckled, breathing out the acrid scent of his tobacco. “Jennie, as always, I’m enthralled by your ambition, but I’m beginning to think it knows no bounds.”
“Not where we are concerned.” I kissed his cheek. “You must allow me to make the attempt. I’ve nothing to lose, save an uncomfortable meeting with Her Highness.”
As I turned to go upstairs and release myself from the torment of my corset, he said from behind me, “I can’t imagine she’ll receive you. She must despise us as much as Bertie does.”
“Women have other ways of finding accord,” I replied. “Trust me in this.”
MAMA HAD GROWN stout and complacent in Paris, where she exerted absolute independence in her affairs. In contrast, Dobbie was visibly stooped, moving slower, but as devoted as ever to her Miss Clara. She was also overjoyed to see my sister and me, chiding me for not writing more often. I hugged her and promised I would, though she snorted, knowing I most likely wouldn’t. She asked after my boys, wanting to know when she’d meet them, too; I offered to bring them once they were older or bring her to England for a visit. She nodded, but it was evident to me that unless Mama came with her, Dobbie wouldn’t budge from her side. She’d gone from being our nanny to Mama’s sole companion.
And unfortunately, Mama hadn’t changed one bit, even if the world was moving too quickly for her to keep up. Those brides of means Clarita had mentioned were now arriving in droves—brash, young, and very rich, baiting impecunious lords eager to shore up their brittle lineages with an infusion of American wealth. The quarterly should have been published monthly, so swiftly did its listings go out of date.
“Moreton has nothing to commend him,” Mama said. “A few acres in Wyoming and a proposed ranch do not a future make. Whatever will Clarita do there as his wife?”
“Raise a family. She loves him and he loves her. Isn’t that enough?”
She glared at me from across the tea table. “Since when has love been a requisite for marriage?”
“It was for you and Papa,” I countered, darkening her face. “Clarita is no longer of age to compete for a title. We’re no longer the toast of Paris or London.”
“Certainly not after your husband’s disaster. Leonie’s debut can’t even be considered, held as it was under a storm of royal displeasure. And now, she too thinks to marry for love.” Mama directed a censorious look at my younger sister, whose sable-lashed eyes and quiet demeanor belied her iron will. She had entered her twenty-first year, and while not outwardly as striking as Clarita or me, she had my talent for the piano and had attracted the affection of Sir John Leslie, heir to an Irish baronet, during her season in London.
“John is serving in the Grenadier Guards,” Leonie said. “He’ll inherit a prosperous estate, including Castle Leslie in County Monaghan. I don’t see why you should oppose him.”
“Lest you forget, his family opposes you. God save me, one wants to go live in the wilds of Wyoming and the other in the wilds of Ireland. Must I contend with two headstrong daughters at once?” Mama redirected her furor to me. “This is your fault. Had you not rushed to marry in the heat of passion and set this impossible example . . .”
Her voice faded as she took in my silence.
“I can’t be blamed for the fall of an empire,” I said. “I wed the man I loved, and Clarita and Leonie now wish to do the same—with or without your approval.”
Mama motioned Leonie from the room, then said to me in a flat voice, “I’ll not have you fill her head with nonsense. Clarita may be a lost cause, but Leonie isn’t engaged. Should the Leslies have their way, she never will be. She shall go to New York instead to stay with your father. Leonard will see her presented in society as she should be.”
I gave an exasperated sigh. “Papa has moved back into our mansion because he couldn’t afford to keep his room at the club. His payments on my dowry are nine months in arrears. Do you think he’s in any position to tend to Leonie’s welfare?”
“Better than you are. You see to your affairs and let us see to your sisters.”
I left Mama ensconced in her salon, returning to London to inform Clarita of the result of my trip. My sister’s jaw set. “Moreton is waiting for me in New York. I have Papa’s approval. I don’t need hers.”
She booked passage. Before she left, I helped her acquire her trousseau, for which Papa sent funds, and promised to attend the wedding. Then Lady Frances informed me by letter that the time had come to enroll Winston in school. I had to visit Blenheim before my departure for New York, once Clarita wrote that she and Moreton had set the date. To emphasize her disapproval, Mama refused to bestir herself from Paris. But Leonie had gone to stay with Papa, so Clarita would have both her sisters and our father at her side on her wedding day.
I found Winston plagued by a bronchial cough and his combative nature. Now in his eighth year, he’d taken to questioning any authority save that of Mrs. Everest, prompting Lady Frances to undertake his enrollment in St. George’s School in Berkshire, an exclusive boarding academy that, according to her, would hold him to impeccable standards.
“I don’t want to go,” roared my son as Mrs. Everest clasped her hands in distress.
“My pumpkin.” I sank to my knees. “Every boy must go to school.” My nickname for him had been coined in Ireland, because of his perfectly round head, topped by a disarray of coppery curls, but his scowl deepened at my endearment. Crossing his arms over his narrow chest, he spat, “Jack is a boy. He isn’t going.”
“Jack is only a year old. When he’s your age, he, too, must go to school.” I held out my arms. “Come here. I promise you, nothing bad will happen.”
Mrs. Everest clucked her tongue. “Heed your mother, pet. She’s come all this way.”
My chest tightened at the imploring look he cast at her. “Will you come with me, Woomany?” That was what he called her—his beloved nanny, who’d tended to his every scrape and ailment. I had only myself to blame. Since Ireland, he’d not set eyes on me. I’d not had a moment to visit him, with the demands of Randolph’s career and my own family imbroglios.
“I’m afraid not,” said Mrs. Everest. “Nannies can’t accompany their charges to school.”
“If Woomany isn’t going, neither am I.” Winston returned his scowl to me. I expected him to stomp his foot or fling a nearby object. If there’d been any doubt as to whose temperament he’d inherited, there couldn’t be now. I saw myself at his age, debating every order my mother gave, causing Dobbie no end of trouble. I saw my father, cracking his whip as he careened through New York like a demented renegade.
“Woomany must stay here to care for Jack,” I said. “Don’t you want to become a learned man? They’ll teach you everything you need to know at school. And on the holidays, you can visit us in London.”
“I can?” His scowl eased.
“I promise. I’ll visit you at St. George’s as well.”
He took a hesitant step toward me. Just as I started to think he’d not budge another inch, he plunged into my arms, nesting his chin on my shoulder. He was so small, so vulnerable, despite his ferocious temper. “I’m afraid, Mama,” he whispered, and over his shoulder, I saw Mrs. Everest turn away, fighting back her tears.
I caressed his nape. “There’s nothing to be afraid of, my love. It’s just school.” He clung to me, suppressing a cough. It reminded me of Randolph, overwhelming me with concern that my son might fall ill from the tumult of leaving the only home he’d known. “Now, you must help Woomany pack your things,” I said. “You have to choose which books to bring.”
He loved to read. Mrs. Everest had taught him the basics and he’d taken to it with alacrity, poring over old tomes that had been gathering mildew for decades in Blenheim’s library, enthralled by the fables of Camelot.
“He’ll be fine,” said Mrs. Everest as he went to peruse the stack of volumes by his bed. “After he adjusts, he’ll be the first in his class. He’s extremely bright.”
“I hope so.” I regarded my older son doubtfully, his brow furrowed in concentration as he contemplated each of his books. “His health concerns me.”
“It’s not as serious as it seems. He stews himself into these fits; he has all this energy, all this curiosity, with nowhere to direct it.” She lowered her voice. “Her Grace can be too strict. It’s her way, but she’s not wrong in this. Much as I’ll miss the lad, he does need to be in school, where he can put his mind to good use.”
“And you did warn me he’d require a firm hand when this day came,” I said.
She sighed. “I fear we’ll need a footman or three to get him out the door.”
Leaving them to their task, I went down to the drawing room, where Lady Frances waited for our inevitable tea. “And how did you find him?” she asked, still in her oversized crinolines and dowdy cap, as if current fashion had no influence over her.
“Is he eating enough? I found him too thin.” I took the seat opposite her, feeling that seam of tension that was now always between us. I’d told myself I couldn’t visit because my husband and sisters needed me, but finding myself alone with her, I couldn’t deny that I’d mostly kept away to avoid this: another thorny exchange with my mother-in-law.
“He eats well enough, when the mood suits him. He doesn’t like this or that; he constantly debates our menu, as if this were a restaurant. I vow I’ve never contended with a more contrary child . . .” She let her insinuation linger. Of course my son’s inconformity must be my fault, the unfortunate legacy of my inferior bloodline.
“St. George’s is a fine institution,” she went on, as the overladen tea carts were rolled in. She still spent a ransom on cakes and pastries. “The headmaster will not tolerate these tantrums. He will teach the boy how a gentleman must conduct himself.”
“Winston is a child. He has years yet to learn to be a gentleman.”
“It’s never too early to learn proper manners,” she exclaimed. “At this rate, he’ll trespass beyond all civilized norms.”
I heard Miss Green in her voice and gripped my teacup so hard, I wondered it didn’t crack. “I won’t have my son harmed,” I said.
She made a moue of surprise. “One should never spare the rod if it’s required.”
“No.” I stared at her. “If they lay one finger on him, I’ll remove him from your fine institution myself. Is that understood?”
Her mouth pursed. “You must do as you think best, as you always do. Only permit me to say that Winston has obligations. Indulging him will do him no favors.”
“At the moment, his obligation is to learn. No child needs a rod for that.”
We resumed our tea in silence. As soon as enough time had passed for it not to be considered rude, I stood, taking up my bonnet and wrap.
“Must you leave so soon?” she said. “You only just arrived.”
“My sister is getting married in New York. I’ve much to prepare before I depart.”
“Randolph told me.” She might have sniffed, had she not sensed my own unpredictable temper brewing. “To Moreton Frewen, I believe?”
“Yes. What of it?”
“Nothing at all. I understand he’s an excellent huntsman. I’m quite sure he can round up cattle in your country with equal aplomb.”
Hatred boiled in my veins. “Clarita is very happy with him,” I said.
“Is she? Then please give her my regards for her continued happiness.”
As I marched out to my carriage, I understood exactly what she meant. My older sister had married precisely where she should, while I had overstepped myself.
I WAS OVERJOYED to be back in New York, even if our family mansion looked threadbare from the absence of Mama’s meticulous oversight. Papa had grown grayer, with a hint of jowl, not that the years could contain his exuberance. He escorted Clarita, Leonie, and me to his beloved concert halls and operas, and on carriage rides about the city. One day while Leonie and Clarita went shopping, I asked him how he fared. He waved aside my concern.
“The stock market is fickle. She wants this, then she wants that. We must adapt to her volatility.”
“No, Papa.” I set my hand on his. “How are you? You’re living on your own here. Isn’t there anyone . . . ?”
He chuckled. “Since Fanny left me for her temperamental composer? I’m afraid I’ve no time for it. Your mother is settled in Paris now, but Clarita’s dowry. Her wedding. And Leonie’s will come soon enough. Who will pay for all of it, if not me?”
Guilt knotted my chest. He’d worked all his life to support us as Mama demanded, but he was at the age when other men retired. With his family flung across the ocean, I suddenly realized Papa was indeed all alone in New York, shackled to his work with no end in sight.
“You could come to England,” I said. “Stay with us.”
“And do what? I’m not made for bouncing grandchildren on my knee. Bring your little ones here, if you can. They should see New York. They’re half American.”
“Yes,” I said, biting back tears. “I will. And you mustn’t worry about me, Papa. See to Clarita and Leonie. Randolph and I have our annuity from Blenheim. We’ll make do.”
He sighed. “I intend to honor my obligation to you as well. After I pay for the wedding.”
I warned Clarita not to overspend, but we’d paid visits to our fellow pupils from Miss Green’s Academy, all those imperious girls with whom she had vied. She regaled them with tales of our life in Europe, investing it with an exaggerated glamour that left them, as she noted in satisfaction, “pea-green.” Most of them had married well, though none could claim her husband had a title. And while Moreton didn’t have one either, the mere fact that he was British made him a catch, and my sister wanted her wedding at Grace Church to be a grand occasion.
She looked beautiful as Papa led her down the aisle, in her white gown and rosette-studded veil, the same one I’d worn, my gift to her. Beside her broad-shouldered groom, she was everything a bride should be. For the first time in her life, she also looked fulfilled. I still wondered how she’d adapt to life in the middle of nowhere after all the expectations inculcated in her, but she assured me she would do as she always had: strive to make the best of it.
“Who would have thought?” she said, as we finished packing her trunks for the train journey to Wyoming. Moreton had gone ahead after their honeymoon in Newport to prepare the ranch. “I still remember that day at Miss Green’s when you recited Baudelaire. And look at us now. Both married to Englishmen, and with the last one”—she darted a glance at Leonie—“about to follow in our footsteps.”
A blush crept over our younger sister’s cheeks. “Not if Mama has anything to say about it. Poor John doesn’t know what to do, caught between her and his family.”
“You must marry him anyway,” declared Clarita, though a trace of sorrow marred her defiance. Mama’s refusal to attend her wedding had hurt her. Our mother hadn’t so much as sent a congratulatory gift, underscoring her disapproval.
“Mama will reconcile herself to it in time,” I told Leonie. “She’s not entirely heartless. She just has this firm notion of who we ought to be and—”
“We’ve been a disappointment,” said Leonie. Clarita and I stared at her in surprise, considering how rarely she ventured an opinion. “Well, we are, aren’t we?” she went on. “We’ve certainly not done anything as she’d prefer it.”
I burst into laughter. “We certainly have not. We might not be the toast of two cities anymore, but we’re still Madame Jerome’s troublesome daughters.”
In the ensuing silence, as we gazed at each other from the twin beds Clarita and I had shared as girls, Leonie said, “We’ll never forget it, will we? No matter where life takes us, we’ll never forget we are sisters?”
“Never.” I enveloped her under one of my arms and held out my other hand to Clarita, whose blue eyes turned watery.
“We must always care for one another,” I said. “Let us make the promise now. Should one of us ever be in need, the others will rush to her aid without question. Agreed?”
“Yes.” Clarita’s voice caught. I felt Leonie nod in agreement against my shoulder.
“In sorrow and in joy,” I said. “Sisters to the end.”
SHORTLY AFTER WE saw Clarita off, a telegram arrived. I’d been hoping to spend the summer with Papa and Leonie. My father needed our company. But as soon as I opened the yellow wire with Randolph’s message, I let out a moan of despair.
His father the duke had died.