1883
Black banners hung on Blenheim’s façade, adding a funereal touch to its calcified air. His Grace had passed suddenly of heart failure in London; after his casket was brought to the palace to lie in state in the chapel so the tenants could pay their respects, he’d been entombed in the family mausoleum.
“He looked as if he were asleep,” Randolph whispered as we gathered in the drawing room. “You wouldn’t have thought—” His voice snagged.
I took his hand in mine. He was pale from the shock, though he and his father had never been on good terms. Still, the duke had been in his sixty-first year and shown no sign of illness, and the loss of one’s father was a tragic inevitability I couldn’t imagine suffering.
At least I’d been spared the grim funeral. Although I’d done my utmost to make haste, by the time I crossed the ocean and reached Oxford, His Grace was already in his tomb and oppressive silence shrouded the estate. Lady Frances had secluded herself in her rooms, unable to endure the pressing necessities, while those of the family with vested interests congregated in the drawing room, much like ravens over the open grave.
Confronted by their somber expressions, I realized how pressing those necessities must be. All around us, the walls were bare. I hadn’t noticed it during my prior visits, but it seemed His Grace had sold off most of the artwork. I wondered how many paintings survived in the gallery, all those masterpieces no one took a second look at. Blenheim required endless funds for its upkeep and without the duke to see to it . . .
“Where’s your brother?” I asked Randolph, in a hushed voice. “Why isn’t he here?”
He grimaced. “He’s been delayed in Holland. Not that there’s need for concern on his behalf. He’ll inherit the entire lot. Or whatever is left of it, which I daresay isn’t much.”
My apprehension at his words, after having assured my father in New York that we’d make do, made me feel more acutely the damp that had settled into the palace. July sunshine speckled the grounds outside, but heavy rain had fallen earlier, and the drawing room was dank. As I returned my gaze to the assembly—Randolph’s sisters with their husbands, along with the eldest, Rosamund, who’d recently become engaged—I caught sight of Albertha, swathed in a voluminous mourning gown, her baleful stare cutting toward where Randolph and I sat.
Even as I avoided staring back at her, her strident voice rang out, startling everyone to attention. “Until my husband sees fit to make his return, I shall assume charge over this house. My son is now its heir, so it’s only fitting.”
Randolph tensed beside me; I marked his restraint in the precise manner he drew out his cigarette case, although Lady Frances never tolerated smoking in her drawing room, claiming it smudged the frescoes. “Isn’t it premature to stake one’s claim? My father is scarcely cold in his winding sheet and his wife, the duchess, lies prostrate with grief—right upstairs, mind you.”
“She’s the Dowager Duchess now.” Albertha’s cheeks turned red. “George is the duke and I’m still his wife, no thanks to you.”
And here it was, the unpleasant truth none of us cared to hear: this malicious woman was the new duchess—not that anyone could conceive of her taking Lady Frances’s place.
As this thought went through my mind, Randolph said, “Fitting as you may think it, let me assure you that you’re fit only to launder my mother’s stockings, were you capable of distinguishing between soap and venom.”
One of his sisters let out a stifled gasp. Albertha lunged to her feet, stabbing her finger at him. “You—and this—this vulgar American of yours. You’d have seen to my ruin. My destitution. You schemed to have my husband cast me aside. You are to blame for all of it!”
“All of it?” Randolph remained seated, to his credit; I had to clutch the edge of my chair to avoid catapulting myself at her. “I rather think you bear the brunt for the hideous state of your marriage. George endured more than any husband should. My sole regret in that unfortunate affair is that he didn’t succeed in ousting you entirely from our existence.”
His sister Georgiana hissed in a tone that would have done Lady Frances proud, “Randolph, that is enough.”
“I think not.” He rose to his feet. Albertha was inchoate, straddling the carpet with her finger aimed at us, hatred blazing in her eyes. With icy contempt, he said, “But by all means, Albertha, do your best. You never could manage much before, so perhaps you’ll surprise us.”
“Leave this house at once,” she shrieked. “Leave and never return. I forbid it!”
Randolph smiled. “Gladly. I’ll take my American back to London forthwith. Oxford never did agree with us.”
He had to tug me up by my hand. I resisted, thinking of my son Jack upstairs in the nursery. I couldn’t leave him here. Sensing my tumult, Randolph turned to the aghast assembly to declare, “My father sacrificed his entire life to this estate. My brother is now its master, so far be it from me to question his purview. As usual, George is tardy in assuming his obligations, but he’ll be here soon enough. And who else can he hope to rely on, save his flesh and blood?”
He directed himself to Albertha, draining the fury from her face. “My brother will see this matter put to rights. Until then, Lady Frances maintains her charge here. I’ll broach no interference with my mother’s authority.”
Not until we were in the carriage did my rage overcome me, making me tremble as we rattled under the massive gateway onto the road. “We should have brought Jack with us.”
Randolph brooded out the window. “In a few years, Jack will be in school like Winston. Jennie, we can’t deprive my mother of her grandson at this time. She’s always doted on the boys. She’ll not let any harm come to Jack. Nor, I should think, will that formidable nanny of yours. Our son is perfectly safe.”
“And us? Are we safe? You must have seen the empty spaces on the walls. How much more has been sold behind your back? How much will your brother auction off? We rely on your estate annuity for our expenses.”
“Yes, well. We can hardly rely on those dowry payments your father promised, can we?” He met my stare. “Quite the conundrum. And, I fear, difficult to resolve.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“What I mean, my darling, is that judging by those empty spaces, there’s no longer enough to go around. Albertha isn’t the problem. Indeed, her unwarranted high opinion of herself and my mother’s determination to keep her at bay may be all that stands between Blenheim and ruin. Should he be given free rein, George will sell the house and grounds.”
“Randolph.” My voice quavered. “We have our home. Mrs. Everest’s salary. Winston’s tuition. How are we to pay for all of it?”
“It’s incumbent on us to find a way.” He lowered his gaze. “The prince’s inner circle can gain us more than political influence; his friends also have access to exclusive financial investments. With them on our side, we could patch together sufficient income. So, your offer to persuade Princess Alexandra . . . Perhaps now is the time to request an audience.”
THERE WAS NO question of what was required if we sought reconciliation with the prince: we had to first storm the gates. To achieve that goal, I suggested a new speech for Randolph, decrying his party’s opposition to an economic bill benefiting Ireland. This time, he wrote it entirely by himself, accepting only a few of my revisions, and on the day of his speech, I crowded with the other wives in the Ladies’ Gallery to behold him in his flamboyant cravat as he delivered my condemnation—a rallying cry for Irish aid that brought half the House to its feet in applause and set the other half to hissing at his effrontery.
The newspapers printed his speech on the front pages, liberal editors declaring Randolph a much-needed voice of reason and conservatives caricaturing him as a gnat in Gladstone’s ear. Only then did I dispatch my request to Marlborough House.
The response was returned within the day. Her Highness would receive me.
Alone.
SHE WAITED FOR me in the same gilded drawing room where Randolph had subjected her to humiliation. Whether it was deliberate or merely the protocol to receive visitors thus mattered little once I beheld her. Dressed in a blue silk gown and magnificent pearls that highlighted her unrevealing eyes, she sat against a backdrop of painted screens, as if posed for a portrait. Despite her resplendent attire, I thought she looked wan, as if she’d recently been ill, but her demeanor forbade my solicitous inquiry as she stated without preamble, “I would have you know, Lady Randolph, that this meeting was not my choice.”
I thought she’d keep me standing as a sign of her displeasure, but she motioned to a chair, as if she were braced for an inevitable function. After giving birth to a son and two daughters, she’d assumed the tiresome public duties the queen no longer cared to undertake. Beloved by the British people, everything she wore emulated by the masses, for all her status, Princess Alexandra had always struck me as a deeply unhappy woman.
And I was about to request a favor of her that she’d probably reject outright.
“Randolph regrets his actions,” I said into the frigid silence.
She hadn’t called for tea. She sat with her hands folded in her lap, allowing the uncomfortable moment to extend before she replied, “Does he? I can understand his imprudence, given his temperament, but it seems you’ve learned that none of us are immune to the indignities imposed on us by our husbands.”
My throat constricted. She knew about Randolph’s infidelity. For a moment, I was tempted to riposte that any betrayed wife could do what I had done, but Alexandra of Wales couldn’t. Nor would she ever consider taking a wild Irishman to her bed out of revenge.
“In any event,” she went on. “You are here. I assume you have a purpose.”
My voice sounded forced to my ears. “Randolph and I wish to make amends.”
“It’s not necessary. I told you, you had my forgiveness.” She paused, gauging me with her opaque eyes. “Or is it my husband’s forgiveness you seek? Bertie’s wrath must be felt more keenly than any of mine. If so, you might ask him instead. I believe he still holds you in affection, Lady Randolph, despite your husband’s behavior.”
The air seemed to solidify between us. I made myself sit more upright, if it was possible, seeing as my spine scarcely grazed the back of the chair. “Wives can find accord that husbands rarely share,” I finally said. “I wish to extend an invitation to our home. If you would agree to accompany His Highness, perhaps he’d see fit to accept.”
One of her hands twitched in her lap, the sole indication that I’d skinned a nerve. “May I assume this invitation also has a purpose? The duke’s death, perhaps? We were very saddened to hear of his passing. He was most esteemed by Her Majesty and by all those who had the good fortune to know him. I imagine his loss must be hard on his family.”
I’d underestimated her, imagining her a prisoner of her circumstances. Yet even immured behind palace walls, Alexandra wasn’t ignorant of what went on beyond them. If she’d heard of my marital troubles, she also no doubt knew that the duke’s death had put Randolph and me in a desperate financial and social position.
“Yes, it was a dreadful shock,” I said quietly.
“And an unfortunate one for his estate, I imagine. I understand his eldest son hasn’t his late father’s exemplary sense of duty.”
As silence once again settled over us, making me despair that I had failed, she added, “I shall speak with my husband. It so happens I believe the Spencer-Churchills have done sufficient penance. Your husband acted indefensibly in his brother’s interest, without family consent. Yet seeing as said brother is now the duke, we can hardly allow this discord to persist. Her Majesty concurs. Indeed, it was she who encouraged me to grant you this audience.”
I went still, half out of my seat. “Her Majesty . . . ?”
“You must know how highly she regards Lady Frances. Your own efforts to relieve the suffering in Ireland also didn’t go unnoticed. My husband can be immovable when it comes to his honor, but . . .” Her voice lingered as I stood there, like an animal caught in a snare. “He is not unreasonable.”
“Your Highness.” My curtsy was clumsy; I was too taken aback by the turn of events to pay mind to my posture. “I’m indebted to your kindness.”
As I stepped to the double doors, she said, “It is not kindness, Lady Randolph. It is necessity. Even wives must do their part for the empire, albeit in our small ways.”
She didn’t need to say more. One day, her husband would rule over said empire, and her small ways of influencing him might be essential to maintaining his favor.
Yet as I reached for the latch, which wasn’t needed, as at an unseen cue the doors were parted by the footmen, I heard a muffled chuckle from behind the screens framing her. I didn’t look around as I stepped out, but I knew that derision couldn’t be hers.
To my ears, it carried the distinct ring of male satisfaction.