Under a warm July sky, I wed George at St. Paul’s Church in Knightsbridge. I’d chosen a blue silk chiffon dress with lace sleeves and diamond-ornamented headdress. George wore his military dress in defiance, as his commanding officer, upon learning of our wedding, had discharged him. I had wanted George to quit the military, but not by force, so I called upon Bertie for support.
With the Boer War careening into disaster and my voyage on the Maine lauded throughout England, the prince wasn’t inclined to contest me. He granted his consent, though George was denied reinstatement and Bertie warned me via private letter that we risked extreme censure should we proceed to the banns and the altar. George’s family was so distraught they refused to attend the ceremony, so the Spencer-Churchills and my sisters turned out in force at my urging. Consuelo prevailed upon her estranged husband, Charles, Duke of Marlborough, to give me away, and Winston volunteered to be George’s first man.
It was certainly unprecedented. A bride twice the age of her groom, and a best man the same age as the groom. I told myself it didn’t matter. I’d spoken with both my sons at length about my decision, and while they cautioned that incurring social disapproval would make it difficult for us, neither questioned my love for George or his for me.
Winston finally said, with one of his dry smiles, “Even if we opposed it, would that deter you?” When I replied, “No,” he laughed. “I didn’t think so. But, Mamma,” he added, “we must see to it that your finances are kept separate. You never know what the future will bring.”
Wise advice, even if it rankled me. But my income from their trust mustn’t be jeopardized and Winston had the legal agreement drawn up stating as much. Should George and I ever separate or divorce, he couldn’t lay claim to my assets. George signed it without seeming to read it, which both reassured and perturbed me. So delighted we were finally marrying, after two years of courtship, he didn’t ask why my sons required a prenuptial agreement. We hadn’t discussed our financial situation, much as we’d neglected to settle the matter of children, but that changed during our honeymoon in Scotland and France.
Winston wrote to tell me that Jack was going to New York to train as a stockbroker, inspired by my father. Disgusted by what he himself had witnessed in South Africa, Winston was seeking reelection in Oldham, resolved to make an impact in the political arena.
“He didn’t fulfill his first term due to the war,” I told George, showing him my son’s letter. We were at Broughton Castle, where he hunched over the box of unpaid bills that he’d insisted on lugging along, sorting them into piles on the floor and raking a hand through his hair as he tallied the sums. “Unlike his opponent, he’s not married, so a female presence is vital. I campaigned in Oldham for Randolph; I know the populace well. He’s requesting that I join him on his campaign. Would you mind terribly if I went to assist him?”
George made a despairing gesture. “Jennie, are you aware that your literary review is running up an astronomical deficit? Or that nearly every one of these house bills is in arrears? We must do something, lest we end up without a roof over our heads when we return to London.”
I bit back my exasperation. “Can’t we ask your sister for a loan? She is married to the wealthiest man in Prussia, after all.”
“Daisy already provided me with a significant sum upon our marriage,” he retorted. “Considering I had to sign that agreement devised by your sons.”
“So, you did read it?” I was taken aback.
“My sister did. She was most insistent that I send her a copy. She found it highly irregular for marrying the woman who will, after all, be the mother of my children one day.”
I went still as he scowled at the mounds of paper. “I might not have been so quick to sign it either, had I known this situation.” Taking up one of the bills, he went on, “Look here: an unpaid repair receipt for your barouche, which Randolph acquired shortly after Winston’s birth. Why on earth haven’t you sold it yet?”
“How would I get about London? It’s the only carriage I own. Given my apparent penury, I could hardly afford a better one.”
He let out a sigh. “I don’t know how to contend with this. We’re mired in debt.”
“No, I’m mired in debt. We’ll see to it later. They’re just bills. Now, about Winston—”
“We’re on our honeymoon. If your son could escape a Boer prison on his own, surely he can manage his political campaign without you.”
I didn’t fail to mark the resentment in his voice. “His reelection is uncertain. He’ll be very disappointed if he loses, as shall we. My darling, you don’t want him kicking up his heels under the roof you’re so afraid we might lose, do you? Think of our expenses then.”
George sat back on his heels. “For how long? We’re due to leave for Paris in two weeks.”
“I don’t know. More than two weeks, I should think. But I’ll be back as soon as I can and Paris isn’t going anywhere. The important thing is for Winston to win his seat. He’s gained popularity because of his war reporting, so this is his time. He tells me he’s been offered a lecture tour abroad if he wins. It will earn him significant fees.”
“Then perhaps he can give us a loan,” George muttered. “My sister will only show me the door if I ask her to pay for an old barouche.”
I leaned down to kiss him. “Forget the barouche. Come with me to Oldham instead.”
He drew back. “I think not. We’ve raised enough ire as it is. If we show up together, he might lose the election and end up living under our bed.”
It felt strange to leave my new husband stewing in complaints, but I traveled at once to Winston’s side. Inspired by my presence, he took to the challenge. He was a gifted orator, as Randolph had been, and his slight lisp lent him a boyish charm. He played to the audience as if he were an actor onstage. Politics were much like the theater, in truth, with all the illusion and panoply. As for me, I’d forgotten how much I enjoyed the thrill of it, the pompous rallies with cheering crowds and grandiose promises to secure their votes.
At the age of twenty-six, my son was reelected as the Conservative Member for Oldham. Since he wouldn’t assume duties in Parliament until the New Year, I encouraged him to pursue the lecture tour. His tour manager asked that I accompany him, citing my renown in New York. I refused, seeing Winston off on his ship and racing back to George, who expressed relief that my older son was now gainfully employed and an ocean away.
It should have been my warning. Motherhood and a new husband were always an uneasy match. With George perturbed by his aimlessness, cast adrift from his regiment, and unsure of his future livelihood, I might have taken note of his dissatisfaction.
But as Mama would have said, passion clouded my judgment.
ONCE IN PARIS, I insisted we indulge ourselves. It was, after all, our honeymoon. He might complain when the accounts came due, but George was eager enough to have new attire tailored for him and to risk his hand at the gambling tables as we reveled in the city’s joie de vivre. I took pleasure in showing him all the sights, regaling him with tales of my youth here with my sisters, though I avoided any mention of Randolph. His mood could sour if I spoke of my late husband, as if he felt he had to compete. But he was still young and overly impressionable; I had to smile to see him swagger when we appeared at the Opéra and everyone looked askance at us. I rather swaggered myself. No woman present could boast of such a prize, with their paunchy husbands stinking of an excess of brandy and cigars.
At night, he took me with such fervor that he left me bruised. He refused to use any precautions. While the odds were in my favor, I dreaded the possible outcome.
“Perhaps we should be more careful,” I said.
“Why? Didn’t you say we should try and see?” He regarded me with an expression I couldn’t decipher. Was it suspicion or hopefulness? “Don’t you want to bear a child?”
“Yes, of course I do—” My lie stuck in my throat. “Just not right away.”
He rose from bed to throw on his robe. “My sister advised me to start a family as soon as possible. My parents may be more inclined to accept our marriage if we do.”
“Your sister advised?” I echoed, a cold shiver creeping up my stomach.
“It’s what married people do, isn’t it? Have children. Raise a family.” He stalked out onto the terrace to smoke a cigarillo, a disgusting habit he’d taken up while gambling.
I began to think I’d indeed let my passion get the better of my reason.
In a desperate attempt to remind him that I already had a family, when Winston’s letter arrived, detailing his American tour, I read it aloud, as I’d often done with Randolph.
“He dined with Mark Twain in New York before going on to Washington. President-elect Roosevelt gave him a standing ovation. Isn’t it marvelous he’s making such an impact?”
George eyed me. “Providing he doesn’t forget he’s an Englishman.”
His censure gave me pause. “He’s also half American. I’m his mother. I’m not British.”
“Yes, but he is. He’s also an elected member of Parliament. America did not support our war against the Boers, as he well knows. Courting favor there will do him no good here.”
“But . . .” I swallowed. “The war has become a disgrace. We are losing it.”
His face hardened, confirming my fear. He was envious of Winston. I tended to forget they were the same age, and George had done nothing to exalt himself either in war or outside of it, while my son had won acclaim.
“Have you given further consideration to the quarterly?” he abruptly said. “Jennie, you must resign yourself to the fact that it will never be profitable.”
“I thought we agreed to set that fact aside for now,” I replied.
“We did not. You may not wish to speak of it, but upon our return, I must insist you see to its dissolution. A lady of your standing shouldn’t be involved in such tawdry dealings.”
Such tawdry dealings . . .
“I see.” I folded Winston’s letter into a precise square. “And what should a lady of my standing do instead? Organize flower arrangements and dinner parties?”
He clipped off the tip of his cigarillo. “We’ll soon have plenty to do. Daisy sent me a wire to tell me that our sister Constance has become engaged to His Grace the Duke of Westminster. The marriage will take place next year. It’ll be a major social event.”
“And it won’t come about if I’m publishing my quarterly?” I said drily.
“It’s no longer fitting.” The flare of his match punctuated his tone. “You are the future Lady Cornwallis-West. My family thinks it a very unsuitable enterprise.”
“Do they refer to my magazine? Or our marriage?”
He went still, smoke drifting from his nostrils. I had to soften my voice. “Instead of shutting it down, why don’t we manage it together? It would be an occupation for you.”
“Me?” He laughed. “Artistic dabbling is no occupation for a gentleman.”
I could actually feel our joie de vivre withering, thickening with ice like the Seine outside our hotel as early snow preluded incoming winter.
“Very well,” I said at length. “Then I shall see to it on our return, as you insist.”
WE ARRIVED IN London under perceptible discontent.
After shutting down my magazine, I was plagued by restlessness. Jack was in New York apprenticing in a brokerage firm. Winston joined him for the holidays, compounding my misery. I missed my boys desperately. I longed to be with them, away from the gloom in England, where the sudden death of Victoria’s favorite son, Alfred, had plunged the country into mourning. When George left for Wales to celebrate the season with his family, I refused to accompany him, despite his exhortations. Quailing at the thought of Christmas among disapproving in-laws, which I’d thought I had left behind with Randolph’s death, I accepted instead Consuelo’s invitation to Blenheim, where I took much-needed comfort in our friendship.
“Give it time,” Consuelo advised, after I poured out my distress. “It’s a new marriage. There are bound to be obstacles along the way.”
“He’s different somehow,” I said. “Like he’s become someone else.”
She went silent before she replied, “Or perhaps he’s simply showing you who he was all along. Jennie, he was born into an aristocratic family. He’s behaving just as you’d expect.”
“Yes,” I murmured. “Perhaps he is. But I don’t want to be an aristocrat’s wife again.”
Consuelo sighed. She didn’t say more about it, and though I couldn’t admit it aloud, less than a year into my marriage, I feared more than my magazine might require dissolution.