1901–1902
The new year began with the death of Queen Victoria. It came as a national shock, grieving crowds weeping disconsolately over the black-edged special editions of the Evening News announcing her demise. Though she’d been eighty-one and ailing for months, no one, it seemed, was prepared for the inevitable loss. After she had ruled over the British Empire for nearly sixty-four years, her absence was inconceivable. Now her eldest son, Bertie, who’d been her primary cause of reproof and despair, was our new king, Edward VII.
I personally thought it high time. Victoria had steered us through innumerable crises, but Bertie had lingered in her shadow long enough, and he had a more modern outlook. The old queen had held back progress with her antiquated notions, and toward the end, she hadn’t seemed all that pleased to be on the throne. I suspected she might have handed over the reins long before, had it been permitted. The question was, could Bertie rise to the challenge and set aside his errant ways?
Winston arrived home on the very day her funeral procession passed through London on its way to her burial in Windsor Castle. After the official period of state mourning, he prepared to deliver his maiden speech in the House—a plea for accord with the Boers, whose cause, he argued, was justified. He came to my house to rehearse his speech, requesting suggestions for improvement. As he paced the drawing room declaiming, George suddenly appeared in the doorway, his valise in hand.
He hadn’t sent word of his impending arrival from Wales, where he’d stayed to comfort his grieving family, bereft by the queen’s death. When I caught sight of him, I took immediate note of the tension in his posture. Winston was oblivious, even as icy discomfort seeped over me, until my son paused in mid-sentence to turn to my chair.
“What?” he asked. “Is it too much—?”
“Entirely.” George’s voice rang out.
“How so?” Winston’s arid tone roused a glower on my husband’s face.
“You would heap dishonor on your first day of office, barely two months after we’ve lost our queen?” George planted himself with his shoulders squared, as if he braced for battle.
“I would,” said my son. I’d marked this subtle change in him, a maturity tempered in newfound confidence from his time in America. “We have a new sovereign. A new reign. To persist in this war is the only dishonor I see.”
“Thousands of our soldiers have perished for it.” George took an infuriated step forward. “While you were gallivanting about writing articles and getting yourself imprisoned, those far braver than you sacrificed their lives to defend the empire.”
As I started to rise in alarm, Winston gave George a peculiar smile. “I’m well-aware. My brother took a bullet for it. You did not.”
George lunged. I almost cried out in irritation, thinking it ridiculous they’d actually come to blows, until something inflexible in Winston’s stance stopped George in his tracks.
“I must still act according to my conscience.” Winston took a laden pause. “Rather than hoist your petard for a lost cause, perhaps you should find some way to make yourself useful. You are not lord of Ruthin Castle yet.”
“Winston,” I exclaimed. “Really, that is uncalled for—”
George’s hiss cut me off. “Get out. I’ll not abide a traitor in my house.”
“It’s not your house,” said my son. “It’s my mother’s. Only she can throw me out of it.”
“Enough.” I delivered my rebuke as if they were two bullies in a schoolyard. I knew in that instant that I had made a terrible mistake in marrying George. It wasn’t only that he had inflated notions of his lineage. He was too young and immature, about to toss my son out on his ear for being better than him.
George whirled to me. “I warned you that should he forget his place, he’d do himself no good. Would you condone him casting aspersions on our very dead?”
“He’s an MP,” I replied in astonishment. “He was elected to speak his mind. Randolph defended Irish interests when no one else dared and—”
“So, you do condone it. Rather than instill respect in him for his country, you’d encourage his appalling shamelessness.”
Before I could reply, Winston said, “It is my shamelessness to atone for. Should you ever speak to her in that manner again, it shall be I who sees you from this house.”
George narrowed his eyes at him before swerving back to me. “If this is where your loyalty lies, I’ll have no part in it.” Turning heel, he strode out. Moments later, the slam of the front door announced his departure.
I looked angrily at Winston. “Was it necessary to provoke him so?”
“Unfortunately, it was.” He met my stare. “You’re not happy with him. I read it in your letters from Paris. I can see it in you now.”
All of a sudden, I had to blink back a surge of tears. I wanted to deny it, even as I heard myself say, “He—he’s not who I thought he was.”
“No?” A dry smile creased his mouth, reminding me with a pang of his father. “He seems to me to be entirely himself. Like most of his ilk, he thinks too highly of himself while failing to take into account his rather precarious position.”
I swallowed. “You’re one of them, too. The grandson of a duke.”
“In name alone. Without the title or the fortune, not that Papa’s family ever had much of the latter. I’ll not uphold their self-indulgence. To bring about lasting change, we must strive for a more equitable world.”
“An equitable world? Since when has that been a Tory principle? Do you plan to cross the aisle like your father and declare yourself a Liberal?”
His smile faded. “Don’t change the subject. You never took the time to discover that man’s nature because you were so determined to marry him, no matter the cost.”
“He told me that he loved me. I love him. Don’t I warrant the right?”
His smile faded. “You do. It must be very disappointing to find you have so little in common with the man you love. But you’ve never been one to look the other way.”
I started at the finality in his voice. “What are you saying?”
He sighed. “Jack and I feared this marriage would be a mistake. We bit our tongues and hoped we were wrong because you were so resolved. We wanted to see you happy. But he’ll never change. He’ll go about as he always has, spending what he doesn’t earn, while you shut down your quarterly to satisfy his pride. He has no desire to earn a living while he can enjoy the fruits of our trust as your husband. He believes it’s below a gentleman’s dignity to earn a wage.”
“Are you suggesting . . . I should leave him?”
Winston chuckled. “Couples separate. Grandpapa Jerome and Grandma Clara did.”
“I don’t want to be like my parents. What of the scandal, after we defied everyone to marry?”
“I don’t think you need to worry on that account. His family has no relations with us, and your friends, including our new king, will stand by you. Hasn’t he invited you to his coronation?”
“Yes, of course.” Desperate for a distraction, I plunged to my desk, fishing through my correspondence. “He sent me this note with the invitation—” As Winston took it from me, I abruptly remembered what the note said and reached to snatch it back when he let out another chuckle.
“Has George seen this? His Majesty has reserved a special box for his friends who are not titled peers. Japanese attire optional.” He lifted an amused expression that froze me where I stood. “I’m assuming George hasn’t seen it.”
“I told him we’d been invited,” I said, trying to collect myself. “He insists we must decline. He says Bertie lacks all moral decency.”
“Be that as it may, he’s still our king.” Winston returned the handwritten note to me. “Given the circumstances, how can you possibly refuse such intimate appropriation?”
“You know,” I breathed in dismay.
He smiled. “Mamma, I’m in Parliament. Some of the calcified lords were very eager to give me an accounting of your impact on both Papa and our then-wayward prince.”
I swallowed. “I was assured it would never become public knowledge.”
“By whom? Fanny Ronalds?” Winston had to fight back another smile. “Rest assured, it’s more gossip than fact. Bertie was often seen trying to charm his way into your good graces, and, given his nature, it was assumed that at some point you gave in. But no one, I daresay, knows anything about the Japanese attire.”
I felt myself flush. “You don’t think less of me?”
“Why should I? I’ve no doubt you did what you had to do for Papa’s sake. But you needn’t do the same for George. We must strive to keep ourselves in the king’s favor; we know what his displeasure can do.” He took my hand in his. “You needn’t decide anything right now. But when you do, you can count on our full support. Neither Jack nor I wishes to see you so unhappy.” He paused. “It’s a good thing we had that agreement drawn up. George wouldn’t make this easy on you otherwise.”
I embraced my son, holding him close. Then I drew back with a forced smile. “Now, recite your speech again for me. From the beginning. I think the opening lines could be improved . . .”
Afterward, I sat with him to make the corrections. I thought his speech would prove controversial enough to earn him notice, even as in the back of my mind, the question lingered.
What was I going to do now?
It unnerved me that I didn’t know.
UNSEASONABLE HEAT SWAMPED London on the day of the coronation. I opted for a white silk gown without jewels. Newspapers had foretold the event wouldn’t be lavish after the expense of Victoria’s funeral, but when I arrived, I found Westminster Abbey brimming with all the excessive pomp only such a historic royal event could justify. Alexandra was present, garbed in ermine to be crowned queen-consort beside her husband. Consuelo was also present, seated with her husband, but I wasn’t slated for a place on their pew.
I came alone, George not having returned since his altercation with Winston, who left his Barton Street bachelor flat to move in and keep me company. I received a brief note from my husband that he was spending the summer at a friend’s country estate, where I was welcome to join him. He must have known I wouldn’t. Our waning passion had been pulverized by his confrontation with my son. While I kept telling myself that some time apart would do us good, I now had to accept that the chasm between us was too wide. I kept hearing Clarita in my mind.
He can never be Randolph.
I never missed my late husband more than upon my entry into the abbey, where the usher inspected my invitation before escorting me toward the tier Bertie had set aside for his friends. I felt all eyes turning to me, almost heard the whispers volleying between the high-ranking ladies who’d attended my dinner parties, vying with me, emulating my style, flattering me to my face, and rejoicing behind my back whenever I tripped into disgrace.
Lifting my chin, I let my attire attract their frowns. I’d put on weight in the wake of my discord with George, forgoing my abstention for repasts with Winston, so I’d been obliged to don a corset, which pinched my waist. But the discomfort was worth it. I felt statuesque, an avenging figure in my inappropriate garb as I braved the gossips wasting no time in spreading word that Mrs. Cornwallis-West dared appear by herself—and dressed in white like a bride, no less.
Winston had expressed disappointment that he couldn’t witness the event firsthand. The invitations were limited. I thought he’d be very sore indeed when I neared the pews to find them occupied entirely by women in garish gowns and lavish hats, perfumed and bejeweled to their teeth. I recognized Lillie Langtry, the famed actress Bertie had long admired; as I took my place beside her, she gave me a furtive smile, as if we shared a secret.
I supposed we did. Apparently, our king had reserved this special box for his favorite mistresses. Taking out my painted fan—the same one Eugénie had gifted Mama so many years ago—I concealed my smile. Trust Bertie to taint his anointing with a touch of scandal.
And in truth, it was where I belonged, among his notorious outsiders.
I SPENT THE last days of summer at Compton Place by the seaside of Eastbourne, with my sister Leonie and her third son, Seymour, who’d taken ill with a consumptive paralysis that confined him to a wheeled chair. Physicians had advised that the sea air might restore his health, so we’d decamped to the spacious estate of the Duke and Duchess of Devonshire, where the poor boy gazed longingly from the terrace to the distant shoreline.
I took it upon myself to lift his spirits by reading Jack’s and Winston’s letters aloud; both of them sent fond regards. Seymour admired his Spencer-Churchill cousins, and their words rallied him to submit to the painful daily massages prescribed by his doctors. When I relayed Winston’s request that I set down my recollections of Randolph for a biographical work he hoped to write, Seymour’s eyes lit up. “Oh, Auntie Jennie, you must! I’ve heard so many stories about Uncle Randolph. I wish I could have known him.”
“He wasn’t much for praise, but he would have liked you,” I said, smiling. “You must help me. Your legs may be impaired, but your fingers are not. If I dictate, will you write?”
He gave an enthusiastic nod as Leonie gazed at me in mute gratitude.
Winston’s request kept me busy, precluding any inclination to brood over my continued estrangement from George. I thoroughly enjoyed gathering my recollections of Randolph, even if I had to be editorially circumspect for Seymour’s sake.
After delivering four sons, the last of whom was only a year old, and beset by anxiety over Seymour, Leonie also required my attention. She refused to be parted from her boy for any length of time, so in the afternoons, while he underwent treatment, I had her join me in the duke’s motorcar for excursions along the coast, where we could share time alone.
“Marriage didn’t turn out as we imagined, did it?” she said one evening as we sat in the car, admiring the sunset. Shimmering copper burnished the sea, ebbing fire turning to embers upon the chalky cliffs. The chauffeur stood a distance away, lending us privacy.
I sighed. “I think it rarely turns out as any woman imagines.” I glanced at her profile, the wind lifting tendrils of her auburn hair, lighter in hue than mine.
“I suppose not.” She fingered her wedding band. I knew she and Leslie had mostly gone their separate ways, remaining married only because it was expected. “Arthur says he’s in love with me,” she abruptly said. “He asked me to be his mistress.”
“Oh?” Her admission startled me. Leonie had always been very reserved about her private life, even if it wasn’t a secret that, since her introduction at court, she’d developed an intimate association with Arthur, Duke of Connaught, Victoria’s third son. They’d even traveled abroad together, accompanied by the duke’s often sickly wife, Louise.
“I told him it was impossible,” she said. “We’re both married.”
“Do you love him?” I asked. She was only forty-two and shouldn’t deny herself. I highly doubted Leslie was shunning his extramarital opportunities.
She turned her long-lashed eyes, her most becoming feature, to me, reflecting her innate warmth. “Yes, I love him. But I haven’t slept with him. I could never betray Louise’s trust. I remember how hurt Mama was over Fanny, and Louise has been so kind to me.”
“Mama wasn’t so much hurt over Fanny as she was over Papa’s disregard for how it appeared,” I said. “She ended up leaving him because of a financial crisis, not Fanny.”
“Still, I could never be the other woman. And Arthur can’t ever leave Louise.”
“No, I suppose he cannot.”
She paused, taking in my expression. “Were you ever unfaithful to Randolph?”
I averted my gaze, looking toward the scarlet-stained horizon. Incoming dusk chilled my skin. “Yes,” I said at length. “And he was unfaithful to me.”
“Yet you were so grief-stricken when he died. I’ve heard you dictating your memories to Seymour. Your entire person changes when you speak of him.”
“I’m starting to realize I was happier with him than I thought I was at the time,” I said. “We truly understood each other. Our dalliances were never stronger than our love for each other.” As I spoke, I remembered Kinsky. I’d thought my love for him might have been stronger, but he had apparently not felt the same toward me. “Marriage doesn’t turn out as we imagine, but it can surprise us.”
“And it can be good to see the past as it really was, not as we think it should be.”
I found myself caught off guard by her perceptiveness.
“And George?” she said. “Will you divorce him?”
“How? No woman of our class has gone so far. I risked enough by marrying him.”
“But if you’re no longer happy with him? Wouldn’t it be better for both of you?”
“Would you divorce Leslie?” I asked, more sharply than intended.
She flinched. “He won’t hear of it. He says his family would never condone it and our boys are too young.”
“While my boys don’t care for George.” I heard the catch in my voice. “Winston has indeed urged me to do something.”
“Clarita should do something, too. Shackled to that estate, determined to safeguard it from Moreton, with the roof falling in on her head. She’s not happy, either. How can the three of us have so misjudged our marriages?”
“Mama did warn us. But then she also misjudged hers. Perhaps Papa was right. Perhaps when we fall in love, it’s a dangerous affair.”
Leonie sat silent for a long moment before she said, “Maybe it’s not that we misjudge, but that as we grow older, we change. We want different things. Men do not.”
I leaned over to kiss her cheek, cold from the spindrift rising from the darkened sea.
“When did my little sister become so wise?” I murmured.
During the drive back, she said, “You mustn’t let fear of scandal stop you, Jennie. You always were the bravest of us. If you must leave him, do it without regret.”