Sunny returned in July of that year. I greeted him on the front steps of the Great Court with Blandford standing beside me and Ivor in my arms. Sunny hugged the boys, quite equally, I thought, and ruffled Blandford’s hair. He embraced me, too, and kissed my cheek.
“More later,” he whispered, though I was not sure what that meant. More than a quick kiss? More time with our boys?
The months he had been away I had kept busy, yet I had pondered—even agonized—over what our marriage would be in the future. I had indeed missed him but not in an emotional or romantic way. I had missed his control of this big place, his concern, toward our sons at least. But as for the Duke of Marlborough and his duchess, even now that we were back together, unless it was with our sons, a stone wall loomed, one I did not know how to break through, one I did not know if I wanted him to climb. Even in the big ducal bed, when he claimed me again, I was getting used to a marriage that was as cold as vast Blenheim.
The Boer war was not over yet, but I was still glad to have him home. I had been right that he had not seen much action, whereas Winston had absolutely managed to be in the thick of it and was now planning to parlay all that into making a stand for Parliament.
“I had the tea table set up under the trees,” I told him, gesturing toward the lake on that first day of his return. “Apricots and peaches, bowls of Devonshire cream and pitchers of iced coffee—things I am sure you have missed.”
“Not as much as I have missed all of you. And scones for my boys, eh?” he added. “With fruit jams and cakes with sugar icing!”
Although Sunny had been gone barely six months, I had coached both boys about behaving and hugging their father. Besides, I was in a good mood. In the spring—ah, so far away—I was going to see Papa in Paris, attend the races at Longchamp, and accept the standing offer of my friend Jacques to take to the skies in a balloon.
IN JANUARY 1901, Queen Victoria died, and the nation and Empire were plunged into mourning. I even wore a traditional crepe mourning veil when I went out, as if I were a widow, especially, of course, when we went to London for the state funeral. Wearing black so depressed me that winter. I had the wildest urge to wear colors, not to dishonor Her Majesty’s memory, but to cheer myself.
Sunny was pleased we had been asked to the services, which were in the smaller St. George’s Chapel at Windsor, so only the elite and powerful were invited. Going to Windsor in our ducal train car, thinking I looked like gloom and grief itself, I was surprised when Sunny said, “My beautiful wife, if I die, I see you will not remain a widow for long.”
I was sorely tempted to say something like, And if I die, I believe the Duke of Marlborough will find a mate quickly, too. I knew Gladys would take him in a moment, because, for some reason, he was her ideal of chivalry, her knight in shining armor. So often I saw her eyes follow him as she heaved a heartfelt sigh. I suppose I should have been jealous or worried, but I could not stir myself to that.
Besides, I understood fully. How foolish I was to be counting the days until I might see my favorite Frenchman again.
So, at least I had a compliment from my husband on my appearance. He seldom praised me for anything else, though I knew he approved of the way I cherished our boys. Sometimes I wondered if he were actually jealous of or resented my efforts to uplift the village folk, the way I got down from the carriage to greet or chat with them or—God forgive—from my little pony cart, which he thought not grand enough. At least he no longer chastised me for my democratic tendencies, perhaps when he saw the way the folk on the estate looked up to him for things I did.
The queen’s funeral was solemn and striking, befitting a woman who had ruled England and the Empire for so long. But even as the Knights of the Garter, foreign rulers—including the Kaiser—colonial officers and ministers of state, and the lords and ladies of the realm like us rose as the royal cortège mounted the steps, I pondered her life when she was my age with a young family. But she had her beloved Albert then. She had wed the right man for her. And was not that just as important as being queen or even a duchess?
But after the pomp ended, after the funeral march faded and the clank of ceremonial swords in scabbards quieted, I found my spirits greatly lifted. Upstairs in the Waterloo Chamber, where a light meal had been laid out, I found myself sought for greetings and conversations—of course not by my husband—but by many of the powerful men of the realm including the charming Arthur Balfour and the influential George Curzon. I liked to think my conversations with them that day were a help for Sunny later being given the Garter and being named Under-Secretary for the Colonies in July 1903. As Sunny liked to say, “we” were really on our way.
And another great gift to me—although they were yet to have their coronation, Queen Alexandra asked me to be one of her canopy bearers for that ceremony. Also Sunny and I were in the very select party of companions asked to go to India for the Durbar next year, two weeks of festivities in Delhi to celebrate the succession of Edward VII and Alexandra—and Lord Curzon was to become viceroy there.
Oh, foolish and selfish though I sounded to myself, I hoped none of that interfered with my trip to see Papa and Jacques.
AT THE LAST minute on that trip to Paris, though Papa had said he would go up in the balloon with Jacques and me, one of his racing horses became ill and he begged off to go to his stables. The three of us had dined one night to make the plans, but at least I was still going. Jacques himself called for me at Papa’s house, and we set off in a carriage for a field outside of Paris.
We talked about everything. There was never a dull moment. I told him about the electric car my mother had sent me and the boys from America. Despite Sunny’s insistence I always be accompanied, that instead of my pony cart was my escape from problems and from him. I drove alone to visit charity cases and through the forests of Blenheim and Woodstock. I stopped on the bridge where Jacques and I had once stood. Sometimes I took Golden along in her gilded cage and just listened as her songs blended with that of other birds.
And sometimes I just watched the clouds and pretended I was flying. But now I was about to take to the skies.
“Let me hold your hand to steady you,” Jacques said. He was speaking English to me right now, but French to the two men who would release the guy ropes yet keep their ends attached to a metal frame in the grass. Above us bobbing, waiting, was a beautiful blue and red balloon with big white stripes, the colors, I thought, of the American flag, the British Union Jack, and the French Tricolor.
Though I was trembling a bit at this ride and my nearness to Jacques, I climbed the wooden stairs next to the deep, narrow woven basket and, lifting my skirts a bit, climbed in. He came right behind me.
“We are going high but they will not cut us loose this time,” he assured me. “Not for our first time, yes? No danger, for I do not want the Duke of Marlborough and the British crown after my head if we should just drift away forever.” He laughed deep in his throat and reached up to adjust the burner over our heads.
“Now!” he called to his friends. “Allons! Allons! Let’s go!”
And go we did. Upward, higher and higher, though still tethered to the ground.
I gasped at the magnificence of the vast view. This is what it was to fly. To my amazement, tears blurred my vision, and I blinked them back. He took my hand. His was warm and steady to my shaking touch. I leaned slightly against him as the breeze picked up. His arm encircled my waist.
“From the first moment I saw you,” he said, his breath heating my cheek and ear, “I wanted to take you with me like this. I . . . I wanted you. So, one kiss to celebrate our friendship, yes? This special moment we soar into the heavens, though I swear to you, Consuelo, we could even do better than this and on the ground.”
“A kiss? Only a kiss,” I told him, but my voice trembled and the breeze snatched my words away.
Our mouths met perfectly. He moved his lips, slanted sideways, seemed to drink me in. My knees leaned against him for support. He held me tight to him with one hand and steadied us with the other as the basket in which we stood swayed. Suddenly, I was not sure I had ever really been kissed before. I did not want this ride or his touch to ever end. When we parted, both breathing hard, still with our gazes locked, he looked ecstatic, yet tears gilded his eyes, too.
“Back to earth,” he said and gave his men below the sign to pull them down. “But, whatever befalls, I shall always be your admirer and your friend. From afar, from across the Channel, from whenever you look up in the sky, know that I love you, Consuelo Vanderbilt Marlborough.”
All I could manage was, “And I you . . . too.”
God forgive me, I was madly in love with Jacques Balsan, but I would not be like so many others to have him once in a forbidden, secret while, yet never really have him for my own.
THE NEXT WINTER Sunny and I went to Russia with others in a delegation for court celebrations of the Orthodox New Year and to meet the czar. I do think Sunny just wanted an excuse to buy more outrageously grand costumes and jewels, to enjoy the pomp he so admired. He bought me a diamond and turquoise dog collar to go with a new blue satin gown. We took with us a retinue of valets, maids, even an armed detective to guard our jewelry. Yet I could not help but think that one single stone from our array could probably feed the Woodstock farmers or old ladies at the almshouse for years. Dear Mrs. Prattley had died soon after the queen, and I missed her terribly—Mrs. Prattley, I mean.
Despite the excitement and anticipation, I fell into a periodic depression while on our trip. The Russian landscape seemed stark and barren. In St. Petersburg, Russia’s capital, we stayed at the Hotel de l’Europe. The décor and furnishings seemed stiff, strained, and stuffy. We went sightseeing and attended many an elaborate party, but I felt as frozen as the River Neva we so often drove by. Even sleigh rides and the lively dancing to Russian mazurka music did not lift my spirits during the long, dark nights—dark nights of the soul, I thought.
I missed my sons. I missed Blenheim. I missed Jacques, and could share that latter ache with no one.
We attended three stunning events at the czar’s court. One was a ball at the Winter Palace that I shall never forget for its grandeur and glitter. Gold plate was fixed to some of the walls, and countless footmen stood about in scarlet livery. Sunny and I were surely attired for the grand occasion: I wore white satin with a draped skirt and a tulle train held to my waist by a belt of diamonds, a tiara in my hair and ropes of pearls dripping from my neck. Sunny looked magnificent in his Privy Councilor’s uniform with a blue coat with gold lace, white breeches, and a plumed hat under his arm.
When the Imperial family entered to the music of the Russian anthem, we all stood amazed at the parade of Grand Duchesses and the Grand Duke, the heir to the throne since no sons had yet been born to the czar and czarina. Scuttlebutt about the czarina said that she was not only bewitching but bewitched by some of her advisors. It was said she ruled the czar, and that they were desperate for an heir despite the fact she had strange illnesses. I felt for her, for the pressure to bear a son.
At another, smaller event called the Bal des Palmiers, the Ball of Palms, since those trees had been brought in for decorations, I wore my blue satin gown and matching dog-collar necklace. I felt not as weighed down with that around my neck as I had by the stories and sights of some of the starved-looking Russians in the streets. Did not guilt hang heavy on this ruler for his people’s grievances?
At the Bal des Palmiers, I was astounded to be seated next to the czar himself, perhaps by his request. He entered late, so I was rather taken by surprise. Seeing the thirty-two-year-old ruler of all the Russias at such intimate range, I noted how much he resembled his cousin, our new king’s son and heir, George: same beard, pale blue eyes, and, shockingly, the kind smile and mild manners.
Small talk suited everyone during the meal, but I could not hold back on a question—a careful protest—burning in my mind. So others would not hear, I asked quietly, “Why is it Russia has no democratic government that works so well in England?”
The moment the question was out of my mouth, I feared his reaction, but he replied quietly and calmly, “I would like nothing better, but Russia is not ready for that. We are two hundred years behind Europe in the development of our national political institutions. Russia is more Asiatic than European and so must be governed by an autocracy for the people’s good. Madame, I have inherited a government where my powers must be absolute. The great millions of Russia are ignorant, superstitious . . .” He cleared his throat and took a swallow of wine as if that ended the conversation.
I was relieved I had not brought up my dear, rambunctious, and rebellious America. Whatever would the poor, powerful man have said to that? Although I had hoped his answer might tear away the pall of doom I felt hanging over me here, after he said all that, it was worse, especially when he went on, “I tell you, Madame Duchess, this is how it is here in Mother Russia, what I inherited.”
I saw people lean closer in the sudden hush of voices. It reminded me of how our guests at Blenheim had hung on every word Bertie, Prince of Wales, had spoken at our table.
But when the czar glanced and nodded at nearby guests, nervous conversation began again. “I must tell you something else, so you understand how things are here,” he told me sotto voce. “I know everything you and the duke have done since you first came to Russia. My secret police send me dossiers on the movements of foreigners. We must keep control here, to know all, including the actions of the masses I have described to you.”
That silenced me, though I wanted to make another remark about the poor people I had seen standing in the streets. All of that only worsened my view of “Mother Russia” as our hosts were wont to call it.
The weather worsened, too, and I fell ill with a cold and fever that crept into my throat and even my ears. I had to keep yawning or cracking my jaw to clear my hearing. We went on to Moscow, where I tried to stay warm but felt so cold inside. I attempted to bolster myself by thinking of the coming coronation in England, but we learned a sudden appendix attack on our king had delayed the first celebration date.
I came to hate Russia. I felt I was living in a barrel, with voices, music, church bells muted. I could not wait to go home and consult an English doctor.
But it was not until we returned home and my ear and throat problems hung on, after I saw a doctor, then a specialist—even after I saw Golden singing her heart out and could not hear one note of her tune—that I realized, to my horror, I was going deaf.