I did not know what was coming next in the European political situation, but then neither did the nearly five hundred guests know what was coming the next morning at my Sunderland House Conference. I imagine the engraved invitations and the tea and strawberry delights had made them think this would be a lovely, proper social occasion.
With Winston’s help, I had invited important people who were kind but complacent. My friend was quite the liberal then in his political beliefs, but I noted even those of the conservative bent were here. As the program began, I could see my true purpose was dawning on the brightest of the churchmen, parliamentarians, business owners, and newspapermen and even some of the aristocracy who were here today: I had something not only entirely serious but shocking in mind.
I took the stage at the podium, but from behind the curtain out came six elderly working-class women from each side, a total of twelve, to sit in chairs. They were women I had chosen because they had labored long in the sweated trades, been paid little and treated nearly as slave-laborers here in the heart of England and throughout the Empire. I introduced each by name, but they boldly did all the speaking.
“Gents and ladies,” the first silver-haired, frail-looking speaker said, “I been twenty years hard working in a factory what makes confections for sweet tooths, if you know what I mean. Eight shillings a week I made and from that provided for schooling and food of my child, since my husband been sent to prison. All those years I never eaten a dinner costing more than a penny.”
An eighty-four-year-old, bent-over woman with a Cockney accent talked of being fifty years as a shirt maker in a factory and at home. “This here is a shirt I made and right proud of it, too,” she told them, holding up the item. Her arms shook, but her voice did not. “Mrs. Marlborough says just tell true, so here’s the end of it. Last week me and my husband worked from five-thirty morn till eleven at night at home after a day’s work in the factory and made fourteen dozen of these, earned us ten extra shillings, but got to pay ten pence for cotton.”
So on it went. Some of the crowd kept silent, some murmured or fidgeted. A few women wept, and some men blew their noses. I imagine some were offended that I had dared to bring in the old ladies to tell their own tales, but my dear friend Mrs. Prattley had done that so well. A few of my guests looked askance at me thereafter, a few thanked me. But the donations for the charity for Silver Haired Women of the Trades went as sky high as, well, as Jacques could soar in his silver aeroplane.
THEN, ON JUNE 28, 1914, a Serb named Gavrilo Princip shot to death Archduke Franz Ferdinand of Austria and his wife, the Archduchess Sophie, in Sarajevo. This destabilized the delicate balance of that city, that country, and Germany, just lying in wait for a trigger to attack, took advantage. From those few bullets of an assassination came what was soon called The Great War or The War to End All Wars as fighting and destruction spread like wildfire through Europe. I was soon doing war charity work and fighting another battle, since, for the first time in our separation, the duke and I became engulfed in a face-to-face dispute.
“Bloody hell, Consuelo!” he shouted the moment he entered the library at Sunderland House, a place he so seldom visited. He stalked to the window and stood there frowning out as if he could not bear to look at me. “How dare you tamper with—even advise—Blandford on which regiment he should become attached to in this damned war! I fear England will too soon jump in with both feet and then it will not just be sharp uniforms, patriotic posters, and parades!”
I sat on the settee not far from him. “He is my son, too. And I am only looking out for his best interests. You are the one who approved of his leaving Eton for a course in officer training at Sandhurst, so he had that idea of joining the guards in his own head already.”
“Don’t try to shift this off on me as you have everything else. You’ve swayed most of my friends, even convinced Winston, to believe that the failure of our marriage was my fault.”
“I have never said such a thing about you, except to myself!”
I almost feared he would strike me, but he only pierced me with a frown and stood his ground.
“Besides,” he went on, finally turning to look fully at me, “did we not have an agreement that I oversee the upbringing of the next duke and you supervise Ivor?”
“Hardly! The only agreement I had with you about Blandford is that I can finally call him Bert, and only then because the boy insisted he prefers that he not be called Blandford.”
“Never mind all that. What’s important is that after I had arranged everything for him to serve in the War Office, where he would be safe, that he suddenly prefers the First Life Guards where he could well go into battle. He was perfectly content with my arrangements a week ago, and then you and some high-ranking friend talked him into changing to a second-rate regiment!”
“Marlborough,” I countered, “if you would just listen to Winston, he believes there will be a conscription if things get bad when we get in this war, so why should Bert be cowed into serving in some office here, which he does not want?”
“I swear, I will have Winston’s head, too, if he has advised you on this! He’d best stick to his royal navy work as First Lord of the Admiralty—a political position in a London office!”
“He has not advised me, at least not on this. But I have learned that the Kaiser is building aircraft called Zeppelins that could drop bombs on England—and so, no doubt, they could target the War Office where Bert would not be safe. None of us will be safe.”
“Nonsense. Come clear over the channel, drop bombs, and make it back to German bases? But do not try to get me off the topic of Blandford.”
“All right then, look at it this way. The Life Guards appointment is what he desperately wants. To serve with honor, to be with his friends. Do I want him in harm’s way—never. But if you believe an appointment to the Life Guards is second rate now, surely your son and heir will soon make it first rate!”
“If you were any sort of mother, you would beg me to lock him up during this bloody war mess. I believe we will go to war against those greedy Huns and the damned Kaiser. I am going now to try to undo the mischief of your meddling!” He stormed out just as the tea I had ordered came in on a rolling cart.
I imagined the duke was even more livid the next day, for I soon heard that Bert had already signed with the 1st Life Guards as a second lieutenant. And, Albertha said, that Bert had told his distraught father that he was old enough to make his own decisions as a loyal British citizen and next Duke of Marlborough.
To make the memory of that visit worse, I shortly thereafter received the first communiqué from Gladys in years, in which she dared to inform me that, Sunny is so distressed over this, and it will be on your head if anything happens to his heir in this dreadful war that is surely to get worse if England jumps in with both feet and that is surely coming.
SADLY, GLADYS WAS right about us getting into the fight as King George, the deceased King Edward’s son, four years now on the throne, declared war on August 4, 1914. Winston had already ordered a test mobilization of the Royal Navy Home Fleet.
France especially came under German attack, which added Jacques to the long list of those I endlessly worried about. My dear Frenchman’s letters had stopped, making me wonder if he was somehow fighting in that aeroplane of his.
When Papa and Anne came to stay with me in London, able to travel across the Atlantic since the United States was still neutral, Papa said he had word that Jacques was doing “reconnaissance.”
“What does that mean?” I demanded. “Tell me right out. I want to know.”
He glanced at Anne, who nodded, so she must already know. My insides twisted even tighter. Surely they had not come to tell me Jacques had been . . . been lost.
“He has volunteered for duty to fly over enemy forces and report their positions and strength,” Papa told me, putting a firm hand on my shoulder. “And he is going to serve in Morocco to take part in early tests of aerial bombardment. He has become a captain in the new French air force, and he asked that I give you this,” he added, taking a folded envelope out of his suit-coat pocket. “He was not sure how well the mail would get through from France to England right now and so sent this to me—sealed.”
I held the letter in my hand. Though warm from Papa’s coat, I imagined it was because Jacques had held it, maybe kissed it.
“Thank you, Papa, for telling me the truth and for bringing this. I shall continue to worry for Bert and Jacques and that Ivor does not get conscripted. I will be back in a moment, if you do not mind.”
Anne—no wonder Papa had fallen in love with her—put her arm around my waist and whispered, “Take all the time you want, dearest Consuelo. We understand. As we grow older,” she said with a glance at Papa, “the head and heart work together to know what and who one really wants.”
I kissed her on the cheek and fled to my bedroom. I had known from the first, even in my youth, that I did not love the duke, and, strangely, known from my first time with Jacques, that dance, that he was special. I broke the seal on the envelope and pulled out the one-sided, one-page letter. Was it my imagination he had hastily written this? That he longed for me, but his mind was elsewhere, for he was already in love with his dear France?
I sat on the divan at the foot of my canopied bed and read:
My dearest Consuelo, I am writing this in haste, but, sadly, I fear our entire relationship so far has been in haste. I long for this war to be over and fear it has barely begun. I long to be with you, to formally court you, to win you. Granted, there are many obstacles to that, but we can win. We can win this dreadful war and we can win the right to be forever together.
Be very careful, even in London, for the Huns have their own deadly big balloons called Zeppelins that can drop incendiary bombs, and they will send aeroplanes in the near future. Perhaps find a small place of your own in the nearby countryside for a refuge, but I hope you will not return to Blenheim.
Lest I do not return from my part in this tragedy, know that I have admired and loved and wanted you from the first and that will never change, no matter what happens. I pray we will have our chance to be together, if you are willing, for I am more than ready.
I must tell you one thing. Eleven years ago I was married briefly, in a civil ceremony because the bride was going to bear my child. I never loved her, a fling with sad consequences, for the child died and there was nothing but that to keep us together. The marriage was never truly sanctioned and is long over. But I long for a true, a real one we both choose for the right reasons, if I can earn your care and trust.
Forever your Jacques, whether or not you wish it to be so.
A captain in the new French air force, but you are captain of my heart
The lines of the letter blurred as I blinked back tears. I read it again. It was so emotional, so open. That was one thing about this man. He shared his intense feelings, always had. It was a heady thing for a woman who had longed for love all those years I had lived with the duke. I clasped the letter to my breasts. He was right that we had far to go to really be together. I prayed so hard then and thereafter that we would have our chance.
I KEPT VERY busy to cope with fear and looming destruction. I quickly became involved with the Women’s Emergency Corps, which promoted women taking over the work of enlisted men. I feared conscription, for that would involve dear Ivor, too, and he was never really strong. In school at Eton, he failed his medical tests for the army. On occasion, Winston used him for office work, for which I was so grateful. When Ivor could, he spent much time with me.
I also became chairman of the American Women’s War Relief Fund, which supported a military hospital in Devon. When I had time, I scoured areas outside London for a pied-à-terre like Jacques had mentioned, not only for my safety lest London were hit by Zeppelin or aeroplane bombs but for my own sanity—an escape for the soul. But nothing right had turned up yet.
Meanwhile, I volunteered Sunderland House as a shelter should there be a Hun aerial attack on London. I had thought it could become a nursing home for wounded soldiers, but it proved unsuitable for that. I learned it was considered unpatriotic for one person, or even a few, to live alone in so huge a house when the nation was at war.
However, it was known in the neighborhood that the sturdy building with its extensive cellars would accept on immediate notice people off the streets who needed a safe haven during an attack. I prepared the cellars, which mostly stored food and wine, with lanterns and seats of various kinds. My women servants were mostly working in munition factories now, so, as exhausted as I was, I did much of the preparations myself, but nothing happened, except some Zepp attacks out by the docks.
And then it did. Not the huge floating, gas-filled airships, but on May 31, 1915, horrible, buzzing aeroplanes.
IN LATE AFTERNOON, the neighborhood sirens screamed, screamed, screamed as people ran to my front door. As my last maid and I welcomed them in, I glanced up to see three of the evil metal birds overhead, then I felt the vibrations and the muted boom, boom of bombs somewhere nearby. Why bomb such a residential neighborhood? Perhaps the Huns thought important people were here—and so they were. Yet people of all classes and ages streamed in, and I guided them quickly down to the cellars. The crump, crump of bombs was more muted here, and I prayed they would not come closer.
Huddled in the dim light of lanterns, no one said much at first, though several children and one baby cried. I took a little boy, perhaps two years old, onto my lap and bounced him a bit.
“We are so grateful,” a man next to me said. I strained to hear him. “Hope a hit here will not harm all this wine.”
I suddenly felt guilty. Sunderland House, like Blenheim, was so elegant, so massive and well stocked, but at least it had been used for important causes, helping, saving—I hoped—people.
“As soon as the noise stops,” I declared, “we shall open some bottles and toast our fighting forces.”
“And hope the Yanks get in the war.”
“Yes!” I said. “I am sure they—we—will.”
We sat there on edge for a good hour to be sure the attack was over. Rather than breaking out the wine here, I gave each family or lone adult a bottle as he or she left. Several of the woman curtsied to me as if I were Queen Mary. Many thanked me heartily. I hated to hand the little boy back to his mother.
Outside, as I stood in the door to the street, I felt so lonely. How I wanted to find a rural retreat, someplace small, someplace Bert and Jacques, too, could love when—if—they came back from the horror and madness of this war.
I turned to go back inside the mansion. It suddenly seemed a ghost house to me now, haunted by what might have been.