To my utter horror—but I could not let on until Win and I could get Papa on board and face Mama together—the Duke of Marlborough invited us to Blenheim on June 15 for what the British called a Saturday to Monday, their version of a weekend visit. I had danced with him twice at one of the lovely events of the season, the ball given by the Duke and Duchess of Sutherland, where I tried to converse politely and ignore that the top of his head came only up to my eyebrows.
Nor was I in the best of moods on that trip to Blenheim, for Lady Paget came along too, the woman who had so brutally assessed my weaknesses so that she and Mama could lay a trap for the duke—or was it to make a deal with him? So, for the trip to the Marlborough estate, I vowed to be polite again and not more. But that plan went awry when I first saw Blenheim. Though that had naught to do with Sunny, I plunged from curiosity to awe.
Oxfordshire was lovely in general that late spring day, but the estate was stunning—overwhelming. Sunny had said the park was almost three thousand acres and the palace had three hundred twenty rooms under seven acres of roof, but that had not prepared me for the absolute grandeur of the first sweeping view.
He had met us at the nearby railway station, and the carriage had taken us a short distance through mellow stone villages, past cottages surrounded by green fields to the weathered stone arch at the Woodstock entry to the estate.
“I hope you will see, Consuelo, why I love this place above all else,” Sunny said, turning toward me. “And why preserving and improving it is the goal of my life.”
“I understand completely,” Mama told him when I but nodded. “My childhood home in Mobile, Alabama, was quite grand before the war ruined everything.”
I prayed she would not launch into her stories of how many servants—slaves—her family once had, for that still bothered me deeply. But now, even as Mama fell silent, I could only bite back a gasp. Through and below the arch, guarded by a doorman in antique costume, lay an emerald man-made lake with a small island. The water reflected clouds in the vast sky, clusters of ancient oaks, and a honey-hued, massive arched stone bridge. At first I mistook the stretch of the palace itself for a palace and a village, but it was all one edifice. I did not love this man, but at first sight I did so love his Blenheim.
ONCE WE WERE inside the huge palace with its high ceilings and vast rooms, I thought it was all rather cold—a museum, not a home—a problem with which I was quite familiar but not on this grand a scale. Things were laid out so beautifully, so perfectly, here with balance and bravado. Why, the displays reminded me of my own bedrooms in New York and Newport in that nothing in the wardrobe or even on my dressing table were personal choices. Dusted and shined daily, all had been purchased and arranged by Mama, and in my younger days I had been afraid to touch them.
Sunny lived in this massive place alone but for his huge staff, yet we were introduced to the two unwed of his three sisters, who had come for the day. It was only then I learned, to my surprise, that his parents had been divorced and his father, the eighth duke, had remarried. Could that be something my mother had missed when she seemed to know everything else about Sunny? She looked at first surprised, then smug when she heard it, but not when she heard Sunny preferred his stepmother, Lady Lillian, the dowager duchess, to his mother, Albertha, now known as the Marchioness of Blandford. And oh dear, that stepmother was a rich American who had wed his father and brought in funds to repair and enhance Blenheim! Had that somehow set a precedent?
But would his parents’ divorce—he admitted it had caused a scandal and royal ostracism for a time—mean that he would look more or less kindly on the daughter of divorced parents?
I also met his stepmother, Lady Lillian, that day. Meanwhile, his sisters, Lady Norah and Lady Lilian Spencer-Churchill also looked me over—not a good sign, I thought. Lady Norah didn’t pay me much attention, but Lady Lilian, a pretty blond, who seemed sweet and kindhearted, reached out while the others only studied me.
“I know this place is rather much and can be a smashing bore—like dear Sunny,” she whispered to me, “but give him a chance. By the way, of course the house is haunted,” she added for my ears only. “The first duchess, Sarah, who oversaw the building of it just cannot let it go. Then there is the old male ghost that haunts the room where our cousin Winston was born, but he causes not a bit of trouble.”
I learned that the Churchill name that the sisters sported was prominent in their family history and that Sunny’s cousin Winston was a dear friend, and I must simply meet him sometime, his sisters said.
“Winston can talk about anything to anyone at any time,” Lady Lilian told me on the sly. “I suppose Sunny did not tell you that Winston is his heir for all this, should Sunny not have a son. I hear you have two brothers, so I suppose, even in America, you know all about that.”
She winked at me. I wanted to roll my eyes or shake my head, but she was so likable that I merely nodded.
“Besides,” she chattered on, “however close Sunny and Winston are, it annoys my dear brother that Winston was born here at Blenheim and Sunny was born in India when our father was stationed there.” She whispered the next words. “Secrets simply breed here, did ever since the first duchess walked these halls, you’ll see.”
That sent up red flags. Not that the place was haunted or that secrets hid here, but that she’d said, You’ll see.
I could tell Mama wanted to know what young Lilian kept saying to me, but for once, she was keeping her hands off. Another danger sign was that she did not so much as turn her head—only her eyes—if Sunny steered me off into a corner or another room to show me some relic he fancied or was proud of, including the dusty battle banners of the first duke, Sir John Churchill.
Mama also happily sat off to the side with Lady Paget on Saturday evening when we dined in the massive state dining room, called the Saloon. The room seemed chilly even though logs blazed in both fireplaces. Fabulous frescoes with gods and goddesses gazed down at us from the ceiling and walls. Afterward, we moved into the Long Library—and long it was—to hear a concert by the duke’s organ master on the tall pipe organ that seemed to soar to the ceiling.
I was impressed by the moving memorial inscribed on a carved and gilded scroll attached to the pipes. It seemed the magnificent instrument was paid for by Albertha’s money. The inscription read: IN MEMORY OF HAPPY DAYS & AS A TRIBUTE TO THIS GLORIOUS HOME, WE LEAVE THY VOICE TO SPEAK WITHIN THESE WALLS IN YEARS TO COME WHEN OURS ARE STILL.
My nostrils flared at that, and I blinked back tears. So big Blenheim could be a home and not just a relic from the past. And a home to an American woman who married a duke and who managed to leave something beautiful behind.
But I quickly put all that out of my mind. I was getting silly and soft. Whatever writing was on the wall or on an organ, this place was not for me.
ON SUNDAY AFTER church, Sunny drove me around the grounds, just the two of us. He said he wanted me to see the people of the outlying villages of Woodstock and Bladon. The palace had been built, he told me, on land where once sat the Plantagenet kings’ hunting lodge of Woodstock.
“I am glad you appreciate the past. History helps make the present,” he told me as he adroitly handled the reins of our carriage pulled by two matched grays. Though I had much rather be on a bicycle with Win, I valued that compliment.
“It is living history here,” I observed as we neared a field where folk strolled the street of the tiny village of Bladon. I then saw how true that was as, at the mere sight of us, men snatched off their Sunday caps and called out almost in unison with a little bow, “Good day, Your Grace.” Women and little girls dropped a curtsy as we passed, and Sunny nodded their way. Some stood standing long after we had rolled by, gazing at us and pointing to others, as if they’d seen a saint pass.
“Living history indeed,” I added. “It seems as if, well, somehow like feudal times.”
“Not a bit of it,” he said with a little smile, evidently at my naivety. “Tradition, indeed, but the present is built on the past. We provide for the working class and the poor, always have. Food is taken daily from the table at the palace to send to those in need, and, if they are ill and alone, they are cared for. They are rightly grateful to their lord.”
“Lord with a small letter l you mean and not the Lord God. Things seem so . . . untouched here. In Americ—”
“This is not America, Consuelo. Things are as they should be. I show special concern, care, and charity for the estate workers as we Marlboroughs have since the first duke John.”
“Maybe that’s why some say the first duchess still walks the halls. Maybe she thinks the people’s station could be better.”
He did not frown but only shook his head as he snapped the reins to move the carriage even faster. “Such strange democratic ideas, my dear. You will see the old ways are best for all here.”
I wished his tone had been angry instead of condescending, even amused. My friends and family had always said I had a good sense of humor, but I could not summon one smidgen of it, however silly some of this seemed. I bit my tongue. We were leaving for London soon and home thereafter. The beauty here was luring but deceptive. I felt suddenly so relieved to be departing that I blurted, “I do thank you for your time to show me the natural beauty of Blenheim.”
He turned to look at me and leaned closer. For one moment I thought he might actually embrace or kiss me.
“Natural beauty is something that would suit you here,” he whispered. He almost said something more, but hesitated. My stomach went into free fall. I sensed that he had almost proposed. “Best we head back since your mother has a headache,” he added, sitting straight again.
No doubt she’d lied about that if he had asked her to come along. My mother never had a headache, never seemed to be ill. The fact she had maneuvered to get us alone together set off alarm bells in my own aching head again. She had not given up on pairing me with this feudal lord of all he surveyed. I vowed I would never be here again, certainly never live here, but I did have some vague ideas of what I would change if I had one bit of Marlborough power.
IT WAS OVER wine and strawberries that night after dinner—just Sunny, Mama, and I, though a wigged footman hovered behind each of our chairs—that I had another glimpse that I might be doomed.
“Dear Sunny,” Mama said to him, after a discussion on how he hoped to terrace the land above the ornamental lake and embellish some of the rooms of the palace, “how Consuelo and I would like to return your generous hospitality. I believe you said you were considering a tour of eastern America. We would love to entertain you at our home in Newport during the season in August and to invite you to a ball I am planning. You would be our honored guest, of course.”
He put his crystal goblet down onto the damask tablecloth slowly, as if he were pondering that. “How lovely and tempting,” he said, looking at me and then at her. “I could include it in my tour. I have never been to the States and feel I should understand its people better.”
“Then we would be honored,” she said and subtly elbowed me, a clear message to chime in, to say something.
Absolutely refusing to play her game, I said, “You will enjoy the sunny days cooled by the wind off the sea. I hope you like yachts. My father has a fine one.”
Mama narrowed her eyes at that, but I told myself to keep calm. I planned to be publicly promised to Winthrop Rutherfurd by the time Sunny arrived. Perhaps then, the 9th Duke of Marlborough could find another heiress—a willing one—in America.
“Then I accept with pleasure,” he announced, clinking his goblet to hers in a kind of toast—or to celebrate a business deal.
HIS AND MAMA’S plans were made. It was not until the next morning, when Sunny saw us off at the train, and it chugged away, that I dared to whisper, “Mama, if you are still thinking of matching me with him, it will not work. I am not suited to be his wife and live here.”
She shrugged and did not answer, which frightened me more than if she had given me a chance to protest further or argue. The sway and jerk of the train seemed instantly to upset my stomach.
I turned away to look out the window at the blur of the passing scene. I did not need to set off one of Mama’s fierce explosions with Minnie Paget just across the aisle. I would get Papa and Win’s family on my side, then we would all plead our case to win her over. This was not feudal times, even though Sunny and his “serfs” acted that way. Mama could not force me to leave home and marry where I would be so alone and desperately unhappy.
Could she?