CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Norman had been even better than his word. The reworked suit was utter perfection. With effortless elegance it drew attention to her straight shoulders and slender waist. It stopped bang on the knee, to show off her long legs. He had swapped the worn leather buttons for flat shiny black ones and taken the lapels off and replaced them with contrasting black velvet. “I look like a completely different person,” Marion breathed, looking in Hartnell’s mirror.

“It’s better than that,” exulted Norman. He was clearly delighted with the success of it. “You look like the person you’re supposed to be. Glamorous, forward-looking, woman of the world.”

It was true. Norman had negotiated a discount at a Bond Street salon, where a flamboyant stylist had snipped away to reveal what he called her swan neck. Her cheekbones, lately hidden under curly clumps, reappeared as well.

Now, when she looked in the mirror, the bold girl who had cropped her hair and swirled her skirt smiled back. Dowdy Marion had gone.

“You’re a genius,” she told Norman.

“It has been said. Now off you go to the ball, Cinderella!”

“You mean the wedding. The ball’s the night before, and I haven’t been asked to that.” The king and queen were giving a dance at Buckingham Palace that promised to be extremely grand. The duchess had been auditioning tiaras all week.

“No, but you know who has?” The hazel eyes gleamed with excitement. “I hear on the grapevine that a certain very flashy frock has been made for a certain very flashy lady.”

He meant Mrs. Simpson, obviously. “She’s not flashy,” Marion said. It was a source of deep frustration to Norman that she had met Wallis and he hadn’t. Even more frustrating was the fact that he had not been asked to design for her. She wore Chanel, whom Norman hated. “Anyone can do that minimalist stuff! It takes real genius to be maximalist, like me!”

She doubted Norman’s information about the ball. It would be a highly formal occasion. The Prince of Wales would surely not invite his mistress, a woman Queen Mary had called an adventuress. Lady Furness; the devoted Freda Dudley Ward; they had never made such public appearances. Norman had to be exaggerating.

Marion hoped so, fervently. She liked Wallis, but any increased ascendancy in the Prince of Wales’ affections spelled trouble—for Lilibet, and therefore for her.

On the day of the wedding, she sat in the Abbey transept. There was a buzz of anticipation as those gathered waited to see the beautiful Greek princess.

“Marinamania” had gripped the capital. It loved everything about her, from her romantic name to her hats. Two types were in circulation: a droop-brimmed one with a high crown and pom-pom, and a perky pillbox with an upstanding side feather. Both had been much in evidence in the vast crowds cheering the princess in her coach every inch of the route from the palace to the Abbey.

Norman, of course, preferred to believe that the real excitement was his dress. “They’re all desperate to see it!” he had crowed earlier, in the Abbey foyer. “Not bad for the son of a pub keeper from Streatham Hill!”

Marion stared. “You told me your father was in the wine and spirits trade.”

“And so he is,” the irrepressible Hartnell returned.

Sitting behind Marion was a gossipy collection of elderly peeresses. In front, across the aisle, she could see the Prince of Wales. As Prince George’s best man, in his naval officer’s outfit, he looked astonishingly handsome. But, as always, astonishingly bored. She watched him beckon a passing clergyman and light a cigarette on his processional candle.

There was a gasp from behind. “Did you see that? And to think he’s to be Defender of the Faith!”

The prince, perhaps aware of such remarks, possibly even keen to encourage them, blew a fat plume of smoke upward.

Another whisper from behind. “He took her with him to the palace ball last night.”

In her new suit, Marion stiffened.

“Appalling woman. Foxtrotting about like the cat who’d got the cream.”

“The servants at the Fort saw him coming out of her room in the morning. Covered in lipstick.”

“No!”

“Apparently she has complete power over him. Not to mention delusions of grandeur. I hear that in Biarritz she was complaining because she wasn’t introduced to all the local aristocracy.”

“She’d complain more if she had been.”

Marion swallowed nervously. She could still hardly believe that the good-natured woman she remembered was also the brazen creature of these stories. But all the stories were like this. How could everyone be wrong, and she be right?

She tried to concentrate on the Abbey’s splendor and beauty, the carving and gilding, the glowing stained glass. She looked at the Greek royal family, sitting in the nave. Apparently they didn’t actually have a throne and were currently living in exile. But they certainly compensated with looks.

They had gathered in the palace beforehand, among them a blond boy of startling handsomeness. His name was Philip and he was a cousin of Marina’s. Lilibet, from across the room, had gazed at him shyly. He had not seemed to notice her.

The mighty Abbey organ now announced the advent of the bride. People strained to see Marina as she came slowly up the nave, the shafts of colored light from the ancient windows making her diamonds flash and glitter.

Marion slid a glance at the Duchess of York. Sitting in the nave dressed in palest pink, she wore a look of bright, unruffled serenity. Marion was not fooled, however. Elizabeth of York loathed Marina. It was said that the Greek princess considered the Scottish earl’s daughter beneath her. The earl’s daughter had repaid in kind.

But she was possibly not feeling quite so triumphant now, Marion thought, watching Marina approach. Shimmering beneath the powerful lights, Hartnell’s gown looked magnificent and set off to perfection the princess’s dark and delicate beauty. She was fashionably etiolated in a way the Duchess of York never would be, and her popularity was almost as great.

Lilibet now appeared in her tulle frock, walking slowly down the aisle behind Marina. She looked adorably serious beneath the flowers in her hair. But like Marina, she had her detractors. At her mother’s feet, Margaret crouched on a velvet stool looking furious. She passionately resented not being a bridesmaid too, and had none of her mother’s skill at concealing it. From under her little white bonnet she blazed with all the red-hot fury a four-year-old could summon.

Behind Marion, the old peeresses were still on Mrs. Simpson. “They say she demands endless money and jewels.”

“Snaps off the ends of pencils to make more work for the servants.”

“Reduced the gardener to tears by demanding all his peach blossoms!”

“No!”

Marina reached her husband-to-be at the altar. To mark his marriage, Prince George now had an extra title, Duke of Kent. With his height and slick dark hair he had a film-star glamour. Perhaps that was appropriate. According to Norman, the prince had once, under a pseudonym, won a dancing competition in Cannes.

The Prince of Wales now stood up, the braid on his uniform flashing under the chandeliers. He took another long drag on his cigarette, which he then tossed to the floor. He glanced about with his quick, darting gaze. He seemed to be looking for someone.

“Oh, and she’s here, of course,” came from behind Marion. “He gave her the best seats, naturally.”

“Seats? Is the husband here?”

“Yes. Have you heard? They’re calling him ‘The Unimportance of Being Ernest.’”

“How very amusing.”

A hat moved several rows in front of Marion, and shock barreled through her as, quite suddenly, she realized she was looking at Wallis.

She was seated in the choir in a fitted dark jacket that made an elegant contrast to the gold all around. She was hatless, her black hair gleaming above her pearly face. Did she look hard, scheming and ruthless? Marion wondered. Or exactly the same as before? Her red lipstick was bright as blood and her big dark eyes, while not looking in Marion’s direction, had the amused glitter she remembered.

“There!” hissed the trouts. “Look! His face!”

The prince was staring at Wallis as if she were the only woman in the world. It was a private moment, played out in public. Only an idiot would doubt what was going on now.

Marion glanced at Lilibet, poised and patient behind the glittering Marina. There was something touching and vulnerable about the small white figure amid the ancient and vast surroundings.

She felt a sudden, fierce resolve. Whatever happened, she had but one priority. She must protect her little princess.