Abdication A Novel

Chapter FIFTEEN





There had been times recently when Evangeline had felt lonelier than at any moment since her arrival in England. With the absence of Wiggle and the incapacity of her godmother, the diversions that had previously filled her London days were becoming fewer. Walks in the park, visits to the dressmaker, outings to the cinema, and even treats to the outstanding patisserie department at Fortnum and Mason lost their appeal when there was no one to enjoy them with.

The London house had developed a sense of abandonment. Philip often spent the night but left for work immediately after an early breakfast, returning only to change into his evening clothes before going out again until after dinner. Even Julian never dropped by anymore, although Evangeline knew from May how often he visited Cuckmere. She had no longer felt quite as well disposed towards May since noticing her inappropriate and frankly ridiculous need to follow Julian all over the place: up to the North, down to the South, over the fields and yonder. Poor Julian. That flat-chested young woman must be driving him mad. And May was certainly close to overstepping the limitations of professional relationships. Evangeline had even considered mentioning the matter to Philip but was not confident she would get the response she was seeking.

Rupert and Bettina came and went as they wished but were as tedious as ever, obsessed by their own social engagements, arriving at all hours of the night with their loud-mouthed friends. An invitation to Evangeline to accompany Bettina and her friend Charlotte in loco parentis to their formal presentation to the king at the Buckingham Palace garden party had resulted in a washout. In truth, Evangeline had felt sorrier on that occasion for the girls than for herself. The presentation was to have been the high point of their debut year. Fittings for white silk dresses and discussions about the feathered headdresses had even begun to bore Evangeline. But the garden party had been rained off.

Well over a hundred girls had been waiting for their big moment, running over the presentation curtsey in their heads, trying to ignore their mothers’ fussing while fluttering their fans and doing their best to keep their feathers dry. Suddenly it was announced that not only would there be no more presentations that day but that the king had decided that the curtsies of those debutantes who had been foiled by the rainstorm were to be “taken as made.” No alternative arrangements were to be scheduled, rendering entire outfits and the rest of the grand hullaballoo redundant.

“I know Daddy hobnobs with HM day and night, but I call it extremement rude to treat us that way.” Bettina was close to tears. “And I have a good mind to say so to his face.”

Even the invitations to dine with Wallis had dried up or become subject to last-minute cancellations. Evangeline tried to forgive Wallis’s erratic behaviour by reasoning that her increasing involvement with the king left little time to spare for old friends. Although Wallis’s presence at the Fort had been established since well before Evangeline’s arrival in England, Wallis was now running many other parts of the king’s life, including his London engagements. Evangeline was amazed that nothing about the romance had ever appeared in the British press. Wallis’s name had been published a couple of times next to Ernest’s in The Times Court Circular but that was the extent of it. What a difference between the newspapers here and those back home! Her brother had sent over a clipping from Ed Sullivan’s column in the New York Daily News, together with a couple of others from popular magazines. Headlines had included “Yankee at King Edward’s Court” and “Baltimore Girl Who Won Friendship of King.”

Mostly the stories were anodyne and even friendly, except for a cartoon showing an old-world English pub in which the regulars, bucolic strings of straw hanging from their mouths, were enjoying a game of darts. The caption read, “We don’t want no Yanks upsetting things over here, do we?” The dartboard was covered with a picture of Wallis’s face. No one in Britain outside a charmed circle would have had any idea what the cartoon meant or recognised the face that had become the players’ target. Nevertheless, the published existence of anti-Wallis sentiment across the Atlantic was worrying. That nice Lord Rothermere, whom Evangeline had met briefly at a Sunday lunch at Cuckmere Park, was certainly most cooperative about the way he did not indulge in gossip in his pages. But how long could a good story be suppressed, Evangeline wondered? Did his newspaper, the Daily Mail, not honour the people’s democratic right to know what went on in their country? Perhaps Lord Rothermere was unaware of the full truth behind this woman who wielded such influence over the king?

If that was the case, he was certainly in the minority among the powerful and influential members of society who came in and out of Hamilton Terrace. The subject was rarely off the agenda. Evangeline had often heard Philip discussing the problem with Joan before she became ill. Members of the cabinet were becoming agitated about the deepening relationship between the king and a married (and divorced!) woman, while Winston Churchill reassured Philip that Mr. Simpson was still on the scene and was always included in the king’s invitations. There was still a hope within both the upper and lower house, Philip had said, that this current infatuation would “blow over,” just like the king’s other romances with married women, notably Mrs. Dudley Ward and Lady Furness. Certainly no one felt able to speak directly to the king about the matter. Queen Mary was thought to be hors de combat, and still fragile at the loss of her husband. And Mr. Baldwin had pointedly refused to interfere in the king’s private life. Many members of the cabinet felt that as long as the constitution remained intact, and the plans for next year’s coronation went ahead unchallenged, the matter of the royal love life should be left well alone.

Neglect had a bad effect on Evangeline but Wallis would always come up with something at the last moment. Recently there had been the offer of several nearly new hats, which Evangeline had accepted with alacrity, especially as she was missing her expeditions to the millinery department at Hochschild’s. The choice, as well as the price range in the equivalent department in Harrods, was far too rarefied for Evangeline’s taste and purse except for very special occasions. There had also been some cast-off handbags and gifts of redundant dresses, although even the most resourceful seamstress had been defeated by the challenge of adapting any of Wallis’s diminutive frocks to fit Evangeline.

One evening, knowing that Evangeline shared her love of music, especially jazz, Wallis had proposed dinner at Quaglino’s on a night when she could be sure the debonair singer Leslie Hutchinson, known to everyone as Hutch, would be playing a medley of romantic tunes.

The candlelit nightclub, just off St. James’s, had been hazy with cigarette smoke. The king’s table was in the centre of the room, while the less exclusive clientele would be shown to tables placed at the outer edges, several yards from the intimacy of the dance floor itself, and fairly close to the gents’ and ladies’ facilities. The waiters never made this segregated positioning explicit but relegation to the second division was evident to those selected for such discrimination. The air around the outer tables was perfumed with Elizabeth Arden’s cloying Blue Grass, while the oxygen around the king’s table reeked of something far headier and more expensive. Women with money to burn on smelling good would anoint the shallow pearl-hung cleavage of an otherwise naked back with the pricey scent of Guerlain’s distillation of orange blossom, jasmine and sandalwood.

When Evangeline accepted an offer to step onto the dance floor (in truth her only such invitation of the night) she was swept into the centre of the room in the arms of the king himself. His manners were so exquisite that he had danced in turn with each of the four ladies in the party, although Evangeline hoped that he had not asked her out of pity but more in genuine friendship. She liked him, this charm-full man who had taken such a shine to her old school friend. She was still not certain of his intentions towards Wallis but the fascination between the two of them was noticeably weighted on his side. At the Fort, only the other day, Wallis had snagged her fingernail. Although she had dismissed the break as mattering “not a jot,” the king had nonetheless dashed across the marble-floored hallway, returning a moment later with an emery board from his own dressing room.

When Evangeline rose to dance with the king, finding her way through the cramped tables to the dance floor, she was determined to glide round the floor with the grace she had attempted to learn at school. Unfortunately her dress was a little long and as the pair lurched past the piano Evangeline felt a little squeeze of her red satin bottom. Letting out a squeal of surprise, every eye in the restaurant turned on her.

“Oh, don’t mind Hutch,” the king hushed her, as Evangeline twisted round to find out where exactly the unwelcome pinch had come from. “Hutch is such a naughty man, but we forgive him everything for that voice, don’t we?”

A little later a man at a neighbouring table was asked to leave when a waiter spotted a badly concealed camera beneath a bowler hat. The following day the Star newspaper carried pictures of Wallis on the dance floor, although no accompanying text identified her as the woman in the arms of the king, and Evangeline was relieved that the shot had missed the earlier moment of the bottom pinch.

Evangeline’s summer plans took an upturn when Wallis telephoned to confirm an invitation to join the king’s annual summer cruise round the Mediterranean in August. And when a blue envelope arrived in the post at Hamilton Terrace the following day, Evangeline knew the invitation was securely in the bag. The assurances that Wallis proffered when “on the horn” often came to nothing, but if a telephone call was unreliable, the written word counted. Wallis had added a postscript that it would be helpful if Evangeline could accompany her on the way home from the holiday on a shopping expedition to Paris. Mrs. Simpson had evidently become a woman who required a lady in waiting and Evangeline was happy to accept the position, even if she was tactful enough not to acknowledge that this was the service being required of her. The prospect of such a glamorous holiday on the yacht would require more than a little weight loss, Evangeline pledged to herself. She felt distinctly apprehensive at the thought of undressing in front of people with the physique not only of Wallis but also of the alarming Lady Diana Cooper, whose name was also on the cruise guest list.

One Friday lunchtime in the middle of July Evangeline was discussing the holiday wardrobe with Wallis over a rare lunch in the king’s new apartments at Buckingham Palace. The king had never liked the grey building at the top of the Mall, associating it with the stuffy years of his childhood, and as a result he spent as much time as possible at the Fort. But official duties such as Trooping the Colour and the presentation of medals involved short overnight stays in the London residence, and Wallis often accompanied him there.

That day her expansive hand gestures showed off the ruby and diamond bracelet that encased her wrist, while pinned to her navy blue jacket was a huge diamond broach that Evangeline could not remember seeing before.

Fortieth-birthday presents, perhaps, Evangeline wondered, twisting the signet ring on the little finger of her own left hand, a confirmation gift from her godmother Joan all those years ago. The finger beside it seemed more naked than ever. As Evangeline contemplated her absence of jewels Wallis shifted nearer her on the sofa and was now sitting slim thigh alongside thick.

“So, Vangey, perhaps we should think of getting you a new canine friend? I expect you are still missing Wiggle and we have had some happy news. Slipper is about to become a father. Let me make you a little happier, with a new puppy, Vangey. You always look so anxious.”

And suddenly Evangeline’s unadorned fingers found themselves clasped within those encircled by precious stones, the physical contact returning Evangeline in a moment to the distressing events of two decades ago. Confessing to a sudden rush of heat Evangeline got up and moved over towards the open window.

Below her in the Mall all appeared orderly. The Union flags were flying and a small crowd was waiting for a glimpse of the king, who was expected to ride past at any moment. Earlier that afternoon, the wide-open spaces of Hyde Park had provided a perfect stage for Edward VIII’s presentation of the king’s Colours to three guards regiments. Horses huffed and stamped and pawed at the grass. Helmets gleamed in the sunshine. London was July-blowsy with the weight of full-grown leaves on the trees. A military band wound its way through the Wellington Arch at Hyde Park Corner, the drums and trumpets alerting those royalists waiting at Constitution Hill that the king was on his way.

As the small figure on horseback wearing his ceremonial scarlet uniform and bearskin emerged through the arch, he passed a man in a brown suit with a snappy moustache holding a newspaper. Suddenly the newspaper fell from the man’s hand revealing a revolver pointed directly at Edward VIII. With impressive speed, the king’s personal detective knocked the gun from the man’s hand to the ground as a policeman moved forward quickly to arrest the would-be assassin.

Throughout the day worried officials were shown in and out of the king’s private apartments, trying to unravel the security lapses that had made such an incident possible. Given that two further rounds of ammunition had been found in McMahon’s bag, the fragility of the king’s physical safety as he went out and about doing his “kinging” job had been exposed. Special Constable Anthony Dick, who had been detailed to look after the king that morning, came into the king’s private sitting room to explain what the police had discovered. An Irish journalist, George Andrew McMahon, had pulled a loaded gun on the king, and the quick thinking of the detective had saved the king’s life. Constable Dick confirmed that the assassin was mentally unbalanced. The words “May I love you?” had been found written on his discarded newspaper. The full implications of the gunman’s intentions were received by the king with impressive calm.

An equerry knocked at the door. He was holding a telegram. “Please forgive the interruption, sir, but this is a message of some importance, sir.”

The few words pasted in ticker tape onto the cream paper conveyed the Chancellor of Germany Adolf Hitler’s anxiety at “the news of the abominable attempt on the life of Your Majesty” and included his heartiest congratulations on the king’s lucky escape.

“Interesting how fast news travels these days,” observed the king. “Who would have thought Hitler had heard of the incident already? He must have his spies everywhere.”

Wallis and Evangeline had been sitting quietly in a corner of the room for the past hour. Wallis had been unnaturally subdued. However, on hearing about the telegram Wallis jumped up.

“That will be down to Ribbentrop, David. He is already taking his ambassadorial duties most seriously, you know, even though he hasn’t yet arrived in London for the appointment. I hear he is due in a month or so, which is rather nice. Even so, he never misses a trick! We must remember to give him a welcome dinner as soon as he arrives.”

Evangeline and the king simultaneously caught Constable Dick’s concerned expression.

“What is it, Constable?” the king asked, a note of defensiveness in his voice.

“Excuse me, sir, but I have neglected to point out one further detail we have discovered about McMahon. He was seen only a few days ago selling the Blackshirt, sir, the Fascist Party newspaper, sir.”

“Yes, well, that is most interesting, Constable. And we are most grateful for everything you have done.”

Realising he had been dismissed, Constable Dick made a neat little bow, and then, as an afterthought, a formal nod of his head in the direction of Wallis before leaving the room.

Wallis was more shaken after the assassination attempt than Evangeline had ever seen her. Despite being kept on the periphery of her friend’s social life, Evangeline remained eager to be useful. The complications of Wallis’s relationship with the king were becoming greater with each passing day and friends should stand by one another no matter what. Although Wallis spent most of her time in the company of the king, her affection for Ernest had never been in doubt. Evangeline wondered how far the tolerance of a husband could be pushed. And she had not been certain where Wallis’s genuine romantic centre lay. Was it with the king or with Ernest? But things were changing. Recently Ernest and Mary Raffray had been spending a great deal of time together and Wallis had begun to mind. Just two days after Wallis’s fortieth birthday on 19 June, a waiter had carried the breakfast tray up to the room occupied by Mr. Ernest Simpson in the notorious Hotel de Paris in the village of Bray. Not more than half a dozen miles from where Mrs. Simpson was in discussion with the fashionable interior decorator Lady Mendl about altering some of the furnishings at Fort Belvedere, the Bray waiter noticed that a woman in a yellow floral hat who gave her name as Buttercup Kennedy had joined Mr. Simpson under the covers. Whipping out a camera from beneath a white napkin, the waiter took a picture of the couple in bed. That same day, when presented with the photograph, Wallis wrote immediately to Ernest to inform him he would be hearing from her solicitor. Not long afterwards, Wallis made arrangements to move out of her marital home, Bryanston Court, and into a flat of her own on Cumberland Terrace in Regent’s Park.