Abdication A Novel

Chapter EIGHT





Evangeline had been resident in Joan’s comfortable St. John’s Wood townhouse for over ten days and had almost forgotten her previous urgency to see her school friend. She was enjoying herself walking Wiggle round the leafless but still elegant Georgian streets, despite the time when Wiggle had squirmed his way under the fence at the nearby lord’s cricket ground and felled a terrified rabbit right there on the famous pitch. In his excitement Wiggle had become caught in the netting. The daily newspaper, which was spread open to cover the guard’s face, had slipped to the floor as Evangeline’s sharp “cooee” woke him in his hut on the periphery of the grounds. His weary eyes reflected his alarm at seeing a double chin framed in fur peering at him through the window, mouthing some words he obviously could not identify.

“We gals stark?” he queried from behind the window.

“Wiggle … my little dog … he’s stuck. And I can’t unravel him!” Evangeline yelled back at him.

The guard had eventually untangled the trapped animal with the help of an old golf club he kept in the hut for such emergencies, and appeared mightily pleased to be allowed to get back to his midday nap.

There had been another mishap a few days later. Evangeline and Joan had been out to tea at The Grosvenor Hotel in Park Lane when Evangeline became caught in the revolving door at the entrance. A queue of expensively dressed and impatient-looking women had formed on the other side of the glass and for a few minutes, despite the strenuous tugging of the doorman and a hastily summoned backup team of waiters, there was no budging the obstinate door. The claustrophobia was intense and Evangeline, in a flash of temper borne of exasperation, felt like smashing the glass if only she could. She reminded herself of Alice in Lewis Carroll’s story but without a magic biscuit to start the shrinking process. Only when a bowler-hatted gentleman went down on his knees, inserted his umbrella handle into the lower hinge, agitating it back and forth, did the glass door finally come loose. With no warning at all, Evangeline found herself whooshed round in a circle at an unseemly pace, while the previously stern-faced women laughed at her from behind their hands.

On the whole, however, Evangeline had settled down into a most agreeable way of life with the Blunts. They had taken her out to dine at Rules and at Wheelers, two of their favourite restaurants, and Evangeline was enjoying time spent with these two older people, their affectionate ease with one another evident as they lobbed and returned well-rehearsed teases nurtured during many years of contented marriage.

“I cannot think what Winston thinks of the length your hair has now reached, my darling. Does he imagine the government has appointed a rather dishevelled elk hound for a chief whip, I wonder?”

But Philip had long resisted his wife’s attempts to get him to cut his long and infrequently brushed hair. It was part of his identity.

The Blunts had embarked on the New Year with considerable energy for a couple in their sixties. They had begun by treating Evangeline to a performance of Noël Coward’s new play at the Phoenix Theatre, Tonight at 8.30, a sequence of one-act dramas Coward had written for himself and his favourite leading lady, Gertrude Lawrence. After the show the Blunt party met the playwright for a drink in the Café Royal. Evangeline could not help staring at the man whose work filled theatres on both sides of the Atlantic and who had helped make Gertie Lawrence such a star. In Evangeline’s opinion, Coward’s looks just missed qualification for heartthrob status but he was so funny and warm, referring to Gertie as “Gert,” whom, he told them, he had loved ever since she was an unknown fourteen-year-old. Evangeline remembered her mother mentioning a scandal involving Coward and the Duke of Kent, the Prince of Wales’s younger brother, although the precise nature of that friendship had never been explained. To Mrs. Nettlefold’s frustration, British newspapers always maintained absolute discretion as far as stories about the royal family was concerned.

First nights at London theatres, especially a Noël Coward first night, were glamorous occasions, providing an opportunity for the stars of London society to dress up, turn out and show off to one another. But Evangeline preferred the evening parties at Hamilton Terrace. The Blunts’ guests tended to be older than herself and demonstrated a gratifying interest in life in America. They were curious about the racial tension that dominated so many cities, in the tallness of the new buildings, in the new museum that had opened just before Christmas at the New York home of art collector Mr. Henry Clay Frick, in the goings-on among the film stars in Hollywood and most particularly in Baltimore itself. Evangeline was enjoying the novel experience of being “interesting” and a little giddy with the notion that she was bringing “insights” into how American and British ways of life differed. Privately she felt a little deflated when the conversation turned to the two other insatiable topics of the early spring.

Speculation about the Prince of Wales and his relationship with Mrs. Simpson was rarely off the agenda. The British newspapers were silent on the subject and the couple in question moved easily and without inhibition within the upper circles of London society. They would regularly be seen in each other’s company at the theatre, at nightclubs, and at dinner parties in the private houses of the rich and well connected. Mrs. Simpson’s husband was usually included in such expeditions and hostesses marvelled privately not only at Ernest’s tolerance of the Prince of Wales’s devotion to Mrs. Simpson but also at how Wallis herself seemed to manage the threesome with such dexterity. She seemed to feel genuine affection for both men. Nevertheless, London drawing rooms were fizzing with talk about how long this arrangement could last and also how long the story could remain out of the newspapers.

War was the other subject that monopolised conversation. Despite Philip Blunt’s insistence that some sort of martial conflict with Germany was inevitable, he often found himself to be a lone voice in the matter. There was indeed little evidence to convince anyone of the imminence of war. The Olympic Games the coming summer were to be held in Berlin and opened by the German chancellor himself, Adolf Hitler. According to the Blunts’ daughter, Bettina, “le tout monde,” by which she meant a large delegation from the upper ranks of British society, was planning to be in Germany in August for the many Olympic parties and balls in Berlin and Rupert Blunt was intending to go straight out there to celebrate the end of his final exams at Oxford. He and Bettina had accepted a stylish invitation to attend the games from the American bon viveur Chips Channon, a member of Parliament and friend of their father.

Scattered throughout the gaiety of Evangeline’s days there had been moments alone with her godmother that reminded her of the hidden challenges of life. Although nearly two decades had elapsed since the death of Joan’s sister, her grief was rarely far below the surface, evident when her eyes would suddenly lose their natural shine, as if shrouded by a layer of dust. One of Joan’s closest friends, Lady Cynthia Asquith, had spoken to Evangeline at dinner only the other night, expressing her pleasure at Evangeline’s extended visit.

“You have brought a new purpose and an interest into her life,” Lady Cynthia told Evangeline. “We all worry about her so much as she still seems incapable of recovering fully from Grace’s dreadful sudden death. Grace was her favourite sister, you know.”

Evangeline nodded in sympathy.

“Every anniversary seems to be as bad as the one before,” Lady Cynthia continued. “We had all hoped that time would ease the pain, but it does not seem to be doing the trick. Men seem able to handle their grief better. They go to their clubs and talk about it there among themselves, if indeed they talk about it at all.”

“I heard there was another sister?” Evangeline asked.

“Oh yes, but Myrtle has never been a big part of Joan’s life. She is a good five years older and they are such different people. In fact, I cannot remember the last time I heard Joan even mention her.”

“Where is Myrtle now?”

“She lives on her own, I think, somewhere near Settle in Yorkshire,” Lady Cynthia replied. “A good safe distance from London and Cuckmere. So Joan relies on her friends mostly.” Lady Cynthia sighed and for a moment the two women were silent.

“The trouble is barely anyone escaped losing someone they loved in the war. And yet many of us who will never get over our own grief also know that unless we find a way of accommodating it we will go under.” Lady Cynthia’s expression of despair confirmed her own private feelings as she continued, and not without a hint of bitterness. “I am afraid Bettina and Rupert are too absorbed in their own young lives to think of sparing a moment to look after their mother, although of course Philip does all he can, but he is so busy with his parliamentary work. Rupert’s Oxford friend, Julian Richardson, has been lovely to her though. Have you met him?”

Evangeline nodded. “Oh yes. He’s rather a dish isn’t he?” she replied enthusiastically.

Lady Cynthia raised her eyebrows.

“Oh no, don’t get me wrong, Lady Cynthia! Of course he’s far too young for me to be paying him any attention! I was just remarking, in an objective way, you understand?”

Lady Cynthia continued, although a little chill had entered her voice.

“Well, you obviously know what I mean about him. And anyway, now you are here to help cheer Joan up as well. Forgive me saying so, but we all think it is an added bonus that you don’t have a demanding husband to take care of.”

Evangeline blushed, but this time said nothing. Lady Cynthia seemed to take her blush as a sign of pleasure at the compliment.

“What’s more,” the older woman continued, “I do believe that even those deep lines in Joan’s face, like swallows’ wings I always used to think, appear to be fading a little.”

For the time being Evangeline managed to dampen the prickles of resentment that the mention of her single status had ignited. Evangeline had been the recipient of her godmother’s full confession. No one else, not even Philip, knew that Joan sometimes felt trapped in a dark cave hung about with colourless cobwebs, great skeins of grief that waited to trip her up. Evangeline’s concern for Joan was empty of the hollow, bored pity with which the bereaved are so familiar and as a result Joan felt able to confide her feelings and to weep, even to laugh and especially to remember with an unprecedented freedom.

Joan acknowledged that there were so many things to be grateful for. She had a life that when viewed from the outside, appeared blessed. But the emotional tug that pulled her down when she was least expecting it was something that no husband, son, or daughter could truly understand, let alone eradicate. She had developed a habit of not talking about the events of nearly two decades ago. She was frightened of making a scene and yet this tendency to withdraw was beginning to affect her relationship with Philip.

Sometimes she would leave their bed in the middle of the night and creep into an empty guest room where she would muffle her sobs deep within a pillow, clutching at the hems of the sheets as if they were the tiller on a ship that might steady her. During the daytime she kept herself busy. But roaming the open-ended corridors of nighttime thoughts, she could find herself stuck in the dusty, neglected attics of childhood memories. Reliving those experiences, even the happy ones, was more painful than any physical experience, childbirth included, that she knew of. At least with childbirth there was a purpose to the suffering. The futile open-endedness of grief was sometimes impossible to accept. Sleep was elusive. Once, she confided to her goddaughter, she had woken from hard-won unconsciousness to see her husband holding a feather beneath her nose.

“I just came in to see you were all right, my darling,” he said, his overlong hair falling over his eyes as he reddened a little, clearly ashamed at being caught checking up on her.


Nearly a month had gone by since the docking of the Thalassa, and Evangeline had still neither seen nor heard from Wallis, even though Evangeline had given her the Blunts’ address and the date of her arrival. Just when Evangeline was steeling herself to lift the receiver to the school friend that she had not seen for so long, and who was the subject of so much discussion, George V had died. And then everything changed.

There had been little warning; the king had been out riding his horse only five days earlier. Philip told Evangeline about the exuberant jubilee street celebrations of the summer before, still talked of in pubs and clubs. On that day men had worn hats fashioned from Union flags, children had eaten chocolates wrapped in Union-flag-imprinted foil, women had flashed fingernails painted with miniature crowns, and red white and blue bunting had looped itself in gay abundance through the city streets. Philip was clearly much saddened by the death of the old king, describing for his American visitor the level of affection most Britons felt for the king and a queen who had steadied the country through the Great War and out of the troubling times that followed it. With King George and Queen Mary at the helm it had almost been possible on that one jubilee day of pageantry and joy to forget the truth: that Britain was still a country struggling with poverty, unemployment and a persistent fear of the return of international conflict.


The invitation for Evangeline to visit Fort Belvedere came by telephone two weeks after the old king’s death. Wallis apologised for the long delay in getting in touch. Life had been so busy. But she would almost certainly be alone for the next day or two. Ernest was delaying his return from a business trip to America, having met up with their old school chum, Mary Kirk. Although Mary had been married nearly twenty years ago to a Mr. Jacques Raffray, a French insurance broker, her husband rarely appeared in public with her, and Mary had obviously been delighted to run into Ernest and for a chance to catch up on news of Wallis. And anyway, wouldn’t it be fun for Wallis and Evangeline to spend time together without anyone much getting in the way of their long-awaited reunion?

“Oh, and just one last thing, before I hang up!” Wallis had concluded the call with an afterthought. “If you had been worrying about it, there is no question of you packing any mourning clothes. The prince, I mean the king, has expressly forbidden them to be worn at the Fort. He does not like us all going round looking like blackbirds! And I must say, Vangey, I am delighted at the rule as I haven’t worn black stockings since I gave up the cancan!”

Evangeline had been nervous on the drive to Fort Belvedere. Wiggle had been experiencing one of his dietary upsets and had looked so pathetic in the hallway at 44 Hamilton Terrace that at the last moment Evangeline had scooped up his leash and whisked him into the car. She had been glad of his small comforting little body on her lap. Recently there had been more talk than ever around the St. John’s Wood dining table about Mrs. Simpson and the complications her relationship with the new king would inevitably cause. Queen Mary’s grief at the death of her husband was fully understood among those in the Blunts’ circle. Her dearest friend Lady Airlie had let it be known that the queen operated under “a façade of self-control” but that the romantic intentions of her eldest son were causing her dreadful anxiety. According to Joan’s own sources of information, George V had shared his wife’s concerns. His refusal of the Prince of Wales’s request that Mr. and Mrs. Simpson be invited to a state dinner last year had resulted in a family row and the heir to the throne had been seen banging his head against the lemon silk walls of his mother’s private sitting room.

Evangeline was aware of the constant reminders not to discuss any of this in front of the servants. “PD,” Joan would mutter, with a finger to her lips as Mrs. Cage carried the evening cocktail tray into the Cuckmere drawing room. There were other subjects that fell into the pas devant category. Sex was one. Money another. As both of these topics were of utmost concern to many of Joan’s friends there were frequent pauses in conversation as the time came for curtains to be drawn, plates to be cleared, or wood to be added to an already blazing fire. Sometimes guests, including Evangeline herself, would forget themselves and run on indiscriminately, in which case a servant would find themselves summoned to the study and told to forget everything they had heard.


As the Rolls-Royce travelled along the country roads towards Sunningdale, Evangeline tried to imagine how the woman at the heart of all this talk would be feeling and whether at their first meeting she would even raise the topic. Evangeline promised herself she would not touch it unless Wallis herself did first.

Although Joan had explained that Cropper’s affection for the whisky bottle had prompted Philip to replace him with a more levelheaded driver, Evangeline had uncharacteristically paid little attention to the new incumbent behind the steering wheel of the Blunts’ navy blue Rolls-Royce. Evangeline was always curious to meet someone new whether they were a king, a famous playwright or someone employed to make the wheels of life roll more smoothly. While motoring with Joan one day to fulfil her long-held ambition to visit the famous food halls in Harrods department store, she had learned a good deal from Joan about the sleek car in which they were travelling. Philip, a fan of the motorcar since before the war, would have far preferred the more racy Bentley but there was so little room in the backseat to spread out his work papers that they had opted several years ago for the more conventional Rolls.

But Joan’s explanation had somehow never proceeded beyond the vehicle itself to the person who sat at the controls. During theatre visits and the couple of shopping expeditions that Evangeline and Joan had made together in the car, and on the one occasion when they had been driven to lunch with Philip in the fashionable Ivy restaurant, they had sat together in the back, too full of their own conversation to have time to chat to the new driver. He appeared to be even more silent than Cropper, but his steady gloved hands had conducted them through the London traffic without a hitch.

Therefore, on the way to Sunningdale, it came as a surprise to Evangeline, deprived of Joan’s diverting chat, to find herself looking at the chauffeur’s hands resting un-gloved on the steering wheel, the delicacy of his olive-coloured fingers unexpected in such a profession. Examining the straight-backed figure in front of her a little more closely, and observing the slightness of the shoulders, Evangeline tried to catch the reflection of his face in the driving mirror. The leafless Berkshire lanes had offered little scenic beauty to comment on but Evangeline, always one for having a go at establishing intimacies, moved the dozing Wiggle from her lap onto the seat beside her and pushed back the glass dividing screen.