Gone With the Windsors

More rain. To Gamages for overshoes, then home for a nursery tea. Jello, grilled cheese, and gingerbread. Afterwards, we played at Royal Ascot, with dolls strapped to Ulick’s spaniel and Melhuish’s little ratting dog.

Gave Flora an almost, almost empty scent bottle. She wanted to know if I was going to live with them forever!

14th June 1932

I’m a great hit with my niece, not least because I’ve decreed no fish will be served as long as I’m in command. I told her she could choose her favorite dinner, and she came down in her nightgown to deliver her demands: LAB SHOPS. SIRUB TART. GUSTARD.

I said, “Flora, wouldn’t you like to go to school?”

“No thank you,” she said.

I said, “Other little girls do.”

She said, “Lilibet York doesn’t.”

But Lilibet York is a princess. She’ll never need to use her brain the way we ordinary girls have to. At the very most, she might get called upon to be Queen, but only if they ran out of Kings. All highly unlikely.

A lot of huffing and puffing from the housekeeper over my menus. Flora’s choice tonight, then tomorrow a rib roast and ice cream.

She said, “I don’t know, madam. Her Ladyship didn’t say anything about specials. This kind of thing isn’t customary.”

I said, “I know it isn’t customary. That’s precisely why I’m ordering it.”

Such a fuss. All she has to do is telephone Harrold’s. They have everything.

“Carry on like this,” she said, half out of the door, “Her Ladyship won’t know the place when she gets back. We shall be all upside down with bilious attacks and overspending.”

I’ll deem it a failure if Violet doesn’t see a difference. I’ve already put a stop to the maid Trotman’s discussions. She now understands that if I say the tea is too strong I’m not inviting her to pour herself a cup to see whether she agrees. Give me a little longer and I’ll break that footman of breathing through his mouth.

Tomorrow with Wally to the rolling hills of Cotswoldshire and all those darling cottages with hairy roofs.

15th June 1932

A profitable day in Chipping Norton, a most characteristic town, pretty little stone row houses with windows you can look right into from the sidewalk, ancient hostelries, all haunted, I’m sure, and such sweet, simple country folk. They seemed to find us quite fascinating.

We got Wally a set of silver-plated vanity boxes, quite good enough for a guest room. Also a bone china compote dish, with the tiniest hairline crack, and a very pretty set of Victorian creamers. Bryanston Court is the kind of apartment that needs all the help it can get. It has no features. Wally’s done the best she can with her Chinese pieces, but the place still looks half-dressed. I suppose when Ernest got his divorce, the invalid wife was awarded all his good things.

Wally’s going to give a dinner for the Benny Thaws and invite Thelma Furness, too.

I can’t wait.

Doopie was in good form last evening, chatting away in that funny, snuffly style of hers. Flora seems to understand all of it. We looked through Doopie’s albums, pictures I’d quite forgotten. Mother and Father with baby Violet, posed beside a potted palm. Me in a little cotton pinafore, with Doopie in her crib. That would have been before she lost her mind. Several photographs of our Season, too. Pips and Violet setting off for Mary Kirk’s tea dance. Me, Pips, Violet, and Wally in our finery before the Bachelors’ Cotillion. What a production that was. Wally and I used to practice our one-step together. “I’ll be the man,” she’d say. Homer Chute had taught her the tango, too, but that was far too racy for the Baltimore Bachelors’.

It looked at first as though Wally wouldn’t be able to attend, because her uncle refused to help her out. He said it wasn’t seemly to be giving balls when young men were laying down their lives in Flanders. But then he relented and gave her a gown allowance, and she spent it all on one fabulous white satin. She reckoned she’d rather star at one important ball than blend with the masses at half a dozen.

Flora wanted to know why there were no pictures of Doopie going to a ball. I told her there was a war, and left it at that. I supposed having been cooped up with Doopie in that nursery all her life, she thinks of her as normal. I must say though, they both sat up so nicely and ate so daintily I’ve ordered dinner served in the dining room tonight.

16th June 1932

Unexpected company last evening. We were about to go into dinner when Melhuish’s friend, George Lightfoot, called in on his way back from Windsor.

He said, “I thought I’d look in on my favorite girls.” Flora clambered onto his knee immediately, so I offered him a sherry wine and he stayed to carve the beef. He’s a tall drink of water, rosy cheeks, tangled hair. He had a brother who was in the Grenadiers with Melhuish, lost at Passchendaele.

He said, “I would never have taken you and Violet for sisters, but you and Doopie, yes. I see a definite resemblance.” I don’t think so.

He said it was a criminal waste to eat such a fine-looking roast without a drop of wine, raced off to his cellars in South Audley Street, and came back with a bottle he described as “toothsome but sincere.” I don’t know that it was advisable to allow Doopie a glass, but afterwards she kept us quite entertained with her impersonations of Theda Bara and poor Fatty Arbuckle.

17th June 1932

Violet and Melhuish got back just as I was leaving to meet Pips for lunch. Flora came thundering down the stairs to greet them. “Mummy!” she said, “I’ve had a splendid time with Aunt Bayba. We had lab shops and ice cream and Doopie had red drink. Cook says she’s never seen such garryings-on in her life.”

“Not now, darling,” Violet said. “I have to talk to Lady Habberley about raffle tickets.”

Pips thinks Wally’s only inviting Thelma Furness to dinner in the hope she’ll bring the Prince of Wales, but I’m sure Wally knows that’s out of the question. Theirs is a very private affair.

Pips said, “I suppose having the Prince’s sweetie to dinner is still more than a little Cinderella like Wally ever dreamed of.”

Poor Wally, tarred for life, even by a friend like Pips. It’s not that there was anything particularly inferior about the Warfields. Her Uncle Sol had a very good house on Preston Street, and her Aunt Bessie is still well thought of. It was her mother who lowered the tone of things with one foolish marriage after another. Too many husbands and too much rouge. No wonder Wally’s so determined to start over and make something of herself.

Tonight to the Embassy Club with the Benny Thaws.

18th June 1932

Violet says what I had Smith spend on meat for two days would feed an African for a year. Ridiculous. I don’t believe Violet knows any Africans.

Interesting people at the Benny Thaws’ party last night. Boss and Ethel Croker from Michigan. Ethel was a Navy wife before she met Boss. She knew Wally from China. Somehow Ethel seemed more pleased to see Wally than Wally did to see Ethel.

20th June 1932

Wally’s birthday. I gave her a calfskin guest book and lunch at the Dorch. Ernest gave her a fountain pen. What a dull old stick he is.

We’ve been worked off our feet all afternoon planning her dinner party. There’s so much to do. The menu to be decided and the placement, new table linens and stemware to be purchased, conversational topics to be studied. Wally reads the newspapers cover to cover every day, and she’s skimmed through centuries of history and philosophy while having her hair done. She says one hardly ever needs to plod through an entire book.

21st June 1932

Lunch with Pips, who had invited along Ethel Croker, as she put it, “to help us join up a few more dots in Minnehaha’s Chinese period.”

Ethel’s nice. Overdressed and hair an unhappy shade of brass, but very sweet and chatty. Ethel was in Panama, waiting for a transport to Hong Kong. When she joined the ship, they berthed her with Wally, and they became friends.

She said, “God knows, you needed a friend. It was hell in a sardine can. Heat and storms and doughboys fighting with knives. Five weeks of it.”

She and Wally both got Navy quarters on Kowloon when they arrived.

She said, “She did try with Win Spencer, you know? She really did. I don’t know why, because he was a bastard. If I’d been her, I’d have left him. But then he left her, added insult to injury. She went off the deep end a bit after that. Man crazy. And travel crazy. I went with her on a trip to Shanghai, to take her mind off Win, but I couldn’t keep pace with her. I was a married woman, you know? There was a lot of talk about Wally. Still, it’s all a long time ago now.”

Ethel’s made a good marriage with Boss Croker. They say he’s Mr. Frozen Fish.

She said, “It’d be nice to catch up with Wally again. He seems all right, the new husband? A bit serious, but he doesn’t look like a drinker. I’ll bet he doesn’t hit her.”

Poor Wally. No wonder she grabbed Ernest when he came along.

She’s still a man short for Tuesday’s dinner. Pips says the obvious solution is to drop a lone woman, the prime candidate being me. She predicts Wally will ask me to fall on my sword, but I shall absolutely refuse. Given my outlay on guest towels from Liberty, the very least I’m owed is dinner with the fabled Lady Furness. If the situation is desperate, I’ll suggest George Lightfoot. He seemed to me the kind of man who could fit in anywhere.

23rd June 1932

Pips was quite wrong. Wally couldn’t care less about odd numbers.

She said, “This may be London, but aren’t we Americans, Maybell? Don’t we do things our own way? More women than men, so what? Anyhow, Nada Milford Haven is coming, and to all intents and purposes, she’s a man. It’s going to give my table a rather avant-garde complexion.”

One thing about Wally, she’s always made necessity the mother of invention.

The menu is now decided. We’re to have caviar, followed by grilled squab, iced camembert, and then strawberry sherbet. It remains to be seen though whether Ernest will cough up for caviar. He seems to keep Wally very short.

I said, “Well, if it doesn’t run to caviar, you can always serve soup.”

“Never,” she said. “Take it from me, Maybell, soup is the ruin of a good dinner.”

I’m quite agog to meet this Milford Haven person. I wonder whether she wears pants!

26th June 1932

Violet’s put out because she assumed I’d be free on Tuesday evening and now finds I’m engaged. The Nicholases of Greece and the Harewoods are dining. She said, “Now who am I going to pair with Lightfoot? I was depending on you. Surely, if it’s only Minnehaha, you can chuck?”

I have agreed to stay for one drink, provided Melhuish has his driver at the ready, engine ticking over, to whisk me to Bryanston Court. It’s like Baltimore all over again. Everyone wants me.

27th June 1932

A working lunch with Wally, putting the final touches. We’ll be eleven. An interesting number. She’s placing me between a decorator called MacMullen and a German commercial attaché. She promises me he speaks English.

Ernest telephone while I was there. I heard her say, “Of course we must. First impressions! There’s nothing worse than being offered caviar and then needing a magnifying glass to see it on your plate.”

I must say, when it came to paying, I was rather shocked at her lavishness. Beluga, sevruga, and ossetra! She calls it an overture of caviars, but I could hear Ernest worrying away at the other end.

“Ernest,” she barked, “Think of it as an investment in our future. Do you want to meet the Prince of Wales or not?”

Pips says she doesn’t eat caviar anyway, so there’s one economy that could have been made.

29th June 1932

Flora came hammering on my door at some unearthly hour, found me prostrated by migraine, and fetched Doopie to minister to me. Cold compresses and a draught of something pleasantly medicinal. Flora said it’s called Dog Hair.

Whatever it was, it made me sleep, and I woke restored. I think my headache must have been brought on by an unhappy mixture of beverages. A whiskey and soda with Violet and her guests, and then two deceptively strong Russian cocktails at Wally’s.

The dinner was a qualified success. I found the squab a little dry, but the sherbet was delicious and my linens and crystal looked superb. The German did speak English but seemed to find Thelma Furness so fascinating he omitted to turn between courses, and Freddie Crosbie became engrossed in conversation with Benny Thaw, which left me easy prey for Nada Milford Haven who was seated across the table. Wally says she’s not only a marchioness but also a Romanov. I can well believe it. She may have been wearing a gown but that didn’t prevent her foot from romanoving up and down between my knees.

Thelma Furness and her sister both have pale, pale complexions and wild black eyebrows. They’re exotic rather than pretty. The Prince of Wales can surely take his pick of the most beautiful women in the world, so he obviously has a taste for the unusual. They’re both very sweet though, and Thelma doesn’t at all trade on her special position. She has a child apparently. I wonder whose it is? Pips says Lord Furness stays in the south of France with a tootsie, so as to leave the field clear for the Prince.

Flora has been tiptoeing in and out, waiting for me to be awake enough to inspect a little story she wrote this morning. It was about a good aunt who buys candy and ice cream but then gets sent away by the bad aunts.

She said, “Daddy said you were a loose cannon. Why did he?”

That’s because I uttered the forbidden F word in the drawing room last evening.

Henry Harewood asked where I was off to in such a hurry, and I told him I was dining with Lady Furness. I only said it to provoke Violet. How was I to know Mary Harewood is the Prince of Wales’s sister? The Royalties can be so confusing with their multitude of names. She, being the daughter, the one and only, of the King and Queen, is the Princess Royal, but she married Lord Harewood and likes to use his name. Odd. I’m sure if I were the Princess Royal, nothing would part me from my title. She’s a homely little creature, too. Not my idea of a princess at all.

Rory and Ulick will be home from school on Friday.

30th June 1932

To Fortnum’s, for a postmortem with Wally. She’s already had a warm note of thanks from Thelma, so she feels she’s established another useful friendship.

I said, “You’re very keen to meet the Prince of Wales.”

“Not especially,” she said. “I already met him. But Ernest would be very thrilled, and anyway, who ever knows where these things may lead?”

She claims she met His Royal Highness at a reception in Coronado in 1920, when he was on his way to Australia and his battleship refueled at San Diego. Strange she never mentioned it before. And she doesn’t remember what he said to her. I’ll bet she didn’t actually meet him at all.

I said, “So, what happens next?”

She said, “We wait and see. But I’ll be very surprised if we don’t get an invitation to Thelma’s country house in the fall.”

That’s where the royal affaire takes place, apparently.

I said, “Why the fall? That’s months away.”

“Well,” she said, “after the middle of July, nothing important happens till September. We’re going to the Tyrol.”

Pips wasn’t impressed by Thelma Furness. She found her doe-eyed and vapid.

I said, “What else would she need to be? The Prince of Wales is heir to the throne. He’s used to giving out edicts and laying down the law. He’d hardly choose a sweetie who answered back.”

She said, “Oh I don’t know. I’ve heard he’s pretty vapid himself.”

She and Freddie are going to Italy for the month of August.

1st July 1932

Even Ida seems to be fixed up for summer, care-taking someone’s house in Gloucestershire. When I asked Violet if she planned to remain in London, she looked at me as though I’d asked whether she intended jumping into the Thames.

“Maybell,” she said, “no one stays in London in August. We go to Drumcanna, of course, and this year you’ll come with us.”

We’ll see about that. It’s so typical of Melhuish’s family to have their castle practically at the North Pole. All that way, and for what? To catch a few fish when one could so easily have them delivered by a good fishmonger? To crawl across Scottish moors in pursuit of some kind of elk? Knowing Violet’s culinary repertoire, we’ll be dining on poached elk till Thanksgiving. No. I shall make other arrangements.

Wally and Ernest are dining with Boss and Ethel Croker before they leave London.

I said, “You and Ethel must have so much to catch up on.”

“Not really,” she said. “We were never close. But Ernest and Boss will find lots to talk about. They have a house on Long Island, you know? And they travel all over, first class. Ethel’s certainly landed on her feet. Traded in a midshipman for a multimillionaire.”

Hardly “traded in.” Ethel’s husband was killed in Canton, friendly fire.

3rd July 1932

Ulick and Rory are home. Doopie has been flapping around all morning, unpacking trunks and examining socks for holes and shirt collars for turning. After the summer, Ulick will be going to Melhuish’s old school, Eton College, and so has to have his name stitched into dozens of new garments. A simple, repetitive task that would drive a normal person insane, but Doopie is clearly in her element.

Violet says the entertainments at Drumcanna will be simple, outdoor pursuits. Fishing, deerstalking, shooting. She says they don’t keep late nights, because of making an early start, but they do play parlor games after dinner and they always give a ball, where the help and the guests mingle and dance. I told her I didn’t think it was for me.

“Nonsense,” she said. “You’ll have a wonderful time. The mountain air will do you good, and you’ll strike up new friendships. Jane Habberley is coming, and Penelope Blythe. Anyway, you can’t stay here. Smith and the maids go to their families for August.”

The butler and the driver go north with them, apparently, but Drumcanna is otherwise run by a staff of locals, even more wayward than the London tribe, no doubt, left to their own Scottish devices for months at a time.

I said, “Then I’ll go to a hotel.”

“You’ll come to Drumcanna, Maybell!” she said, “and do what normal people do.”

A note under my door at bedtime.

Dear Aunt Maybell,

Please come to Scotland. Flora and I will be very sad if you do not.

Yours truly,

Rory Melhuish.

4th July 1932

To the U.S. Legation for luncheon. The “Star-Spangled Banner” brought a tear to my eye and made me think of going home. But to what? Sweet Air will seem so quiet after the mad house at Carlton Gardens. To be alone in Baltimore or alone in London? Everyone is paired off, making their gay plans. No one considers you when you’re a widow.

5th July 1932

Violet says I’ve relieved her of a great worry by agreeing to go to Drumcanna, and she promises me I won’t regret my decision.

She said, “We’ll go for lovely walks. It’ll lift your spirits. And I think I can promise you you’ll get to meet Bertie and Elizabeth York. They’ll be at Birkhall and may very well invite you over. It’s even possible you’ll be presented to Their Majesties!”

Bertie is the second Royal brother. There’s Edward, the eldest, except everyone calls him “David” or “Wales” when they disapprove of something he’s done. He’ll be the next King. Then comes Bertie, who’s the Duke of York, married to Elizabeth, followed by Harry and George and, of course, the sister, who doesn’t really count.

I asked if the Prince of Wales is likely to be there. That’d be one in the eye for Wally! But Violet thinks it unlikely.

She said, “Wales comes and goes. He’s like a flea at a fair. Never settles to anything for long.”

I said, “Thelma Furness calls him ‘David’.”

Pursed lips. “Does she indeed?” she said. “Well, in the unlikely event of your being in his company, don’t think of imitating her. Be on your guard, Maybell. Don’t let Wally and her set lead you into regrettable habits.”

I’m going to retrieve my gramophone and my tango record from Wally before she leaves for the Tyrol. It sounds as though it may be the saving of those Drumcanna evenings, and Violet thinks a guest called Tommy Minskip might enjoy the novelty of it. He’s a viscount, unattached, and prefers indoor diversions to the hearty outdoor activities Melhuish’s other friends seem to enjoy.

Violet said, “Who knows, perhaps you’ll hit it off!”

I do believe she’s matchmaking.

Less than three weeks till we leave for Scotland, which allows very little time for purchasing mountain wear. Violet has offered me a green waterproof cloak she keeps for rainy days at Ascot, but I have no intention of meeting Viscount Minskip dressed as a cucumber.

7th July 1932

To Peter Jones department store for cardigan sets, warm nightgowns, and bed socks. Violet says we’re not going to the North Pole. Life here may have thickened her blood, but so far it hasn’t affected mine. In addition to Viscount Minskip, the guests at Drumcanna will be the Habberleys, the Blythes, the Anstruther-Brodies, George Lightfoot, and ex-Queen Ena of Spain. Melhuish’s sisters and their encumbrances will be at Birkhall, staying with the Bertie Yorks.

Next Tuesday is Rory’s eleventh birthday. I’m granting him his dearest wish and taking him to a cafeteria for poached eggs on toast. I said he could invite a friend, too, but he says he’ll just bring Flora. Ulick has declined, and Doopie gets anxious in tearooms.

8th July 1932

With Wally to collect her vacation outfits. What she does is buy one good thing each season and then have it copied. She has a little woman in Cromwell Road, who does it for a song and also remodels gowns, if they still have wear in them but have been seen rather too often. Wally’s accustomed to this kind of thing, of course. All her life she’s had to make a little go a long way, but still, how depressing! I felt compelled to take her to Derry and Toms and treat her to a new day dress.

She says it’s not that Ernest’s poor, but he’s in the family shipping business, which went through shaky times when his father was in charge, so even though it’s now quite successful, Ernest has a fear of financial reversals.

I said, “Did you know this when you agreed to marry him?”

She said she didn’t know very much about him at all except that he had nice manners and good taste. Also, he offered to divorce his wife, so he seemed like a better prospect than working as a stenographer and living in a walk-up, which was the bleak future she faced after she’d dumped Win Spencer. I still think she rushed into things. I made Brumby wait two years for my answer.

She insists they’re well suited though. She says that apart from being a stickler over the accounts, Ernest is very quiet and undemanding. He’s quite happy to smoke his pipe and read his books and leave the decisions to her.