“A few francs badly spent can add up to a great deal over time. David isn’t as rich as Croesus, not with that petty brother of his threatening to hold back his stipend and us forced to pay expenses. We must watch every franc or we’ll be bled dry.”
“I’ll remind him.” Right after she paid the manicurist, the hairstylist, and Suzanne Belperron and Jeanne Toussaint for selling Wallis enough jewels to make Queen Mary blanch. If Wallis begrudged the chauffeur mineral water, she wasn’t likely to help her with her financial troubles. Jackson might have gotten her into this mess but she’d have to get herself out of it.
Wallis set down her pencil and laced her fingers together on the desk. “I’m not being petty but prudent. When I was little, Mother used to beg stingy Uncle Sol, who was richer than his namesake, for money. I vowed never to be like her and there I was after my divorce from Win, poor as a church mouse, forced to rely on Uncle Sol and Aunt Bessie for everything. I wasn’t clever like you.”
“I’m not clever.” If she were, she wouldn’t have violated Mrs. Bedaux’s rule and looked churlish about reprimanding the chauffeur.
“Of course you are, and quite the adventuress.” Wallis picked up the pencil and touched the tip of it to her lips. “You wouldn’t have eloped if you weren’t.”
“That was a mistake.”
“So it didn’t work out the first time, that’s the risk we bold women take.” Wallis shrugged as if the past three years of Amelia’s life were an inappropriate ball gown she could simply change. “But you didn’t give up. You wiped off the dust and gained real skills and a position for yourself. It was more than I did when I was a young divorcée. I never had the head for school or any talent more useful than how to meet well-connected people. Allow me to teach you another lesson, one I had to learn the hard way.” She pointed the pencil at Amelia. “It doesn’t matter how secure you think you are, there’s always something or someone ready to snatch it away from you, and you have to guard yourself against it. If I have to scrutinize every bill to protect my security, then I will. Tell Mr. Schafranek not to charge anything to the hotel account again.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And from here on out, when someone gives you a compliment, don’t question or undermine it, simply say ‘thank you.’” Wallis handed back the itemized bill. “You’ll get further by acting as if the compliment is an accurate observation rather than a lapse in judgment.”
“Yes, ma’am.” This was as good a lesson for Amelia to learn as the one about money. It certainly wasn’t anything Mother had ever taught her. The woman was as stingy with her praise as Wallis was with her finances but at least Wallis was willing to share her experience and knowledge with Amelia. Mother had been too busy with her own concerns to bother.
Mr. Hale rapped on the door then entered. “Mrs. Bedaux to see you, ma’am. I’ve shown her into the sitting room. Shall I order tea?”
“A detestable drink. I don’t understand David’s or anyone’s fascination with it, but as I’m expected to serve it, I must.” Wallis set the pencil on the bill and rose. “Order tea, Mr. Hale. Amelia, follow me, I want to ask Fern about the invitations and for you to note her responses.”
Amelia followed Wallis into the sitting room, where Mrs. Bedaux stood studying the Duke’s abdication desk and the red Moroccan-leather dispatch box enjoying pride of place on top of it. The box had held his official papers when he’d been King and it and the desk were odd souvenirs he’d insisted on bringing to their temporary home.
“Welcome back, Your Royal Highness.” Mrs. Bedaux curtseyed to Wallis before Wallis motioned for her to sit across from her at the claw-footed tea table. Mrs. Bedaux opened a box of Marquise de Sévigné’s chocolates and offered them to Wallis. “Did you have a splendid trip?”
“I did.” Wallis set her bonbon on the table. “Austria was so relaxing, especially with Amelia taking care of things here so I never had to worry. She’s impressed me with the work she’s done in my absence.”
“I think she’s living up to her full potential and will continue to amaze us.” Mrs. Bedaux threw Amelia a conspiratorial smile as she offered Amelia a chocolate.
Mr. Hale entered with the silver tea service and set it in front of Wallis
“What amazes me is the few invitations I’ve received. It’s as if I’m still gone.” Wallis lifted the silver teapot and awkwardly poured Mrs. Bedaux a cup. Wallis was a natural with a cocktail shaker but looked awkward handling the heavy teapot and delicate china. Amelia made a note to arrange for discreet tea service lessons for Wallis from the Hotel Meurice staff.
“According to protocol, you must call on the important women first before they call on you.” Mrs. Bedaux graciously accepted her cup from Wallis, polite enough not to mention Wallis had forgotten to offer sugar or milk.
Wallis set the teapot down with a clunk. “A duchess is expected to grovel before mere consular wives?”
“Yes, if you want the best invitations. It’s the custom in diplomatic circles for the newcomer, no matter what their rank, to make the first call and announce their arrival. As you insist on your courtesies, they insist on theirs. Your card left with the butler will suffice and should secure a new round of invitations.”
Wallis picked off a corner of her chocolate and slipped it in her mouth, the piece so small it was a wonder she could taste it. She chewed while silently debating between protocol and her vanity until reality finally won out. “Amelia, take the car and deliver my cards to the necessary ladies this afternoon. I don’t want Cookie or anyone else thinking we’re being snubbed when it’s simply a mistake in custom. We’ve received an invitation to dine with King Carol. He’s invited Amelia to come too.”
“The perks of being Her Royal Highness’s cousin, you get to dine with a charismatic head of state, but be careful, King Carol is quite the playboy,” Mrs. Bedaux teased Amelia.
“Do you have anything appropriate to wear?” Wallis asked Amelia.
“I’m having a few dresses run up by a seamstress.” She’d visited Miss Harper’s seamstress and the woman had done wonders for her with the bolts of fabric Amelia had purchased from Bucol.
Mrs. Bedaux set aside her barely touched tea. “That’s fine for every day, but not for something like this, wouldn’t you agree, Wallis? How a lady presents herself is vital to her success. A well-turned-out one will go much further than a frumpy one. Remember that, Mrs. Montague, and live by it.”
“I will.”
“Wallis, you must see to it that Mrs. Montague has a proper wardrobe,” Mrs. Bedaux instructed. “Your staff is an extension of you and how you run your household. Think of Mrs. Montague as a complement to you, such as a matched handbag or well-kitted-out footman. No offense, Mrs. Montague, but you understand my meaning?”
“I do.” If Mrs. Bedaux could conjure the miracle of making Wallis part with a few francs for someone other than herself, Amelia would play along.
Wallis crossed her arms over her flat chest and touched her fingers to her jaw, studying Amelia as she considered Mrs. Bedaux’s advice. Wallis might be a frugal duchess but she was also a social climber who’d clawed her way from obscurity to almost the pinnacle of high society. Wallis couldn’t stop the vitriol flung at her for how she’d gained her position but she could mute it by always being impeccable, proper and perfect. Mrs. Bedaux had cleverly made Amelia an extension of Wallis’s all-consuming need to impress her critics.
“David deserves to have his wife, family, and staff looking their best. Mr. Forwood’s Savile Row suits are immaculate and David is designing marvelous uniforms for the footmen. I wouldn’t want anyone to say my relative isn’t properly attired. Amelia, inform Madame Schiaparelli you’ll be accompanying me to her atelier and I expect her to take as good care of you as she does me. Tell her I’d also like a private dressing room with my usual special accoutrements.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Amelia wrote the instructions in her notebook, careful to conceal her smile. The onerous task of tactfully asking Madame Schiaparelli for a discount paled in comparison to the chance to be fitted and dressed by the designer on Wallis’s dime. More than Wallis’s manners and social knowledge was about to rub off on her.
Amelia walked with Wallis through the Hotel Meurice’s marble-floored lobby with its pillars, gilded ivy, and massive Versailles-style pier glasses. Guests and visitors mingling in the lounge area stopped their conversations to watch them. One young woman slyly raised her camera to snap a picture. The hotel wasn’t particular about who sat in the lobby to star spot so long as they behaved. Mr. Attfield didn’t interfere with the rubberneckers either, unless they approached Wallis, and no one did as Wallis stepped through the hotel’s black and brass revolving door.
Outside, Mr. Schafranek stood by the dark blue Buick. The Duke had custom ordered it for Wallis in England and she’d brought it with her to France when she’d fled London in 1936 in a futile attempt to stop him from abdicating. The initials W.W.S., Wallis Warfield Simpson, were outlined in gold on the driver’s door. She’d changed a number of things in the past year but not this small detail.
The American car stood out among the French Citroëns, Peugeots, and Simcas crowding the streets, causing people to stop and stare in the hope of catching sight of Wallis as Mr. Schafranek maneuvered the car through traffic.
“You don’t know how nice it is to go shopping alone. David insists on following me and it’s exhausting. Thank heaven he plays golf or I’d never have a moment’s peace.” Wallis crossed her gloved hands in her lap, her gray luncheon suit with the black patent belt and checked black blouse as impeccable as her hair and makeup. A sapphire-and-ruby broach from the Duke sparkled on the coat’s lapel. Amelia had styled her hair in the simple rolls Antoinette had shown her, but her old brown suit and shoes threw off the effect. Wallis turned her black patent leather clutch over on her lap, the hard set of her jaw softening. “For the last year, it’s as if there’s a whole country working against me and it’s been so hard. I can’t even adjust to it in private.”
“It was like that in Wellesley after Jackson’s illegal dealings came out, and then in Baltimore when I went to Aunt Bessie’s. I was a thief’s wife and everyone thought I was in on it but I didn’t know what he was doing. Jackson worked in the city, and I had no reason to riffle through his office, at least not until after he was arrested.”
“How very prudent of you. I hope I don’t have to worry about you digging through my things,” she teased, keeping Amelia and the conversation from turning gloomy.
“Don’t do anything illegal and you’ll have nothing to worry about.”
Wallis snorted out a laugh. “It’ll be illegal how good we’ll look when Madame Schiaparelli is done with us, and divine for you to finally pop into something more elegant. A woman can handle anything life throws at her when she looks chic.”
Amelia couldn’t agree more, and her excitement made sitting still difficult as Mr. Schafranek turned the car into the grand Place Vendôme. They passed the Chanel boutique with its blue door, Van Cleef & Arpels, and the Hotel Ritz’s wrought-iron entrance. He brought the car to a stop at 21 Place Vendôme and the Hôtel de Fontpertuis, where the white sign with Schiaparelli emblazoned in black letters announced the fashion house. Mr. Schafranek came around and opened the door and Wallis and Amelia stepped out. Mr. Attfield escorted them past the gathering crowd of people on the sidewalk—tourists, judging by their practical clothes. The wealthy women walking in and out of the boutiques paid them no mind, and Amelia and Wallis offered them the same courtesy.
“Welcome, Your Royal Highness.” Elsa Schiaparelli swept down the staircase and curtseyed to Wallis. She wore a fitted black dress with a slender belt and a square but very high neckline accented by a pearl choker. Her dark hair was pulled into a severe chignon that emphasized her wide brown eyes and full nose. “I have your usual fitting room prepared for you, and personalized just as you requested.”
Madame Schiaparelli led them past tables with displays of blouses, hats, and perfumes, and glass counters with fine scarves and gloves laid out inside. Black-clad vendeuses with impeccable hair and makeup assisted women Amelia recognized from the society pages.
“Miss Viollet will assist Mrs. Montague this afternoon.” Madame Schiaparelli motioned to a brunette with tight curls arranged at the crown of her head and the woman joined their small party. “She’s new to us and very talented.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you.” The vendeuse wasn’t much older than Amelia but she dressed with the same chic all Parisian women appeared to possess. Thanks to Wallis, Amelia would soon look as good as this woman.
“May I offer my congratulations on your marriage, ma’am,” Madame Schiaparelli said as they climbed the curving staircase to the first-floor fitting rooms.
“I wouldn’t have looked as good on my honeymoon if it weren’t for you.”
“I’m always ready to do my best for my clients.” She escorted them down the hallway past young mannequins wearing sample dresses for clients to inspect. Madame Schiaparelli didn’t stop but continued up to the quiet second floor and into a gilded fitting room with a large chaise adorned with round satin pillows. Sheer curtains covered the windows, shielding them from the view of the fine establishments across the Place Vendôme. Beside the chaise stood a gilded three-paneled mirror with a white silk dress hung in the center.
“Mr. Dalí has outdone himself with this creation.” Wallis held out the skirt to reveal the fanciful lobster hand painted on the front.
