“Allow me to suggest that Madame speak with Mademoiselle Mele at Robert Piguet. She sells the mannequins’ sample dresses at a discount to the right people. Tell her I sent you. Ask for something by Monsieur Dior. He’s a fabulous new designer there.”
“I will.” A little thrill went through her at being considered one of the right people.
The vendeuse smiled as if she understood exactly what her generosity meant to Amelia, even if some small part of Amelia chafed at having to need it. “If you’d like to browse downstairs, Her Royal Highness isn’t quite finished but she will be shortly.”
Amelia stepped into the hallway, surprised to see a distinguished, middle-aged gentleman in a well-tailored suit standing outside Wallis’s fitting room. Even if the small swastika lapel pin hadn’t given him away, she recognized him from his pictures in the newspapers. They’d never been introduced but somehow, he recognized her.
“Mrs. Montague, it’s a pleasure to finally meet Her Royal Highness’s cousin.” Herr von Ribbentrop held out his hand and she took it, noticing his fingers were as finely manicured as the Duke’s. “She speaks very highly of you, as does Mrs. Bedaux. I understand you may be joining us in Germany.”
“It’s possible.” The Windsors and Bedaux had been planning the trip since Mr. Bedaux had mentioned it at the wedding, and the secrecy surrounding it was as exhausting as the work of arranging it. They were so afraid Buckingham Palace would get wind of it, they’d clam up the moment anyone outside their immediate circle walked into a room. It’d made Mr. Metcalf’s brief visit last week frustrating for him and the staff. It wouldn’t be a secret for much longer if people like Herr von Ribbentrop brought it up this casually. Then the cables and calls between London and Paris would start flying. Amelia didn’t understand the Duke and Wallis’s admiration for Herr Hitler, what with his silly mustache and constant blustering about the fatherland, but an entire country and a good portion of society was mesmerized by him. “Are you enjoying your visit to Paris?”
“It’s one of the most beautiful cities in the world but nothing compared to Berlin, as you’ll see when you visit. Once Herr Hitler’s vision for Berlin is complete, Paris will look like a sad shadow in comparison, but I prefer Paris to London. The weather and company are more enjoyable. Germany is lucky to have a friend in His Royal Highness. With his assistance, we might ease the tension between Germany and Britain. Good day, Mrs. Montague.” He tapped his hat on his head and made his way downstairs.
He was mistaken if he thought the Duke had any influence over His Majesty’s foreign policy but once the Duke was in Germany, Herr von Ribbentrop and the rest of his cohorts might see that. Assuming Herr von Ribbentrop joined them in Germany and didn’t stay in Paris. She wondered what the German was doing here in the first place, especially on the second floor of Schiaparelli’s.
Wallis’s fitting room door opened and a number of suspicions rushed in, none of them good. “Did you enjoy your fitting?” Before the door swung closed, Amelia caught a glimpse of the satin pillows scattered across the chaise and floor.
“I did. There was one item in particular that suited me perfectly.” Wallis led the way downstairs.
She meant the dress. She had to. After the mess Wallis had gotten into with the Duke she couldn’t risk the scandal and gossip of a fling with a senior Nazi official. “I met Herr von Ribbentrop in the hallway. Did you see him?”
“I didn’t know he was here. I’m sorry I missed him.”
She studied Wallis. Nothing about her was odd or out of place, everything perfect as usual, even her smooth hair. I’m jumping to conclusions. Prudence wasn’t Wallis’s strong point but even she wasn’t this foolish. Besides, Herr von Ribbentrop probably had a lover in one of the other fitting rooms and Wallis hadn’t really known he was there. She could hardly condemn her cousin because of a few scattered pillows.
In the first-floor showroom, a slender young man with thick black hair combed back from his square forehead, and heavily bagged dark eyes that widened at the sight of Wallis, hurried up to them. “Here is the charming woman honoring us with her presence.”
“Monsieur Dalí, the honor is all mine, your dress is a dream,” Wallis gushed, genuinely starstruck. “Allow me to introduce my cousin, Mrs. Amelia Montague.”
He turned his wild gaze on Amelia. “She has your natural beauty.”
Wallis stepped between them, returning Monsieur Dalí’s attention to her. “My family is filled with elegant ladies of respectable lineage, some going back to King George the Second.”
“Your royal lineage is in every curve of your face and the carriage of your body, Your Royal Highness.” He said the title loud enough for everyone in the salon to hear, and made a bow worthy of a Hollywood soundstage.
Amelia thought he was laying it on a bit thick until she caught the horrified faces of the two women standing at the glove counter. She recognized them from the newspapers, the Countess of Pembroke and her friend Mrs. Martin Scanlon, the American wife of the United States Air Attache in Paris.
“You won’t see me bend the knee to a commoner,” Lady Pembroke sniffed to her friend as Monsieur Dalí escorted Wallis to the entrance, forcing them to walk past the disapproving women.
“I’m not about to curtsey to a fellow countrywoman, especially one of her reputation.” Mrs. Scanlon eyed Amelia. “Other American ladies should have enough self-respect not to bow and scrape to that kind of woman either.”
Amelia pretended not to hear them. She’d been publicly chastised before but never for who she did or did not curtsey to. That was a new experience, as was the rush of the crowd the moment she and Wallis left the ateliers. Gendarmes stood arm in arm holding back the curious as they shouted Wallis’s name or hurled more savory words at her.
“Quickly, now.” Mr. Attfield waved Wallis and Amelia into the car. Once he closed the door and was seated beside Mr. Schafranek, the dam of gendarmes broke and the people swarmed the Buick to get a closer look at Wallis.
“I detest gawkers.” Wallis pressed back against the seat, and the Buick’s sloping roof shielded her from the curious people as Mr. Schafranek drove off. “In Austria, people crowded the shop windows to stare at us as if we were marzipan confections and they were starving. It didn’t bother David. He went about his business as if nothing was wrong but I could hardly shop with all those people watching us.”
“His Royal Highness is used to it.”
“I’m not. I want to go where I want, when I want, without being treated like a tiger in a zoo. I never thought I’d lose my privacy, or miss it so much when it was gone.” Wallis opened a cocktail cabinet in the door panel, one of the car’s many unique features, plucked out a bottle of vodka, and poured a finger into a highball glass. “Care for some?”
“No thank you, ma’am.” Amelia had never been much of a drinker, much less at two-thirty in the afternoon and especially not on the light lunches Wallis and the Duke served. Not eating much was how they both stayed so slim. It’d done wonders for her own figure since their return.
“The people on the street I can forgive. They’re curious. It’s those catty society women I detest. They nearly lost their knickers when Monsieur Dalí bowed to me.” Wallis finished the vodka and poured herself another. “Imagine what it’ll be like at dinner parties with everyone wondering what to do or not do and always looking over their shoulder to make sure Cookie’s spies aren’t watching. It’s all so ridiculous.”
“If you and the Duke stand together in receiving lines or at cocktail parties, then people won’t have to decide. One curtsey will do for both of you and if someone takes offense, people can always say they were honoring His Royal Highness and you just happened to be next to him.”
“A brilliant idea. See, I said you were clever and I was right. You’re also cunning. Good, the world needs more of that; I certainly do.” Wallis poured more vodka but drank it slowly. “It’s all jealousy, you know. The British are so particular about their titles and positions, they can’t stand to see anyone outside their inbred circle move up in the ranks. Lady Pembroke is spitting nails now that I outrank her, and sallow Mrs. Scanlon is green with envy that I caught a duke and all she managed was some military man floating from embassy to embassy. I knew her when I lived in D.C. in the 1920s. She, Alice Gordon, and all those other awful political wives thought they could drive me from society with their petty gossip but I showed them. They think I’ve forgotten their slights and insults but I haven’t. I’m nothing if not patient, especially when it comes to getting revenge, and I’ll have it, especially in Germany.”
“Or you’ll be tarred with the same brush as Herr Hitler and make things worse,” Amelia cautioned, deliberately breaking Mrs. Bedaux’s rules in favor of Aunt Bessie’s mandate to help Wallis not give in to her worst instincts. Amelia had as much influence over Wallis as His Royal Highness’s family had over him, but she had to try.
“Herr Hitler is a powerful man. His recognizing me will force others to do the same.” Wallis dropped the empty vodka glass in the door compartment and clicked it closed. “I want everyone who’s ever looked down on me to have to look so far up at me their necks hurt. They deserve the pain for what they’ve put me through. You should think about doing the same.”
“I don’t want revenge.” She wanted the happiness she’d enjoyed during the first year with Jackson, before it’d all fallen apart. The truth lingered under the new manners, tenuous confidence, and secretarial skills. She was still the debutante who wanted to be noticed, happy, and loved.
“Stop feeling sorry for yourself and moping over what you lost. Heaven knows I’ve done enough of it to recognize when someone else is doing it too. Let me tell you, it won’t do anything but make you miserable. The best revenge is a life well lived. Isn’t that why you’re here? Hold up your head and prove to everyone you’re better than they think you are; do it until you believe it too.”
She was right. Amelia had spent so much time mourning her lost life or wishing things were different she’d barely noticed
they already were. She was in France, and it’d taken a leap of faith to come here but she’d done it. Despite the early stumbles,
she was succeeding. She was about to dine with the King of Romania and in a silk Schiaparelli gown. She’d write to Aunt Bessie
and tell her to spread that little tidbit around. She’d send her brother a note about it too and he’d tell Mother. What she
wouldn’t give to see the look on her face then. Wallis was right. Amelia had mastered her new position; it was time to take
pride in it and herself and concentrate on the future instead of the past.
Chapter Seven
“Your gown is beautiful,” Mrs. Bedaux whispered to Amelia from beside her at King Carol’s dinner table. Amelia wore her new organza evening gown imprinted with ferns. It had a modest neckline to flatter her not overly large chest and deny King Carol a good view of her décolletage, but it didn’t stop him from trying many times during dinner in his suite.
“Thank you,” Amelia whispered, and returned her attention to the Romanian monarch.
“What His Majesty’s Government fails to understand is the importance of Germany’s superior air and military power.” King Carol sat at the head of the table in a uniform covered in epaulets, medals, and ribbons. His mistress, Madame Lupescu, sat beside him in a dark blue dress that set off her white skin and red hair to perfection. “Britain can’t match it.”
“I’ve seen the munitions plants in Germany, visited the flying schools and airplane factories. They’re the best in Europe, far better than anything I’ve seen in Britain or America,” Mr. Bedaux added.
