“This arrived while you were out, ma’am. It’s from Mr. Simpson.” She held out the airmail letter to Wallis.
Wallis stared at it as if it were a summons from the Court of St. James then took it with a tenderness reserved for a rediscovered heirloom. There was a long silence as Mademoiselle Moulichon left and Amelia wondered if she should do the same. She was about to leave when Wallis spoke.
“After Jackson’s arrest, did you ever think there was a chance you two could go back to the life you’d had before, even though you knew it was impossible?”
“Every day. Then he shot himself. I thought everything I’d been through before was awful. Losing hope was the worst.”
“I haven’t lost hope yet. If something happens to David, Ernest is still there, dependable, affable old Ernest.” Wallis traced Mr. Simpson’s solid script with one finger. They shouldn’t be writing to each other. All it did was drag out their final separation but Amelia didn’t have the heart to say so. Hope was as essential to Wallis as it’d been to Amelia. It’s why Wallis had entertained King Carol’s ridiculous suggestion about the Duke reclaiming the throne. It’d offered the slight chance she might regain some of what she’d lost during the past year, even if they both knew it was impossible.
Paris, October 1937
“His Majesty’s Government views the German tour as a private one, and as such, there will be no reception at the British Embassy in Berlin,” Sir Walter announced. The Duke had finally told Buckingham Palace about the German visit and His Majesty’s Government had ordered Sir Walter to Paris to try and talk him out of it. With less than a week before their departure, and the schedules, accommodations, timetables, and official visits already finalized, it was a fool’s errand.
“If it’s so private then why did they send you to try and put us in our place?” Wallis sat on the edge of the sofa, her back straighter than usual, the dogs perched beside her like little lions.
“That isn’t His Majesty’s Government’s intention, Your Grace.”
“Your Royal Highness!” The Duke slapped the slick bar top, making the dogs jump to attention. “She’s my wife and will be addressed as Your Royal Highness.”
“David, you don’t have to stand up for me,” Wallis purred, savoring Sir Walter’s reprimand as she settled Pookie in her lap.
“It’s an honor to stand up for you, darling. If only some people had more honor.” He glared at Sir Walter, who didn’t flinch.
“I have no desire to cause insult, sir, simply to clarify the terms of the visit and ask you to reconsider the wisdom of making it. Everything His Majesty’s siblings do and say reflects on the royal family, and Buckingham Palace doesn’t appreciate the shadow cast by this visit.”
“I don’t care what they think, especially after the ghastly way they’ve treated us, denying my wife her rightful title and banishing us.” The Duke carried a tray of his special Wallis cocktail to the Bedaux. Amelia wondered why they were here but since they were paying for the German trip, she supposed they had a right to listen in. “Our leaving England was never supposed to be permanent but that’s what it’s become, and now Bertie wants to manage every aspect of our lives too. He and you would be better off pressing the case for Wallis’s HRH title rather than meddling in our travel plans.”
Amelia admired Sir Walter’s ability to not groan in exasperation. He must be as tired of hearing about the extra-chic title as Amelia was typing letters and cables about it.
“I don’t understand why my family continues to close ranks against her, considering how admirably she behaved during all that business last winter, even in the face of the press’s awful treatment, mobbing her car and forcing her to hide under blankets to avoid being photographed, living in exile like a criminal when she’d done nothing wrong.” The Duke moved Detto to make a space beside Wallis on the sofa. “She shouldn’t be shunned but granted the correct and proper title.”
“If Herr Hitler could confer the title on her, he would,” Mrs. Bedaux said.
“His treating her like a queen when we’re there is enough,” the Duke said. “I want Wallis to experience a royal tour, to be shown some respect.”
“And she will be,” Mr. Bedaux assured.
Given the itinerary Amelia had seen this afternoon, the Windsors would be feted. Wallis wasn’t excited about touring machine factories and mines but she was thrilled by Charles Edward, Duke of Saxe-Coburg and Gotha, the Duke’s cousin, hosting a near-royal dinner in their honor. Amelia was also excited to attend what amounted to her first state dinner. She only wished it wasn’t in Germany. She’d read enough newspaper articles about the Nazis’ treatment of the Jews to know it wasn’t the paradise the Duke believed, but it wasn’t her decision where to hold the dinner. She was an employee, and like Sir Walter, her employer told her where to go and what to do. Someday that wouldn’t be the case, but it was today.
“It’s this treatment His Majesty’s Government is concerned about. This tour could be mistaken for British approval of the Nazi government and undermine their official stance,” Sir Walter explained in his steady but straightforward voice, no evidence of fatigue from his morning flight from London showing on his placid face.
“Bertie is more worried about my undermining his popularity than any official position. He thinks if he keeps me out of sight the British people will forget about me but they won’t. No one in the royal family has ever cared for them the way I have.”
That the Duke had loved Wallis more than his people seemed to echo through the room along with the city noises from outside but everyone was polite enough not to say so.
“The British people do not want their former king hailed by Herr Hitler, nor do they wish to see Herr Goebbels use your remarks in his propaganda,” Sir Walter reasoned.
“David isn’t a dupe if that’s what you’re suggesting.” Wallis stroked Pookie hard, making the dog squirm and jump down. “He’s too smart to fall for their tricks, and besides, it isn’t Herr Hitler using David but David using him to highlight the needs of the working class and what can be done to help them, something His Majesty should worry more about than where we vacation.”
“What if His Royal Highness refuses to make speeches or give newspaper interviews?” Mr. Bedaux suggested, trying to make peace. “If he says nothing then nothing can be taken out of context or used against him.”
“Quite right.” The Duke rose, forcing everyone to their feet. “You may return to His Majesty and inform him of our decision to continue as arranged.”
The Duke took Wallis’s arm and led her and their guests out onto the patio, Detto, Prisie, and Pookie trotting obediently behind them.
“A little kindness from Buckingham Palace would go a long way toward making them more cooperative,” Amelia suggested once she and Sir Walter were alone.
“I’ve said as much to Their Majesties but they’re as headstrong as the Windsors.” Sir Walter snapped the handkerchief out of his breast pocket and rubbed his glasses clean. “His Royal Highness is placing himself in a very compromising and possibly dangerous position with this trip. He expects the treatment of a king and anyone who bows to that desire will exert a great deal of influence over him. The Germans know this as well as we do, as does Her Grace. She helped pull His Royal Highness down from his high place. She might be searching for an opportunity to push him back up into one.”
“I think Her Grace has endured enough political maneuvering for one lifetime.” With all the rot King Carol had shoveled at them, she couldn’t blame Sir Walter for being concerned, but Wallis’s desire for status and influence had already turned her into the world’s most maligned woman. She wasn’t likely to get herself in that kind of trouble again.
“I don’t mean to disparage your cousin but I want you and her to go into this Germany trip with open eyes.” He slid on his
glasses and tucked the handkerchief in his pocket. “Be careful what you say or write when you’re in Germany. Everyone there
will be watching and listening to everything you do and say. The less you reveal, and this goes double for the Duke and Duchess,
the better. Do your best to advise her to be cautious in her dealings with the Germans and not to let them or any of their
new friends turn her head with their flattery. It won’t lead anywhere good.”
Chapter Eight
Berlin, October 12, 1937
“Heil Windsor, Heil Windsor!” the massive crowd shouted as Wallis and His Royal Highness stepped off the Nord Express at the massive steel and glass Friedrichstrasse Station. A band played “God Save the King” and Union Jacks hung beside Nazi banners from the steel girders. The Duke strode through the cheering masses and waved while Wallis walked beside him, smiling for the cinema and press cameras. Nazi officers in crisp brown uniforms, arms emblazoned with the red and black swastika band, formed a protective circle around them to keep back the people pressing in from all sides.
If the crowd inside was formidable, the one outside was overwhelming. The pop of multiple flashbulbs made Amelia blink as much as the bright sun, and the cheers were deafening. The police guided them through the crush to a line of shiny black Mercedes waiting to ferry them to the Hotel Kaiserhof, the first stop on the itinerary tucked inside Amelia’s leather folio. She held it tight, afraid one of the many people reaching over and around the policemen to touch the Windsors would snatch it as a souvenir.
A thin woman in a beige coat broke through the police line and rushed up to Wallis. She handed her a bouquet of homegrown white roses and Wallis accepted the flowers with all the graciousness of Queen Elizabeth. The woman stared at Wallis in near reverence before a policeman tugged her back into the crowd. The Nazi officials ushered Wallis, the Duke, and Mr. Attfield into the first car while Amelia, Mr. Forwood, and Mademoiselle Moulichon climbed into the others. The cars lurched into motion, parting the sea of people surrounding them.
The caravan of cars drove through Berlin, passing beneath the imposing Brandenburg Gate and along the Unter den Linden. The Art Deco city was breathtaking except for the Nazi banners flying from everything higher than a fire plug. The red flags with their white circles and swastika hung from streetlights, draped the front of large buildings, and waved from the tops of department stores.
“What are all the flags for? Their Royal Highnesses or a festival?” Amelia asked the young Nazi officer with the Brylcreemed blond hair sitting beside her.
“They’re for the majesty of the Third Reich,” he answered in indignation. “They’re always there, as the Third Reich will be.”
