After twenty years I am through. I utterly despise him. He deserted his job in 1936; well he’s deserted his country now, at a time when everyone is trying to do what he can. It is the end. I have had not one word from him and I can only surmise that he intends to stay where he is now. I am out of his service and I feel sure it is the only thing to do. I am through with the Windsors. Stay safe and be cautious Mrs. Montague, and look out for yourself. In these trying times you cannot count on anyone else.
Amelia folded the telegram. Mr. Metcalf had every right to curse the Duke. She hoped she never had a reason to do the same.
“You dance divinely,” Maurice Chevalier complimented the Duchess in his heavily accented English as he swung her about the terrace in time to the radio. The Duke watched his wife and the famous French singer from where he lounged on one of the chaises, a martini in one hand, his pipe in the other.
“Enchanté, madame. Livin’ in the sunlight,” Monsieur Chevalier sang along to the orchestral version of his song, his rich voice as soothing as the warm sunshine and bright sky.
Wallis had invited Mr. Chevalier to lunch, hoping to lighten the cloud of doom hanging over the house. The Duke tapped his fingers against the chair’s arm in time with the music, thoroughly enjoying himself.
Mr. Chevalier twirled Wallis off and with a laugh she planted herself in the chair beside the Duke. “No more for me.”
“Madame?” Mr. Chevalier leaned over in his white linen suit, a wicked smile curling his lips beneath his pencil mustache as he held out his hand to Amelia.
She didn’t want to dance and pretend everything was wonderful but she couldn’t ruin the mood and risk another dressing down from Wallis. She didn’t want to wake up in the morning to find everyone gone and her left to fend for herself.
Mr. Chevalier took her in his arms, his hand very low on her back while he guided her in a waltz beneath the shade of the columned roof. At any other time, in any other place she would’ve written Aunt Bessie about it. It was too absurd to write about now.
A breaking bulletin interrupted the song. “In a speech from Venice Square in Rome, addressing the Italian people, Dictator Mussolini has declared war on the United Kingdom and France.”
Mr. Chevalier let go of her, picked up his hat from the side table, and set it over his black hair. “Excusez-moi, Son Altesse Royale. I have enjoyed my time here and thank you, but my wife is Jewish and we must hurry to consider our next move. I wish you both well. Until we meet again, hopefully under happier circumstances. Au revoir.”
He bolted inside, imploring Mr. Hale to call for his car.
“I’ll make arrangements to close up the house,” Amelia said, still standing in the center of the terrace.
“No need to run around like chickens with our heads cut off.” The Duke sipped his martini. “There’s nothing to worry about.”
“Except the Italian border is only forty miles from here, and the French Army hasn’t done a thing to stop the Germans up north.”
Wallis threw her a warning glance but she ignored it, as short-tempered with their stubbornness as Mr. Metcalf. The Duke and Wallis weren’t taking this seriously and she couldn’t understand why.
Inside, the phone rang and Mr. Hale answered it, then came out and announced, “Mr. Rogers is on the line. He says it’s urgent.”
“I’ll speak to him.” The Duke rose from the chair with a huff, annoyed anyone should be worried when he clearly wasn’t. The Duke was no sooner done assuring Mr. Rogers that he and Wallis were safe when the phone rang again. Amelia could tell by his reaction it was someone else calling with the same advice. After the fourth phone call, the Duke stopped picking up.
“Why are they still there?” Sir Walter asked when Amelia finally got through to him in London.
“The Duke says he won’t have Wallis sleeping in cars again, and he’ll only leave if His Majesty sends a destroyer for them and all their things.”
“There isn’t one to send. Doesn’t he understand? Britain is fighting for her very existence. The intractable fool.”
Things must be bad for Sir Walter to lose his cool. It took every ounce of Amelia’s strength not to run for the next ship to America, assuming she could find passage.
“Is there something else going on?” Sir Walter asked.
“I don’t know. They spend most of their time in their rooms making calls but I don’t know who they’re talking to; it certainly isn’t me or anyone who could help get us out of here. I think Wallis spoke to Mrs. Bedaux but only because she promised to look after Boulevard Suchet.” Their obsession with their things was maddening.
“She’s better off not talking to her or anyone so closely aligned with the Nazis.”
“I know. I’d tell them I’m on the line with you but they’d only start arguing for the extra-chic title again. A lot of good that’ll do them if the Italian Army marches through here.”
“I’ll make a few calls and see if there’s someone who can talk some sense into them.”
Amelia was overseeing a delivery of wine on the front steps, the locals eager to make a few francs off the Windsors before war put an end to everything. She was inspecting bottles when the low rumble of an engine caught her attention. A small plane painted in green and black camouflage emerged from behind the wispy early summer clouds and dipped down so low over the trees, Amelia could see the red, green, and white circle on the tail.
An Italian fighter plane.
It flew off over the trees, the putting rhythm of the engine almost mesmerizing before the crack of machine-gun fire and a loud explosion broke the spell. A tall column of black smoke rose up from the nearby village, marring the fine blue sky.
“We’re under attack!” the deliveryman yelled.
Everyone dropped the crates of wine and scattered, taking cover behind columns and bushes. Amelia crouched behind the van then peered over the hood as the plane reemerged above the trees. She covered her head with her arms, waiting for another rattle of machine-gun fire or an explosion to finish her off but it never came. The whir of the plane’s engine faded into the distance and everyone slowly stood, scanning the skies for more danger. Amelia brushed the dirt off her skirt, wincing at the scratch on her leg from a sharp pebble.
“What happened?” Wallis rushed out the front door, the Duke close behind her. “What’s going on out here?”
“An Italian fighter plane bombed the village.”
Wallis and the Duke watched the large black plume rise into the sky above the trees.
“That’s how Herr Hitler will bring Britain to her knees,” the Duke whooped. “Charles thought I was silly when I said so but he’ll see I’m right.”
“Shut up, David,” Wallis commanded. “Don’t be such a blabbermouth.”