Amelia slipped past them unnoticed, until the gendarmes opened the gate for her.
“There’s someone,” a reporter shouted, and they leapt from their tables and typewriters and rushed the gate. Amelia stepped through and the gendarmes quickly closed it behind her.
“Any word on which royals will be at the wedding?” a reporter yelled.
“Is it true King George has forbidden the royal family from attending?” a young woman in a dark blue suit, her blond hair smartly done in tight curls, called out.
Amelia waved at them but said nothing as she turned to walk back to the château, hoping no one cared enough about her to print her picture in the newspaper. She might work for the most notorious woman in the world, but she didn’t want to become one.
Especially not dressed like this. Even the reporters camped out on the street were better turned out than her. She kicked a small pebble with the scuffed toe of her black shoe. She’d never been a fashion plate, not with Mother pouring everything into her own style while leaving Amelia to figure it out on her own. At least back then, Amelia’s clothes had been quality, not half-price basement knockoffs. However, the fine fabrics hadn’t been enough to cover her awkwardness, and Amelia had blended into the woodwork during her debutante season, trying not to draw attention to herself, until Jackson had noticed her.
The noise of the crowd faded into the reverie of birdsong and the rustle of wind through the pine trees as Amelia walked up the long drive to the château. The rolling hills, large trees, and green grass reminded her of the woods behind her house in Wellesley. She used to cross through them on her way to meet Jackson’s evening train. They’d walk home together, telling each other about their day or dreaming of a trip to Paris and a proper honeymoon. He’d promised her a fine hotel, cafés, and a chic new wardrobe. Three years later, she was finally in France, no thanks to him. Her entire life had collapsed through no fault of her own.
She tightened her grip on the package she carried, wrinkling the brown paper cover. This wasn’t how things were supposed to be. She should be enjoying a quiet life in her home with a husband and children. Jackson’s greed had stolen everything, including her future, and proved everyone right about their hasty marriage. All she’d wanted was love. It was all she’d ever wanted. All she’d gotten was heartache.
She wiped away tears with the back of her hand, careful not to let them fall on the special-delivery letters. Heaven forbid she mar the fine stationery from more guests sending their regrets. All the replies had been regrets yesterday, and it’d left Wallis in a foul mood. You’re typing too loud. You aren’t sorting the thank-you list properly. Answer the phone before the second ring, the clanging bell will give me a headache. Ugh!
The slate roof of the French castle with its crenellated towers, pointed blue slate turrets, and stunning views of the Loire Valley came into view through the trees. Amelia’s stomach tightened at the prospect of another day of orders and reprimands. She’d grown up with servants. She never thought she’d be one.
“Everything well, Mrs. Bradford?” Mr. Dudley Forwood, the Duke’s equerry, greeted when he emerged from the guesthouse. The Duke and his staff were staying there in an effort to convince everyone the Duke’s relationship with Wallis was chaste. No one believed it, especially not Aunt Bessie or Amelia, but for propriety’s sake they all played along. It was one of the many lies that made life with Wallis and the Duke possible, including the one about the grandeur of the wedding. Wallis was right: the château was no Westminster Abbey and this was no state event.
“Yes. I had a nice stroll to the village post office.”
“How much did the reporters offer you for information?” Mr. Forwood asked as they crossed the sprawling lawn outside the front entrance. Mademoiselle Marguerite Moulichon, the Bedaux’s lady’s maid assigned to Wallis for her stay, walked Pookie, Prisie, and Detto. The dogs pulled at their leads, eager to go faster. A viper had killed Wallis’s beloved Slipper a few weeks ago and the dogs were no longer allowed to run loose on the grounds.
“None, I’m afraid.”
“They offered me one thousand francs for information the last time I strolled out, but of course I refused it.” He raised his cleft chin in pride. “Faithfully serving His Royal Highness is more important than money.”
Easy to say when you have the private income required of a royal equerry. She slid him a sideways glance. He was more distinguished than handsome, with a solid body and a very respectable lineage. He was a good catch but Amelia felt nothing for him other than the friendly camaraderie of someone in a similar position. If she were like Mother, she’d get her claws into him and marry herself out of this mess, but she refused to be like that awful woman. “I hope I can resist the temptation to tell all.”
“I’m sure you will.” He had more faith in her than she did. With Jackson’s legal bills hanging over her, the right amount of francs in exchange for information might be too tempting to resist.
They passed beneath the entrance tower with the mosaic of Saint Martin of Tours and the Beggar and into the château’s wood-paneled entryway. The Duke strolled out of the reception room dressed in his plaid golf outfit with his plus fours above argyle socks, and a tam-o’-shanter cocked at an angle on his blond head. He was only one or two inches taller than Amelia, with a smooth face that was more boyish than manly, and appeared much younger than his forty-three years.
“Your Royal Highness.” Amelia dipped an awkward curtsey. “Off to your morning game?”
“This very instant. Do you golf, Mrs. Bradford?”
“No, sir.” Jackson had been the golfer. She’d been content to make friends with the country club wives, the same women who’d ostracized her after Jackson’s illegal financial dealings had come to light.
“Wallis is in the reception room. Mr. Forwood, walk with me. We need to discuss Sir Walter’s unexpected arrival.” The Duke sauntered out the front door with Mr. Forwood in tow.
Wallis stood in the reception room inspecting the numerous wedding gifts laid out on the long medieval table in the center. People were hesitant to come but not to send presents.
“Another gift arrived for you.” Amelia handed Wallis the package.
Wallis tore off the brown paper wrapper to reveal a slender yellow and black box with Fendi emblazoned on the top. Inside was a fine-tooled leather guest book. Her eyes lit up at the name on the attached card. “It’s from Il Duce. Such a thoughtful man, unlike most of the people we invited. Any new responses?”
“Yes.” Amelia opened one of the letters she’d picked up with the package. “Lord Brownlow sends his regrets.”
“Of course he does.” Wallis set the guest book and its box on the table between a candelabra and a silver tea service. “Cookie threatened to revoke the royal appointments of anyone who so much as looks at us from across the Channel. Two hundred eighty-four regrets out of three hundred invitations. At this rate, there’ll be more press than guests at my wedding.”
Wallis marched out of the reception room. Amelia hurried behind her, expected to follow.
Wallis flung open the door to her bedroom and Aunt Bessie looked up from where she sat on the sofa sorting through yesterday’s fan mail. It arrived every afternoon from Britain, America, and various other parts of the world. Everyone everywhere had an opinion of Wallis and they all felt the need to share it with her.
“Why are you managing my mail? That’s Amelia’s job.” Wallis sat behind the Louise XIV desk to paste Il Duce’s card in her memory book. “You’ll strain your eyes.”
“I can’t lounge around all day pretending to be the lady of the château.” Aunt Bessie winked at Amelia while slyly tucking a few letters between the sofa cushions.
“What are you hiding?” Wallis rarely missed any detail.
“Whatever do you mean?” Aunt Bessie shifted on the cushion to try and conceal the evidence beneath her ample bottom.
“You’re keeping letters from me when you know I want to read them.”
“They’ll only upset you.”
“But they’re so educational.” Wallis held out her hand. “Every day I learn a new word for whore.”
With a resigned sigh, Aunt Bessie handed Wallis the letters and Amelia’s stomach tightened. Wallis was already irritated. The fan mail would make her a brute.
Wallis slid a dagger letter opener into the first envelope and slit the paper with a quick flick of her wrist. She tugged out the letter and pursed her lips at what must have been a particularly spicy note. “Amelia, what other good news do you have for me this morning?”
“A letter from Mr. Ernest Simpson.” Wallis and Aunt Bessie exchanged a look. “Should I open it?”
“No, I’ll take it and any others from him. His letters, like the safe in my closet, are off-limits to you.”
