“But I won’t create competition. I must do everything I can to help the local ladies.” Wallis examined Mrs. Bethel’s work, gifted at pretending to be magnanimous or concerned about Bahamians when she couldn’t give a fig. “Very good, thank you again.”
The hairdresser was as talented as Antoine or any French maid in making sure not one strand of Wallis’s hair was ever out of place or frizzed in the humidity.
“I look forward to seeing you at your appointment, Mrs. Montague,” Mrs. Bethel reminded as she packed up her things.
“I’ll be there.” Amelia might be in Nassau under interesting circumstances but it didn’t mean she had to let herself go.
Mr. Hale came to escort Mrs. Bethel out, through the back door, of course. No amount of polite reasoning with Wallis had changed that.
“I have your letters,” Amelia said.
“I don’t know why I bother reading them. I should simply call the censor’s office and ask what’s in them.”
“I spoke to Sir Walter again about your situation. He says the Colonial Office won’t budge on the matter. Every letter has to go through the censors.”
“Treating us like common criminals, how typical.” Wallis jerked the robe sash tight and walked into her closet to select her afternoon attire. Amelia heard the familiar turn and click of the carnation-shaped lock on Wallis’s safe.
She must be picking out her jewels. What Amelia wouldn’t give to see inside there, but the safe-breaking lessons from the thief hired by the Bournemouth spy school hadn’t included antique locks.
Amelia sat at the desk and sorted the mail, using it as an excuse to linger. The secret key to Wallis’s desk sat heavy in her pocket. It wouldn’t take much to slip it in the lock and peek inside. It was dangerous, but if Shangri-La was receiving or sending coded messages about merchant ships that could put them at risk for U-boat attacks, and cost innocent people their lives, then Amelia had to take the chance. Wallis always spent at least fifteen minutes matching her jewelry to her outfit. It’d give Amelia a little time to snoop. While Wallis bustled around her large closet, Amelia unlocked the drawer. She poked inside, careful not to disturb too much. Most of the correspondence was receipts for New York department stores and bills from Wallis’s favorite ateliers, but then she discovered a small batch of letters from Herr von Ribbentrop at the bottom. They were written on smaller than usual paper and had more folds than a regular letter. They certainly weren’t anything Amelia had seen and none of them had the official censor stamp. These had arrived through some other channel.
Amelia read the letters, keeping an ear out for Wallis or anyone who might enter the room. The first was from Herr von Ribbentrop.
The offer of the Swiss francs is still on the table, especially if the order for more of that lovely Mexican perfume you adore is placed. Charles is sending another batch of it to Axel who’ll properly deliver it. It should arrive by the 15th. I assure you this scent will make you feel like a Queen. You already are one in our eyes.
This was about more than Chanel No. 5. Same with the other three from Herr von Ribbentrop about this special Mexican perfume and the payments made to Wallis’s Baltimore bank account, one Amelia knew nothing about.
Amelia froze when she heard Wallis’s footsteps, then relaxed as Wallis entered her bathroom and turned on the sink taps. She quickly flipped through the rest of the letters to see if any of them mentioned the Shangri-La shortwave but they didn’t. There was one from Mrs. Bedaux.
All those American shipments to Britain are delaying the inevitable. America shouldn’t help Britain but should look after itself the way my friends will look after you when all this dreadful nonsense is finished. My friends thank you for the lovely pictures you sent of Axel’s estate. He’s done so much with it and they plan to visit soon and take advantage of his hospitality.
Amelia quickly copied the letters in shorthand. If Wallis happened to look at the notepad, which she never did, she wouldn’t be able to read it. She returned the letters to exactly where she’d found them, slid the drawer closed then locked it. She’d just dropped the key in her pocket and picked up her pencil to feign working when Wallis returned from the bathroom. She wore a blue suit with white pinstripes and pale pink pockets, a matching pale pink blouse, and a Van Cleef & Arpels ruby and diamond feather brooch pinned to the lapel.
“What are you doing?” she demanded, startled to see Amelia.
“Recording your letters.”
“You don’t usually work at my desk.”
“I didn’t want to accidentally misplace or miss a letter by carrying them around, especially the invitation from Mr. Wenner-Gren for our dinner on the Southern Cross. I can’t wait to see it. I’ve heard so much about it.”
She could tell Wallis suspected her of something by the way she studied her but it was clear Wallis couldn’t quite put her finger on what it was beyond Amelia sitting where she didn’t normally sit. “It is impressive. He bought it from Howard Hughes.”
Amelia was about to use one of the many Bournemouth skills she’d learned for deflecting attention from herself when Mademoiselle Moulichon entered carrying Wallis’s formal dresses.
“Your evening dresses arrived from the cleaner in New York. Which one would Madame like to wear tonight?” Mademoiselle Moulichon asked.
“Hang them up and I’ll choose,” Wallis instructed without looking away from Amelia. “You may return to your office.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“The Defeatist Duke, that’s what the American papers are calling him.” Eugenie handed Amelia a copy of The New York Times as the two of them strolled down Bay Street. Laura Young, the Bahamian cook who assisted Chef Pinaudier, had recently given birth and Wallis had asked Amelia to buy a layette for her new baby girl.
They stopped to look in the window of a women’s dress store, admiring the newest looks that were ages old by Paris standards. Amelia checked the reflection in the shop glass of the people passing behind her to make sure she wasn’t being followed. Certain no one was watching, she slid a sealed envelope out of her pocket, tucked it under the newspaper, and passed it back to Eugenie. After copying Herr von Ribbentrop’s and Mrs. Bedaux’s letters, Amelia had coded them then burned the notepad paper before calling Eugenie to arrange this meeting.
“I’m not surprised he’s earned that moniker. The two of them complain to anyone who’ll listen how much they hate it here and want to leave.” Until today, it was the only thing of interest Amelia had overheard to report to Lady Williams-Taylor since December.
Eugenie waved to someone down the street. “Here’s the woman I wanted you to meet.”
A young colored woman no more than eighteen or nineteen and rail thin, with her dark hair pulled up into a neat bun at the crown of her head, hurried up to them. She wore a simple maid’s dress and held her white apron draped over one arm.
“Barin Rolle, this is Amelia Montague, the Duchess of Windsor’s secretary,” Eugenie introduced.
“I’ve been waiting to meet you,” Amelia said. “Eugenie has told me all about you. Is your father a bootlegger too?”
Barin laughed and shook her head. “He’s a reporter for the Nassau Daily Tribune. Some people think that’s just as bad.”
“Her Royal Highness has complained about a few stories from that paper. Do you write for it?”
“No, I’m training to be a secretary. I’ve seen the glamorous life you two lead and I want in on it.”
“Careful getting mixed up with us,” Amelia said, half jokingly. She didn’t want anyone getting hurt because of the shady things she, Lady Williams-Taylor, and Eugenie were embroiled in.
“My father taught me to stand up for what’s right whenever and however I can, that’s why I’m helping you. I don’t want to see our beautiful islands used for awful plans.” A ship’s horn sounded from the docks. “I’m on my way to catch the ferry. It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m sure we’ll see each other again.”
“I look forward to it.” It was nice to have someone else in on their secret, and another person to help.
With a bright wave, Barin hurried to the ferry filled with people crossing Nassau Bay to jobs at the resorts and homes on Hog Island.
“If you can get your duchess to volunteer at the Infant Welfare Clinic, you’ll see Barin. She does administrative work there when she isn’t at Shangri-La.”
“I’ll see what I can do. At least Wallis is finally taking an interest in her duties.” In a shocking show of selflessness, Wallis had purchased a car for the clinic and helped get supplies in from New York. It’d garnered her good press and given Wallis more to do than sit around Government House worrying about her clothes and plotting to bring down Britain. “Unfortunately, it hasn’t convinced her to give up whatever scheme she’s embroiled in. I’ve watched her all week and I still can’t figure out how she’s sending or receiving the secret letters or what the fuel is really for. There isn’t enough industry in The Bahamas to need that much oil.”
“I still say it’s a way to launder Axel’s German payments for the munitions.”
“Launder.” Amelia stopped dead, forcing a man to step around her. “That’s it, that’s how she’s getting the letters. The New York dry cleaning.”
“I’ll tell Lady Williams-Taylor and she’ll pass it on to the bigwigs. Brace yourself for the storm when the command comes down from on high for those shipments to stop.”
The storm broke when the cable from the Colonial Office arrived a week later putting an end to Wallis’s dry cleaning packages to and from New York.
“They’re doing this to torture us,” Wallis screeched to the Duke. “The country is supposedly in peril but they have time to worry about my blouses.”
“Don’t forget the matter of your title.” The Duke tugged at the gold silk cravat above the collar of his orange polo shirt, looking as if he missed his daytime drinks.
