Amelia tried not to look startled, not because they’d never discussed it before but because she’d never even considered it.

“What a wonderful idea,” Mrs. Bedaux said. “It’ll help give you a fresh start, and with your fluency, a French last name could help you catch the eye of a comte or chevalier.”

“Imagine going home and having your mother and stepfather forced to bow to you,” Wallis suggested in a conspiratorial tone. “It’s a tempting idea, isn’t it?”

“Is that what you’d imagined?” Amelia asked.

“The game isn’t over yet, there’s still time to win it.”

June 3, 1937

The sunlight filling the salon de musique failed to brighten the guests’ somber faces. They sat on either side of the makeshift aisle waiting for the ceremony to begin as the strains of Schumann played by Monsieur Dupré drifted through the château. Everyone appeared more relieved than excited that the big day was finally here. Only the Duke beamed like the two altar candles where he stood with Reverend Jardine and Mr. Metcalf. The groom and best man wore morning suits with matching Wallis-blue waistcoats. Two opulent arrangements of lilies and peonies stood behind the makeshift altar with the borrowed cross.

That darned altar. It’d cost Amelia no end of trouble this morning when Reverend Jardine had insisted they cover the nudes on the chest. Reverend Jardine wasn’t even the true officiant, merely the only Church of England vicar Mr. Bedaux had found to perform an Anglican blessing, for a hefty fee. All the others had been scared off by the Archbishop of Canterbury. Dr. Mercier, the mayor of Monts, had performed the civil ceremony in the dining room a half hour ago. The religious one was simply for show, but Reverend Jardine had insisted on decency. While Cecil Beaton had taken Wallis and the Duke’s wedding portraits, Amelia and the maids had torn through the already packed honeymoon trunks to find the silk cloth painted with stars that Wallis knew would perfectly cover the altar in the ex-king of England’s makeshift wedding chapel.

Amelia glanced at the guests, all thirty-seven of them if one counted Mr. Philip Attfield, the Duke’s Scotland Yard protection officer, the château staff, the few privileged correspondents invited in, the English guests, and Amelia and Aunt Bessie. Their meager ranks were swelled by the presence of Mr. Bedaux, who’d returned from Germany this morning and sat with Mrs. Bedaux in the front row.

Monsieur Dupré gracefully transitioned from Schumann to the Wedding March. Everyone rose to their feet and Amelia’s shoes pinched her toes from all the running around in search of that hand-painted altar cloth. Mr. Hale pulled open the door and Wallis entered on Mr. Rogers’s arm. No stunned gasps greeted the bride as they used to at Washington, D.C., and Baltimore weddings. They hadn’t at Amelia’s either. There’d been nothing but the echoing words of Theodore’s crumpled telegram in her pocket threatening to disown her if she went through with the wedding. As usual, there’d been no word from Mother. Amelia hadn’t expected any but sometimes she was an optimist.

Curse hope and its ugly promises. It still galled her that if she’d listened to Theodore then all the tragedies of the past three years wouldn’t have happened. She’d be in Washington, perhaps engaged to a more suitable man with a pile of wedding presents instead of debts, and a promising future instead of this uncertain one.

Wallis came up the aisle at a regal pace but she didn’t glow like a bride-to-be. Across the aisle, Lady Metcalf dabbed at tears that, given her expression, weren’t ones of joy. The man who’d once been King of England, Emperor of India, who’d stood on the balcony of Buckingham Palace while a nation cheered and heads of state bowed, had only one unknown vicar and eight fellow countrymen at his wedding. Amelia hadn’t expected cherubs to drop from the ceiling to give the ex-king and his new wife their blessing, but she’d hoped the joy of the day would transform it into something more splendid. It hadn’t.

Mr. Rogers handed Wallis off to the Duke then took his seat beside his wife. Reverend Jardine performed the Anglican rite in the droning tone Anglican ministers seemed to learn in seminary. Twenty minutes later, after the Welsh gold rings and vows had been exchanged, the newlyweds faced their guests.

“Allow me to introduce the new, uh . . .” Reverend Jardine stammered. He’d bothered about a bunch of nymphs but hadn’t thought to ask how to announce the new Duke and Duchess.

“His and Her Royal Highness, the Duke and Duchess of Windsor,” the Duke hissed.

A ripple of indignation stiffened the backs of all the English guests. Even after the two ceremonies, they still didn’t see Wallis as a Royal Highness.

“Of course.” Reverend Jardine smiled in supplication. “Their Royal Highnesses, the Duke and Duchess of Windsor.”

Polite applause muffled by gloves filled the room as the organist played the correct version of “O Perfect Love.”

The guests lined up to offer the required congratulations but there were no glad smiles, no effusive wishes for a happy life and a fruitful union. The guests tipped their heads to Wallis but did not curtsey. They were too aware of Sir Walter, the King’s representative, and his imminent return to Britain, where he’d give a full report of today’s events to the royal family. Wallis’s newlywed smile tightened as she realized even her most loyal friends and supporters were more influenced by the King and Queen of England than by her.

Aunt Bessie stepped up to Wallis and enveloped her in a large hug before moving aside to allow Amelia to come forward.

“Congratulations, Your Royal Highness.” Amelia slid one leg behind the other and dropped into the deepest curtsey she could manage. People gasped from somewhere behind her but she ignored it as she rose to meet Wallis’s astonished expression. Then a flicker of respect and appreciation passed through Wallis’s eyes and Amelia resisted the urge to smile in triumph.

“About time someone got it right.” The Duke scowled at the other guests, who averted their gazes in shame.

“You’d serve Her Grace better by helping her adjust to her new situation instead of living in a fairy tale.” Sir Walter joined Amelia at the reception room window. Outside, Wallis and the Duke posed for the few reporters and newsreel cameras allowed onto the grounds. Mr. Metcalf read a prepared statement for the press, his words muffled by the château’s stone walls.

“It’s her wedding day. She deserves a few hours of happiness before reality sets in.”

“I suppose.” He wasn’t as generous about what he thought Wallis deserved.

“Thank you for being here. It may not seem like it, but it’s appreciated. There would’ve been more family but they couldn’t travel.” It was a lie. Wallis hadn’t invited any of her American family except Aunt Bessie and Amelia. She had the sneaking suspicion Wallis didn’t want people from home to see firsthand what a third-rate affair this had been.

“As someone who serves a challenging master, I understand your unique position. If there’s anything I can ever do to help you, please don’t hesitate to contact me.” He spoke in the straightforward manner of an attorney giving professional advice. Her Boston lawyers had used the same tone with her many times after Jackson’s death when the full realities of his life and her new one had taken shape.

“Thank you. I’m sure I’ll need all the help I can get.”

Wallis was wrong. The King’s attorney general wasn’t a lapdog but a servant ordered to deliver bad news who genuinely wished to help the Duke and his staff.

Wallis, the Duke, and Mr. Metcalf came inside as the footmen escorted the press back to the gates.

Mr. Hale approached Wallis with a large bouquet of roses. “From the Prime Minister of France, ma’am.”

“How kind of him.” Wallis was about to take the roses when Mr. Bedaux stepped between them and her.

“He isn’t the only head of state to send his congratulations.” Mr. Bedaux slid a gold box decorated with flowers out of his morning suit pocket and held it out to Wallis. “Herr Hitler asked me to personally deliver this to you. He wishes you both a lifetime of happiness.”

“How very thoughtful of him.” Wallis held up the box, turning it this way and that to admire the fine gold metalwork. “Isn’t it beautiful, David?”

“As beautiful as you, darling.”

“Herr Hitler also asked me to extend an invitation to you to be his guest for a state visit to Germany this fall so he can congratulate you in person.”

“How wonderful. David, this could be your chance to extend the hand of friendship.” Wallis moved a silver salt and pepper set from the King of the Belgians aside to place Herr Hitler’s box front and center on the gift table.

“Perhaps.” The Duke tugged at his white and blue pin-striped tie. “We’ll certainly consider his offer, but not today. It’s time for our reception.”

The Duke took her by the elbow and escorted Wallis out to the back portico, where a buffet lunch of chicken à la king, lobster, and salads awaited them. The guests sat in the shade of wide umbrellas while footmen moved among them with silver trays of champagne from Mr. Bedaux’s cellar.

“Wallis couldn’t have asked for a more beautiful day.” Aunt Bessie lounged in her chair sipping her third glass of champagne while Amelia enjoyed a rare break from her duties.

“Maybe this means things will be easier for them from here on out.”

“I doubt that, but whatever is in store for them, she’ll face it with her usual grit, poise, and charm.”

Amelia watched Wallis chatting with her guests, wondering why these people had defied Their Majesties to be here today. Wallis didn’t have Lady Metcalf’s prestigious lineage or Mrs. Bedaux’s lithe beauty. Even Monsieur Mainbocher’s dress hadn’t softened Wallis’s hard lines and angles. No, there was something else there, the way she moved through the tables as if she were a queen, speaking with each person as if they were the only one here and flattering everyone with kind words and compliments, the way she used to do with Amelia at Cousin Lelia’s. Amelia didn’t know if Wallis meant a word of what she said but she spoke in a way that made people believe she did. Amelia admired her effortless manners and etiquette, and her resilience. Wallis had endured the abdication of the King of England, a very public divorce, and the scorn of the royal family and the British people, and it hadn’t crushed her or dulled whatever sparkle that continued to draw people to her.

A footman refilled Amelia’s champagne glass and she nodded her thanks to him the same way she’d seen Wallis do many times. Aunt Bessie was right; Amelia could learn a lot from Wallis, including how to face difficulties with grace and rise above her past.

Chapter Five

Paris, September 1937

Once the Duke and Duchess motored off to catch the Orient Express for their Austrian honeymoon, and Aunt Bessie had sailed for home, Amelia had traveled with Mr. Forwood and Mr. Schafranek, the Austrian chauffeur, to Paris to settle into their rooms at the Hotel Meurice. Mr. Hale and Mademoiselle Moulichon would join them next week when Wallis and the Duke returned from their honeymoon. Wallis had convinced the Bedaux’s butler and lady’s maid to come and work for her, a change in staff the Bedaux had surprisingly encouraged.

The Windsors had a large suite on the third floor with a sitting room, dining room, and private elevator. Amelia and Mr. Forwood shared an office off the Windsors’ small foyer, allowing them to greet delivery boys and postmen without giving the curious a glimpse into the Duke and Duchess’s private rooms. Wallis had chosen the Hotel Meurice because of its reputation for privacy, and the deep discount it had offered the Windsors for the honor of housing them. People clamored to stay at the same hotel as the infamous Duke and Duchess, hoping some of their glamour and notoriety might rub off on them. Amelia couldn’t blame them. She hoped for the same thing.

“You’re in early this morning,” Amelia greeted Mr. Forwood when he entered the office. He usually didn’t come in until 10 a.m., the Duke’s habit of sleeping late dictating his hours. Amelia wished Wallis slept in. She’d miss the late start when Wallis returned.