“Because it isn’t. I’ll see to it.” Mrs. Bedaux walked into the library and the music ceased.
In the quiet, the voices of Constance Spry, the London florist, and her assistants carried in from the dining room. Bunches of Madonna lilies and roses rested on week-old copies of the London Times on the parquet floor, waiting to be arranged.
“I don’t know what I’d do without Charles and Fern,” Wallis said as Lady Bedaux’s pretty voice singing the proper version of “O Perfect Love” drifted in from the library. “They know how to treat royalty.”
“Everything going well, darling?” The Duke entered with a bright smile, forcing the footmen to bow to him before leaving to get more chairs.
“You’re as red as a beet and it’ll never fade in time for the wedding,” Wallis chided. “Wear a better hat when you golf or you’ll look like a ripe tomato in the wedding portraits.”
“Yes, darling.” His bright voice broke like fragile glass. He bent over to peer at the newspaper on the floor, pushing aside a few white peonies with his foot to get a better look.
“What in heaven’s name are you doing?”
“Trying to read the bloody London Times. I haven’t seen it in ages and they’re all damp.”
“Go read a French newspaper. Constance doesn’t need you interfering with her work.”
“Yes, darling,” he mumbled, and wandered off to find a dry newspaper.
Wallis examined the room, and Amelia waited for orders on what to change or arrange but all she heard was a deep sigh, and then: “Were you disappointed by your wedding ceremony?”
“Not at first,” Amelia answered honestly. “I thought eloping was romantic.”
“It was, and I was quite impressed with you when Aunt Bessie told me about it.”
“You were?” People had expressed a lot of opinions about her wedding. Impressed wasn’t one of them.
“Of course. I remember how spirited you were at Wakefield Manor, eating up everything I told you about China and London. I thought, Here’s a girl like me who doesn’t want to sit under the thumb of chaperones and rules, but wants to live, and you did. I was glad to see your father’s loss and that awful mother of yours hadn’t snuffed the life out of you.” Wallis’s proud smile faded as she surveyed the room. “My first wedding was in Christ Episcopal Church, if you can believe it. Mary Raffray was my maid of honor and there were six other debutantes as bridesmaids, a very proper Baltimore society wedding. It was the groom who wasn’t right. Win was an awful drunk and mean as a dog but I was too young and naive to see the warning signs. After Win, I thought I’d never remarry. Of course, I never thought I’d divorce and wed a second time but here I am, soggy newspapers in a salon de musique. If you ever get married again, I suggest another elopement.”
“If planning a proper wedding is this involved, I will,” Amelia joked before her stomach dropped in horror at having forgotten her place. She braced for a browbeating but Wallis laughed instead. It eased the fatigue and strain of the past year, and for a moment, she was the Wallis who’d sat on the back porch at Wakefield Manor, the Virginia estate of Cousin Lelia, Father’s sister, telling Amelia risqué stories about her time in China.
“Planning a wedding is only this bad when you’re marrying the ex-king of England.” Wallis laid a rare tender hand on Amelia’s arm, her skin cold but her touch firm. “Be glad Jackson took the coward’s way out. Life is easier for a widow than a divorcée. You’ll have the freedom to follow your heart when the time comes. It’s a rare gift.”
Following her heart had already landed her in a fool’s paradise. If she ever decided to marry again, she’d be far more practical about it, but she appreciated Wallis’s concern. She’d endured enough fake condolences after Father’s death, and even Jackson’s, to know when people were throwing out expected words and when they really meant them.
“What are you two discussing?” Mrs. Bedaux strode in and Wallis let go of Amelia.
“I’m advising Mrs. Bradford to change her name to her maiden Montague.”
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.
