“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.
“I had an errand to run at the British Embassy.” He shrugged out of his light overcoat and hung it on the rack beside the door. The crisp fall air was begging to nip in and steal the warmth of summer. “This arrived for you, Mrs. Bradford.”
“Mrs. Montague,” Amelia politely corrected as he handed her a package. The final poll deed for her name change had come through last week. It had felt strange to fill out the paperwork, to try and erase the last three years through an act of government, but Wallis was right. Shedding some of the past did help her breathe a little easier.
Amelia opened the package to find copies of Bottin Mondain and Tout Paris, along with a note from Mrs. Bedaux.
The French social registers are a must for making invitations and seating charts for dinners. I advise you to visit the American Embassy Chancery and obtain a copy of the diplomatic corps list to help you with guest lists. Please let me know if I can be of any assistance. Yours truly, Mrs. Bedaux
Between this and the Burke’s Peerage she’d sent, Amelia had quite the social reference library. She flipped through Tout Paris, admiring the advertisements for tailors and cafés and maps for each of Paris’s twenty arrondissements. She set the books aside and resumed typing the letter regarding Wallis’s donation to Lady Williams-Taylor’s fundraiser for the Bahamian Humane Society. A loud knock at the door startled them.
“That’ll be the postman.” Amelia rose to see to him. “He still insists on personally bringing me the registered letters to sign.”
“At least he’s finally chosen a reasonable hour to do it.”
“I’ll say.” The first week they’d been here, he’d knocked on her door at 7:30 every morning to get her signature.
“Bonjour, madame.” The postman handed her the receipt book to sign. “The Duke and Duchess return soon?”
“On Friday.” Amelia exchanged his receipt book for the letters, noting the one from Mr. Carter of Carter Ledyard & Milburn. Her stomach tightened. A letter from her Boston attorney was never good.
