dusty, neglected attics of childhood memories. Reliving those experiences, even the happy ones, was more painful than any physical experience, childbirth included, that she knew of. At least with childbirth there was a purpose to the suffering. The futile open-endedness of grief was sometimes impossible to accept. Sleep was elusive. Once, she confided to her goddaughter, she had woken from hard-won unconsciousness to see her husband holding a feather beneath her nose.
“I just came in to see you were all right, my darling,” he said, his overlong hair falling over his eyes as he reddened a little, clearly ashamed at being caught checking up on her.
Nearly a month had gone by since the docking of the Thalassa, and Evangeline had still neither seen nor heard from Wallis, even though Evangeline had given her the Blunts’ address and the date of her arrival. Just when Evangeline was steeling herself to lift the receiver to the school friend that she had not seen for so long, and who was the subject of so much discussion, George V had died. And then everything changed.
There had been little warning; the king had been out riding his horse only five days earlier. Philip told Evangeline about the exuberant jubilee street celebrations of the summer before, still talked of in pubs and clubs. On that day men had worn hats fashioned from Union flags, children had eaten chocolates wrapped in Union-flag-imprinted foil, women had flashed fingernails painted with miniature crowns, and red white and blue bunting had looped itself in gay abundance through the city streets. Philip was clearly much saddened by the death of the old king, describing for his American visitor the level of affection most Britons felt for the king and a queen who had steadied the country through the Great War and out of the troubling times that followed it. With King George and Queen Mary at the helm it had almost been possible on that one jubilee day of pageantry and joy to forget the truth: that Britain was still a country struggling with poverty, unemployment and a persistent fear of the return of international conflict.
The invitation for Evangeline to visit Fort Belvedere came by telephone two weeks after the old king’s death. Wallis apologised for the long delay in getting in touch. Life had been so busy. But she would almost certainly be alone for the next day or two. Ernest was delaying his return from a business trip to America, having met up with their old school chum, Mary Kirk. Although Mary had been married nearly twenty years ago to a Mr. Jacques Raffray, a French insurance broker, her husband rarely appeared in public with her, and Mary had obviously been delighted to run into Ernest and for a chance to catch up on news of Wallis. And anyway, wouldn’t it be fun for Wallis and Evangeline to spend time together without anyone much getting in the way of their long-awaited reunion?
“Oh, and just one last thing, before I hang up!” Wallis had concluded the call with an afterthought. “If you had been worrying about it, there is no question of you packing any mourning clothes. The prince, I mean the king, has expressly forbidden them to be worn at the Fort. He does not like us all going round looking like blackbirds! And I must say, Vangey, I am delighted at the rule as I haven’t worn black stockings since I gave up the cancan!”
Evangeline had been nervous on the drive to Fort Belvedere. Wiggle had been experiencing one of his dietary upsets and had looked so pathetic in the hallway at 44 Hamilton Terrace that at the last moment Evangeline had scooped up his leash and whisked him into the car. She had been glad of his small comforting little body on her lap. Recently there had been more talk than ever around the St. John’s Wood dining table about Mrs. Simpson and the complications her relationship with the new king would inevitably cause. Queen Mary’s grief at the death of her husband was fully understood among those in the Blunts’ circle. Her dearest friend Lady Airlie had let it be known that the queen operated under “a façade of self-control” but that the romantic intentions of her eldest son were causing her dreadful anxiety. According to Joan’s own sources of information, George V had shared his wife’s concerns. His refusal of the Prince of Wales’s request that Mr. and Mrs. Simpson be invited to a state