the drinks trays were already in place. A dazzling choice of wines, spirits and jugs of freshly squeezed orange juice faced the thirsty guest. Any Sunday morning weariness might be relieved by a champagne cocktail or the restorative elixir of a Bloody Mary, a mixture that had arrived two years earlier on the menu at the St. Regis Hotel in New York when Wallis was visiting friends in the city. Wallis liked to be up with the very latest in fashion so Evangeline was not surprised to see this spicy concoction of tomato juice and vodka make its way to the Fort luncheon table. Buffet lunch would follow a few hours later, a meal unrecognisable from an average British alfresco menu. Evangeline had been to several lunch parties in Philip’s constituency half an hour’s drive from Cuckmere, where undercooked slices of chicken accompanied by slices of overcooked egg and congealed swirls of mayonnaise meant that she returned home ravenous.
Lunch at the Fort was eaten on guests’ knees while seated in the cushioned cane chairs by the side of the pool. The spread changed in composition daily and was always supervised by Wallis. The Fort staff would lay monogrammed white cloths over the trestle tables, spread out the buffet, cover the dishes with little bead-scattered cloches made of fine-meshed wire to keep the flies and wasps away, and retire to the kitchen, leaving the guests to help themselves. There was a deliberate code of informality. The king insisted it should be that way. Guests could choose to eat as much or as little as they wished and although people may have remarked on the extreme slenderness of Mrs. Simpson’s frame, everyone agreed there was no faulting her when it came to providing mouthwatering menus.
Those fortunate enough to be staying for the weekend would find thick ham roasted in honey, piled high onto blue willow patterned plates. There would be a whole salmon, cold with an herb dressing, and biscuity pastry cases filled with mushrooms settled within a rich cheese and parsley sauce, still warm from the oven. Silver lids concealed mounds of waxy new potatoes with knobs of butter melting and seeping deep into the dish. Bowls of homegrown baby broad beans, as small and irregular as green-coloured sea pearls, sat beside plates of tender stemmed asparagus tied in bundles with black cotton bows. Nutty avocados, sent down each day to the Fort in a green Harrods van, were added to lettuces picked from the kitchen garden only moments earlier. And club sandwiches of cold turkey, tomato, and pickle were piled between layers of toast and pinioned to avoid collapse by a wooden sausage stick. The Fort staff was sceptical about this American innovation but there was no deterring Mrs. Simpson about something when she had made her mind up. For pudding there were bowls of sweet strawberries and raspberries and blueberries gathered from the Fort fruit cages and trays of meringues sandwiched together with whipped, sugared cream from the Windsor Home Farm. There had been one much talked of error when Wallis had served a local dish from her home in the southern United States. A diamond-backed terrapin had been sent over in a refrigerated container from Baltimore. Wallis explained that her mother had often prepared the dish and that it had become a family favourite. Apart from the single portion that Wallis placed on her own plate, complete with a wedge of lemon, the rejected reptile was returned to the kitchen intact.
That Sunday morning, several hours before lunch, Evangeline removed her coat and laid it on one of the chairs. She stood alone at the top of the pool steps and put out a tentative toe. Not too unbearably cold, she thought to herself. I can do this. I can. I must. I will dazzle them all with my confidence on board the Nahlin in August. People will be amazed at my prowess as a swimmer.
Moss grew in velvety clumps around the edge of the pool, and the sounds of wildlife coming from the nearby undergrowth were a little too close for Evangeline’s liking. But willing away her lifelong fear of water she began to walk down the steps. She could hear the bells of St. George’s chapel at Windsor Castle, some six miles in the distance, ringing out for the early Sunday service, and the birds calling gaily to one another in the nearby trees.
Evangeline braced herself to take two more steps. The water was lapping at her