“Be sure you get a few good photographs,” she said. “A picture says a thousand words.”
Which I did, of course, and if you happen to come across that particular copy of Metropolitan magazine, the October 1941 issue, you’ll find two photographs of Wallis illustrating the “Lady of Nassau” column on the inside back cover. The first and larger one shows her dressed to the nines in a constellation of jewels and a Mainbocher gown the color of fresh cream, dancing with HRH at some charity ball or another. In the second one, she’s wearing her Red Cross uniform and an expression of deep compassion, as she hands a box of canned milk to a grateful Negro mother on Cat Island.
There had been several more cruises since, to say nothing of the mornings spent packing parcels and rolling bandages at the Red Cross, the afternoons at the duchess’s maternity clinic in Grants Town, part of the Negro district they called Over-the-Hill. Now it was Christmas, another whirl of charity. She worked tirelessly at her causes, the Duchess of Windsor. She was like a lioness on the hunt. Those presents beneath her tree were only the latest kill.
Together, we listened to the footsteps of Mrs. Gudewill and Miss Drewes clattering down the hallway. She still sat on the sofa, and her back was wonderfully straight, like a board, so that she only had to swivel her long neck and point her square jaw upward. She leaned her elbow on the sofa back and smiled at me. “Come sit. I have a little something for you too.”
I positioned myself exactly where Miss Drewes had been. When I sat, the warmth of my predecessor seeped through the cushions into the backs of my legs. The duchess’s perfume floated free. I think it was Chanel. She reached for the bell on the table and asked if I wanted fresh coffee.
“Coffee’s lovely, thank you.”
“Have you brought your column?”
I opened my pocketbook. “Right here. A busy month, wasn’t it?”
“Oh, it was awful.” She opened the drawer in the lamp table and took out her spectacles. Not everybody knew that the duchess wore readers, but I did. I had her trust, you see. She slipped them over her ears and took the typewritten page from me. When the butler arrived, he was already carrying the coffee service. He set the tray before us, piled the tea things on the existing tray, bore it all away while the duchess’s eyes went back and forth, back and forth like the typewriter itself, examining each word. I poured the coffee. Considered crossing the room to the crystal decanters on their own tray, another silver tray, the place was lousy with them, but there were only so many liberties the duchess would allow, and you had to count them carefully to make sure you didn’t exceed your allotment. So I added cream instead, precious cream and precious sugar, and sipped my coffee as I waited for her to finish.
“Very nice.” She unhooked her spectacles and smiled at me. “Especially that bit about the bazaar. Next month you’ll have an account of the Christmas gifts, won’t you? Giving them away to the slum children? Poor lambs.”
“Of course.”
She handed me the column, which I tucked back into my pocketbook. The portico protected the room from the sunshine, and the air was cool, a relief after the unusual heat outdoors. Still, a trickle of perspiration made its way down my spine. The duchess ignored the coffee service and folded her hands on her lap. “We’ve worked so hard,” she said. “I’m awfully proud of this Red Cross business. Between that and the clinics, my God, they can’t say I haven’t done my bit.”
“A maternity clinic is such an ideal cause.”
“Brilliant, isn’t it? Of course it’s desperately needed. They breed like rabbits, you know, and show about as much care for their infants.”
My hands enclosed my pocketbook. I stared at her thin red lips.
“Was there anything else?” she said.
There was an expectant look on her face, around her eyebrows, which were groomed into high, thin arches that suggested perpetual interest. I thought maybe she’d heard the crackle of the envelope inside the pocketbook. I heard her voice in my head. They breed like rabbits.
“No,” I said. “Nothing else.”
“Very well, then. Let’s— Oh, my darlings!”
A familiar yipping sounded from the doorway. The duchess’s face lit like the Christmas tree in the corner. She held out her long, bony arms like a mother receiving a beloved child. Into