The American Heiress (41 page)

Cora felt a dull ache at the base of her spine as she read the letter. She started when she saw the name Louvain and wondered if Teddy had heard about the portrait. But as she read on, she realised that Teddy would not have written with such candour if he had known about her contretemps last summer. He was, she reflected, still in Paris and so it was quite possible that the little scandal surrounding the portrait had not reached him. He would learn of it, she was sure, but at least she would have the chance to talk to him first. She thought sadly that the tone of Teddy’s letter was more affectionate than anything she had received from her husband. Teddy had written to
her
. Ivo’s letters had been well written, full of wry observations about the Indian princes and their courts and the difficulties of anticipating Prince Eddy’s erratic behaviour. But though they were letters worth reading, they were not the letters she wanted to read. She had longed for a letter that was for her and her alone, a letter which would give her some glimpse into his heart. But apart from some of the less circumspect remarks about the Prince, there was nothing in Ivo’s letters that could not have been published in
The Times
. It was if they had been sent merely as a record of his visit; nowhere did she find a sentence or even a phrase – and she had looked with considerable thoroughness – which suggested that he was writing to a woman he still loved. She had hoped that perhaps this lack of epistolary emotion was one of those English habits that had to be understood and tolerated, like the strange reluctance to shake hands or their pride in speaking in such an exaggerated drawl as to be almost incomprehensible. She knew she was still learning the customs of the country, but Teddy’s letter with its open plea for her friendship could only make her wonder if her husband’s reserve was not so much a product of his upbringing as a sign that he no longer cared for her.

She wrote a short note to Teddy, inviting him to stay in the summer at his convenience. She extolled the beauties of Lulworth, ‘Indeed the light here is softer and more luminous in the late afternoons than anything we have at home,’ and hinted at the forthcoming birth, ‘When I see you I hope I will be able to introduce you to a new member of my family.’ They were, she thought, the words of an English duchess. But at the end she tried to match his candour with her own. ‘I look forward to seeing you again very much. My life has changed greatly but not so much that I can discard the friends of my youth. I may be called Duchess now but I am still an American girl who sometimes misses the country of her birth. Please come to Lulworth, it would give me great pleasure to see you again. Sincerely yours, Cora Wareham.’ She read the note through and then added as a postscript, ‘And I look forward to introducing you to my husband.’

She directed the letter to Teddy care of the Traveller’s Club and rang for the footman. When her note had been safely dispatched, she turned to the other letter. This turned out to be a gossipy dissection of the London season so far; Mrs Wyndham was acting as sponsor to the Tempest twins from San Francisco, who were as rich as they were pert and had already acquired a number of aristocratic suitors, ‘But my dear Cora,’ Mrs Wyndham wrote, ‘they are well aware of your magnificent marriage, and have declared themselves indifferent to anyone below the rank of duke. Indeed they frequently speculate whether they should spend the rest of the summer in Europe where it would be considerably easier for them to become princesses. I have pointed out, in vain, that a marquis or an earl of an early creation here in England is quite the equal of any continental prince but now that you have become a duchess they can think of nothing else but outranking you!’

Cora smiled at this. She knew Mrs Wyndham was concerned that she was losing some of her most promising protégées to Paris or Italy where princes and dukes were plentiful. Winaretta Singer, the sewing machine heiress, had gone straight to Paris for her debut and had married the Prince de Polignac eight weeks after her arrival. The only princes in England were of royal blood and they were still beyond the reach of American money. But Cora did not envy the new Princess de Polignac. She had found Parisian society to be even less welcoming than London. Thanks to a succession of French governesses, Cora spoke the language with some fluency but even so she had difficulty in following the brittle chatter of the Parisian
bon ton
. Besides, it was rumoured that all Frenchmen kept mistresses whether they were married or not. She remembered seeing a ravishing woman in the Bois de Boulogne. She had been wearing a striped lilac silk gown trimmed with black lace, but it had been the sinuous quality of her walk that had arrested Cora. She moved so fluidly that Cora found herself staring at her just for the pleasure of seeing her glide along the gravel paths of the Bois. When she had asked Madame St Jacques, their companion in Paris, who the woman was, she had said quite matter-of-factly that she was Liane de Rougement, and that she was currently under the protection of the Baron Gallimard. ‘Although there has been talk that she may transfer her favours to the Duc de Ligne.’ Cora had tried to conceal her astonishment. She knew that such women existed, of course, but she had not expected to find one so immaculately dressed walking unconcerned through the cream of Parisian high society. No, she did not envy the Princess de Polignac.

She scanned the rest of Mrs Wyndham’s letter. Although she understood why the other woman felt she had to include the genealogy of all the people she mentioned – ‘I went to the Londonderrys last night, the Marchioness is of course a Percy and is related to the Beauchamps through her mother’: knowledge that Madeline Wyndham felt was essential if the American Duchess was ever to blend into her new background – Cora found the skein of connections tedious. But the penultimate paragraph did pique her interest. Mrs Wyndham was describing the
tableaux vivants
given by Lady Salisbury in aid of the Red Cross the day before. The
tableaux
had been of great women of history. The Duchess of Manchester had appeared as Queen Elizabeth, Lady Elcho had been Boadicea, in a chariot drawn by real ponies, but the
pièce de résistance
was to be Charlotte Beauchamp as Joan of Arc – ‘in rehearsal she was quite magnificent dressed as a boy soldier’. But in the interval between the dress rehearsal in the morning and the performance itself, Charlotte Beauchamp had simply disappeared. ‘In the end Violet Paget had to take her place but she was no substitute for Lady Beauchamp. I could see that Sir Odo, who was in the audience, had no idea what had happened to his wife although he did say that she had complained of a headache that morning. Personally, I thought she looked the picture of health at the dress rehearsal. Their Royal Highnesses went so far as to express their concern.’

Cora was surprised by this story. She found it hard to imagine what would prevent Charlotte from taking centre stage in front of the Prince and Princess of Wales. She thought it unlikely that anything as trivial as a headache would deter Charlotte from performing at such an event. Parts in Lady Salisbury’s
tableaux vivants
were keenly sought after. Leading roles were reserved for the acknowledged beauties of the age. Something, Cora thought, quite momentous must have happened to stop Charlotte from stepping on to the stage in her Joan of Arc costume, her long slim legs clad only in hose.

At the end of her letter, after a gentle hint that Cora might like to entertain her twin heiresses – ‘you would find them quite in awe of you’ – Mrs Wyndham wrote, ‘I have just heard that the Duke is back in the country. You must be so happy to have him home. I trust that that unfortunate business with Louvain is now quite forgotten and you can take up the position in society that is rightfully yours.’

Cora put the letter down and leant back in her chair – the ache in her back was now more pronounced. She was clearly the last person in the country to know that her husband was back. Even Mrs Wyndham knew more about her husband’s movements than she did. It was humiliating. She stood up painfully and started to move slowly around the room. When she stopped to gaze out of the window overlooking the lawns down to the sea, she could just make out a pink shape and a green shape moving towards the summer house. It could only be her mother-in-law and Sybil. Her eyesight was too bad to make out their faces, but she felt cheered, imagining the older woman’s discovery of the statue of Eros and Psyche by Canova in the pavilion. It was a beautiful piece, but Cora thought it unlikely that her mother-in-law would share that view.

Her train of thought was interrupted by a sudden acceleration of the grumbling pain in her back, as if iron fingers were squeezing her innards. She put her hand on the window frame to steady herself and the pain subsided. Sir Julius had said that if the pain came regularly it was a sign that the baby was coming. She put her forehead against the glass and breathed out slowly, trying to still her bubbling thoughts. She did not want the baby to come today, she wanted to be ready, fragrant and charming, her black pearl necklace round her neck, when her husband returned. Even if he did not care for her any more, she still wanted to look her best. But as the pink and green shapes disappeared into the summer house, she felt another spasm and she understood that this was beyond her control. She rang the bell and was relieved to see Bertha come into the room moments later.

‘Bertha, you need to send for Sir Julius. I think it is time.’ Cora winced. ‘Go down to the post office and send a cable telling him to come at once.’

Bertha looked at her in concern. ‘Of course, Miss Cora, but do you think you should be here on your own? Would you like me to fetch the Duchess or Lady Sybil?’

Cora grimaced. ‘No, absolutely not. I don’t want to see anyone, particularly not the Duchess. I don’t want her to start interfering. No, you must take the donkey cart and go down to Lulworth as quick as you can. Send the cable and wait for the answer. With any luck Sir Julius will catch the afternoon train.’

Bertha hesitated. She could see that Miss Cora’s face had turned pale and there were beads of moisture along her hairline. But Bertha knew better than to argue with her.

On her way down to the stables, she wondered if she should tell any of the servants, Mabel perhaps; but then she reflected that nobody could be relied on. Bugler would hear of it, and then it was only a matter of time before the Double Duchess knew everything. Nothing that happened at Lulworth could be concealed from the Double Duchess for long. She had Mrs Cash’s relentless eye for detail.

There was a flyblown mirror set in the hatstand that stood in the corridor between the servants’ staircase and the back door leading out into the stable yard. Bertha caught her reflection and adjusted her hat so that it perched at the most becoming angle, the brim casting a slight shadow over her eyes.

Mr Veale the postmaster was surprised to see Bertha. Normally any telegrams from the house were brought down by the stable boy. He was alert, naturally, to the implications of the maid’s arrival: the contents of this telegram were to be kept private. He looked curiously at the Duchess’s maid as she handed him the form. He had heard about her from his niece who worked up at the house in the still room. ‘The Duchess gives her dresses that are hardly worn, you wouldn’t know from looking at her that she was in service.’ Mr Veale, as he looked up at Bertha – she was a little taller than he was – thought that this was almost true, only the tinge of her skin meant that she could never be mistaken for a lady.

He tapped out the message – ‘Please come at once, Cora Wareham.’ When he had finished and had received an acknowledgement from the post office in Cavendish Square, he looked up again at the maid.

‘That’s gone through then, Miss…’

‘Jackson.’ The maid’s voice was deep and her accent was strong.

‘I’ll send one of the boys up with the reply, Miss Jackson.’

Bertha shook her head. ‘The Duchess wants me to wait.’

Mr Veale felt an itch underneath the hard collar of his uniform. He bristled at the implication that his boys were not to be trusted with a message of a confidential nature. He wanted to remonstrate but he reflected that the Duchess and her maid were both foreigners. They did not know how things were done here.

‘Well, if you would care to take a seat, Miss Jackson.’ He spoke clearly to be sure that she understood and gestured to the wooden bench that stood against one wall of the post office.

‘Thank you, but I would prefer the fresh air. I will go for a walk in the village.’

Mr Veale watched as she stood in the doorway, unfurling her parasol. At this angle, with her back to him, she did indeed look like a lady.