The Duchess Of Windsor (24 page)
Read The Duchess Of Windsor Online
Authors: Greg King
January 1936 was exceptionally cold in England. For several months, snow had swept across the land. At Sandringham in Norfolk, the King, during his usual Christmas holiday stay, had gone out shooting and caught a chill. Within a few days, undoubtedly aggravated by his incessant smoking, it had developed into bronchitis. Greatly weakened, the frail monarch took to his bed.
The last months of 1935 had not been kind to the King. His health, already uncertain, caused endless worry, and his thoughts repeatedly turned to his heir. On November 6, his third son, Prince Harry, Duke of Gloucester, had married Lady Alice Montagu-Douglas-Scott, a daughter of the recently deceased Duke of Buccleuch. “Now all the children are married but David,” the old King noted ominously in his diary.
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Occasionally, he expressed his doubts as to his eldest son’s capabilities. “When I am dead, the boy will ruin himself in twelve months,” he predicted to the new prime minister, Stanley Baldwin. And, more famously, speaking of his second son, the Duke of York, and his eldest daughter, Elizabeth, he declared, “I pray to God that my eldest son will never marry and have children, and that nothing will come between Bertie and Lilibet and the Throne.”
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Such hesitation, later taken as a signal of the King’s distress over his son’s affair with Wallis, seems in actuality to have reflected more a growing apprehension at David’s capacity to deal with the throne’s many burdens than with his personal life. At this point, no one—least of all George V—had any idea that the Prince of Wales would even consider the idea of attempting to marry his mistress.
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Such hesitation, later taken as a signal of the King’s distress over his son’s affair with Wallis, seems in actuality to have reflected more a growing apprehension at David’s capacity to deal with the throne’s many burdens than with his personal life. At this point, no one—least of all George V—had any idea that the Prince of Wales would even consider the idea of attempting to marry his mistress.
There has been much speculation that David intended to flee England before his accession and take Wallis with him. Several historians have discussed this theory. Two days after the abdication, Lascelles told Harold Nicolson that “from ‘internal evidence’ they suspect that he had decided to run away with Mrs. Simpson before the King died. They were to do a bunk in February.”
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The problem with this theory is that David could certainly not have run away with Wallis in February 1936 to marry her. First, she was not free to remarry; indeed, no mention had been made of divorce proceedings. All reliable sources agree that the issue of divorce was first raised and discussed after the King’s accession to the throne. Wallis herself, whatever she may or may not have privately discussed, as yet had made no move to divorce Ernest. Because of this, any decision she might have made to flee with David would have been provable adultery and collusion in any divorce case according to British law. All indications show that this scenario was carefully avoided six months later, and there is no reason to believe that such considerations would not have been equally valid in the fall of 1935. Above all, from what is known of David and his love for Wallis, he would not have wished to have her if she had to disgrace herself publicly.
One January afternoon, as Wallis stood in the drawing room of the Fort, a footman announced a message for the Prince from Sandringham. When he reappeared, he clutched in his hand a cable informing him that his father was very ill. Without a word, he handed it to Wallis and immediately rang his private pilot to arrange for an airplane to fly him to Norfolk.
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The following day, Wallis was back at Bryanston Court when she received a telephone call from David. When he had arrived that day at Sandringham, Norfolk, he had quickly been informed that his father had no more than a few days left to live.
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The following day, Wallis was back at Bryanston Court when she received a telephone call from David. When he had arrived that day at Sandringham, Norfolk, he had quickly been informed that his father had no more than a few days left to live.
The situation at Sandringham was grim. When David entered his father’s room, he found the King sitting by a blazing fire, wrapped in a dressing gown, barely able to recognize him. Over the next few days, Lord Wigram, the King’s private secretary, held discussions with the Prince of Wales and his brother the Duke of York in which ownership of Sandringham and Balmoral was discussed. Queen Mary was also greatly worried over the distribution of the royal jewels in the King’s will. She confided to Wigram that she was dividing up the jewels of the King’s sister Victoria, who had died a month before, among the Duchesses of York, Kent, and Gloucester, fearing that her eldest son would somehow manage to get hold of them and that he “might pass them on to Mrs. Simpson.”
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On Monday afternoon, January 20, Lord Dawson of Penn, the King’s physician, declared that the King had but a few hours to live. A coffin was ordered, Wigram began to make arrangements for the funeral ceremonies, and the entire Royal Family, led by the Prince of Wales, gathered in the King’s bedroom to await the end. Lord Dawson, who had the responsibility of issuing bulletins with proper times attached, kept entering and leaving the sickroom; all of the clocks in the house were set to Sandringham time, a half hour ahead of regular time—an invention originally intended to create more daylight hours for shooting. David was irritated at this constant interruption, which resulted in several mistakes concerning his father’s decline. Finally, when he had had enough, he stormed out of the bedroom, muttering angrily, “I’ll fix those bloody clocks.”
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He immediately ordered all of the clocks at Sandringham set to the proper time, an act which many took as callous indifference to his father, but which he meant with no disrespect.
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He immediately ordered all of the clocks at Sandringham set to the proper time, an act which many took as callous indifference to his father, but which he meant with no disrespect.
But the King lingered on, contrary to Dawson’s expectations, and seeing that his coma might last for hours or even days, the doctor decided to end his patient’s life with an injection of morphine and cocaine. Queen Mary declared that she had no wish to prolong her husband’s life, and Dawson pointed out that if the King should die before midnight, his death would then first be reported in the “quality” newspapers; if he happened to die after this, in the middle of the night, it would first be published in less reliable journals. With such media concerns, the lethal dose was administered, and the King was pronounced dead at 11:55
P.M.
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P.M.
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Previously, Wallis had accepted an invitation that Monday to attend a charity cinema premiere, and despite the crisis, she felt honor-bound to make an appearance. The showing of the film, however, was interrupted dramatically at half-past nine that evening when the manager appeared to read a bulletin which Lord Dawson had just issued: “The King’s life is moving peacefully toward its close.” The audience rose, sang “God Save the King,” and disappeared into the night.
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Wallis had returned to a late dinner with her friends the Lawson-Johnstons after the cinema; just after midnight, the telephone rang. After a few words, the butler summoned her to the receiver, saying that the call came from Sandringham. In a few words, she learned the shattering news from David. “I am so very sorry” was all she could say He quickly told her that he would return to London the following morning and telephone her as soon as he could. “It was only as I hung up,” she recalled, “that I realized that David was now King.”
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The New Reign
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HE NEXT DAY
, the King’s Accession Council met at St. James’s Palace in London. Many of those who gathered—even at this early hour in the new King’s reign—were filled with growing doubts. Clement Attlee recalled: “As a Privy Councillor I attended the meeting in St. James’s Palace of the Accession Council.... I thought King Edward looked very nervous and ill-at-ease. I remember Baldwin expressing to me his anxiety for the future and his doubts as to whether the new King would stay the course.”
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HE NEXT DAY
, the King’s Accession Council met at St. James’s Palace in London. Many of those who gathered—even at this early hour in the new King’s reign—were filled with growing doubts. Clement Attlee recalled: “As a Privy Councillor I attended the meeting in St. James’s Palace of the Accession Council.... I thought King Edward looked very nervous and ill-at-ease. I remember Baldwin expressing to me his anxiety for the future and his doubts as to whether the new King would stay the course.”
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As soon as he had returned to his own apartments at York House within the palace, David telephoned Wallis. Although he sounded tired, he asked if she would like to attend his proclamation by the Garter King-of-Arms at St. James’s Palace; when she agreed, he said he would dispatch a car to collect her.
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The proclamation took place in Friary Court at St. James’s Palace. Four state trumpeters, dressed in tabards covered with gold lace, slowly walked onto the low balcony, followed by sergeants at arms holding aloft their gold maces. A fanfare of trumpets announced the Garter King, Sir Gerald Wollaston, along with the heralds and pursuivants, dressed in flashing gold braid and scarlet uniforms. Wollaston stepped to the edge of the balcony and proclaimed the accession of King Edward VIII.
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Wallis stood shielded behind a window, watching, when the door to the room opened and the King appeared. Everyone bowed or curtsied, Wallis included, as he swept in. He turned to his private secretary, Godfrey Thomas, and declared, “This may strike you as somewhat unusual, but the thought came to me that I’d like to see myself proclaimed King.”
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As he and Wallis stood together at the window, newsreel cameras captured their staring faces, flashing them around the world.
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Wallis stood shielded behind a window, watching, when the door to the room opened and the King appeared. Everyone bowed or curtsied, Wallis included, as he swept in. He turned to his private secretary, Godfrey Thomas, and declared, “This may strike you as somewhat unusual, but the thought came to me that I’d like to see myself proclaimed King.”
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As he and Wallis stood together at the window, newsreel cameras captured their staring faces, flashing them around the world.
When the ceremony had ended, the regimental band in the courtyard struck up “God Save the King”; Wallis stood by the window, crying softly. Suddenly, she seemed to have grasped the immensity of the change occurring. Turning to David, she whispered that she understood that from now on things would be different.
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But he only smiled and assured her that nothing could change his feelings toward her.
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She left the palace in a large black car which belonged to the King, its blinds pulled half down. Chips Channon, who was also watching, saw the gathered crowd bowing, under the impression that it carried the Duchess of Kent.
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But he only smiled and assured her that nothing could change his feelings toward her.
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She left the palace in a large black car which belonged to the King, its blinds pulled half down. Chips Channon, who was also watching, saw the gathered crowd bowing, under the impression that it carried the Duchess of Kent.
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That afternoon, David disappeared to attend the reading of his father’s will. This proved a less than pleasurable experience. To his amazement, he had not been included in George V’s will; every few sentences, he interrupted the late King’s solicitor, Sir Halsey Bircham, saying, “Where do I come in?” It was left to Lord Wigram to explain that although he inherited a life tenancy in Balmoral and Sandringham, he had not been left any sum because the late King had assumed that, as Prince of Wales, he would have saved a substantial amount of his income from the Duchy of Cornwall, estimated at upward of a million pounds a year. In truth, he was far from poor, with revenues from lands and estates, but he was haunted by the thought that he had little cash. In addition, he had just inherited hundreds of officials and staff, along with their pensions, yearly gifts, and other expenses. Although his reaction could be understood, his vehemence did not sit well with members of his father’s court.
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As she had feared, Wallis saw little of David over the next few days. She watched as he led the mourners in his father’s funeral procession, a long, grim line of soldiers and carriages passing through the London streets. Anne Morrow Lindbergh, wife of the famous aviator, recalled the “black and purple banners marking the route of the procession.... The draped shop windows, the flags at half-mast, everyone in black on the street.... The bands in the distance, the different regiments.... It seemed very quiet—just that slow moving line of men in somber colours and the muffled drums.... The sound of pipers—unmistakable and rather eerie—in the distance and then, with a startling suddenness, below us around the corner those even lines of sailors, white collars all in line and the white ropes, taut like a woven pattern.... They pulled evenly that little bare gun carriage—the coffin, terribly small, covered in the rich gold of the flag.”
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The new King and his brothers followed the coffin toward Westminster Hall, the imperial state crown, orb, and scepter balanced gingerly atop its lid as it rumbled through the streets. Suddenly, the jeweled Maltese cross atop the imperial state crown tumbled loose and fell into the gutter, from where it was quickly retrieved. David saw the glint out of the corner of his eye. “Christ! What‘s going to happen next?” he muttered loudly. “That,” MP Walter Elliot noted, “will be the motto of the new reign.”
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The new King and his brothers followed the coffin toward Westminster Hall, the imperial state crown, orb, and scepter balanced gingerly atop its lid as it rumbled through the streets. Suddenly, the jeweled Maltese cross atop the imperial state crown tumbled loose and fell into the gutter, from where it was quickly retrieved. David saw the glint out of the corner of his eye. “Christ! What‘s going to happen next?” he muttered loudly. “That,” MP Walter Elliot noted, “will be the motto of the new reign.”
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While Wallis remained secluded at Bryanston Court, David was busy moving his offices into Buckingham Palace. He continued to live at York House, however, for the foreseeable future, not wishing to dislodge his mother from her apartments at the palace. Everything temporarily remained as it had been under his father. A slight air of formality was introduced at the Fort once David was able to return; the moment he set foot inside, the royal standard was raised over the turret, but this was the only outward sign that his position had changed.
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King Edward VIII acceded to the throne with a range of expectation and goodwill that was almost unprecedented. As Prince of Wales, he had attracted much favorable press and was the most famous and idolized young man of the age. He had admirably shown his courage in war and in sport and tirelessly dedicated himself to his future subjects. He was largely adored throughout the empire for his fresh approach and open character and promised to be a different sort of monarch than was his father. At forty-one, he looked at least ten years younger, and his youth and vigor seemed to hint at the exciting possibilities opening to the world.
Other opinion, however, was divided. Sir Samuel Hoare wrote that the King’s “fatal weakness, more serious than his personal affections, was that he did not like being King. The ritual and tradition of a historic office made no appeal to him.... Even without the affair of the marriage, whilst I hoped against hope that the interests of a King’s life would gradually reconcile him to kingship, I doubted whether he would ever like the part sufficiently to make a success of it.”
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David spoke frankly to his friend Walter Monckton of the new duties which accompanied the throne. While he intended, he said, to conduct all royal business expected of him, he considered that his private life was utterly private. What went on behind the walls of Buckingham Palace or Fort Belvedere was no one’s concern but his. “He never spoke to me of any doubt or hesitation about accepting his position as King,” Monckton recalled. “It was only later on in the year, when the controversy was upon him, that he would sometimes say that if they were wanting someone exactly reproducing his father, there was the Duke of York.”
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He clearly felt constricted by some of the trappings and expectations with which he was now surrounded. “Being a Monarch,” he later wrote, “whether man or woman in these egalitarian times can surely be one of the most confining, the most frustrating, and over the duller stretches, the least stimulating jobs open to an educated, independent-minded person. Even a saint would on occasion find himself driven to exasperation by the taboos which invisibly and silently envelop a constitutional monarchy.”
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David later refuted the suggestion that he had not wanted the throne. Left to his own choice and without his birthright, he explained, it is true he might well have chosen some other field of activity for his work. “But not to wish to be King was something else. Only my death or some precipitous action on my part could have prevented my becoming King when my father died. Now that he was dead I was the King. And what was more, I wanted to be a successful King, but a King in a modern way.”
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Wallis was to insist that David had been filled with plans to modernize the monarchy “This was extremely important to him, and he talked about little else.” But, Wallis thought, certain members of the court felt quite differently, and she noted the “cold, serried resentment” that was rippling beneath the surface.
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His plans were not quite as radical as some have suggested. “I brought to the Throne,” he later wrote, “no ambitious blueprints for reform—no Royal counter-parts of the Five-Year-Plan. I had no desire to go down in history as Edward the reformer.” His intention was “to throw open the windows a little and to let into the venerable institution some of the fresh air that I had become accustomed to breathe as Prince of Wales. My modest ambition was to broaden the base of the Monarchy a little: to make it a little more responsive to the changed circumstances of my times.”
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Since the abdication, speculation has thrived as to what sort of King Edward VIII would have made had he remained on the throne. The popular view that in leaving he did Britain and the world the greatest favor is rather too simplistic to be accepted. During his reign as king he was to carry out rather successfully a majority of those duties expected of him. He had always tried to make himself useful, to use his position as Prince of Wales for the greater good of the country and empire, even if his concerns—unemployment, housing for the poor, rehabilitation of wounded soldiers—seemed a touch too controversial for officials in his father’s court. He was certainly not lazy and had proved himself, in his years of service as Prince of Wales, capable of exhausting engagements. As Frances Donaldson writes: “It may be true that he had no taste for paper work and could never have spent the necessary hours ... but surely some means could have been found to alter the procedure so that he was presented with precis of only the most important documents . . . . Surely in different circumstances it would not have been beyond the wits of Edward VIII’s secretaries to supplement his good qualities and overcome his bad.”
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But of those who surrounded the new King, few could be regarded as supporters, and several had even expressed outright disloyalty to him. The most important official was his private secretary, a post occupied by Lord Wigram. Wigram had served George V as private secretary for many years and had agreed to stay on in his post until the new King could replace him. The private secretary was a privileged position, the most senior ranking official in the King’s staff. It was he who directed the flow of papers between the King and Whitehall and kept track of all correspondence related to the business of government. He also presented opinions and frequently acted as intermediary between monarch and those who sought to influence the throne. Wigram was sixty-three when David became king. A man of traditional ideas and conservative tastes, Wigram was firmly convinced that the new king was headed for disaster.
Within a few months, Wigram had had enough and tendered his resignation. The obvious candidate to replace him was Godfrey Thomas, who had served as private secretary to the Prince of Wales. But Thomas felt unequal to the task, and David appointed Maj. Alexander Hardinge.
Hardinge was a rather humorless sort of man, the product of a proud and noble family. His great-grandfather had been the governor-general of India, and his father was first Lord Hardinge of Penshurst. In 1921, Hardinge had joined the royal household, and eventually he became an assistant private secretary to George V. With Hardinge, tradition was everything; he had no tolerance for innovation. Although he was the same age as David, they seemed worlds apart. A few months before Edward VIII came to the throne, Chips Channon wrote: “Emerald told us how she had lunched today with Alec Hardinge who, though quite young, has already taken on the Court ‘colour.’ He very much criticized the Prince of Wales and his entourage. It is high time such dreary narrow-minded fogies were sacked, as, indeed, they will be, in the next reign.”
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Thus, there can be little doubt that Hardinge, from the beginning, took a dim view of his new master. He and his wife, Helen, were also outraged over David’s affair with Wallis. “We did not seek her company, ourselves,” Helen Hardinge later recalled.
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Godfrey Thomas decided that he wished to share his duties as assistant private secretary. David reluctantly asked Alan “Tommy” Lascelles to act as fellow assistant private secretary. Since leaving the service of the Prince of Wales in 1929, Lascelles had taken several years off from royal service, only rejoining the royal household at the request of King George V the year before.
Lascelles, who would remain in royal service for many years after the abdication, is usually remembered as a valuable courtier, with great knowledge of his duties and unswerving loyalty to the throne. But in his relationship with King Edward VIII his role and tactics were nothing short of Machiavellian. He almost certainly feared for the continued stability of the throne, but in his quest to preserve the monarchy, he was increasingly disloyal to the monarch. Many of the sentiments he expressed bordered on treason. In August 1927, when he was still the Prince’s assistant private secretary, he asked for an interview with Prime Minister Stanley Baldwin. He told Baldwin that in his opinion “the Heir Apparent, in his unbridled pursuit of wine and women, and whatever selfish whim occupied him at the moment, was rapidly going to the devil, and unless he mended his ways, would soon become no fit wearer of the British Crown.” When Baldwin agreed with him, Lascelles added that when the Prince was riding in his point-to-point races, he “couldn’t help thinking that the best thing that could happen to him, and to the country, would be for him to break his neck.” Baldwin’s reply was equally startling: “God forgive me, I have often thought the same thing.”
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