Page 63 of The Gathering Storm

‘Oh, is she?’ Basil said, and changed the subject. Encouraging Bob Zennor to think he had a chance was no longer in the plan.

Kit had been out with Raymond and a group of friends. Arriving home late, he saw a light under Emma’s door, and went in, finding her sitting up in bed reading.

‘I was hoping you’d drop in,’ she said.

He crossed the room to kiss her and sat on the edge of the bed. ‘What are you reading?’

‘Regency Buck – Georgette Heyer.’

‘Nice?’

‘Pure frivol. I was struggling through Brave New World and thought I deserved a treat. Did you have a nice evening?’

‘Ish. Dinner was good, but then we went on to Brokespeare’s flat for coffee and brandy and the talk turned terribly earnest. Brokespeare’s a devoted leftist, and they’ve all vowed never to enjoy themselves until the New Order is established – perhaps not even then. But he had some divine pieces of early Sèvres, and some rather good ivories, so I occupied myself pottering among them while they saved the world. How was your day?’

‘I went to have a look at Macklin Street with John Douglas this morning. He has some good ideas. I’ll show you tomorrow – they’re on the desk downstairs.’

Kit nodded. ‘Lunched where?’

‘Here. Came back to change, thought I’d slip over to Verena’s, but I found Wally on the doorstep in a terrible state. So of course I had to ask her in. Mrs Ambrose had to find something for us. Cold watercress soup and omelettes fines herbes,’ she added, knowing he’d want to know. He thrived on detail.

‘And what was the Wally upset about?’

‘You were right, she’s never realised how much she was being protected from the press. When she left the Nahlin she stopped off in Paris, at the Meurice, and her post caught up with her, including a big package of press cuttings from her aunt Bessie in America. Pictures of her with the King on holiday – him in shorts and no shirt as often as not – and lurid accounts of their affair. Plenty of detail, not much of it accurate, but a terrible shock, when she was used to the silence of Fleet Street. It’s thrown her into a panic.’

‘Yes, I can see that it would. A taste of horrors to come. Sooner or later the dam will burst – I’m amazed the press restraint has lasted this long.’

‘Now she’s saying she must break off her relationship with the King. I think she really means it. She says she wants to go back to Ernest. She really misses him – talked about how he used to come home from work with the Evening Standard under his arm, mix her a cocktail and chat about ordinary things. “We were always good friends,” she said. And, of course, you and I know that there’s no friendship for her with David – he’s like a demanding child.’ Emma paused, then concluded, ‘I think she’s lonely.’

‘But she loves the high life,’ Kit said. ‘She wouldn’t really give that up.’

‘I think she would now. The price is too high.’

‘She’s left it too late. Ernest wants the divorce. Even if she withdrew the petition, he wouldn’t want to live with her again, and you can’t blame him. He must have seen what the American press is saying about him. No man likes to be cast in that light.’

‘At any rate, she’s writing to the King to tell him she wants to break with him.’

‘Ha! Well, we’ll see how that goes.’

‘She looked awfully ill, poor thing. She said she’d caught a cold in Paris, but I think it’s all emotional. I can’t say I really like her, but I do feel sorry for her.’

Kit stared at his hands. ‘Yes. It’s hard to see how this can turn out well. There’s absolutely no chance the establishment will let him marry a twice-divorced woman. The country would never stand for it, let alone the colonies.’

‘Perhaps he could just marry her in secret,’ Emma said doubtfully.

‘But that’s not what he wants. He wants to marry her in Westminster Abbey in the full glare of publicity, and have her crowned as queen beside him.’

‘But that makes no sense,’ Emma said in frustration. ‘It’s madness.’

‘It’s an obsession, and they never make sense. It’s a great pity Simpson decided on the divorce. As long as she was someone else’s wife, David’s hands were tied.’

Emma got a phone call early enough the next morning for her still to be in bed with her morning tray of tea and bread-and-butter and her post, her secretary Miss Ames sitting across the room and taking notes. When Emma heard Wally’s voice, she waved Miss Ames out of the room.

‘He rang me last night from the Fort,’ Wally said, without preamble. ‘He must have just got my letter. He said he will never let me go. He cried. He said if I tried to leave him he would cut his throat.’

‘How horrible! I’m sure he wouldn’t really—’

‘He would. Maybe not cut his throat, but Alec Hardinge told me he sleeps with a gun under his pillow. And there are always pills. He was quite hysterical – it took me ages to calm him down. Then this morning there was a letter from him, saying it all again, swearing if I left him his life would have no meaning and he’d kill himself. He says if I’m not crowned beside him next May, he won’t be crowned at all. I’m in agony, Emma. I feel like an animal in a trap. I wish I was dead!’