Death at Blenheim Palace (5 page)

“Climb in, Kate.”

“Happily,” Kate said, gathering her skirts and stepping up into the motorcar. She leaned over and kissed her husband on the cheek, not caring that his brown beard and moustache were gray and gritty with road dust. “I’m glad to see you, dear. Did you motor straight down from London?”

The House of Lords were sitting, and Charles had been in the City for several weeks. Kate (who hated London) had been at Bishop’s Keep, their Essex home, and had taken the train to Woodstock on Monday, at the invitation of the Duchess of Marlborough, to join several other guests. Now that Charles had arrived, the party was complete.

“Not directly,” Charles said in reply to her question. “I stopped at the Ashmolean on the way. I’m glad to report that the Warrington Hoard is back in its place.” He changed gears, let up the clutch, and the Panhard chugged forward. “What are you doing out here all by yourself, Kate?”

“I’ve been to Woodstock,” Kate replied, “where I discovered a bookstore full of fascinating old books.” She held up her bag of purchases. “I found one about Fair Rosamund and Eleanor of Aquitaine and another about the history of Woodstock Park. And the owner—an odd little old man, really—has promised to find several other books he thinks might be hidden away in dusty corners.”

“That’s my Kate.” Charles chuckled. “She’s invited to visit the grandest house in the kingdom and what does she do? Takes herself off in search of books.”

Kate knew that her bookstore expedition was no surprise to Charles. Under the pseudonym of Beryl Bardwell, she had become a successful author while she still lived in her native New York City, composing penny dreadfuls for sensation-seeking readers. And after her arrival in England some nine years before, she (and Beryl, of course, whom she had come to regard as an invisible but indivisible part of herself) had enjoyed a gratifying success as a popular writer. The most recent book, a ghost story set at Glamis Castle in Scotland and echoing with the mysterious strains of the song “Where is the lad who was born to be king?” had been published only a few months before.
¹

For the subject of their next novel, Kate and Beryl had settled upon Rosamund Clifford, mistress of Henry II, known to the world as “Fair Rosamund.” When Kate mentioned the idea to Jennie Churchill (now Mrs. George Cornwallis-West), Jennie had suggested that she visit the site of Rosamund’s Well and King Henry’s palace, located on the Churchill family estate, Blenheim. Obligingly, Jennie had written to Consuelo, the Duchess of Marlborough. Not long after, Kate received a warm letter from the Duchess—whom she had met when they worked together to raise money for the American hospital ship
Maine
during the Boer War—inviting her to come to Blenheim and stay for as long as she liked. And since Charles and Winston Churchill were friends, and Winston (first cousin to the Duke) was also to be a guest at Blenheim, Charles had been invited as well.

Over the noise of the motor, Charles said, “I hope you’ve not been bored here, Kate. Has Winston been amusing you? And Miss Deacon? She’s said to be a highly entertaining young lady.”

“Winston?” Kate returned the chuckle. “I’ve scarcely seen him, except at meals. He’s locked himself away to work on his father’s biography.”

“Ah, yes,” Charles said dryly. “He sent me several chapters of the manuscript last week. Rather a job of whitewashing, I thought.”

“And as for Miss Deacon,” Kate continued in a meaningful tone, “she and the Duke went off to admire some new plantings in the Italian Garden. The Duchess,” she added, “retired to her rooms with a headache.”

“Uh-oh,” Charles said. He gave her a serious look. “But I thought Winston was hoping that Miss Deacon might—”

“I believe it is rather Lord Northcote, the other guest, who has hopes—great expectations, rather. You know Botsy Northcote, I believe.” Kate smiled thinly. “However, the Duke seems to take precedence over Botsy.”

“Ah, Kate,” Charles said, with an affectionately teasing laugh. “Your first ducal houseparty, and you have landed in a hotbed of romantic intrigue.”

Kate frowned, feeling troubled. “Don’t treat it so lightly, Charles. I’m not a prude, by any means, and I have no idea whether there’s anything serious going on between Gladys Deacon and the Duke. But it’s making the Duchess utterly miserable. And there doesn’t seem to be a thing she can do about it.”

Charles glanced at her. “She’s confided in you? Well, I don’t suppose I should be surprised. You’re both Americans, after all.”

“No, she hasn’t confided in me. She may be an American, but she’s a Vanderbilt. She’s too conscious of her position and too reserved to break her silence on the matter, and of course, I wouldn’t presume to intrude.” Kate paused, then added sadly, “But she can’t conceal how she feels. And now is an especially difficult time for her—because of the Royal houseparty, I mean.”

“Royal houseparty?” Charles asked in surprise.

“The first weekend in August,” Kate replied. She made a little face. “The King and Queen and two dozen of their closest friends—with all of their servants, of course. Perhaps it should be called a Royal circus.”

Charles was wearing a look of horrified surprise. “But not us, I hope. Oh, God, Kate, don’t tell me that—”

“No, not us,” Kate said firmly. “The Duchess was kind enough to extend a personal invitation, but I declined. I told her we had a prior engagement in Scotland that weekend, and couldn’t possibly break it.”

“In Scotland? But I don’t remember—”

“That’s all right, Charles,” Kate said with a little laugh. “I blush to say that I lied to the Duchess. I have no more desire to attend a Royal houseparty than you do.” And that was all there was time to say because they were approaching the East Gate.

Kate looked up at the immense stone palace, its fierce, cruel weight looming above her like an overhanging cliff, and gave an involuntary shiver. Blenheim was not, could never be, a pleasant place. It suddenly seemed to her, in a moment of wonderment, that the house had no soul, and she opened her mouth to say so to Charles.

But Charles was waving cheerfully at the liveried porter, and then they were driving through the stone arch and into the East Court. They left the motorcar to an attendant, who rang the bell at the door to the Marlboroughs’ private quarters. As a footman ushered them in, Kate heard a loud gong resounding hollowly through the hallways.

They had arrived just in time to dress for tea.

CHAPTER FIVE

 
The Glitter and the Gold,
Consuelo Vanderbilt Balsam,
Duchess of Marlborough

 
 
 
 
Consuelo Vanderbilt Marlborough was awakened by the echoing sound of the dressing gong. Feeling drained and dispirited in spite of her afternoon nap, she swung her feet off the high bed and wrapped her arms around herself. It might be summer out-of-doors, she thought bleakly, but the sunshine had little chance of warming this wretched mausoleum of a house. Blenheim was supposed to be centrally heated—a convenience purchased, together with electric lighting and repairs to the palace’s lead roofs, with the eleventh duchess’s dowry—but the rooms were always cold.

“Would Your Grace prefer the blue or the lilac?” Rosalie asked, holding up two gauzy tea gowns. Her maid, who was stern and reproachful, had been selected by her mother-in-law, Lady Blandford. Consuelo couldn’t shake the uncomfortable thought that Rosalie might be more loyal to the Duke’s mother, or to the Duke, than to herself—that she might even be a spy.

“Your Grace?” Rosalie repeated severely. “The blue or the lilac?”

“I’ll have neither.” Consuelo shivered. “I should like something
warm
.” She glanced up. At the foot of her bed, on the opposite wall, there was a marble mantlepiece that looked exactly like a tomb. On it, in large black letters, the seventh duke had carved three words: DUST, ASHES, NOTHING. She woke up to that desolate admonition every morning, went to sleep with it every night, and heard it echoing in her dreams. It seemed to represent her life.

Fifteen minutes later, Consuelo was dressed in a blue velvet gown with a high cream-colored valencian lace collar embroidered with cut crystal and silver beads, and was seated at her dressing table, fastening her diamond bracelet while Rosalie silently arranged her hair.

Without much enthusiasm, Consuelo studied her reflection in the gilt-framed mirror. She knew that she was said to be a beauty, although of course, the newspapers had to print things like that, since she was a Vanderbilt by birth and a Marlborough by marriage, and such women were always supposed to be beautiful, no matter what they really looked like. She was tall—at five-foot-nine, she overtopped her husband by a full three inches—and willowy, with an elegant posture, the result of having worn a steel brace as a girl. Her deep-set brown eyes and arched brows were her best features, as well as her graceful neck and flawless white shoulders. But her jaw was decidedly firm, her capable hands were the size of a working man’s, and her nose—

Oh, that ridiculous retroussé nose, with its silly tip-tilt, which entirely spoilt her face! Consuelo made a self-deprecating grimace as she thought how her mother had blamed her nose when the Duke seemed disinclined to have her, in spite of her tempting Vanderbilt dowry.

“It’s your nose, I’m sure of it,” Alva Vanderbilt had wailed, after three weeks of wondering whether the Duke—Sunny, as he was incongruously called—had decided not to propose after all. “He must be afraid that your children will inherit it.”

But Marlborough had either discounted the importance of Consuelo’s nose or weighed it against her father’s fortune, for after three long weeks of ducal shilly-shallying, he had at last proposed, to the great delight of Mrs. Vanderbilt, who immediately set out to create the grandest wedding that had ever been seen in North America.

The offer of the Duke’s hand had brought Consuelo no happiness, however, for she loved someone else—dear, sweet Winty Rutherfurd, who had begged her to throw over everything else and elope with him. She had tried to tell her mother that she could never love Marlborough, who had not even had the grace to pretend that he loved
her,
but it was of no use. Mrs. Vanderbilt was absolutely dead set on the marriage: “An English
duke!
My dear child, what a coup! You should be eternally grateful to me for arranging it.” Consuelo had finally bowed to the inevitable.

The extravagant wedding was followed by the obligatory Mediterranean honeymoon, and in the course of time, Consuelo had obligingly presented her husband with an heir and then a spare, neither of whom were disfigured by their mother’s nose. This attention to duty had pleased the Duke’s grandmother, the old Duchess, who on their first meeting had told her that it was her responsibility to have a son, “because it would be intolerable to have that little upstart Winston become Duke.”

At the thought of Winston, Consuelo smiled, for he had become one of her closest friends, perhaps because his brash-ness was very American (after all, his mother Jennie
was
an American) and very unlike the stuffy Marlboroughs and their stiff friends. She wished she could talk to him about her present troubles, but they involved the Duke and she always hated to put Winston in a corner when it came to the family. But perhaps—

Her thoughts were interrupted by a light tap on the door, which burst open before she had a chance to call out. A young woman danced into the room.

“Oh, Connie,
vous voilà!
” she cried, with a toss of her beautiful head. “I have been searching all over for you! I have something exciting to tell you!”

“Thank you, Rosalie,” Consuelo said, dismissing her maid. She turned from the mirror, smiling fondly. “Gladys, my dear. How pretty you look.”

No matter how angry she might be at Marlborough for the reckless way he was behaving with the girl, Consuelo found it hard to be angry at Gladys herself, who was as innocent as a child in such matters. Innocent and free, Consuelo thought with a sudden pang of envy—free to be lively and winsome and pursue her dreams as willfully as she pleased, privileges that she herself had never enjoyed.

Gladys threw herself on the bed with a theatrical flutter of white chiffon. “Oh, I am too, too weary, dear Connie, simply
trop fatigued
. The Duke insisted that we tramp around and around the garden, pausing to sit only a little.” She raised her arms above her head, showing off delicate white hands like little birds. “Did you know,
ma cherie,
that Marlborough has commissioned a Venus fountain? And it is to be in
my
likeness! Isn’t that a deliciously enchanting idea? Oh, that wonderful Duke of yours—he does all in his power to entertain!”

Consuelo’s lips tightened. She thought of the silent Sunny—what an irony there was in that family nickname!—who, when they had no guests, ate his dinner with neither a word nor a glance, let alone any thought of entertainment. But her husband’s churlishness toward her was scarcely Gladys’s fault, any more than it was Gladys’s fault that Marlborough was so obviously smitten—although Consuelo could wish that her young American friend might use just a little more discretion. Twenty-two was a bit old to play at being a flirtatious young girl, and Gladys’s giddiness might get her into trouble—as it very nearly had when the Crown Prince of Germany had fallen in love with her the year before, and insisted on exchanging his mother’s communion ring for Glady’s bracelet. The ring, of course, had been returned at the Kaiser’s command, but the indiscreet flirtation had nearly created an ugly international incident.

Consuelo glanced up to see her young friend watching her in the mirror, her luminous, wide-apart eyes the color of sapphires, a sphinxlike look on that beautiful face with its lovely straight, fine nose that Consuelo, despite her best intentions, could only envy. She had overheard a pair of housemaids whispering that the girl had persuaded a doctor at the Institut de Beauté to inject paraffin wax into the bridge of her nose, to form a classical line from forehead to tip. It was likely true, Consuelo thought, having herself noticed something of a difference in Glady’s profile, as well as a slight puffiness between the eyes. But it had been a ridiculous and dangerous thing to do—and quite unnecessary, for Gladys had been perfect just as she was.