Chapter 1London and Its OutskirtsOctober 1946The ride back to Ednam Lodge seemed interminable. All that the former Bessie Wallis Warfield, aka the former Mrs. Earl Winfield Spencer Jr., aka the former Mrs. Ernest Simpson, aka the current Duchess of Windsor, could do was murmur, soothe, and coo. God, how she detested having to murmur, soothe, and coo. For almost ten years, since the abdication, that’s all she’d done.
“And then he said—my blasted brother, my younger brother—he said he quite understood my plight. As if he could! When he is the one responsible for it!”
“I know, David, I know.”
“And still, nothing. No job, no purpose. Polite as ever, of course. That insincere politeness my damn family has perfected to an art form. They’ll smile sympathetically, pat you on the shoulder with one hand, and plunge the knife into your back with the other. My family are ice-cold bitches.”
“Was she there?” Wallis couldn’t help herself; she had to ask. “Was Cookie there, in her dowdy dress with her fake smile?”
“No. She wasn’t. Oh, Bertie said she sent her warmest love but—what a pity!—she had a slight cold and wouldn’t want to give it to me. What a joke. If she really was sick, you know she’d kiss me on the cheek and hope for my tragic demise. Typhoid Elizabeth, rotten to the core.”
“So. This trip has been for nothing, then. Like all the others. No mention of—” Wallis couldn’t bring herself to say it. Again.
“No, dearest. I’m afraid my blasted family still won’t give you your due or your official title. But you know you’re the queen of my heart.” David reached for her hand, but she snatched it away and barely repressed a shiver of disgust. How many times had he said that? As if his devotion—touching, pathetic, smothering, incessant—could make up for all she’d sacrificed? Oh, yes, he’d given up quite a lot too. But still. She was the one who had to live up to a ridiculous ideal. She was the one stuck forever in this charade of the greatest romance in the history of the world.
Because the one thing she could never, ever do, unlike the other times, was leave.
There were, however, certain compensations, and Wallis smiled while David—sensing her disgust—started in with his usual pathetic groveling. “Oh, darling, your hair looks divine! Did you enjoy your day at the hairdresser’s? I’ve never seen you look more lovely . . .” And so on. It was easy to tune the man out when she thought of the newest bauble—their private little word to describe the fabulous jewels David took so much care in designing and presenting to her—that had arrived just this afternoon. From Cartier, via special courier under armed guard, naturellement. She’d opened the velvet box breathlessly and gasped at the beauty of the pigeon’s egg–size sapphire set as the breast of a jeweled bird of paradise. She had entrusted it to her maid to be secured with all her other jewels. She’d brought the entire lot over from Paris for this visit. Why, she couldn’t exactly say. But in this hostile country where she was still reviled, she needed them. Wallis’s jewels were fit for any queen, real or figurative. Here on this cold, dreary, impoverished island—God, she hadn’t realized how pervasive the rationing remained, how ugly the bombed-out buildings, the piles of rubbish, and the clothes! The clothes were pathetic, nothing fashionable; even her hosts were wearing dresses and suits purchased before the war—Wallis needed to be surrounded by her friends.
More and more, her friends were objects, not people.
“How many more days do we have to endure with the Dudleys?” David said. “God. I hate bloody Eric and his wife. All he does is talk about fishing.”
“And all she does is talk about me, apparently.” Wallis didn’t keep the bitterness out of her voice. Everyone gossiped about the Windsors, even those who claimed to be their good friends. The scant handful left in this benighted little kingdom, anyway. Even Churchill had turned his back on them during the war.
“Put on the face, dearest. Here we are, back at the ranch. Because my wretched family couldn’t bear to have us cross the dusty thresholds of any of their numerous castles.”
Wallis smiled tightly and stepped out of the Rolls, not even acknowledging the footman who opened the door. Their hosts of several days now, the Earl and Countess of Dudley—Eric and Laura—were waiting to greet them at the top of the stairs. Their country house, Ednam Lodge, just outside of Windsor Great Park, was filled with light, unlike most houses in London, where electricity was still spotty or too expensive.
“Wallis! David!” Laura bobbed a curtsy to them both, which was one point in her favor. Not many people in England risked curtsying to Wallis, knowing the King’s decree. “Did you have a nice time in town? How were the King and Queen?” Laura’s eyebrow arched knowingly as they went inside. Footmen removed and disposed of wraps and hats, and the privileged four lingered in the grand hall for a moment. Wallis was overcome with weariness, contemplating another boring dinner with these two.
“The King looks terrible,” David replied as he reached inside his breast pocket for a cigarette; he produced a silver case engraved with his royal crest, offered it to the others, who declined, then lit his own and inhaled with vigor. “He’s lost weight, I’m afraid. My brother doesn’t look at all well.”
“And the Queen?” Laura persisted, obviously hoping for something juicy to savor and share later.
“Absent.”
“Probably down in the kitchen with the cook,” Wallis quipped.
“Where she feels most at home,” David added with a knowing wink, and they all laughed.
“Now, you two, I’m sure you’re simply exhausted, so I thought we’d pass on dinner. There are sandwiches and a few other nibblies laid out for you in your rooms. We stuffed ourselves at tea with the Cavendishes—we’ve only just returned— so I thought a light repast would be best. Is that all right?”
Wallis could have hugged her dear friend—truly, one of the sweetest people she knew!—but refrained. She did flash her a look of pure relief and thanked her profusely. Then the Windsors climbed the stairs to their suite: two bedrooms with a sitting room in the middle. The bathrooms were en suite, of course.
But when they reached their suite, they were astonished. All the lights were blazing, and Mary, Wallis’s maid, was standing in the middle of Wallis’s bedroom crying. Hysterically.
“Oh, ma’am! Oh, my dear ma’am! They’re gone! They’re all gone!”
“What’s gone?” Wallis snapped, wanting to slap the silly girl to stop her sobs. What now? What new crisis in this godforsaken place?
“The jewels!”
“My jewels! What?” Wallis ran to her bed, knelt down, and reached for the three trunks full of jewels that she’d stored there.
“No—look! They’re empty!” And Mary—stupid, stupid girl!—pointed to the small trunks, lids open and drawers all pulled out, on the floor nearby. “The only things they left are the Fabergé boxes!” Mary ran to the open window, where a scattering of small jeweled boxes gave the sill an oddly festive look.
“They? What do you mean, they?” Wallis turned to her maid, peering at her suspiciously. “Who did this? Where were you?”
“I don’t know who! I went down to supper with all the other servants and when I came back, everything was gone!”
“Dear God, dear God!” Now David was dashing about, wringing his hands, and Wallis wanted to laugh at him. So stupid, so little. So ineffectual. But—
“The Cartier! The new one—the bird of paradise! Did they take that too?”
“Everything’s gone!”
Madness. All was madness. She was Alice in Wonderland—Wallis in Wonderland—and everything was upside down. The Mad Hatter was ranting and the White Rabbit was hopping about and Wallis wanted to scream.
“What’s going on?” Laura was suddenly by her side. Wallis grabbed the woman’s shoulders and started shaking her.
“My jewels were stolen and I want to interrogate everyone in your house! Every maid, footman, scullery girl, butler. Everyone, do you hear?”
“Wallis! My staff—why, they’re all loyal, they’ve been with me forever. You surely can’t mean—”
“Everyone. I want them now, goddamn it. Bring them to me now.”
Copyright © 2026 by Melanie Benjamin. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
