Palace Circle (7 page)

Seeing the expression in Consuelo's eyes it struck her that perhaps Sylvia wasn't quite as overwhelmingly popular as she had thought—at least not with other women.

The knowledge cheered her. She didn't want Sylvia to be well liked. She wanted her to be heartily loathed.

By the time dessert was served, the conversation had turned to politics.

“It would seem Europe is rapidly becoming two armed camps,” George Curzon said, prodding at his
pêches à la Reine Alexandra.
“On the one hand is the Triple Entente of Britain, France, and Russia; on the other the Triple Alliance of Germany, Austria-Hungary, and Italy. What will happen, do you think?”

He was looking toward Herbert Asquith but it was Winston Churchill who answered. “War,” he said with vigor. “And we must be prepared for it. Isn't that so, Prime Minister?”

Asquith gave a heavy sigh and Delia, who had now met him several times and become quite a favorite, realized he had been hoping for a relaxing weekend away from the pressure of his office. Not very tall, he had a rocklike build and massive head. Turning a little wearily to his first lord of the admiralty, he said, “The foreign secretary is to propose a conference be held here with Germany and Italy. That should settle things. We none of us want war, Winston, do we?”

Winston looked as though he very much wanted war, and, by the expression on his face, so did George.

As the talk continued, with the Countess of Denby saying silkily that “with foreigners increasing their armies, I'm all for a big navy,” Delia experienced a moment of self-awareness.

Though not happy—happiness while Ivor continued his relationship with Sylvia was impossible—she was exhilarated. How could she not be when she was playing hostess to such distinguished, powerful, clever people? She wondered what it would be like to have nothing more stimulating than a weekend at White Sulphur Springs to look forward to, and shuddered. Much as she still missed her mother and Sans Souci, she knew she could never live there again, not when she enjoyed her life as Viscountess Conisborough so much.

With Jerome's help, she had boned up on European politics so that she not only could understand the conversations taking place at her dinner table but would also be able to take part in them. Republican to the core, she nevertheless enjoyed the theatricality of royal ceremonial, and despite finding a dinner at Buckingham Palace to be a surprisingly dull affair, the experience was one she wouldn't have wanted to miss. Neither would she have wanted to miss visiting nearby Sandringham, where she had met the Prince of Wales. He was only a year her junior and the two of them had got on like a house on fire.

It was the same with nearly all of Ivor's friends and acquaintances. Though she worked hard at being agreeable, it
was their children with whom she had instant rapport. One of the Duke and Duchess of Girlington's daughters, Daphne, was, for instance, exactly her own age and breezily unconventional. The prime minister's daughter-in-law, Cynthia, was also great fun.

The only thing marring her life was Sylvia's presence at nearly every event or social function they attended. Making this marginally easier for her was Ivor's impeccable behavior whenever Sylvia was at Cadogan Square or at Shibden. At Shibden house parties, many of their guests made nighttime visits to rooms other than their own, but Ivor never did so. What he did elsewhere, of course, was very different.

One of the greatest shocks she'd had to overcome was the realization that Jerome had been speaking the absolute truth when he told her that in smart society, amorous intrigues were the norm. Sir Cuthbert, for instance, was embroiled in a passionate affair with Lady Denby, something to which both of their partners, as they engaged in banter across the dining table, seemed supremely indifferent. It was well known that the Duke of Girlington gave most of his affection not to his wife, Viola, but to Violet Vanburgh, an actress, and that his supremely beautiful wife had her choice of lovers. Even H.H. was known to prefer spending time with the daughter of Lord Sheffield rather than with Margot—though as Margot was so formidable and sharp-tongued it didn't come as too much of a surprise.

She glanced across at Winston and Clementine. They had not been married long and so far there had not been one whisper of any infidelities, nor did Delia think there ever would be. Jerome, of course, was the most blatant of adulterers. After a long affair with Princess Sermerrini, a member of the Royal House of Savoy, he was now conducting affairs with two married ladies saying that doing so was more challenging than conducting an affair with only one.

Just back from a European holiday—he had been to Berlin and Rome and Paris—he was leaning back, a brandy glass in one hand, his swarthy skin and Gypsy-dark curls setting him apart from the other men, all of whom either were elderly and white-haired or, as in the case of Ivor, George, and Winston, had mouse-fair hair worn glassily smooth.

As she watched, she saw the prime minister exchange a meaningful glance with Jerome and wondered as to their relationship, for though Jerome wasn't a member of the government he was obviously on surprisingly easy terms with Mr. Asquith.

Winston cracked a joke, and as the champagne flowed and witticisms whizzed back and forth across the table Delia knew everyone was enjoying themselves hugely. After the meal, Ivor was unconventional in that he saw no reason for ladies to leave the table while the men passed around the port. When they all had gathered in the drawing room, Gwen asked George Curzon if he would recite Tennyson's “The Revenge: A Ballad of the Fleet.”

“For considering dear Winston is first lord of the admiralty, I think it would be most appropriate,” she said as Ivor gave a mock groan. “Especially as our navy could very soon be facing enemy ships.”

“Quite right, Gwendolyn.” Curzon rose to his feet and struck a suitably grave posture. “‘At Flores in the Azores Sir Richard Grenville lay,’” he began sonorously. “‘And a pinnace, like a flutter'd bird, came flying from far away: “Spanish ships of war at sea! We have sighted fifty-three!”’” At the last words of verse ten, “Fight on! Fight on!,” the cheering nearly shook the roof.

Afterward, Consuelo insisted on Viola Girlington playing the piano and singing and then Sylvia said in a falsely sweet voice, “Your turn now, Delia. We've never heard you sing, but I'm sure your voice is exquisite.”

Delia, well aware Sylvia had only made the suggestion because she assumed she was tone-deaf, hesitated just long enough to see confirmation that she had been right slide into Sylvia's eyes. In an exaggerated Southern drawl she said, “What a cracking good idea. Ah'll be only too happy to oblige.”

Ivor, annoyed at the accent and knowing that after Viola any other singer was likely to sound dreadful, frowned warningly.

Delia ignored him and crossed the room to where Viola was still seated at the piano. As she whispered in Viola's ear and as he saw the change on Viola's face, his consternation grew.

“This is especially for Consuelo,” she said, and launched into an exuberant, full-throated rendering of “Dixie.”

Consuelo squealed protestingly. Jerome burst out laughing. When it came to the chorus everyone, even Winston, whose mother, like Consuelo, had been born on the wrong side of the Mason-Dixon Line, joined in with gusto. Everyone, that is, except Sylvia—and as all her other guests, including the prime minister, clapped and cheered, Delia no longer cared about Sylvia.

Later, long past midnight, when all their guests had gone to bed, Ivor said to her, “It was a splendid evening, Delia. It's a long time since I've seen the prime minister enjoy himself so much.”

“Then why are you looking so grave?”

He stared thoughtfully at the cigar he was holding. “Because Winston has asked me to go to Germany.”

“Go to Germany?” Her eyes widened. “Whatever for?”

“Because I have highly placed friends in German financial circles. One of them, Albert Ballin, is as close to the Kaiser as I am to King George. Winston wants me to have an informal conversation with him about the pace of Germany's shipbuilding program. It's just possible a man as influential as Ballin
will be able to persuade the Kaiser to bring it to a halt. Otherwise, sooner or later, it will lead to war.”

Delia drew in a sharp breath. When Winston had uttered the word “war” she had thought it merely typical of his desire to shock, not a serious possibility.

“When do you leave?”

“Monday morning.”

She remembered the glance Jerome and the prime minister had exchanged and said hesitantly, “Do you think Jerome was doing something similar when he was in Berlin and Rome? Do you think he was speaking to people on H.H.'s behalf?”

“Jerome a diplomatic negotiator? I don't think so, Delia.” He chuckled. “The only reason for Jerome to go to Berlin would be to see one of his many mistresses. The same applies to his jaunt to Rome—unless he's considering converting to Catholicism.”

Still chuckling, he walked with her from the drawing room, leaving the maid to turn down the lights.

It was a moment of closeness that was repeated quite often as the cold spring of 1912 melted into a hot summer. Still there was something so coolly distant in Ivor's personality, so remote, that she doubted their relationship would have been much different even without Sylvia.

There were times when she would have liked to say as much to Jerome, but at their first meeting after she knew that Ivor's affair with Sylvia wasn't going to end, they had made a pact not to talk about their respective spouses unless absolutely necessary. Not doing so meant that the time they spent together was enjoyable. Though her other friends' extramarital affairs shocked her, Jerome's never did, probably because he never took any of them seriously. She teased him unmercifully
and he teased her for her lack of lovers when nearly all her married women friends had at least one.

As the year wore on, the optimism she had gained from Ivor's impeccable behavior faded. He spent a great deal of time with Sylvia away from his home.

In September, when Sylvia was again enjoying a monthlong vacation in Nice, he took an equally long vacation in nearby Monaco. In November, when Sylvia went to Market Harborough for a month to hunt, he went, accompanied by Lord Denby and Cuthie, who were both addicted huntsmen. Ivor wasn't, and Delia knew that the only reason he was spending four weeks riding over the Leicestershire countryside in appalling weather was so he could be with Sylvia.

It was a situation she had no choice but to accept, but she didn't do so happily. Her constant hope was that when she became pregnant things would change and Sylvia would begin to play a less and less important part in his life. By the beginning of 1913, however, the longed-for baby still hadn't materialized.

“I'm starting to think I'm as barren as Olivia was,” she said bleakly to Jerome as they strolled in St. James's Park. “And if I am, Ivor will divorce me.”

“Has he said he will divorce you?” There was surprise in Jerome's voice. “It sounds a bit too Henry VIII for Ivor.”

It was a sunny day and Delia was carrying a parasol. She twirled it thoughtfully. “No. He's never said he would divorce me if there wasn't a baby. Even though he might want to, I doubt that he would. Divorced men aren't received at court, are they? The social stigma would matter a great deal to him.”

“And would put an end to his position as financial adviser to the King,” Jerome said drily, “so I wouldn't worry about the possibility too much.”

“But I do, because I want a baby just as much as Ivor does!” With a sudden outburst of emotion she swung to face him. “It
would be too cruel to have a marriage that isn't the kind of marriage I yearn for and to have no children either! I couldn't bear it, Jerome! Truly I couldn't!”

He took hold of her free hand and squeezed it hard. “You're only twenty, Delia. You'll have babies. I'm sure of it.”

There was such fierce certainty in his eyes that she was almost convinced.

Aware that she was attracting attention from passersby she said, “Sorry for that outburst,” and flashed him an apologetic smile. “Do you think Jack's nanny would mind if we took him off her hands for an hour or two? We could go boating or to the zoo.”

Taking his five-year-old son out on afternoon excursions was something they often did. At first, she had been reluctant to even meet Jack, terrified she wouldn't be able to look at him without being reminded of Sylvia. When she finally met him she had felt a vast wave of relief. He was raven-haired, like both his parents, but there were no other similarities. He didn't have Sylvia's violet-dark eyes. He didn't have her pre-Raphaelite perfect features.

His brown eyes had the same gold flecks as Jerome's, his hair was just as curly. Even his fun-loving, equable nature was like Jerome's. Feeling his small hand in hers always brought a lump to her throat, and the time the three of them spent together was very precious to her.

“The zoo, I think,” Jerome said as they exited the park and he hailed a cab to take them to Chelsea. “Jack's having a love affair with the chimpanzees.”

She laughed as he opened the cab door for her, grateful that Sylvia was so indifferent as to whom her son spent time with; grateful that the world held someone she loved being with so much—Jerome.