The Golden Hour. Beatriz Williams

I mean—this exquisitely dressed pair of sybaritic bigots who had the power to fascinate millions, even those who weren’t the slightest bit interested in fashion or luxury or jewelry or parties. This painting: Had the duchess chosen it for its form and its meaning or because the colors married so perfectly with the upholstery on her new sofa? I dragged my hand along the back of the sofa and made my way to the desk, orderly, untroubled by paperwork, adorned by photographs of Wallis. I had this idea—I remember it clearly—that if I opened any of the drawers in this desk, I would find them empty. I actually saw myself opening those drawers, as in a dream; I saw their emptiness. This fine, polished, beautifully proportioned desk, made of empty drawers. I curled my fingers around a brass handle. I don’t believe I meant to pull it. Even if I had, the voice would have stopped me.

      “My dear Mrs. Randolph. Are you looking for something?”

      I spun to the door—not the one leading to the main hallway, but the door on the opposite side of the room, toward the back of the house, where the duchess stood in her beautiful blue gown with the jeweled flamingo on her breast. She was smiling.

      “I—I seem to have taken a wrong turn,” I said.

      She moved forward. “It’s a lovely room, isn’t it? I had it redecorated. I had the whole place redecorated. It was a dump when we arrived.”

      “So I heard.”

      “Shabby and leaky and everything. Uninhabitable, really.”

      “You’ve done wonders. It looks just terrific.”

      The duchess paused at the corner of the desk, the opposite diagonal, and rested her fingers on the edge. “It’s not what he’s used to, of course. I did my best, but he ought to live in a palace, he ought to be doing something bigger. That’s what he’s used to. What he was raised for. Instead …”

      I didn’t know what to say. I had the feeling this was a test of some kind, and my answer would determine the course of my future association with the Windsors, or whether we had any association at all. Would determine the course of my existence altogether. The initial shock had passed, thank God. My face had begun to cool. I flexed my fingers, I drew in a long, steady breath and exhaled it slowly.

      “You’re both doing such a terrific job,” I said. “Your talents are wasted in a place like this.”

      “How kind.”

      “Really, though. The Red Cross. It’s such a smashing success. All those women, working so hard. Only you could raise all that money, organize everything so perfectly—”

      The duchess laughed and turned her head. “Would you care for a drink, Mrs. Randolph? David keeps a few bottles handy in here. He’s forbidden to start drinking before seven, but once the clock strikes, why …”

      “No, thank you.”

      But she was already moving away, already opening the door to a cabinet of gleaming wood, the kind of cabinet you thought must hold important papers and that kind of thing, but actually contained about a dozen various bottles of liquor, several glasses, a siphon, a bucket.

      “There’s no ice, I’m afraid,” she said, “but you don’t mind that, do you?”

      “No.”

      “Brandy? I like a glass of brandy in the evenings.”

      “I really shouldn’t.”

      “Why not?” She turned to me. “You certainly look as if you could use a drink.”

      “I like to keep my wits about me.”

      “I see.” She closed the cabinet door. She stood about fifteen or twenty feet away, about as elegant as a woman could possibly look, but then she had the kind of figure that sets off clothes to their best advantage. Long and angular, lean to the point of nonexistence; not exactly attractive by itself, but irresistible as a foil to what covered those bones, that flesh. Like all Southern ladies, she moved gracefully, shaping the air as she went. Her thin, tight, scarlet smile contained electricity. “Now, don’t be afraid,” she said.

      “I’m not.”

      “Yes, you are. Most people are. But I don’t bite.”

      “If you did, I’d bite back.”

      The duchess laughed. “You brave thing. That’s exactly what I was hoping you’d say.”

      “I can’t tell you how relieved I am to hear it.”

      She gestured to the window seat. “Can we sit a moment? I have a question for you, Mrs. Randolph. A proposition.”

      I hesitated only long enough to catch my breath. “Of course.”

      We sat. The window faced north, toward the twinkling of lights that rimmed the shore and the sudden blackness of the ocean. The stars were invisible. I smelled the duchess’s perfume, her cigarettes. Around us lay that beautiful, masculine room of wood and photographs and, beyond that, the faint music from the party in the garden. I folded my hands in my lap and said again how lovely the place looked.

      “Naturally the papers had nothing but bad things to say,” she told me. “How extravagant I was. How out of touch with the common man. Never mind that the house—Government House, don’t forget, the very seat and symbol of government, of the British Empire—was riddled with mildew and falling apart. Anyway, we paid for a great deal of the redecoration out of our own pockets. A great deal.”

      “I hadn’t heard that.”

      “Of course you hadn’t. They’re all against me. I’m sure you read about our little tour this fall, how many pieces of luggage went along with us.”

      “I can’t remember the number,” I said modestly.

      “A hundred and forty-six, they said, which wasn’t remotely true, it was no more than seventy-three, and anyway it wasn’t just ours. It belonged to our entourage as well. Our private secretary, Miss Drewes, and Major Phillips—that’s David’s aide-de-camp—and so on. But each and every story they print has to conform to this—this idea they have about me. I’m sure I don’t need to tell you what that is. And it’s all very frustrating. One can’t answer back. One can try, of course, but that only makes one sound petulant.”

      “The duchess doth protest too much.”

      “Exactly. I see you understand the business, Mrs. Randolph.”

      “What business?”

      “Journalism.” Her smile took on a feline quality. “You’re a journalist yourself, aren’t you?”

      I sort of choked. “Journalist?”

      “Yes. Metropolitan magazine, isn’t that right?”

      “Yes. That is, no. That is, the magazine sent me out here to gather a little background information—”

      “Now, Mrs. Randolph—”

      “—I’ve never written a word for them. Not a word.” I paused. “How did you know about that?”

      “Oh, I hear things. It’s my business to hear things. Not for myself, you understand, but for David’s sake. All these stories in the press, these terrible things they print, it upsets him so much. I try to protect him, of course, but it’s impossible. He will read them all.”

      I started to rise, and then remembered you weren’t supposed to stand except with permission, and then remembered I was American, after all, not subject to such rules. I rose. I nearly said Mrs. Simpson and caught myself just in time. “Ma’am,” I said instead, “I can’t imagine why you’re telling me all this.”

      “Oh, I understand, believe me,” she said. “You’ve got a job to do. A girl’s got to make her way in the world. I also suspect there was no Mr. Randolph. Am I correct?”

      There was a noise through the window,