She’d been mobbed by reporters at the dockyards, a swarm of them shouting questions over one another as she and Harry walked up the gangplank.
“Lady Furness!” shouted one reporter, his voice cutting through the shipyard commotion, “Do you know your own mum will be testifying against Mrs. Vanderbilt?”
“I do,” said Thelma, “and she’s mad to do so. Absolutely mad.”
The reporters scribbled, and one young man raised his pen. “What do you say to the maid’s allegations about Nada Mountbatten? Will Her Ladyship come to Mrs. Vanderbilt’s defense?”
Thelma gripped the railing to still her shaking hand. “All I have to say,” she said, “is that my mother is mad to indulge this fantasy. Absolutely mad.”
Thelma shook her head, thankful that she’d been able to escape into the sanctuary of the ship.
“Nada won’t come,” said Harry, his fingers trembling as he folded the newspaper. “She’s sending a lawyer—wants to keep away from all this.” He let out an involuntary noise and closed his eyes, waiting for the tremor to pass. “Friedel is, though. He’s told reporters he’ll be leaving on the Bremen.”
“Good.” Prince Friedel Hohenlohe, Gloria’s former fiancé, had been heartbroken when Gloria rejected his proposal—but what choice did she have, when Mamma had accused him of wanting to do Little Gloria harm?
Thelma could have laughed at the accusations, if they weren’t such a threat. According to Mamma, Gloria neglected her daughter to the point of cruelty—a claim that Gertrude Whitney, Reggie’s sister, had accepted far too easily, far too quickly. Yes, Gloria entertained friends on a regular basis, but never at her daughter’s expense. Yes, Gloria traveled frequently, but she made sure that Little Gloria wanted for nothing, regardless of whether they were in Paris or Biarritz, New York or London. Hadn’t that been the point of Mamma joining her household in the first place?
And where had Gloria learned about motherly love? All through their childhood, Thelma and her siblings had been dragged from country to country according to their mother’s changeable whims: Consuelo had been stashed away with a family friend in the United States from the time she was thirteen, and Thelma and Gloria had barely seen Harry as children, closeted away in a Swiss boarding school.
Harry sipped his coffee, looking at Thelma over his shaking cup. “I wanted to talk to you about what you said to those reporters this morning.”
“What about it?” said Thelma. “I’m right, aren’t I? Mamma is mad, and that’s all there is to it. The public ought to know.”
Harry sighed. “Maybe so, but discrediting her on the front page won’t help Gloria’s case.”
Thelma’s irritation—with Harry, with Gloria, with Mamma—spilled over. “I’m trying to discredit her,” she said. “She’s mad as a cat. The media ought to know what sort of person is behind all the ridiculous accusations Gertrude’s accepting as fact.”
“And it will,” said Harry. “But it’s for the lawyers to bring it all out in court. They have a strategy, and we won’t help by creating another arena for combat.”
Thelma exhaled, biting back her next retort—hadn’t Mamma’s side already claimed that battlefield? “It just—it makes me so cross, Harry.”
“I know.” Harry signaled for the waiter, who came with a billfold. “Promise me you’ll speak to Gloria’s lawyer before you make any more statements to the press.”
Harry signed the bill and stood; Thelma finished the last dregs of her tea and followed him through the first-class corridor in silence. When they reached Thelma’s cabin, Harry cleared his throat.
“I need your word, that you won’t make any more unauthorized statements, Thelma,” he said. “You can’t do that to Gloria.”
Again, Thelma refrained from snapping. Lawyers wouldn’t help Gloria’s reputation—not when the judge had closed the courtroom to reporters for the rest of the trial. How could Harry not see that? Gloria had to be vindicated by her friends, her family—those able to defend her outside the courtroom, as well as those fighting within it. “It’s ghoulish,” she said. “I won’t let Mamma spread such lies—”
“I can’t stop you from speaking your mind, Thelma, but please consider your actions,” Harry replied. “Calling Mamma names in the papers—can’t you see how that looks?”
She pictured two fishmongers’ wives, brawling in the streets. “You’re right,” she said. “Of course.”
Harry nodded, the twitch in his cheek more pronounced than earlier. “You’re a good sister,” he said, with a sudden smile. “You and Gloria...always two of a kind, aren’t you? The Magnificent Morgans.” He sobered, stepping away as Thelma crossed into her berth. “You can’t fight this battle for her. Remember that when we get to New York. As difficult as it may be.”
Thelma shut the door to her stateroom. The Magnificent Morgans, she thought, recalling a newspaper article from their days as New York socialites. They had always been magnificent, her and Gloria—the world knew it, which was perhaps why it was so taken with Gloria’s trial. She turned Harry’s words over in her mind: You can’t fight this battle for her.
It came from a good place, really, but Harry didn’t understand. Thelma would always fight Gloria’s battles. Just as Gloria had always fought hers.
Seven
April 1926
Newport, Rhode Island, USA
Due to complications involved with the estate, the auction at Reggie’s Newport farm was delayed until spring, giving Thelma time to move her possessions from Paris to London. To provide a suitable mourning period, Thelma and Duke agreed to keep news of their engagement quiet until Thelma returned from America. They spent a quiet Christmas together in Scotland and Thelma set sail in mid-April, arriving in Rhode Island the week of the auction.
When Thelma arrived in Portsmouth, Gloria was there to greet her, looking too small on the platform, her mourning clothes hanging off her thin frame like a shroud. She wrapped Thelma in a silent hug before leading her to the motorcar that would take them to Newport.
“I have to let them all go,” she said, watching the chauffeur walk around to the front seat. “Reggie had meant to give his staff a nice settlement, but I can’t even afford to keep a housemaid on the—on the amount of money—” She fell silent as the automobile lurched forward.
“I had no idea it would be so sudden,” she continued. She reached across Thelma’s lap, seeking comfort; Thelma grasped her hand, wishing she could provide something more substantial than reassurance. “We had talked, of course, but we thought he had more time...”