Robin Paige - Death at Blenheim Palace

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.

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.