Another Woman’s Husband Read online

  Copyright © 2017 Gill Paul

  Cover images © Jeff Cottenden (woman) and Diane Kerpan/Arcangel Images (background)

  Author photograph © www.cjansenphotography.com

  The right of Gill Paul to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  This ebook edition published in 2017

  By HEADLINE REVIEW

  An imprint of HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP

  Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

  All characters in this publication – other than the obvious historical characters – are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library

  eISBN 978 1 4722 4910 4

  HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP

  An Hachette UK Company

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  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  About the Author

  By Gill Paul

  About the Book

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Historical Afterword

  Transcript of speech made by Edward VIII

  Notes

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Gill Paul is a Scottish-born, London-based writer of historical fiction and non-fiction. Her novels include the USA Today bestseller The Secret Wife, Women and Children First, which was shortlisted for an RNA Award, The Affair and No Place for a Lady, which was shortlisted for a Love Stories Award. Her non-fiction includes A History of Medicine in 50 Objects, World War I Love Stories and Royal Love Stories. Gill’s expertise is often called upon for talks on historical subjects, including the sinking of the Titanic. She lives in London, where, as well as writing full-time, she enjoys swimming year-round in an outdoor pond.

  Visit Gill on her website www.gillpaul.com, or follow her on Facebook /gill.paul.16 and on Twitter @GillPaulAUTHOR.

  By Gill Paul

  Women and Children First

  The Affair

  No Place for a Lady

  The Secret Wife

  Another Woman’s Husband

  About the Book

  Two women who challenged the Crown.

  Divided by time. Bound by a secret . . .

  1911

  At the age of fifteen, carefree Mary Kirk and indomitable Wallis Warfield meet at summer camp. Their friendship will survive heartbreaks, separation and the demands of the British Crown until it is shattered by one unforgivable betrayal.

  1997

  Rachel’s romantic break in Paris with her fiancé ends in tragedy when the car ahead crashes. Inside was Princess Diana. Back in Brighton, Rachel is haunted by the accident, and intrigued to learn the princess had visited the last home of Wallis, Duchess of Windsor, only hours before the crash. Soon, the discovery of a long-forgotten link to Wallis Simpson leads Rachel to the truth behind a scandal that shook the world . . .

  Richly imagined and beautifully written, ANOTHER WOMAN’S HUSBAND is a gripping, moving novel about two women thrust into the spotlight, followed by scandal, touched by loss.

  For Amazing Lor, who helped so much with this novel.

  You will never be forgotten.

  Chapter 1

  Paris, 31 August 1997

  RACHEL RESTED HER HEAD ON ALEX’S SHOULDER and slid a hand onto his thigh. His arm was curled around her in a way that was not entirely comfortable given the taxi’s safety belt and the tightness of her silk cheongsam dress, but she didn’t give a fig. Through the window, the lights of Paris blurred against the night sky. She inhaled the scent of him, and mused that she was exquisitely happy. Her heart was full to the brim with happiness. How many moments in life could you say that about?

  Earlier that evening, back in their stylishly stark hotel room, while Rachel was applying scarlet lipstick and checking her reflection in a gold compact mirror, Alex had begun to speak, then stopped.

  ‘Darling, there was something I was going to ask you tonight, but I don’t know . . . maybe in the restaurant . . .’

  He seemed flustered and uncertain, quite unlike himself.

  She raised an eyebrow and smiled. ‘Cat got your tongue?’

  He turned to look out of the window, then faced her again. ‘No, I’ll do it later . . .’

  She regarded him with affection. ‘For goodness’ sake, spit it out. You’ve started now.’

  He paced around, one hand fumbling in his trouser pocket. ‘The thing is . . . Oh God, Rachel, do you think we should get married? I mean, will you marry me? Please?’

  It was such a surprise that she stared at him, open-mouthed. ‘Do you mean it?’ He had a habit of winding her up, but surely he wouldn’t joke about such a momentous subject?

  ‘Of course.’ He produced a tiny dark blue jewellery box and handed it to her.

  She felt like bursting into tears. At thirty-eight, with the carnage of several disastrous relationships behind her, she had thought this moment would never come. The man she was desperately in love with was asking her to spend her life with him. It was so overwhelming she couldn’t find words.

  ‘Are you going to open it?’ Alex asked.

  Inside there was an antique diamond ring: two decent-sized stones nestled in a marcasite setting on a rose-gold band. It was beautiful.

  She blurted the first thing that came in
to her head: ‘I want to have babies. Are you up for that?’

  How unromantic I must sound, she thought, biting her lip. As if negotiating a business deal.

  ‘Of course,’ he agreed. ‘Me too.’

  ‘What if we have to make our children the high-tech way, in a tube at a fertility clinic?’

  ‘Whatever it takes,’ he promised. His hand was shaking as he slipped the ring onto her finger, and she realised how nervous he was. This clearly meant a lot. She looped her arms round his waist and clung to him. They had always felt right for each other: her head at the perfect height for his shoulder, hip bone touching hip bone.

  ‘Time for a spot of baby-making practice before dinner, Mrs Greene?’ he asked, his voice a little husky. He started to unfasten the shoulder buttons of her dress.

  ‘Whoever said I would take your name?’ She kissed him. ‘I think you should take mine.’

  He pulled her down onto the bed. Fortunately the restaurant held their dinner reservation.

  Thinking back as she sat in the taxi, Rachel realised she hadn’t actually said yes, but they were engaged all the same. She examined the ring on her finger, turning her hand this way and that. It was the most extraordinary compliment a man could pay you. She and Alex had been living together for eighteen months, but he’d never mentioned marriage before and she’d got the impression he was an independent type who might never settle down. It seemed she’d been wrong.

  They were driving along a tree-lined road beside the Seine. On the opposite bank, the iconic shape of the Eiffel Tower was glowing against the dark sky like an arty postcard. The taxi was heading down into a concrete underpass, had just entered it when suddenly the driver swerved and braked hard. Rachel was thrown forward, the seat belt cutting into her collarbone, then her head jerked back.

  ‘What the . . .?’ she heard Alex exclaim, as the taxi driver swore in French.

  Rachel looked through the windscreen and saw that the road ahead was blocked by motorbikes parked at odd angles. Strobe-style lights were flashing and her first thought was that it might be some kind of theatrical event.

  ‘Un accident,’ the driver explained. He switched off the meter.

  Alex unclicked his seat belt and opened the door. ‘I’ll see what’s happening,’ he said, his TV producer’s instinct for a story kicking in.

  Rachel reached over too late to restrain him. She didn’t want him to seem like a voyeur when people could be injured. She watched him walk towards the crowd, and as her eyes adjusted to the rapid flashes she saw they were photographers and the strobe effects were coming from their cameras. Maybe it was a celebrity who had crashed. Alex was talking to a man in a leather jacket holding a crash helmet.

  The taxi driver got out as well, leaving Rachel on her own. She opened her door, leaned her head out to get a better view and was stunned by the noise of the cameras. It echoed round the tunnel like the rat-tat-tat of machine-gun fire. In the background, a car horn blared and there was a choking smell of smoke and petrol.

  She saw Alex hurrying towards her, his eyes wide with shock, his expression urgent. He waited till he was close before speaking, so she could hear over the din.

  ‘Jesus Christ, Rachel,’ he said. ‘It’s Princess Diana!’

  Chapter 2

  Burrland, near Middleburg, Virginia, July 1911

  MARY KIRK PERCHED ON HER NARROW BED, flicking through a fashion magazine. Half a dozen other girls were lazing around, four of them in tennis whites from a recent doubles match, a couple fanning themselves and moaning about the sweltering heat. They were sharing a guest cottage at Miss Charlotte Noland’s summer camp for girls, and there was no ceiling fan so the air sat thick and damp, smelling of sweaty tennis shoes and laundry starch.

  The door opened and Miss Katherine Noland, Charlotte’s sister, came in, leading a slim girl with dark hair and a strong bone structure, who gazed around as if getting the measure of them. Mary looked back. The newcomer wasn’t pretty but she was striking; her dress was plain but well-cut; she wasn’t tall but she held herself like a tall person.

  ‘This is Bessiewallis Warfield,’ Miss Katherine said. ‘She’s joining us today and I’d like y’all to make her welcome.’

  ‘Wallis,’ the girl said, in a voice that was surprisingly deep for a fifteen-year-old. ‘Everyone calls me Wallis.’

  The other girls went up to introduce themselves, one by one, and when it was Mary’s turn she smiled and asked, ‘Isn’t Wallace a boy’s name?’

  A pair of deep-cornflower-blue eyes met hers with amusement. ‘I’m named after my grandfather,’ Wallis said. ‘What about you? Are you named after the Blessed Virgin?’

  Mary chuckled. ‘No, nothing like that. My name represents a complete failure of imagination on the part of my parents.’

  Wallis smiled and her eyes sparkled. ‘You look like Mary Pickford, although your hair is darker: more auburn than strawberry blonde. There are worse namesakes to have.’

  Mary flushed at the compliment. She’d never been to the movies, but Mary Pickford’s face was in all the magazines and she was breathtakingly beautiful.

  Miss Katherine led Wallis to a bed in the corner and asked the girls to show her around before they met on the lawn for a picnic later. Mary showed her where to hang her frocks and fold away her undergarments, and stood watching as she unpacked.

  ‘Where do your folks live?’ she asked.

  ‘My mom lives in Baltimore, but my pa died when I was a baby.’ Wallis’s tone was matter-of-fact.

  Mary was aghast. How awful not to have a father! ‘What did he die of?’ she asked, then wished she could bite back the tactless words.

  Wallis didn’t seem to mind. ‘TB,’ she replied. ‘But Mom got remarried to a man called Mr Rasin and he’s kind. He got me Bully, my French bulldog, and an aquarium of tropical fish.’

  ‘Do you have brothers and sisters?’

  ‘No, just me. What about you?’

  ‘I’m the middle of three sisters: Buckie is the older and Anne the younger.’

  ‘Darn it!’ Wallis exclaimed. ‘I wish at least one of us had brothers so they could introduce us to their friends. I go to an all-girls’ school and now an all-girls’ summer camp, and I don’t know how in the heck I’m ever gonna meet boys at this rate. Is there anywhere round here we can find some?’

  Mary was secretly thrilled at the bad language. She would have been roundly scolded for saying ‘heck’ or ‘darn’ at home. This girl seemed more fun than the others at camp, who tended to be prissy. ‘I’ve only been here a day longer than you so I haven’t gotten started on hunting for boys yet. But I hear we will be invited for tea by local families and some of them must have sons.’

  ‘What else are we going to do for the next two months?’ Wallis grinned. ‘There’s only so much horse-riding, swimming and tennis a gal can stand.’

  The picnic was laid out on trestle tables on the sloping lawn between the white porticoed plantation house and the tranquil blue lake that snaked for a couple of miles, meandering into bays and inlets. All around as far as the eye could see were green fields separated by rows of trees in full leaf. The air was still, and the insects sounded drowsy in the warmth of the afternoon.

  The girls wandered over to inspect the spread of cold veal chops with their stems enclosed in ruffled paper, potato salad, baked ham and pickles, and a range of fancy cakes, with lemonade, tea and coffee to drink. The Noland sisters supervised as they wandered round conversing with each other. It was an art to balance food and drink, to eat delicately and avoid speaking with your mouth full. Mary noticed that Wallis managed it by scarcely eating at all.

  They strolled down to the water together, their faces angled to catch a slight breeze.

  ‘Tell me, who is your ideal beau?’ Wallis asked.

  Mary had an answer on the tip of her tongue. ‘Prince Edward of England. I’m crazy about him. Just imagine: the girl who marries him gets to be a queen some day.’

  ‘Not bad.’ Wallis cocked h
er head appreciatively. ‘But would you know what to do if he came round that corner?’ She pointed to a headland. ‘How is your curtseying?’

  Mary bobbed a curtsey and giggled. ‘I think I would faint clean away.’

  ‘Don’t worry. I would do the talking. I’d tell him you are the most wonderful girl in the world, and lend him some smelling salts to revive you as he cradled you in his arms.’

  They laughed. Miss Charlotte was calling for them all to mingle, but Mary and Wallis drifted further from the group, engrossed in their budding friendship.

  ‘Do you ever wonder what it’s like to kiss a boy?’ Wallis asked. ‘I can’t decide whether you are supposed to keep your lips closed or to part them just a little. I’ve practised on my hand and I’m not sure which feels better. You try.’

  Mary kissed the back of her own hand, once with lips closed and the next time open. ‘I don’t know. I guess you just go along with whatever the boy is doing.’

  Wallis threw her head back and cackled. ‘Mary Kirk, that attitude is going to land you in a whole heap of trouble!’

  Mary blushed. ‘Of course, I wouldn’t kiss a boy anyhow until we were engaged.’

  ‘My grandma used to say, “Never let a man kiss your hand or he’ll never marry you.” That, and “Never marry a Yankee.”’

  ‘I certainly would never dream of such a thing,’ Mary drawled in her best Southern belle accent.

  ‘What would you not dream of?’ Miss Charlotte asked, coming up behind them. ‘Are you two going to join our party or are you setting up a private society?’

  ‘Sorry, Miss Charlotte,’ Mary said straight away.

  ‘Don’t worry. It’s good to see you making friends.’ She smiled from one to the other.

  Mary felt proud to be friends with Wallis. She was unquestionably the smartest, most sophisticated and most interesting girl in the entire place.

  A local family named the Tabbs invited a group of girls, including Wallis and Mary, for Sunday supper, and when they arrived in the Nolands’ horse-drawn coach they were helped to step down by the two Tabb brothers, Lloyd and Prosser. At seventeen, Lloyd was the more handsome and suave of the pair; Prosser, at fifteen, had the gawkiness of youth. Straight away, Wallis was engaging Lloyd in conversation, apparently hanging on his every word. Prosser offered to fetch Mary a glass of cool cherryade.