The Mitford Affair, page 1
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Books. Change. Lives.
Copyright © 2023 by Marie Benedict
Cover and internal design © 2023 by Sourcebooks
Cover design by Sandra Chiu
Cover images © Elisabeth Ansley/Trevillion Images, Ilina Simeonova/Trevillion Images, lumyai l sweet/Shutterstock
Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Apart from well-known historical figures, any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
Published by Sourcebooks Landmark, an imprint of Sourcebooks
P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410
(630) 961-3900
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Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file with the Library of Congress.
Contents
Front Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Chapter Fifty-Five
Chapter Fifty-Six
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Chapter Sixty
Chapter Sixty-One
Chapter Sixty-Two
Chapter Sixty-Three
Chapter Sixty-Four
Chapter Sixty-Five
Chapter Sixty-Six
Chapter Sixty-Seven
Chapter Sixty-Eight
Chapter Sixty-Nine
Chapter Seventy
Author’s Note
Reading Group Guide
A Conversation with the Author
Acknowledgments
About the author
Back Cover
Chapter One
Nancy
July 7, 1932
London, England
The mellifluous sounds of the symphony float throughout the ballroom. Servants pour golden champagne into the cut-crystal glasses. The fabled Cheyne Walk house exudes perfection down to the last detail, nowhere more than in its hostess.
There, at the center of the vast ballroom, stands the stunning, statuesque figure in a floor-length sheath of platinum silk, a shade that echoes her silvery-blue eyes. Her diamond-laden arms outstretched in welcome to her guests, she radiates serenity and unflappable, irresistible poise. If she were anyone else—someone I didn’t know as intimately as I know myself—I would judge that sphinxlike smile a charade. Or worse. But I know she is precisely as she appears, because she is Diana, my sister.
I wrest my eyes from her and glance around the gleaming gilt and marble ballroom, expansive enough to easily hold the three hundred guests in attendance. As the dancers begin to pair up and then organize themselves, the revelers appear to emanate from Diana like the rays of the sun. It is a pattern that has repeated itself since our childhood; she always dazzles at the center, with us sisters fanned out around her like lesser beams. Never mind that the press considers all six of us Mitford sisters the very essence of the so-called Bright Young Things, she is the star.
The evening feels more like a celebration of the fashionable new home of Diana and her handsome, kindly husband Bryan Guinness, than a ball introducing one of our younger sisters, Unity, into society. Where has Unity scampered off to? I wonder, as I scan the crowded space for the spectacularly tall eighteen-year-old. Never one to abide by social dictates, she seems to have disappeared into the background instead of lapping up the attention as would be expected at an event in her honor. Finally, I spot her tucked into a shadowy corner, deep in conversation with our sister Pamela and our one and only brother, Tom, that golden boy of ours. Of my six siblings that leaves out only Jessica and Deborah, but they’re too young to mingle in society.
Even though she pretends to be listening, Unity is clearly watching the other partygoers rather than engaging with Tom and Pamela. At least here at Cheyne Walk, she won’t be required to curtsy twice and retreat backward as she’d had to do before the king and queen when she came out at Buckingham Palace. Poor Bobo, as we call her among ourselves, is not known for her grace, and we sisters had clutched one another’s hands and held our breath until she’d completed the act without tripping and catapulting herself into one of Their Majesties’ laps. Even then, she barely managed the feat without several awkward lunges and an initial backward step where her heel caught on her hem, sending a horrific tearing sound throughout the famous receiving room.
A shimmer of silver crosses the ballroom, and I observe Diana sashaying through the crowds. I think how alike Diana and Unity appear from a distance, both tall with their features blurred and blond hair flashing. Not so upon close inspection, and not only because Diana wears a seamless column of silver, while Unity sports a gray-and-white gown that is somehow ill fitting despite numerous trips to the tailor. For the millionth time, I give thanks that I was born with jet-black hair and green eyes instead of blue; I’d never want to come up wanting by comparison to Diana.
The music pauses, and I see Evelyn Waugh across the expanse. Delight and warmth course through me at the sight of my dear friend. Only the appearance of my unofficial fiancé would bring me greater happiness. But I know that’s impossible, as Hamish declared himself unavailable for this particular function, providing yet another reason for my parents, whom we call Muv and Farve, to dislike him, apart from the multiyear, oft-delayed nature of our engagement. What plans could your fey fiancé have made, Farve wondered aloud using a most derogatory description, that prevented him from attending the ball of his fiancée’s sister?
In my darker moments, I wonder whether I shouldn’t have accepted Sir Hugh Smiley’s proposal instead; banal though he may be, our union would have saved me from my current financial worries. And I’d have spared myself the constant muttering by Muv that it was time for me to stop my unseemly roaming around society, as I’m nearing thirty and still unmarried.
Evelyn glances in my direction, and I raise my hand in greeting, eager to have him join the gaggle of friends assembled at my side. These men—of which the poet John Betjeman and the photographer Cecil Beaton are but two—are my chosen family. Why shouldn’t they be? The qualities that Muv and Farve disdain in me, along with most men of my acquaintance, are adored by these fellows, who revel in my well-read, quick-witted observations, particularly if they aren’t appropriate. They are the only group to which I’ve ever felt I belong, and so, of course, Farve despises these “dandies.” Even amid my five sisters, I’ve always been something of the outsider. With each sister usually paired off or teamed up—in childhood, Jessica with Unity, Pamela with Deborah, and Diana with Tom, like golden twins—I’ve often been alone.
Before I fix a bright smile of greeting on my lips for Evelyn,
But Evelyn comes no closer. In fact, he’s changed course altogether, as if he’s being pulled magnetically in the direction of Diana. A sinking feeling overtakes me, and I know this is my fault. Once, Evelyn had been my friend alone. When he was researching a book on high-society hijinks and asked to meet Diana, whose beauty and charisma had made her the star of her debutante season and catnip for the journalists, I made the introduction at a tropical party she hosted with her husband on board a riverboat called the Friendship.
I hadn’t been worried; I knew that Evelyn planned on disliking the young couple and making them the frivolous protagonists of his novel Vile Bodies. But all that changed when Evelyn came under Diana’s spell. Now, he’s so bloody mesmerized that I catch him wincing when I refer to my sister by the naughty nickname I’ve called her since infancy—Bodley, a play on the name of the publishing firm Bodley Head, because her head has always been too large for her body. This small imperfection is nearly imperceptible to others because her beauty is so overwhelming.
I glance away quickly, not wanting Evelyn or the others to catch me staring. Gawking simply isn’t done; it reveals an unacceptable weakness. To hide my misstep, I say, “Looks as though Lady Tennant’s trip to Baden did not provide the ‘cure’ the spa so widely advertises.”
Even though this provokes the snickers I expect, I loathe myself for stooping low to achieve it. How I sometimes wish I had more weapons at my disposal than my barbed tongue and pen. But then my friends pile on with their own observations, each cattier than the last, until I cry with laughter. Only when I dab my eyes dry do I first notice it.
Diana stands at the center of a group of men, a common enough occurrence. But her gaze isn’t upon a single one of them. It’s not even on her doting, wildly wealthy husband. Those silvery blue, incandescent eyes of hers are fixed across the crowded dance floor at the last person I’d expect.
Chapter Two
Diana
July 7, 1932
London, England
Diana steps back, away from those eyes and into the crowd. Her guests part as she passes through, and some of the revelers reach out to shake her hand or kiss her cheek. Fingertips graze her shimmering silver dress. If she believed in false modesty, she could tell herself she’s sought after only because she’s the hostess of this lavish affair, where a grand mix of her family and society friends gather alongside other Bright Young Things. But she has never any use for such untruths; she is Diana Mitford Guinness and the world just makes itself available to her. It always has.
Amid the cacophony of voices, she hears Winston Churchill, husband of Cousin Clementine, rail on about a Stanley Spencer oil painting she has hung on the wall. Apparently, its depiction of the Cookham War Memorial is inaccurate, a fact of which only old Winnie would be aware. Diana blocks out his bluster—unusual, because she typically finds his political musings interesting, if disagreeable. She blocks out the sharp retort from his son, Randolph, as well; he’s a great friend of her beloved and only brother, Tom, and she’s long suspected Randolph fancies her.
Her handsome, adoring husband reaches her side. Aware of how striking they look together, Diana lifts her arms, heavy with diamond bangles, to cue the symphony and the dancers. Power surges through her as the musicians and partygoers follow her signal. All this is hers, she thinks for a fleeting, incredulous moment. The fabulously well-appointed Cheyne Walk home, complete with Aubusson carpets even for the children’s bedrooms. The eighteenth-century country estate, Biddlesden, where they host any number of family and friends in season. Her two glorious little boys, Jonathan and Desmond, whom she’s loved desperately from the moment they wailed themselves into her life. Her husband, Bryan, of course, heir to the Guinness brewing fortune and a barony. A veritable gaggle of friends, family, and acquaintances, always at the ready.
With all this, why is she so terribly bored? Not every minute, of course. Fleeting sparks of merriment present themselves in the form of diversions such as this one and the witticisms of dear friends like Evelyn Waugh. Occasionally, she derives satisfaction from reading a bedtime story to her boys. But a deep sense of aimlessness and unrest pervades her days.
Never mind all that, Diana tells herself. How unseemly to think such thoughts. She hasn’t a right to be bored. There are Londoners right outside the gates on the brink of despair, sharing their disgust with her conspicuous excess in the face of worldwide depression. How dare she and Bryan spend their fortune on meaningless parties and acquisitions while so many struggle and starve with unemployment, they cry.
People think she’s unaware—or worse, uninterested—in these angry throngs and their message, but she’s not. Diana knows, down to a man, how many are assembled outside and precisely what they want. Beauty is not a barricade or a blinder to the truth. But what is she meant to do? Even the men of her acquaintance aren’t prepared to dive headlong into the breach and shore up this floundering society, not even Bryan who has the money, the means, the connections, and the intellect to make a difference. And this knowledge sours her on him.
As the music slows, she feels the attention of the conductor and the dancers upon her again. Diana has nearly forgotten that the ballroom has paused, waiting for her to prompt the next dance. She raises her arm again, and the room animates, as if awakening from a collective slumber. As the strings play and the dancers twirl past her, Bryan, Evelyn, and a few select in the inner circle at the dance floor’s center, she sees him again. Dark hair and eyes, he stares at her from the other side of the dance floor, his gaze never wavering even as one couple veers dangerously close to him. Her cheeks grow warm at the sight of him; she didn’t think he would actually come. Sir Oswald Mosley, her M.
She returns his gaze, longer this time than the last. And suddenly, for the first time in recent memory, she feels very much alive.
Chapter Three
Unity
July 7, 1932
London, England
Unity wishes she’d brought her rat to the ball. Ratular would have fit perfectly in her handbag, and he would have provided a topic of conversation when an awkward silence descended, as inevitably happened. Not that the little pet would have had the chance to perform; indeed, no one seems to be interested in filling her dance card—even though the Cheyne Walk ball is in her honor, for God’s sake. At the very least, however, Ratular, with his soft fur and ticklish whiskers, would have provided much-needed comfort. How she longs to crawl under the nearest table, as she does at home when the mood becomes too fraught.
Feeling uncomfortably constricted, she pulls at the strap of the gray-and-white Hartnell dress that Diana had specially designed for her this evening, not wanting her to wear her only other good ball gown—the one she wore for her Buckingham Palace presentation with the brand-new fur coat on top, all courtesy of Diana of course. No one else in her family has a spare pound to speak of. What an absolute brick Diana has been during this horrific deb season, Unity thinks. Much more helpful than her other sisters—not that her favorite, Jessica, who they all refer to as Decca, could do much as she was too young for society—but what of Nancy? Unity shoots her oldest sister a glance; she’s preoccupied with her clever friends as usual, the ones with whom she never wants Unity to talk.
Blast, is that Nina Sturdee standing within earshot of Nancy? A shiver passes through Unity. The last thing she needs right now is a chat with one of her classmates from her short-lived days at Queen’s Gate School, or St. Margaret’s for that matter. Some hateful girl who might remember that the staff found Unity ill-suited for their institution and “counseled” her home to Farve and Muv, much to their chagrin. Unity has long known that the only reason Muv had made an exception from her insistence that her girls be educated at home was that she needed a break from Unity’s uniqueness, as she put it. But tonight of all nights, she wants nothing more than to blend in—or stand out in the respectable, even attractive way she is meant to. No mean feat when she stands nearly six feet tall.
