Chapter Sixteen
In light of the recent death of his younger brother, Prince John, a circumstance that was hardly noted by those outside the
royal orbit due to the fact that the fourteen-year-old’s severe epilepsy had seen him locked away from all save his minders
for years, the Prince of Wales had chosen to honor his mother’s natural grief by receiving his guests at the Goring Hotel,
which was more or less next door to Buckingham Palace, rather than the far more magnificent environs of Buckingham Palace
itself, where the King and Queen were in residence.
Those factors, as put forward in the Ladies’ Column about the upcoming event that Rynn had read in the gossipy Daily Mail the previous morning, had prepared her for a rather subdued and solemn occasion.
But on the night of the fundraiser the Goring’s splendid ballroom dazzled in its opulence.
Floor-to-ceiling gilded mirrors bedecked with flowers and ribbon streamers made it seem as though the six hundred guests were legion.
Exploding flashbulbs as photographers took pictures were as ubiquitous as stars in the sky.
The guest list, described in that same column as “top of the trees,” included military men, government officials, high-ranking aristocrats, the very rich and, everywhere Rynn looked, exquisitely turned-out women, all mingling under the glittering lights of multiple oversize chandeliers.
Jaunty jazz music combined with the sound of laughter and chatter and the clink of glasses lent the function a far more festive atmosphere than Rynn had anticipated.
It was, in fact, like no gathering she had ever attended or ever thought to attend, and although she would have never admitted it to a living soul, she found it intimidating.
A cat may look upon a king, you know. The Irish proverb, which she’d always understood to mean that no man (or woman) was better than any other, sprang into her
mind with perfect timing. Especially since looking upon a king, or so near to a king as didn’t matter, was at that moment
precisely what she was doing.
“Yes, thank you, it’s a tragic loss, especially for my mother,” His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales said to a matronly
lady who had just expressed sympathy at the passing of his youngest brother. “I am not feeling the loss so keenly myself,
as the number of years that separated us precluded my knowing him very well.”
When that snippet of conversation reached her ears as she waited in the reception line for her own introduction to the Prince,
Rynn was taken aback. But she only realized that her reaction to what could be seen as royal callousness showed on her face
when Thomas, who was beside her in his chair with a footman to push him, beckoned her to bend closer, and then when she did
whispered, “Don’t look so shocked. Empathy for his fellow human beings was never Gretel’s strong suit.”
“Gretel?” Rynn frowned, not sure she understood the sardonic remark.
“HRH and I were at Magdalen College at the same time. Wales rarely left the side of his tutor, Dr. Henry Hansell, the whole
while he was there. Thus we chaps started calling him Gretel.”
Hansel and Gretel. As she made the connection Rynn had to smile.
“There! You’re looking far less nervous. Though why you should be nervous, I have no earthly idea. You are by far the most beautiful woman in the room. The envious looks I’ve been getting from every man who sets eyes on you have left me quite puffed up with pride.”
“Thank you. You’re looking very handsome yourself,” she responded, and meant it. In his military uniform, with more weight
on his bones, his complexion now healthily ruddy rather than pale, his fair hair brushed to burnished gold and the beginnings
of a mustache just starting to darken his upper lip, he was not only handsome but dashing, and she told him that, too.
“Yes, and if only the ladies did not have to crawl about on the floor to see me properly you would no doubt be receiving a
barrage of envious looks yourself.”
That made her laugh. She was still smiling as she reached His Royal Highness and the introductions were made. She was nervous, despite her fashionable hairstyle and the gorgeous bronze silk dress that the designer Lucile had made up for her
during the two and a half weeks she and Thomas had been in London. The new pearl earbobs Thomas had given her and the matching
double strand of pearls lent to her by the Duchess, who was present along with the Duke and Lord and Lady Wycomb, were gorgeous,
and her entire ensemble was as elegant and fashionable as that of any lady present. But she still felt woefully out of place.
In truth, all that finery meant little in the teeth of her awareness of the seething hostility toward the Irish that was now
as ubiquitous in London as the fog. The escape of de Valera and his associates, coupled with the ambush at Soloheadbeg, had
sent the British into a teeth-gnashing frenzy. The search for the escapees, who were, according to a confidential briefing
the Duke attended and then discussed at length at home with various visiting cabinet members, suspected to be hiding in a
safe house somewhere in the vicinity of Manchester with a plan to move on to Liverpool and from there cross the Irish Sea
to Dublin, generated daily headlines in the newspapers.
Since she and Thomas were currently staying with the Duke and Duchess at Hartford House, their magnificent London home, along with the details of the search and the grim fate planned for de Valera and the others when they were recaptured, Rynn heard almost more than she could stomach about the treacherous, lecherous, ungovernable nature of the Irish.
As many in the aristocratic circles Thomas’s family moved in now knew of her and her background, she was conscious of being the subject of a great deal of gossip whenever she went out, and, as she was tonight, the object of a barrage of curious looks.
Meeting Edward, the Prince of Wales, the most popular of the royals and an international heartthrob because of his blond-haired, blue-eyed, choirboy good looks, had been presented to her as a high honor, but under the circumstances it was something she would rather have foregone.
But for Thomas’s sake here she was, feeling a little like Daniel in the lion’s den if the truth were known, and if anyone present had an issue with her race, she was prepared to face them down with her head held high.
“Lady Thomas Dunne, Your Royal Highness,” the servant standing at the Prince’s elbow announced. Stepping forward to find herself
in front of the Prince, who was surprisingly small and slight but as goldenly beautiful as advertised, Rynn managed a creditable
curtsy, murmured something she hoped was not too trite in response to his pleasantries and suffered having the most eligible
bachelor in the world kiss her hand.
“Perhaps you will save me a dance later,” the Prince said.
Without waiting for her reply—she got the impression he took her delighted assent for granted—he turned to Thomas.
“Dunne! Horrid to see you in such a condition, my dear fellow, but I must tell you I envy you your time in France! I would so like to have seen combat in the trenches myself!” The Prince’s greeting to Thomas, to Rynn’s ears, provided one more bit of evidence of His Royal Highness’s surprising lack of sensitivity to the feelings of others, but she clapped politely as the Prince pinned on Thomas’s jacket the military medal that had been presented to each of the wounded veterans present as they passed through the line.
Flashbulbs popped as photographs were taken, the sudden explosion of light making her blink, and then she was being motioned to move on down the line to the dark-haired young woman standing next to HRH.
Slender and sweet faced rather than beautiful, dressed in the height of fashion, this was Mrs. Freda Dudley Ward. The twenty-four-year-old
Mrs. Ward, Thomas had informed her beforehand, was widely known to be the Prince’s mistress despite her married state. Notwithstanding
the irregularity of their association, she was universally received and accorded every respect.
“Oh, yes, you are the Irish bride,” Mrs. Ward trilled as Rynn was introduced, giving Rynn a sweeping look that encompassed
everything from her upswept hair to her shoes. “Dear Alice—” it took Rynn a second to connect “dear Alice” with Lady Wycomb
“—has told me all. You must come visit me one afternoon. Without her, of course, because how can we gossip about her if she is present?”
Mrs. Ward gave a mischievous giggle. Rynn smiled and said she certainly would, with no intention of doing so, and moved on
again. After that, she was introduced to a few royal cousins, several government officials and one major general. Then she
and Thomas were free of the line.
As they made their way through the crowd, Thomas was swamped with well-wishers: soldiers in and out of uniform, former schoolmates,
friends from the hunt with which he used to ride. His popularity with his peers was both touching and eye-opening. It gave
her one more glimpse into the boy he used to be and the man he would have become if the war had not permanently altered his
path.
For her part, she sipped champagne and smiled as she acknowledged introductions and said what was appropriate. Through it all, she stayed close to Thomas’s side, nervily conscious all the while of the tidal wave of mostly silent curiosity directed at her from everyone they met.
After his duties on the reception line were completed, the Prince stepped up on a small dais to welcome his guests and say
a few words urging them to donate to the cause. Other speakers followed, and then in a heartbreaking moment the young daughter
of a soldier who was killed at the capture of Mons, in the last battle of the war, was called up to read a poem about the
fallen. “In Flanders Fields” brought many of those present, including Rynn, to tears.