Little Me Read online

  When I told “Cedie” of our meeting and how well it had gone, he was most distressed and hurried right around to Park Lane. (“Cedie” and his Mum were very close, even though he was forty years old and she was nearly eighty. I always like to see a son so devoted to his mother, although in this case the mother may have wielded too strong an influence.) When he returned he said that we would have to get out of England immediately and began packing.

  above: ’Cedie,” Mum and the Baughdie Diamonds

  below: Little Me and same—1926

  Even though I was sick with worry about his Mum, I dutifully obeyed my husband. Besides, I had never been to Europe before. Accompanied only by the chauffeur, Cedric’s secretary, his valet and my maid, we set off to visit our shooting box in Scotland (which I did not like). From there we travelled to our little pied-à-terre in the Place Vendôme in Paris, France, which I adored as it was so convenient to the smarter shops and dressmakers. When the cool weather came, we moved onward to our dear little villa at Cap Ferrat, then to the apartment in Rome for Easter—a sacred experience—and finally to the Baughdie palazzo in Venice. But even though all of these lovely pieces of foreign real estate belonged to “Cedie” (and thus to little me), I did not feel that any of them was really “my home.” As the wife of a peer exercising his own peerage, my duty lay in London at the house in Park Lane and at Baughdie House, our famous “seat” in Hertfordshire, where I could “put down roots,” serve as a hostess to the man of my choice and bear his children. Not for little me the fruitless, rootless existence of the expatriate.

  With “Cedie,” Park Lane

  Without telling “Cedie,” I wrote to his Mum inquiring after her health and stating that I thought that “Cedie” and I would return to London for the “Season” where she could arrange to have me “presented” at court and where I planned to take my rightful place in Society. By return mail I received a most unsettling reply. Britannia, Lady Baughdie, seemed to have taken leave of her senses. She called me vile names—words I did not even understand—and stated that I was not to return to England under any circumstances. I knew then that my mother-in-law’s recent bereavement had affected her sanity and, rather than tax poor “Cedie” with this problem, I took it to an attractive lawyer I had met while dining at Quadri’s.

  He informed me that with “Cedie’s” father laid to rest, “Cedie” was now the Earl of Baughdie and “head of the family”; I was The Lady Baughdie, mistress of all the Baughdie properties, their furnishings and heirlooms; my mother-in-law, it appeared, was just the Dowager Countess of Baughdie and entitled to little more than a lifetime of retirement in the dower house at our country seat. Realizing that life in London had become too much for the poor old lady, I told “Cedie” very definitely that I was returning to England, by the next ship, to see that his Mum received proper treatment at the hands of a loving daughter-in-law and to make sure that the proud name of Baughdie would be better known than ever before throughout the realm. “Cedie” decided to accompany me.

  While Syrie Maugham was “doing over” the Park Lane house, I established poor Mum (by then raving) in the dower house at Hertfordshire, promised her that I would have the roof repaired as soon as the manor house had been redecorated and, wearing the famous Baughdie Diamonds, “made my curtsy” to King George and Queen Mary who, like all of London Society, were speechless at the sight of me.

  Thus my long career as one of England’s reigning hostesses began. Because of the terrible shyness and reserve of my husband, because of his afflicted speech and his interest only in matters concerning ornithology, ichthyology, botany and music and poetry of his own composition, “Cedie” was not easy to “bring out” socially. As with almost every other important quest in my life, I discovered that my ascendency in the British “social whirl” would be largely a matter of “going it” alone. But I was ready, willing and able to face the challenge.

  I had given up my promising dramatic career to devote full time to my dear husband and the sons I hoped someday to bear him. This I regretted in no way. But when I considered the few people who made up Cedric’s “social set”—drab bachelors interested only in birds, fish, flowers, music and poetry and those Peers of the Realm who were over the age of eighty—I decided to make some drastic renovations. (Mind you, I adore the Arts because I am an artistic and creative individual. But I felt that the tuneless tunes and rhyme-less rhymes of “Cedie” and his coterie lacked the appeal of such lovely old favorites as Joyce Kilmer’s Trees and Victor Herbert’s “Ah, Sweet Mystery of Life,” to name only two vivid examples.) It seemed to me that with the “Bright Young Things” all over London, with the Embassy Club, the Kit Kat Club, the Savoy Grill—true gathering places of the intellectual élite —but minutes away from my Park Lane doorstep, our social “circle” could easily be enlarged. And even though I had retired from the theatre, I saw no reason to bar thespians of note from my salon. A True Society, as Momma always said, is nourished by its intellectuals and artists. If I would electrify London’s “Old Guard” by welcoming to my drawing room such gifted artistes as Noël Coward, “Gertie” Lawrence, Ivor Novello, the Lunts and Vesta Tilly in the august company of darling David (Prince of Wales), then the “Debrett Set” would simply have to be shocked. After all, lovely Lady Diana Manners, daughter of a Duke, managed to blend Court Circles with the “Green Room.” If one English aristocrat could “pull it off,” why couldn’t another—particularly one with far more experience on the “boards”—do it even better?

  Thus I set out to enliven and enhance England’s haut monde, and who, pray tell, was better equipped to do so? I had boldness and youth, unlimited funds and a wardrobe and collection of the fabled Baughdie jewels that were—when I wore them, at least—truly stunning.

  Syrie Maugham had redecorated the townhouse in London very prettily, indeed, with masses of her famous white (no wonder she was called “The White Queen”) and glowing pastels. The Chippendale pieces had been smartly “pickled” and the Dutch marquetry work sprayed white—a great improvement, I thought, although Mum suffered a severe setback when she saw it. (This was purely out of spite and brought on by her envy of me as her successor.) I had nothing but the greatest admiration for Mrs. Maugham’s stately and serene rooms, but what two women of taste can ever agree about anything as deeply personal as the proper setting for one of them? Dear Syrie’s creations were exquisite, but I felt that they lacked sufficient expression of my own unique personality. They looked cold, professional, “interior decorated.” And so, paying off Mrs. Maugham, I set about adding a few individual touches of my own. The Gainsborough in the Adam Room I replaced with a large Tony Icart study of me in white crêpe de chine posing with two white Russian wolfhounds, a white “Peke” and a white swan. Finding the drawing room a little too sterile, I had all of the Boule furniture sprayed a delicate pink and scattered gay beaded sateen cushions, in shades of cyclamen, on all of the sofas. The big polar bear rug was especially noteworthy when dyed rose. The ugly Chinese wallpaper in the halls was steamed off and replaced by etched plate glass mirror tinted blue. Even though dear Syrie had had all of the telephones done in white, I still found them unsightly and covered each with a large French doll in a hoop skirt. When I had completed the “personalization” of the house, I had it all photographed and sent to the press. It created quite a furor, and Mrs. Maugham, always modest, retiring and willing to share the glory, wrote to me and asked that her name not be mentioned in connection with the house as “the final excrescence shouts Belle Poitrine and does not even whisper Syrie Maugham.” Say what one will about gentlewomen “in trade,” it is always a rewarding experience to work with a true lady.

  Like those other noblemen, Lord Berners, Prince Louis Ferdinand and Duke Ellington, “Cedie”was a gifted composer

  I have often felt that, if my dramatic career had not demanded every moment of my time, I might have enjoyed an unparalleled reputation as an interior decorator and arbiter of taste. In fact, many professional
“taste makers” preferred not to compete with me and graciously declined the commissions I offered. As Elsie de Wolfe (the late Lady Mendl) once said, when I consulted her about refurbishing Baughdie House in the country, “No, thank you, my dear. God Himself couldn’t do anything to improve your taste.”

  A lot of people said that they couldn’t wait to see what I’d done to the Park Lane place so I decided to launch the new townhouse and the new Lady Baughdie at one gala party. It was an enormous crush and people who didn’t usually go everywhere appeared, open-mouthed, at my reception and said they wouldn’t have missed it for a million pounds. The Tatler wrote that “the architecturally perfect old Baughdie house in Park Lane and its new mistress simply have to be seen to be believed.” British House & Garden wrote nothing, saying that words failed them and that the four pages of photographs spoke for themselves. By the end of my first Season in London I was quite the talk of the town and had filled up two scrapbooks with press cuttings about the “unbelievable new Countess of Baughdie.” My true goal as a brilliant social leader was now within my very reach.

  However, nothing runs entirely smoothly. Cedric, my husband, was no help. At each of my brilliant functions he seemed more withdrawn and embarrassed than at the last. When I tried to reason with him and would say, “But what are you, one of the mightiest lords of England, ashamed of ?” he would flush and skulk off without answering. When I showed him the youthful, flattering dresses that had been run up by such great couturières as Patou, Maggy Rouff or Lucille, to my own specifications, he would color and say, “Don’t you think it’s a bit much?” Unlike many pace-setters in the world of high fashion, I have always dressed to please men, not other women. For whom, after all, did Our Maker put ladies on earth but men? But unfortunately it was becoming painfully evident to me that the gentle, cultivated, shy husband I had sacrificed so much for was not, in the truest sense of the word, a man at all. My readers will find it difficult to believe, but not once since the perfunctory kiss—his first—which he had given me on the occasion of our marriage had “Cedie” ever made a single demonstration toward me! As a warm-blooded, affectionate young woman, I was both hurt and puzzled. I sensed Mum’s evil power at work to destroy our marriage, and this was one thing I would not endure.

  Mum’s malign influence was felt all the way from the dower house in Hertfordshire, even though I had given orders for her telephone to be disconnected, so that its incessant jangling would not upset the long period of peaceful isolation I had planned for her. However, there were many important social functions for which our invitations never arrived. I was mystified at first to learn that the Duchess of This was giving a dinner to which we had not been summoned, or that the Marchioness of That had neglected to include us among the guests at a ball. Then it occurred to me that Mum, from the country, was paying one of the servants to rifle our mail. Once I had accepted this shocking fact, I simply took “Cedie” to every important party in London just as though the invitations had reached their proper destination. The stunned silences, the blank looks of admiration for my elaborate toilettes at each brilliant soirée were enough to assure me that we had been meant to be included among the merrymakers.

  With a house in town for formal entertaining and with Baughdie House not too far distant for relaxing weekends, I set about to plan a series of brilliant luncheons, dinners, house parties and balls, bringing together the most famous, most talented, most beautiful and most distinguished members of British society. My parties were soon the talk of the town.

  There was, for example, an afternoon of poetry (this was mainly to amuse dear “Cedie” who seemed restive at the time) to which I had invited Edith, Osbert and Sacheverell Sitwell to entertain. Owing to an unfortunate mix-up with the postal system (Mum’s fine Italian hand, I could swear), the Sitwells never received their summons to appear at my salon and I was left with only “Cedie” to fill in with his own verse. He was surprisingly effective and the guests who were there said that he was “every bit as abstruse as Miss Sitwell would have been.” It was a brilliant afternoon—my dear husband’s “day in the sun.”

  My great friend Gertrude (“Gertie”) Lawrence simply doted on me. In her honor I planned a Limehouse Evening (will anyone ever forget her rendition of “Limehouse Blues” in Charlot’s Revue ?) with all the guests to be dressed in Oriental costume. But just as the evening had reached its height, darling “Gertie” telephoned to say that her car had broken down. When I offered to send one of mine, we were disconnected and the call could not be traced. I was frightfully disappointed, but of course I understood.

  Another “pal” of mine was Lady Peel, that superb comedienne, Beatrice (“Bea”) Lillie. Both being noblewomen and seasoned “troupers,” we had much in common. I had planned a dinner party in her honor, but just before the guests were due to arrive dear “Bea” sent a note around to explain that she had developed an allergy to tarts and her doctor would not permit her to attend. Good old “Bea,” always thinking of her hostess, even though I had ordered Bombe Belle for dessert that night.

  Noël Coward, always my favorite, was invited time and time again for weekends in the country, but his heavy schedule of travel always made it impossible to accept.

  Nor was there any dearth of royalty flocking to my remarkable rooms. I had planned a gala dinner honoring King Carol of Roumania and his dear friend the lovely Magda Lupescu, and, wanting the Roumanian monarch to have others of his own “ilk” present, I graciously asked the English royal family to take “pot luck” with us, en famille. Unfortunately, Carol was called back to the Continent the day before the party and an equerry from the palace telephoned to say that pressing political matters would prevent darling George and “Maisie” from attending. How often affairs of state can intrude upon life’s simple pleasures.

  And so it went! One gay gathering of celebrated people after another! The time fairly flew!

  One lovely autumn afternoon when we were staying at Baughdie House in the country, I had learned that the Prince of Wales would be motoring past our very gates on his way to a function at Cambridge. Impetuously, I sat down and wrote a little note telling him to drop in for a hearty country tea with just the family—“Cedie,” Mum and little me. In reply a secretary sent a letter to Baughdie House stating that H.R.H. very much appreciated the invitation but seriously doubted that time would permit him to accept and not to count on his presence. Knowing how diffident the prince was, I took great pains to “underdress”—just an old tweed suit from Molyneux and the Baughdie Diamonds. “Cedie” was in homespuns and gaiters and even Mum had been “spruced up” in a black serge Mother Hubbard and a cameo I had lent her from the Baughdie collection. I was waiting impatiently in the hall when I saw a large Daimler rumble up the drive. Instructing the footmen to throw open the doors, I sank into a deep court curtsy with my forehead nearly touching the marble floor. From this position I heard the car door open and a strangely familiar voice say, “Pretty swell layout, I’ll tell the cockeyed world.” I looked up with a start and there stood Momma!

  No words of mine can express the feelings that surged through me when I saw darling Momma once again. We had not seen one another, or written to one another, since I had left Venezuela, Illinois, as a tiny little girl more than ten years ago. (Like me, Momma is an abominable writer—when it comes to letters.) For all either of us knew, the other could be dead.

  “Momma,” I said, after the initial shock had worn off, “how did you know where to find me?”

  “You been in all the papers, kiddo,” she said, producing the American Weekly section from the old Chicago Herald-Examiner . There indeed was an article describing my fortuitous marriage into Burke’s Peerage, as well as a description of the Baughdie holdings.

  “How nice of you to drop in this way,” I said graciously, always the dutiful daughter. “Will you be able to dine with us?”

  “I’ll say,” Momma replied. “Tell the hired man to unload my trunks.” Momma had come to England for a long stay
.

  Of course I adored my mother and naturally I was delighted to see her again. But I could not help noticing how very far apart we had grown over her lengthy absence. It also occurred to me that East is East and Middlewest is Middlewest and never the twain shall meet. Momma simply wasn’t “right” for Court Circles and vice versa. In her jocular, good-natured way she made all manner of sport of poor “Cedie,” calling him “Nancy” or “Mushmouth” or sometimes just “Seedy.” Her presence in the manor house made my dear husband extremely nervous and even more withdrawn than ever. Thinking perhaps that Momma and Mum might hit it off, being of the same generation, I had Momma’s things moved over to the dower house. It was a disaster! Momma’s warm, Gallic ways—the age-old customs of the New Orleans aristocracy—were totally alien to “Cedie’s” mother. The dower house was not large and, after twenty-four hours under the same roof with the Dowager Countess of Baughdie, Momma was back at the manor house bag and baggage.

  My presentation gown by Boué Soeurs

  I suggested that Momma might enjoy taking an extended tour on the Continent, but she said that she’d spent so long trying to find me that she wasn’t going to let me out of her sight again. It was as I had suspected. However, Momma was quite anxious to move into the London house, never having cared for the rural life. I felt that this would not be wise at that time.

  What with Momma, “Cedie” and Mum all at swords’ points, I found myself becoming nervous and “edgy” in the extreme. After having been “cooped up” in Baughdie House with the three of them for nearly a month, I finally suggested a brisk stroll around the estate and, as “Cedie” had complained of a hawk or some other bird of prey molesting his “feathered friends” in their sanctuary, I carried a shotgun hoping to exterminate the intruder. Momma was being excessively jovial that day. She had taken to referring to “Cedie” as “Marjorie the Bird Girl,” although he could not understand her hearty Southern accent. This was indeed fortunate, as Momma had a frightful “tiff” with Mum and she was saying “To hear the two of you talk, I wouldn’t know which one was the mother and which one the son. Except Marjorie’s got a beard. But you’re catching up fast, eh, Britannia?” It was ghastly!