Previously: Mercenary Leon fails on a mission because of David, better known as the Prince of Wales. Socialite Wallis Spencer, also a spy, has an affair with German Joachim Von Ribbentrop and marries Ernest. David becomes king. Wallis divorces, David abdicates and they marry. They fail to kill Hitler. David and Wallis volunteer to help France.
Wallis took on her duties of renovating La Croe into a French officers’ convalescent home with the same enthusiasm she had when she decorated it as their pleasure dome on the Riviera. Every soldier unfortunate enough to have been wounded would receive the same accommodations as a former king of England. She recruited the ladies of nearby Antibes to knit stockings for the patients to wear as they strolled around the building. For the French soldiers on the front, they made sweaters, socks and gloves. Wallis turned the knitting sessions into regular tea parties, except she served champagne instead of tea. While the French army fought just across the border in Germany, certain luxuries such as champagne were still available to be shipped in from Paris. Wallis designed her own military-style suit to give the event a hint of solemnity.
During such afternoon socials when all the upper crust ladies were well on to their second glass of champagne they jumped at the opportunity to talk about the ladies who did not attend. Some of them had intimate ties with German nationals and in secret waited for the glorious inclusion of France into the Third Reich. Another group of ladies were not as enthusiastic about being inducted into the Hitler regime. They prided themselves on expediency and supported a movement led by General Petain. Petain was already making overtures to Nazi sympathizers to retain a certain autonomy through a government in Vichy, a leading wine-growing region.
“Well,” Wallis chirped as she clicked her knitting needles, “I assure you none of this champagne came from Vichy.”
All the ladies tittered as they returned to their work, only to find they had to undo a row or two of their work. Evidently knitting, champagne and gossip are not conducive to quality work. Wallis smiled graciously as she intently memorized the names, titles and jobs of the suspected conspirators. After her friends left in the late afternoon she went straight to her bedroom where she made copious notes.
A couple of days later she drove into Antibes to buy other necessities for the men on the front, such as toiletries, soap and cigarettes. As she left one tobacco shop a peasant woman limped up to her holding out an apple.
“Une pomme, madame?” she asked.
Wallis turned to appraise her and smiled. “You speak French with an American accent.”
“I have been told that many times,” the peasant replied.
“You look exhausted.” She nodded to a café across the street and extended a coin to her. “Buy yourself something and I’ll join you in a few moments.”
As the peasant woman gimped away, Wallis decided that even though she did have a wooden leg she did have a certain style about her. Wallis first deposited all her shopping items in her car before she returned to the café. The woman sat in a back table next to the toilet door. Her dowdy clothing seemed to make her fade away against the wall of ancient wallpaper. Wallis sat and ordered a coffee. She noticed the woman had ordered the same.
The woman’s high cheekbones and dogged chin drew Wallis in, making her remember a fact she had spent most of her life trying to forget—she was physiologically a man though her hormonal balance leaned toward a feminine disposition. Most of the time it was blonde-haired women who drew her attention, but she found this brunette undeniably attractive.
“Do you sell many apples?”
“You’d be surprised.”
“As you may know, I am Wallis, Duchess of Windsor, and I have converted my home into a convalescent facility—“
“And you need plenty of apples for your patients, I know,” she interrupted. “I can get all the apples you want as long as you have something for me.”
Her bluntness made Wallis reel. A moment or two passed before she could reply. “I can give you a ride to La Croe where you can make arrangements for apple delivery while I go upstairs to retrieve something for you.”
“Then let’s not waste time.” The woman stood and limped to the front door.
Soon they were in Wallis’s car motoring along the coast to La Croe. The woman stared straight ahead and didn’t speak. Wallis tried to follow her example but her natural talkativeness won.
“Have you seen my husband?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Is he well?”
“As far as I could tell.”
“I understand he’s flying a lot.”
“I did see him by an airplane once or twice.”
“Did he say anything?”
“He said clouds are gathering over Holland.”
Wallis was frustrated by the conversation. “It’s getting pretty damn cloudy here in France too.”
“Sure as hell is.”
Wallis was getting weak-kneed. “Look, I know agents aren’t supposed to say anything, but it’s just us two girls alone in a car. Couldn’t we share something?”
“I read the newspapers. I know all about you.”
“Dammit, at least tell me how you lost your leg!” Wallis returned her attention to the road. “You’re so rude. You made me lose my temper.” She exhaled in exasperation. “I really like that.”
“I was hunting in Turkey. As I climbed over fence, the gun went off and took off my leg. I know. So sad. Now let’s get on with winning this war.”
“One last question, you and I talk alike. I don’t mean the cussing, but where are you from?”
“Box Horn Farm.”
“I knew it! Maryland!” Wallis searched her mind. “Box Horn Farm. I think I’ve heard about your family. Big estate. They had a daughter but didn’t talk about her much.”
“Shut the hell up or I’m going to have to kill you.”
“I love it when you talk dirty.”
The spy looked at her with a raised eyebrow. “You know I’m not delivering any damn apples.” She stayed in the car while Wallis ran into La Croe to retrieve her notes. When the agent saw her return, she got out of the car to take the correspondence.
“Can I drive you anywhere?” Wallis asked.
“No thanks. I can handle myself.” She turned to walk down the driveway.
“I bet you can,” Wallis murmured.
The English military had turned down the Windsors’ offer to treat English soldiers and the Windsors’ offer to donate money to help the British cause. Both of the Windsors assumed the rejections came Buckingham Palace itself. The French army eagerly accepted their help. Every available doctor in France volunteered to join the army to treat the wounded soldiers coming in from battlefields in Germany, Holland and Belgium. More wounded French officers’ flooded La Croe, a sign Wallis knew meant disaster was not far off. On May 10, 1940, Wallis walked out on the La Croe terrace and saw a young officer stretched out on a chaise lounge. He stared into the Mediterranean, ignoring the doctor trying to take his vital signs.
“He hasn’t spoken a word since he came here,” the doctor whispered to Wallis. “Some call it battle shock. If he cannot force himself out of it, it will remain with him the rest of his life. Quelle domage.”
Wallis sat next to him. She noticed his exposed veiny left arm. She caressed it.
“No fat on you,” she purred in perfect French. “I can tell. Look at the veins on your arm.”
The soldier looked back at Wallis and wrinkled his brow.
“Que?”
“You must have a sweetheart back home aching to have your arms around her again.”
“Que?”
“Don’t act like the school boy around me.” She leaned in to whisper, “You love her, don’t you? Every moment you think of her, long for her.”
“Que?”
“What is her name?”
“Claudette.” He smiled.
The doctor stood, patted Wallis on the shoulder. “Merci.”
Before she could say anymore, she saw David enter the room and walk directly to her.
“Ah, it is my husband. Sadly I must go.” She looked at young officer sternly. “Never a word about our conversation to anyone, especially Claudette.”
“Que?”
David took her arm and guided her upstairs. “As soon as I received Gen. Gamelin’s permission, I came directly here. We must leave immediately. The Germans have broken through and are headed in this direction.”