From New York Times bestselling author Marie Benedict—she’ll have to choose: her country or her sisters?
Intrigued? Well read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from Marie Benedict’s The Mitford Affair, which is out January 17th.
Between the World Wars, the six Mitford sisters dominate the English political, literary, and social scenes. Though they’ve weathered scandals before, the family falls into disarray when Diana divorces her husband to marry a fascist leader and Unity follows her sister’s lead, inciting rumors that she’s become Hitler’s own mistress.
Novelist Nancy Mitford is the only member of her family to keep in touch with Diana and Unity after their desertion, so it falls to her to act when her sisters become spies for the Nazi party.
Probing the torrid political climate of World War II and the ways that sensible people can be sucked into radical action, The Mitford Affair follows Nancy’s valiant efforts to end the war and the cost of placing loyalty to her country above loyalty to her family.
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, I run my tongue across my teeth to ensure that no slick of deep-red lipstick stains them. I smooth my gown, and then rehearse a few of the witticisms I’ve collected for him since we last met. Everything must be just so; none of us wish to risk Evelyn’s humorous but biting censure. It’s hilarious if wielded against those outside our circle, less so within.
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.
