with a severe case of gout, Duff enjoyed her stories: an afternoon at Versailles where she accidentally came across a friend makinglove behind a bush; an unexpected visit from the pompous and insinuating author André Maurois; a weekend stay with Prince Antoine de Ligne at Belœil Castle in Belgium, where the painting above her bed had fallen off the wall, nearly braining her to death in the middle of the night. Duff wrote back in the same vein. When Susan Mary discovered she was not his only correspondent, she feigned indignation. “How many wretched women in Paris, London and New York do you write those lovely letters to? A good two dozen I should think.” 6
On April 29, she opened her heart to Duff, admitting she had fallen madly in love with him a month before. She did not want to hurt Bill, and she admired Diana more than anybody. “I could no more be jealous of her than of God.” 7 She hated cheap romance. Perhaps Duff existed only in her imagination, as he himself had suggested, or perhaps it was the reverse. “Has it not occurred to you that you might also have created me out of your illness and boredom? I am not beautiful, you know, but have only a sort of surface prettiness.” 8 She was afraid. She left the decision to him.
For Duff, the whole affair was highly flattering and somewhat disturbing. He was not in love with Susan Mary. He was seldom in love, as a matter of fact. He was straightforward about those things, to the point of bluntness. He took his pleasure as he took champagne, frequently, remorselessly, and without measure. Flings began and ended with a laugh. He did not care for women to stir up his life and he did not want to upset theirs. He obeyed a strict set of rules that had long organized the double lives of the English aristocracy, rules as commonly known as those of cricket: keep away from unmarried girls, make compromises, avoidscandal. But Duff also truly enjoyed a woman’s company, and he was artfully versed in converting love into friendship. Nothing had prepared him for an earnest American girl married to a Boston puritan.
In truth, Susan Mary had come into Duff’s life at exactly the right moment. Weakened by illness, he was also concerned about his professional future. He had been appointed by Churchill, but Churchill had just been rejected by the British. In spite of Ernest Bevin’s friendliness, Duff could not help wondering how long the Labor government would keep him in Paris now that a Franco-British treaty had been signed. Besides, he was sentimentally at leisure. His most recent mistress, Gloria Rubio, had left for Kenya, and since the spring of 1946 he was, much to his relief, only a “confidant and
copain
” 9 to Louise de Vilmorin. Their very public affair had begun in November 1944, and Louise had lost no time moving into the embassy, using the excuse of a cleverly timed fever. For a long period of time, she reigned over this “strange Hôtel Négresco,” 10 as Cocteau described the embassy, playing with verve the triple role of invalid, official mistress, and best friend to her lover’s wife. Indeed, Diana had been as charmed as her husband. It was never clear whether lungs, love, or friendship were keeping Louise in a British bed. Duff’s feelings changed, but his protection and affection for witty Louise remained. She translated his books and speeches, wrote poetry in his honor, and admired his verses.
So it happened that there was a modest position to be filled. Susan Mary occupied it with talent, carefully disguising her passion under a light and carefree manner, expecting nothing in return. She walked into adultery as tremulously as a governessinto her first job; yet she turned out to be a natural, maneuvering like a seasoned courtesan.
Laughter and Nectarines
My dearest, dearest Duff, who should have only laughter and nectarines and Pol Roger 34 served you by gay Polynesian dancing girls…
—Letter from Susan Mary to Duff Cooper, May 21, 1947
On May
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