edited by Lady Mollie Fermaglich

In what some historians refer to as “one of the greatest love stories of the 20th century,” and others call, “a decision dumber than ordering the rack of lamb at Applebees, King Edward VIII of England gave up the throne when told he could not marry and “be with the woman I love,” American divorcee Bessie Wallis Simpson.

The letters that follow, an intimate correspondence between the Duke and Duchess of Windsor, were discovered shortly after the death of the Duchess in 1986, hidden behind their privately commissioned LeRoy Neiman portrait of Der Fuhrer Adolf Hitler, in the drawing room of the couple’s home outside Paris.
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Dear David,

I know it’s probably just my imagination, but sometimes I feel as though your family doesn’t really like me. Could this possibly be true?

Yours,
Wallis

My Dearest Wallis,

I’m afraid your suspicions are correct. My family, well – loathes is a rather strong word – but alas, an accurate one. I am besieged with questions about your background and breeding, specifically, what sort of name “Wallis” is for a young woman. Pardon, but my mother, the Queen Consort, has a rather nasty habit of reading over my shoulder whenever I put pen to paper and, at this precise moment, she is laughing hysterically over my use of the adjective “young” when referring to you. So, you see ,just when you thought we “royals” were nothing more than stuffy, repressed, largely in-bred bores, here’s Mother literally guffawing in the main parlor of Buckingham Palace. Ah, she stopped for a brief moment, to theorize that “Wallis” may have its roots in the German word, “mieskeit.” I confess, it’s a term I am unfamiliar with. Although I am next in line to the throne and our family is of German ancestry, (don’t let the name “Windsor” fool you – we’re Krauts to the bone), I am barely monolingual. How very fortunate for me that I don’t really have to be good at anything.

Forever yours,
David

My Darling David,

First, don’t think your German roots escaped this gaunt body and somewhat beady eyes. I am a great admirer of the German people. Well, maybe not all the German people, and certainly not the impoverished peasants who dot the German countryside like pilling on a cheap cardigan. But the German aristocracy – well, that’s a whole other matter. Adolf is – well – I suppose the word “madcap” is what comes immediately to mind. But David, as God is my witness, there is no truth to those hurtful, nasty rumors about Ambassador von Ribbentrop and me. It is now my entire family who’s laughing. And they’re back in Maryland…

As long as we’re on the subject of names, I find it odd that everyone calls you “David,” even though your name is “Edward.” I suppose, like “high tea” and the fact that, after we’re married, everyone – even my own mother – will have to curtsy to me, are British customs I will just have to get used to.

Kisses from your Future Mrs.
Wallis

P.S. They will have to curtsy, won’t they?

Dear Wallis,

I think we are getting ahead of ourselves just a tad here. Yes, I suppose they would, were we to marry. However, the likelihood of that is well…… You know I feel tremendous affection for you, Wallis, but thinking about china and linen patterns at this time would be, in a word, premature. Let us be realistic here. You’re a twice-divorced American and, though you’re easy on these eyes, Mother says Neville Chamberlain would make a more attractive bride. Please don’t take her words to heart. Tis a mother’s prerogative to think no woman is good enough for her son. Don’t worry about Mother, though. I am quite confident that the British people will embrace you.

With great affection,
David

Dearest, darling David,

I am not worried about your mother, even though she is, for the time being anyway, the Queen of England. I am certain that once she gets to know me, we will develop a great fondness for one another. After all, we both adore you – we have that much in common already! Do you think she will let me try on that jewel-encrusted crown she wore at her coronation? You know – the one with the rubies the size of button-covers?

Kisses, hugs and great reverence,
Wallis

Wallis,

I apologize for taking so long to respond to your last letter. My valet had to use the Royal Smelling Salts to revive me. Her crown? You want to try on her crown? Yes, I am sure that would be no problem at all. Of course, she would first have to consent to being on the same continent as you, but I am sure that can be arranged. Besides, crowns aren’t all they are made out to be. They’re very heavy, quite cumbersome and, even in the most formal of clothing, one tends to look “over-dressed” in a crown. I must confess, in a rather impetuous moment, I tried on Mother’s Delhi Durbar Tiara and, truth be told, looked rather fetching in it. Oh dear. Just kidding. I’d no sooner wear a tiara than I would red lace knickers with tiny velvet bows sewn into satin ribbon-ties, scented with fresh lavender sachet, wrapped loosely in the thinnest tissue paper, hidden in my sock drawer…

Masculinely yours,
David

Dear David,

I love it when you share your most intimate thoughts with me. I would, however, prefer that you keep any pansy tendencies strictly to yourself for the time being. Of course, once we are married, once I am the rightful Queen of England, you can play house with Gilbert & Sullivan and each and every Pirate of Penzance, and your secret is safe with me.

I am so sorry to hear of your father’s sudden illness. Is there a grace period between his burial and your coronation? I will have time to change from a dour funereal suit into something a bit more festive, I hope.

Deepest love always,
Wallis

Wallis,

No need to worry about wardrobe.

Fondly,
David

David,

The fact that I am not welcome at your coronation is an utter outrage. How can a country’s people deny the existence of their next queen? I think your mother is just in a tizzy because once we are married, most of the Crown Jewels get passed on to you-know-who. Please tell her that if she does not shape up, I won’t allow her to borrow even the less significant pieces to wear on special occasions.

Ugh!
Wallis

Wallis, Darling,

You sound most disagreeable. Have you eaten today?

Yours,
David

David,

An entire stack of cornflakes, so please stop blaming my foul moods on what I have or have not eaten, or on the possibility that I may be premenstrual.
Wallis

Dearest Wallis,

Mother is not a physician, nor does she, self-admission, understand the sciences as one would hope, but she said to tell you that one must have two X chromosomes in order to be pre-menstrual.

Warmest regards,
David

P.S. Very well – if you can’t be at my coronation, neither shall I.

Dear King Edward VIII,

You are the King of England now. It is time to stop taking orders from your mother, the EX-Queen, the Prime Minister or the Archbishop of Canterbury. You are the boss now, for god’s sake – don’t you get it, you stupid twit? Henry VIII broke with the Catholic Church to marry the woman he loved. The fact that he had her beheaded a few years later is quite clearly beside the point. No – wait! That is precisely the point! You are the King! We can – you can – behead people if they don’t do what you want them to do. Oh, I know it hasn’t been in fashion for a few centuries, but everything old is new again – isn’t that what they say? Give those annoying tourists at the Tower of London something to really look at. Tower Green has never looked lovelier.

Love always,

Your Wallis

Dear, dear Wallis,

You are always looking out for me. I do believe you have a point here, but it is so very difficult for me to stand up to Mother. She has a frightful temper and, to be perfectly honest, she scares me like the dragon that taunted St. George. But I shall marry you, Wallis. I shall! We will wed, even if it means that I give up the throne of England!

I love you more than you will ever know,
David

David,

Give up the throne? For me? You would give up the throne of England for me?

Just wondering,
Wallis

My love, Wallis,

You wouldn’t have to ask me twice.

Yours always and forever,
David

David,

Um…I wouldn’t ask you twice. Or once. I mean, it’s quite flattering that your feelings for me are of such depth that you would even contemplate such an action. Don’t! Don’t do it, David. You know I would marry you if you were a fishmonger. But you’re not. Thank god.

Your soon-to-be-Queen-of-England
HRH (crosses fingers)
Wallis

Darling,

I’ve met with the Prime Minister and the Archbishop and it’s been decided. Tomorrow, I will abdicate. I will give up the throne of England to be with the woman I love.

I cherish you always,
David

In what may be a bigger cover-up than the Profumo scandal of the 1960s, it is rumored that, following King Edward VIII’s abdication, Mrs. Simpson attacked her beloved “David,” beating him mercilessly over the head with a thick wedge of Stilton cheese, before poking him in the eye repeatedly with her left hip bone. The Duke remained in critical condition for more than a week at an undisclosed British hospital. Wallis Simpson, whom one royal recently dubbed “the original Scary Spice,” eventually forgave him for abandoning the throne, and the two wed. The “scowl” that appears on the face of the Duchess of Windsor in most photographs is not the result of a handful of savvy paparazzi catching her in an unguarded moment, but an actual permanent scowl that remained on that farbissina punim until the day she died. Her only revenge, she claimed in later life, was watching the Queen Mum, who took her place as the rightful Queen of England alongside her husband, David’s brother, King George V, “do for British fashion what the Scotch egg did for British cuisine.”