Robbed, abused, sedated, alone... the desperate last days of the Duchess of Windsor

By Hugo Vickers


The Duchess of Windsor was permanently confined to her powder blue bedroom overlooking the lawns of her house in Paris. It was September 1977, five years after the death of her husband, the man who had been briefly, and scandalously, King Edward VIII - and she was in poor health. Her lapses of memory were worsening, a weakness that her French lawyer Suzanne Blum used to her great advantage.

With no family to advise her, the Duchess relied heavily on Blum. She was also terrified of the lawyer. However, on this occasion, as Blum demanded she look through some papers, the Duchess fought back. Without warning, the frail 81-year-old summoned up an extraordinary burst of energy, turned to her and shouted: 'I HATE YOU!'

Blum never dared enter the Duchess's presence again - at least not until the Duchess could no longer speak. But the Duchess would pay heavily for her scorn.

After that day, Blum did exactly as she pleased. She sold jewellery from the Duchess's multimillion-pound collection without her permission, set about publishing love letters between the Duchess and the Duke and appointed herself keeper of the Windsor flame.

All the time, the vulnerable Duchess - abandoned by the Royal Family and with few friends to protect her - was held virtual prisoner in her own house. She was helpless, sometimes sedated and hopelessly alone...

It had been so different only a few years before. Ostracised by the Establishment after the Abdication in 1936, the Duke and Wallis Simpson lived out a golden life in America, France and the capitals of Europe. They sat at the centre of a gilded court-inexile, with a large entourage attending to their every whim.

The twice-married American socialite whom the Duke abandoned the throne to marry could be seen at glittering events. Although no classical beauty, she always dressed immaculately in haute-couture - Chanel, Givenchy or Dior - complemented by fabulous jewellery.

By the end of her life, she had amassed a legendary collection. She favoured imaginative pieces specially designed for her, including an onyx and diamond Cartier panther bracelet, a piece so beautifully articulated that it slunk over the wrist.

In 1953 the Windsors moved to a grand villa on the edge of the Bois de Boulogne, 20 minutes from central Paris. It was leased to the couple by the City of Paris for a peppercorn rent.

At either side of the large entrance gates, lampposts with ducal coronets on them were erected. The effect was that of a palace in miniature, filled with the accoutrements of Royalty, a place where two people who had scandalised the world held lavish dinners and parties attended by the rich and powerful.


The Windsors also purchased the cosier Mill at Gif-sur-Yvette outside Paris, while in New York, they rented a spacious apartment on the 37th floor of the Waldorf Towers. Just to be sure they felt perfectly at home, the Windsors stored furniture at the hotel for use in the apartment during their annual visit. A tycoon friend even loaned them a Renoir to adorn the walls.

Without the formal duties demanded of other members of the Royal Family, there was opportunity for endless travelling. The Windsors were seen in Cuba with President Batista before he was overthrown by Fidel Castro. Other haunts included Venice and Vienna.

Although few members of our Royal Family would see the Windsors, the titled, the great and the good from the rest of the world paid homage to the couple.

President Richard Nixon gave a dinner for the Windsors in Washington in 1970, the Duke in white tie, the Duchess in a cream silk crepe evening dress by Givenchy. Just before the Duke died, the Emperor and Empress of Japan visited them in Paris. They entertained Richard Burton, Elizabeth Taylor, Marlene Dietrich and Maria Callas, while fascist leader Sir Oswald Mosley and his wife Diana were neighbours.

Patrick Lichfield and Cecil Beaton photographed the Duchess, the latter providing a snap for her passport. Wallis was aware of her shortcomings. She once wrote: 'I'm nothing to look at. So the only thing I can do is dress better than everyone else.'

She was also the mistress of reinvention. When Beaton first met her in the early Thirties, he judged her 'a brawny great cow or bullock in sapphire blue velvet'.

Following her involvement with the Prince of Wales, he commented: 'I am certain she has more glamour and is of more interest than any public figure.'

Her distinctive, slightly haughty dress sense relied on clean lines and a lean figure. Her quick wit was also celebrated. Of her extravagant tendencies and wispy frame, she once quipped: 'You can never be too rich or too thin.'

Designers vied to dress her. I remember her secretary ringing one of the great Parisian couture houses, informing them that the Duchess would be arriving to inspect pieces from the new season's collection.

A little of that high-octane life was still apparent when I first visited the house in 1972 to discuss the Duke's entry in a guide to the Royal Family to be published by Burke's Peerage.

My first visit occurred just before the Queen saw the Duke during a State visit to France, indicating a thaw in relations. By that time, the Duchess was ill and the Duke had been diagnosed with inoperable throat cancer. Within ten days of the Queen's visit, he was dead aged 77.

Although it might not have been apparent at the time, the reins were slipping from the Duchess's hands. A Satanic figure was waiting and watching - wearing the mantle of good intention to disguise her malevolence. Suzanne Blum's hour had all but come.

Most people thought it would have been better for the Duchess to have followed her husband swiftly to his grave. As Oonagh Shanley, who nursed the Duke, put it: 'The years that followed the Duke's death were unspeakably lonely for the Duchess. This period could fill many pages and could be compared to Dante's vision of Hell. She was a martyr at the hands of greedy people.'

The Duke had done everything for his wife. Now, after his death, she was on her own.

There was, of course, still a large staff. At that time, she employed two
secretaries, a butler, chef, souschef, gardeners, chauffeurs, a nightwatchman and chambermaids. Then there was Swiss banker Maurice Amiguet and Suzanne Blum, who dealt with her legal affairs in Paris. Originally, Blum's first husband had represented the Windsors but she took on this role after his death.

The Duchess in Paris with her pugs, shortly before her collapse in 1975 from which she never recovered


While some of these figures were honourable, others were not. There are dangers for rich widows who have considerable worldly goods, if they are frail, more so if their affairs are handled by a dishonest lawyer and an avaricious banker, their health overseen by a doctor acting on the lawyer's instructions.

The Duchess was suffering from the early symptoms of Crohn's disease. Determined to retain her girlish-figure, she did not eat properly and was known to survive on nips of vodka.

Initially, though, all seemed well. Between 1972 and 1975, photographs showed the Duchess at society occasions in Paris, arriving in New York, or strolling along a beach in Biarritz. There were occasional interviews, and at least one photo-session with her pugs in Paris.

Without the Duke, however, age, frailty and grief would take their toll. Over Christmas 1972, she fell out of bed and, though in considerable pain, was not given proper treatment. Only in the new year was it realised that the 76-year-old Duchess had broken her hip. After surgery, she recovered, and was eventually able to walk without a stick.

While the Duchess was in hospital, Blum took the first step to assuming control over her. She dismissed Sir Godfrey Morley, the British lawyer who had handled the Duke's affairs and his last will, after persuading the confused Duchess that he was trying to get his hands on her money.

Hardly had the ink dried on a letter appointing Blum as Wallis's sole legal representative than she set to work. The French government confirmed no tax would be paid on the Duke's estate. In return, the Duchess signed a codicil to her will leaving items to France's great museums, in gratitude to the City of Paris for providing the house on the Bois. As a result of these arrangements, Blum was advanced in the Legion d'Honneur, the highest decoration in France.

After the Duchess's two secretaries left her employment in 1975 and 1978, Blum was able to control the situation as she wished.

Blum had once merely been an adviser, summoned when required. Now the relationship had been twisted to her utter advantage.

Blum and the Duchess had almost nothing in common. The Duchess lived her life at the height of fashion; Blum wore dowdy dresses or tweed suits and an ill-fitting wig, which caused the Duchess quiet mirth. The Duchess was light and social; Blum was austere and ruthless. Her eyes were as narrow as those of an old Mandarin.

The Windsors lived in a grand villa on the edge of the Bois de Boulogne, 20 minutes from central Paris. It was leased to the couple by the City of Paris for a peppercorn rent


The Duchess's health concerns continued. The broken hip had been bad enough, but now came a blow from which Wallis would never fully recover. Late in 1975, she suffered a perforated ulcer that led to a severe internal haemorrhage.

She was taken to the American Hospital and was sent home the following January a wreck. It would, many said, have been better if the Duchess had been allowed to die in hospital. Instead she was destined to live a pathetic existence for the next ten years, virtually unable to move and later unable to speak.

Sometimes, when in pain, she pleaded with nurses, hoping 'the Good Lord would take her away'. As one of the nurses said: 'It gives me great distress to see HRH, who was once a great lady, admired and feted throughout the world, who showed courage which was widely respected, becoming little by little a lady who suffers terribly.'

The Duchess had relied heavily on friends for stimulation but now Blum decided who saw the Duchess, arguing that visitors made her flustered. She was often present to hear what was said. None of this was pleasant for the Duchess.

One of those who succeeded in seeing the Duchess was Robin Beare, a distinguished plastic surgeon. Blum ensured the Duchess was sedated so she could not tell him anything. The only indication that she recognised Beare was a single tear rolling down her cheek.

Blum was continually instilling panic into the Duchess about overspending. In January 1976 she announced that the Duchess had given instructions about which silver and porcelain objects should be sold.

Twice in February the Duchess was asked to sign new authorisations for Mr Amiguet to sell objects she might no longer wish to keep. The Duchess was still alert enough to refuse to sign these. I have seen the unsigned letters.

Despite the wish for secrecy, rumours of the sales spread in Paris with Blum suspecting the Duchess's staff. As a result, several people were dismissed.

Between September 1976 and December 1977, there was quite a distribution of spoils, none of which the Duchess would have been aware of.

According to documents I have seen, Mr Amiguet was given earrings, a bracelet and a necklace. The Duchess's doctor, Jean Thin, received watches and a gold box, despite the fact he believed that the Duchess's mind was rapidly deteriorating and it would soon be incapable of making any decisions.

Yet Dr Thin also believed her physical health was quite good and she might live quite a while.

Blum received a ring with an oval amethyst surrounded by turquoises and diamonds, an amethyst necklace and a Louis XV gold box.

My research reveals that sales in January and March 1976 made about $470,000, which Mr Amiguet deemed but a fraction of the expenses the Duchess was incurring. Further sales went on until her death in 1986.

After the Duchess returned from hospital, the staff were told that she had to be kept in the upstairs rooms. If she did come downstairs and noticed any item missing, she should be informed that the French government had asked for the piece to be restored.

In May 1977, a number of items were taken by Blum, ostensibly to be handed out as gifts. Among them were a pair of earrings made of rubies, emeralds and diamonds; a bracelet with round brilliants on platinum; a watch-bracelet with two snake chains; a gold Cartier watch; a gold cigarette box with a map of Europe, inscribed 'David from Wallis 1935 Christmas'; and a gold tiepin with a blue enamel 'E' under a crown.

A glimpse of how badly her health had deteriorated was provided by Sir Nicholas Henderson, the British ambassador to Paris, who was allowed to see Wallis in 1977. He later wrote: 'Her hands, which caught the eye immediately, were badly contorted in shape, and paralysed. Our handshakes were perfunctory. There is nothing in the face to recall that distinct and dominating look known to the whole world.'

The ambassador concluded: 'She was perfectly compos mentis but it was as though living was a big task and could only be coped with for short intervals at a time.'

Blum took action to secure final power in October of that year. She came to the house with a notary and his clerk bearing a Power of Attorney document. The purpose of this document was to cover all Blum's various actions and activities.

The Duchess could not sign because her hands were twisted with rheumatoid arthritis, so Blum sent the clerk to the Duchess's room to gain her verbal assent. The clerk began to read the document in French. Not surprisingly, the Duchess could not understand and asked if he would mind translating this document into English.

The clerk pretended that his English was not up to that and explained to the Duchess that it merely confirmed existing arrangements. The Duchess said something like, 'Oh, all right,' at which point the clerk left the room. Blum had what she wanted; she was ready for the Duchess to die.

By the spring of the following year, the Duchess ceased speaking. She had almost ceased to exist as a person. Wallis could hardly move without assistance, being turned to the right and left, moved from her bed to a couch, and then back again.

Blum now had as near full control of the Duchess as she could have, but this was not enough: she now added the role of historian to her selfappointed duties.

The lawyer had several theories that she wished to promulgate. The first, for some bizarre reason, was that the Windsors had never had sex before marriage; Diana Mosley later joked that Blum even gave the Duchess back her virginity. The second was more credible: that the Duchess had not wanted to marry the Duke and had certainly not forced him to abdicate.

Blum claimed that the Duchess had to be defended from allegations made by authors and journalists, that Wallis was upset by such things. In truth, she was beyond caring.

While in Paris in autumn 1978, I heard that the Duchess had lost use of her hands and feet and had to be carried from her bed to a clinical couch. She no longer spoke and had apparently put on 25lbs. She lived in a world of her own, lingering on, spoon-fed, miserable. In 1981 a senior doctor at the American Hospital told me the Duchess was in a pitiable state.

Many of the Duchess's staff had gone, but there was one more figure for Blum to erase from the picture. Eventually, she fell out with Mr Amiguet on the grounds that he refused to send her money from Switzerland, where the Duchess's account was held. What happened to the Duchess's millions there remains unclear.

One person who saw much of the Duchess was Elvire Gozin, her night nurse from 1976 to 1986. She said the Duchess 'died in a slum'. Visits by a hairdresser were terminated and expensive creams from Estee Lauder were replaced by cheap make-up. The bedclothes became tattered. Elvire described her as 'a prisoner in her own home'.

Elvire took photos of the Duchess in her bed, which were published after her death. One shows the head of the Duchess just visible over the sheets, with medical paraphernalia by her bed - machinery that kept her alive.

The nurse went twice to London to try to inform the Queen of the Duchess's plight. On her first visit in 1980, Elvire arrived at the gates of Buckingham Palace but was not admitted. In 1983, she saw the Dean of Windsor, Michael Mann, who said he would pass her message to the Queen and would respond. Elvire heard no more.

As further indication of the low ebb that the Duchess had reached, Dr Thin admitted to a newspaper that the Duchess had such serious arthritis that he had ordered her wedding ring from the Duke to be 'gently cut off'.

During these last years, the Duchess had one other visitor - the Right Reverend James Leo, Dean of the American Cathedral in Paris. The Dean found the house depressing, the Duke's regimental drums gathering dust, sad relics 'under brooding stillness', the garden with its 'memories of lavish summer evenings' now 'weeds, crab grass and ghosts'.

It was Leo who was summoned to perform the last rites in April 1986. He said: 'She squeezed my hand during the last rites and again as I read a short passage from the Bible.'

The Duchess died on April 24. A memorial service was held in Paris, attended by Blum, who enraged the French by putting herself forward as chief mourner.

Eleven weeks after the Duchess's death, her friend Commandant Paul-Louis Weiller invited me to look around the house. The hall was dimly lit, while tables with eagles under them stood either side of the drawingroom door.

The Commandant turned to me and said quietly: 'You would like to see the room where the Duchess died, I suppose? I have to be very tactful.'

In her bedroom, the double bed was stripped. Only the base, covered in blue silk, remained. An old white telephone was on the floor. There were two shelves either side of the bed and under the glass of one was a photo of the Duchess in bed holding her pugs, her auburn hair done to perfection.

In 1986, Mohamed Al Fayed acquired the lease on the house and in 1998 he sold some of the remaining contents at auction in New York. By this time Blum had been dead four years.

I had my eye on a gouache from the Duchess's bathroom by Dmitri Bouchene, a talented but largely unknown Russian artist. I came home with 20 Bouchenes. I look at them every day. To me they symbolise the best of the Parisian taste of the Duchess.

She was a woman of style and elegance, but a woman who had suffered too long. After years of pain and powerless, silent indignity, she was at last beyond the grasp of those who had harmed her.



Source:dailymail