The death of Lord Randolph Churchill in June 1888 came as no surprise to his friends and family. His erratic behaviour culminating in sudden resignation from the post of Chancellor of the Exchequer at the age of just thirty-seven was blamed on tertiary syphilis by his detractors: on drink by more generous souls.
Titled, rich, well-connected; a glittering career as Secretary of State for India, Leader of the House of Commons, Chancellor, the acknowledged leader of Progressive Conservatives and one of the closest friends of the Prince of Wales—but a lonely cuckold hollowed out by disease, drugs and melancholy. His beautiful and rich American wife, Jennie Jerome numbered her lovers in the scores or more. Of his two sons, thirteen-year old Winston was a seven-month baby and eight-year old Jack was peculiarly named John Strange Spencer-Churchill: an unsubtle legacy of Jennie’s time spent on the estate of Colonel John Strange Jocelyn, 5th Earl of Roden.
The truth was that even Jenny Jerome would be hard pressed to be absolutely certain of either boy’s paternity and ambiguity was particularly useful in the society she moved in. Edward, Prince of Wales was a candidate, so was Lord Rosebery and the cousins of Rosebery’s wife, both Alfred and Nathan de Rothschild. More than a dozen of the most powerful men in Europe may have reason to promote the boy’s careers-but from a distance.
Jenny’s two immediate problems were the embarrassing situation of being single in a milieu where marriage was a respectable cover for a mistress and how to take charge of the two boys that she had hardly spent any time with since their birth. Their paternal Grandfather, the 7th Duke of Marlborough was already dead and Randolph’s elder brother, George, now the 8th Duke, had as chaotic life as was possible with involvement in several aristocratic divorce cases, illegitimate children, lawsuits and profound financial problems. Besides, George and Randolph had fallen out badly the year before about the matter of blackmailing the Prince of Wales over the bastard child and impending divorce of Lady Aylesford.
Jenny solved the first problem by quickly, many said with unseemly speed, marrying the outrageously handsome Count Karel Kinsky. Four years her junior, Kinsky had been appointed to the Court of St. James as Imperial Austrian Ambassador that very year and had already embarked on a torrid affair with Jenny before Randolph’s death.
Kinsky was said to have two loves in his life, Jenny and Horseracing; passions that made him one of the most popular men in London and firm friends with almost all of Jenny’s other and former lovers--to a man, racehorse owners.
Witty, elegant, charming and aristocratic, Count Kinsky was seemingly adored by everyone—except the thirteen-year old Winston who hated him with a passion that only the son of a remarried woman could summon.
The former Lady Randolph Churchill, now Countess Kinsky and future Princess Kinsky of Vchynice and Tetov faced her second problem—the boys, in the time- honoured manner of the English aristocracy. The Masters, Prefects and bullies of one of the best Public Schools would take care of their upbringing for now. Winston was sentenced to five years at Harrow.
Plunging back into her social whirl, Jenny stayed distant from young Winston, rarely answering or even reading his heartrending letters on his loneliness and struggles with the Classics and the titled thugs known as Monitors. Only at half-term was Winston briefly allowed into his Mother’s company and that was invariably shared with Kinsky, the Oaks, the Grand National, the Derby or the Thousand Guineas.
At some of the races he met up with his American Grandfather, the slightly shady Leonard Jerome and began to transfer his lost paternal relationship to the old man.
Jerome was considered somewhat coarse for Ascot society, but his wealth, American political connections and knowledge of horseflesh allowed him free passage. With only daughters of his own, he warmed to young Winston and Winston, hemmed in by the stuffiness of his class, warmed to Jerome’s informality and risqué manner.
They spoke of America, of American politics and American money. Winston knew plenty of Americans through his Mother and her sisters, but they were all faux English. Grandfather Jerome introduced him to the stock market wheelers and dealers, one-term congressmen and industrialists who flooded to Europe for the Season.
Back at Harrow, Winston started to read of Jefferson and Lincoln alongside Macaulay’s Lays of Ancient Rome. In his sixteenth year, Winston was given permission by the Headmaster of Harrow School to attend Phillips Academy, Andover for two consecutive terms with the proviso that he carry special assignments of Greek and Latin to be personally handed to the Headmaster of the Academy.
A small boy at Harrow, Winston was a midget at Andover. The bullying of the English boarding school was replaced by the robust teasing of being an “English Lord”. He rose to the occasion to excel in fencing, horsemanship, shooting and gentlemanly pursuits while treading water academically. On furloughs to his Grandfather’s estate at Bathgate or townhouse on Madison Avenue he learned Poker and stock market manipulation. Jerome’s best friend P.K. Vanderbilt, supplied sailing instruction and one Sunday guest, Admiral Mahan, presented him with a signed copy of his book “ The Influence of Sea Power upon History”. Absorbing the book in a day and a night, Winston was determined that he would, one day, write as good a book on the Balance of Power in Europe. In his last term at Andover, Winston did begin to write. He produced short vignettes of his classmates and comparisons between the gilded youth of America and their cousins across the water. One piece, featuring his Andover best friend, Henry Stimpson , appeared in the Phillipian and was reprinted in the Saturday Evening Post. An instance that earned the astonished Churchill, who had never thought of writing as a creator of money, the princely sum of ten dollars.
At the end of Churchill’s American adventure, it was Henry Stimpson who planted the germ of an idea in the young Englishman’s head. Grandfather Jerome and Clara, Churchill’s mischievous Aunt threw a farewell party at Bathgate. Aunt Clara had invited both Churchill’s Andover classmates and a selection of New York’s blue-blooded daughters and was taking delight at the squirming gaucheness of the young men in only partially supervised company of blossoming teenage girls.
In the grand ballroom, at a moment designed to cause maximum embarrassment, Aunt Clara pointed out to Churchill in the hearing of all assembled a curtained-off area that may have been a New York architect’s attempt at a Minstrel’s gallery.
“Just look, Winnie” Clara trilled. “All these years later, you’ve come back to the exact spot where you were born”.
Churchill cocked his head to one side. “Aunt Clara. I was born in Blenheim Palace, in England”. Grandfather Jerome began to laugh and Clara smirked. “ I am afraid not”, she said. “That was a story for the Duke’s consumption. Your other Grandfather was in Ireland and he always expressed a wish that anyone in line for the Dukedom should be born at the Palace”.
Grandfather Jerome guffawed again. “ You were a tad early, you know”, he said.
Clara made a twirl. “ Your Mother was down here dancing, dancing and dancing. She had so many of the men on her card, and didn’t want to disappoint any of them” she raised an eyebrow. “ Then suddenly—Pop! Winston arrives. We had to take her behind the curtains and call for Cook—she’s had six children”.
The New York girls were a mixture of solemn scandal and nervous mirth.
“So,” Churchill said gravely. “ On the assumption that you are not having a joke at my expense. I was actually brought forth into the world on a dance floor?”
“An American dance floor”, Henry Stimson chipped in. “ Why, Winston, if you were actually born here in the United States. You can become President one day”.
Winston smiled “With such an auspicious beginning?”
[FONT="]“Beats a log cabin”, said Stimpson.
to be continued
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