Abdication | Wally | 1
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Matt, sorry, just a quick one. A bit worried about today. You don't happen to know what the punishment is for treason, do you? I haven't had to think about this for a while, but I still think it's execution. Yeah, really was quite worried you'd say that. Why? What's happening? I just feel like we should maybe do a little bit of a pivot with today's story. Are you going to get us into trouble? Actually, do you know what? We're in trouble with Putin, with Murdoch. Why not this? Let's go for it. Get the full house.

It's 9.40am on the 10th of December 1936, Fort Belvedere, Windsor. King Edward VIII has been awake all night. The soft scotch haze has given way to fear. Of what exactly, he's not quite sure. His eyes are swollen and bloodshot, his jaw coarse with stubble. He stalks the warren of lavish corridors, pokes his head into bedrooms covered in dust sheets and gloom.

This isn't forever, he tells himself. This will be home again. One day. His melancholy is shattered by a polite cough. A footman stands at the top of the back stairs. Your Majesty. Edward thinks his tone is a little cold. Reproachful. Or maybe that's all in his head. The Duke of York has arrived. Monotonously early, of course. Edward knows he can't put this off any longer. Edward's younger brother, Bertie, is already in the study.

Standing with an awkward hunch, his face is screwed up. Serious. It's all Edward can do to not burst out laughing. Let's get on with it, shall we? He affects a swagger over to the desk. Picks up a fountain pen. Behind him, he senses Bertie's mouth open. There's an irritating pause. Bertie's never been one for speeches. Read it first. Edward sighs. Loud and sarcastic, he begins...

I declare my irrevocable determination to renounce the throne. But as he sifts through the seven sheets of paper, he falls silent. He's giving up his throne, the first British monarch to willingly do so. Where every one of his predecessors succeeded, he will fail. He's giving up his family, his home. He'll be an exile from his country. He knew it all, of course. But seeing it here in black and white, Edward realises he's hesitating.

You must be sure. He was sure. He is sure. He's been sure for months. But now, as he holds the pen in sweating fingers, it's like a clamp tightens around his chest. Bertie talks slowly. It's not too late. You could still change your mind. Edward swallows a flash of anger. You'd like that, wouldn't you? But the usually meek, awkward Bertie doesn't even blink.

He's right. He could make a statement, direct to his subjects, tell them he's chosen them. He could still be the hero, but not signing would mean giving up the only woman who's ever truly loved him. Him, not his crown. The real, unadulterated him. Bertie's eyes are wide now, his foreheads glistening. Edward, is this really what you want?

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As an Audible member, you choose one title a month to keep from their entire catalogue. New members can try Audible free for 30 days. Visit audible.com slash WonderyPod or text WonderyPod to 500-500. That's audible.com slash WonderyPod or text WonderyPod to 500-500. From Wondery, I'm Alice Levine. And I'm Matt Ford. And this is British Scandal. ♪

The show where we bring you the murkier stories that ever happened on these odd little isles. British scandals come in many shapes and sizes. Some are about money, some are about sex. They're all about power. But when we look at scandals a little bit closer, they turn out to be stranger, wilder, just plain weirder than we remember. So we're journeying back to ask who's to blame for what happened. And when the dust settled, did anything really change? MUSIC

Let me paint a picture for you, Matt. What if I told you we were doing a story about a beautiful American woman who comes to England, she steals the heart of a big member of the royal family, they fall in love, and then they are harassed by the media and eventually have to flee the UK and they're estranged from their family and they're living the life of celebrities abroad. I can always tell when you're trying to lead me down the wrong route. I think you're trying to make me think of Harry and Meghan. Okay, but why can't you just take the bait?

Because I'm not a fish and because I could totally see what you were doing. All right, come on then, smartass, what are we doing? I think it's the abdication. How did you know? Because I was copied in on the emails.

It's a good point. This is a story that happened almost 80 years ago, but feels so incredibly pertinent now. This is about class. This is about misogyny. This is about the media obsession with royal romance. And it's also about how love at the upper echelons can actually rock the stability of the country. This is episode one, Wally. Five years earlier, June 1931, Leicestershire.

Outside the window of the borrowed Rolls Royce, hedgerows strung with dog roses blur into verges of cow parsley and foxglove, a sickly twee portrait of English countryside. But Wallis Simpson is looking at her nails. Her choice of coral pink polish, the third shade she tried on, is suddenly feeling like a terrible mistake. She leans forward to assess her dark hair in the rearview mirror. Grimaces. Travelling always gives her flyaways.

She turns to her husband, Ernest. We could always make some excuse. Ernest stares at her like she's just proposed murder. His bushy brows shoot towards his immaculate hairline, and his jaw quivers like a scolded child. She carries on, though she knows it's hopeless.

I mean, if you're not in the mood for cucumber sandwiches and conversations about the weather, we could say I have a cold. Why the hell would we do that? This is our chance. Wallace sighs and lays back in the burnished leather seat. There's no talking to him. Ernest renounced his American citizenship during the Great War and has been clawing his way up through British society ever since. But no matter what she does, what gown she chooses, how she wears her hair, Wallace feels out of place here.

around aristocrats who sneer at her Baltimore accent and gawp when she tells them her aunt still works for a living. How vulgar. She misses American parties. Wild, ostentatious, not constrained by an ancient set of unspoken rules. The Rolls swerves up the manicured drive of Borough Court, Moulton Mowbray. Lady Thelma Furness is already gliding over to meet them. Her floral sundress hangs loose over her wafer-thin frame.

She's fair-skinned with sunken cheeks and has a performed sadness. Wallace goes to open her door, but Ernest is looking at her narrowly. "You won't blow this for me. Today is the day Ernest has been waiting for. Today they'll finally meet the Prince of Wales, the future King of England, the pinnacle of society himself." Wallace sighs and turns. "Thelma, darling!" Ernest is already demanding to know if the Prince has arrived.

Ooh. I've seated you right next to him, Wally. I'm sure you'll get on. Ooh.

The mahogany table's already bursting with steaming cloches, but she's never felt less like eating. She's ushered to her seat next to the head of the table and waits dutifully for the prince to speak first. Finally, she feels him lean in. Such chilly weather we're having. His voice is charming, easy, and he's handsome too. Fair-haired and chiseled. But there's something a little stale about him. Stiff, like a lead soldier. The prince continues.

I expect, as an American, you'll be missing central heating. Yeah, and Oreo milkshakes, stuffed crust pizza. It's so 101, isn't it? Wallace smiles. Sir, you've disappointed me. Every American who comes to your country is asked the same question. I should have expected something more original from the Prince of Wales. Quite witty, she thinks, but is horrified to see shock on the Prince's face. He coughs, turns away.

At the end of the meal, a crestfallen Ernest demands, What on earth did you say? It's bad enough when you leave a party thinking, oh no, was I a bit full on? But if you're done to the future king of England, someone who can have your head chopped off. That social anxiety to the max. Three hours later, the atmosphere at Borough Court is charged with drink, music and cigarette smoke. Wallace is quaffing champagne and trying to forget the awful luncheon.

Uh-oh.

What is this? A funeral march?

Wallace can't believe her eyes as the future king of England goes over to the piano and plays an upbeat ditty, cigarette dangling from his mouth, glass of whiskey perched precariously on the lower keys. Wallace roars with laughter. Perhaps there's more to this prince than she first thought. She saunters over to the piano, determined to find out. Three years later, January 1934, Fort Belvedere, Windsor.

Edward leads Wallace Simpson into an opulent bedroom suite, all red velvet upholstery, satin eiderdown and polished mahogany. Just like my place. Suddenly it all feels too red, too polished. He's alarmed to feel himself sweating. Normally, Edward relishes showing guests around Fort Belvedere. He's spent three years painstakingly renovating each room. His father, the king, had given it to him five years ago.

Edward had rather hoped he'd be proud of him, taking responsibility, making a home for himself. But instead, the king hadn't missed an opportunity to express his disapproval. What could you possibly want that queer old place for? Those damn weekends, I suppose. Indeed, the country house had staged parties for the creme de la creme of British society. Before today, however, it had never welcomed Wallis Simpson. Edward tries to read her reaction.

It's been three years since she first caught his eye at Borough Court, but he still doesn't quite know what to make of her. Many of his high society friends find her cold, sarcastic, rude even. So why does he care so much about what she thinks? Wallace twirls a cigarette between her fingers, lights it, takes a slow drag. He envies the cool, easy swish of her movements.

Isn't it darling? All these tassels and frills. Reminds me of my grandmother's place. Edward isn't sure whether to feel mortified or not. Wallace lightly skips back into the corridor. What's next? Next? He hesitates. He's been determined to impress her from the moment she arrived.

offered Ernest the keys to his garage, told him to take any motor car he liked, and of course, Ernest had gratefully accepted. So Wallace and Ernest are still together, and Edward's got Wallace round and has packed Ernest off in the car. I mean, it sounds like Edward is up to something here. Does a little bit, doesn't it? Why don't you go for a little drive? In fact, not a little drive, a long drive. Yeah, to the airport. I've booked your flights. Edward looks around the hall.

Well, uh, there's the spyglass. It's normally the end of the tour, Edward's pièce de résistance, but he's filled with an urgent desire to win her approval. At the top of the tower's dark winding staircase, Edward gestures to the spyglass. You can see to St. Paul's Cathedral, 22 miles.

But before he has a chance to demonstrate, Wallace is darting forward like a twitchy cat, mounting the platform, whirling the brass telescope towards her and screwing up one eye. The excitement in her voice shoots a current through his nerves. She's standing so close now. He stares at the gentle curve of her back, inhales her heady scent. He finds himself wanting to reach out, touch her, but Wallace is readjusting the telescope.

Down there! Ernie, how tiny he looks! Edward reddens. Ernest? Back already? He's thrown. If this was any other woman in the world, he would know what to do. It's a talent. His only talent, his father would say. But Wallace is... different. Unfiltered. He's never quite sure what she's going to say or do next. It makes him nervous. But somehow it's also irresistible. Thrilling.

What if she pushes him away, runs out to Ernest, or worse, makes one of her wisecracks? Edward decides it's not worth the risk. But Wallace jumps down from the little plinth, smiles directly at him, slips her hand on the small of his back. Suddenly, she's pulling him close, expertly pressing her lips to his. I assume that's where this was going. Before he can stop himself, he falls into her arms, buries his face into hers,

and kisses her passionately. It's three months later, April 1934, Buckingham Palace. In the drawing room, King George V sits, his gold damask armchair turned towards the fire. His face is drawn, eyes hooded. All his features are beginning to sink. I know the feeling, George. You've got another five years yet. But his back is the ramrod straight of a naval officer.

You sent for me? I was having dinner. Father, have I done something wrong?

Where to start? King George's own father was a womaniser. As a child, he remembers his mother wiping away quick tears. He swore he'd be nothing like him, but here is his heir, collecting married women like he collects stamps. I hear your latest whore's American. Edward takes a swift breath, like he's about to speak, but can't quite manage it. An American nobody? What is it they're saying now? All mouth and no breeding? No.

No, she's actually... King George is shocked. Don't you dare interrupt me, boy! This must be her influence. Sorry, I just mean... You'll meet her, actually. She's... She will not fit your brother's engagement celebrations, if that's what you mean. If you want to bring a guest, then bring the right sort of girl. Good stock. Do we understand ourselves? Edward is too stunned to reply.

King George ambles out of the room, confident that that will be the end of that. This obsession with breeding at the upper end of British society is incredible because on the one hand,

It's not about money. This is purely about bloodline. But on the other hand, the reason why they're all so inbred is because they're not widening the gene pool. I mean, how many people can actually be in the category of appropriate potential bride in this case? This is like the kennel club. It's two months later, June 1934, the Dorchester Hotel. Choruses of diners stop their conversations as the Prince of Wales passes.

Waiters weave to avoid his path, but Edward doesn't look up. His brow is furrowed into a harsh line. His eyes are trained on Wallace, seated at the end of a long corner table. Her eyes alive with mischief as she tells the group all about her haute couture ascot dress, a gift from Edward.

"I know I'm going on about it, but my debutante gown was sewed by my mother. Humor me. I'll never be the prettiest girl in the room, but I can always be the best dressed." Edward feels his stomach twist. Edward had thought things would be simple. He'd even come to an understanding with Ernest, who graciously agreed to return to America on business so Edward could keep seeing Wallis.

Now, though, it seems there's a new obstacle, one that's impossible to overcome. Edward puts a hand on Wallace's shoulder. What's with the face like a wet weekend, darling? The rest of the table falls silent. Wally, I need to talk to you about something.

He leads her into a private room, brow reddening, coughing and erring, a percussion of false starts. All the while, Wallace watching him with comical fascination. Not about to break things off, are you? He turns to the wall, unable to look at her. I had a telephone call from the Lord Chamberlain. It seems you won't be permitted in the royal box for Ascot.

He waits for a gasp, but Wallace simply leans forward in her chair. He's shocked to see she's smirking. Worried I'd outshine them, were they? It's not simply... It seems you've been banned from court events completely by my father. When his father's messenger had delivered the news, Edward had thrown down the receiver in fury and sank to the floor. It's one thing to ban Wallace from the palace, but Ascot...

He couldn't disobey his father. Could he? If only his father could meet Wallis, see how witty she is, elegant, intelligent. Wallis hesitates. Banned? By the King of England? Edward gives a slow, heavy nod and is shocked to see Wallis laugh again. The scandal? Wait till I tell Aunt Bessie.

Edward's incredulous. "Can't you see? My father's making our being together impossible. What can we do?" Wallace just smiles. "Why, make our own fun, of course." On the morning of Ascot, Edward anxiously pulls up at Wallace's apartment. His brothers will be at the races by now. It's one of the few events they all spend together.

He pictures them lining the royal box in morning tails and top hats with their wives on their arms, remarking at his empty seat, perhaps this was a mistake. Wallace opens the door with a radiant flourish, twisting for him to take in every inch of her bias-cut chiffon gown, the bodice dripping with pearls. It was the dress she'd intended to wear to Ascot. Well, it's a damn shame to waste it.

She's got a box of chocolates in one hand, and behind her, he hears the bath running. Wallace takes his hand. Missing your royal box, darling. Edward feels a smile strain across his cheeks, not one bit. And in that moment, Edward realizes, in spite of his father's best efforts, he's falling in love with this woman. ♪

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A few weeks later, July 1934, London. Wallace shifts from foot to foot, her violet eyes trained on the ball. The serve is strong, but Wallace holds her nerve. In one clean, powerful volley, she swipes the ball, slams it down just before her opponent's baseline. Across the court, Guy Trundle takes another ball from his shorts pocket. He's clearly impressed.

Guy is effortlessly stylish. Even his tennis whites caress his tall, slim frame impeccably, as though they were bespoke. And they're a perfect colour match to his dazzling smile. I do like a lady with a strong backhand. Wallace is coy. Oh, I wish you hadn't suggested tennis. I should think I look all red and windswept. On the contrary, you've never looked so beautiful. Scumbag. Confirmed.

Wallace smiles, but she's distracted, thinking about a meeting she had with Thelma Furness at the Ritz Hotel. And that's Thelma who was Edward's initial mistress? Exactly. Thelma had been away in New York, and in her absence, Wallace had been spending every hour with Edward. I hear the prince has been exceedingly well cared for while I was away. Caught off guard, Wallace hadn't known what to say, so she muttered some kind of mortified apology.

But Thelma had laughed, a little too loud. Not at all. It's what the prince does. Picks up women, then drops them like they're going out of fashion. Why do you think he likes the married ones? As a friend, just be careful there. Wallace rushes to meet the ball, returns it to Guy. The man doesn't seem to have broken a sweat. Another reason not to trust him. Not a single hair is out of place. Edward's pale skin goes awful red and mottled whenever they play sports.

Suddenly, Wallace notices a man perched on the clubhouse wall, just too far to make out his face. His stocky frame is shrouded in a dark overcoat, despite the scorching temperatures. Didn't she see the same man earlier, when they left Marlebone? Then she catches herself. She's being silly, jumpy, which is ridiculous. She's not breaking any rules. Edward isn't the only man she can have fun with. Fifteen all.

What?!

Who is he? How long have you been carrying on? Do you love him? The special branch.

I'm sorry, but the idea of you carrying on with other men... Why shouldn't I? When you pick up women and drop them like they're going out of fashion... No, Wally. I thought you knew. He pauses. His voice cracks a little...

I love you. Only you. Wallace feels her heart quicken and the words tumble from her mouth before she can stop them. I love you too. Nothing more romantic than a man cheating on his wife with a woman who's cheating on him with a tennis coach. It's the classic tale. It's January 1936. The Great Park, Windsor. Lord Mountbatten readies the shot. Fires. Hunting hounds' cries echo around the bare woodland.

Edward peers through the smoke, spiralling from the barrel and into the grey January air, and smiles as the deers hurtle off into the frosted undergrowth. He turns to his cousin, who lowers his shotgun with a rueful smile. "Let me show you how it's done." The prince stamps a cigarette out on the hard ground, screws up his eyes, slows his breathing to almost nothing, goes to pull the trigger. Suddenly, a commotion behind him, Edward lowers his gun.

What's all that bloody noise? Edward turns to see his private secretary, Alec Hardinge, red and sweating, the legs of his pinstripe suit laced with mud. A message from the Queen. Edward's eyes scan the handwritten note. At first, he thinks he must have read it wrong, but the grave expression on Hardinge's face confirms his worst fears. His whole body goes stiff. The reams of flat Berkshire countryside, the scuttling deer...

Mountbatten's questioning face. It all disappears from focus. Come urgently. The king is ill. At five minutes to midnight, Edward perches on the heavy oak bed at Buckingham Palace, holds his father's blue-veined hand, watches the life drain from his tissue paper skin. The faltering breaths give way to nothing. He looks so much smaller. Edward waits for his mother to collapse, fall to the floor in despair. But Mary stays on her feet.

As calm and composed as ever, she takes his hand lightly in hers, kisses it, and with a short, demure breath, utters the words Edward's been waiting to hear his whole life. The king is dead. Long live the king. Two months later, March 1936, Number 10, Downing Street. Prime Minister Stanley Baldwin grimaces as MP for Westminster, Duff Cooper, deals them each 13 cards.

laying them on the Green Bay's table in his private study with a flourish. Duff is a weasel of a man, quick-eyed, with skin that looks like it's been waxed. But he's also the new king's closest friend in Parliament, and Baldwin hopes his way in. Come on then, what are we playing for here, Baldwin, my old man? Baldwin sighs, privately grits his teeth. He hates Duff's socialite lifestyle, the drinking, gambling. But tonight he has to keep him sweet.

Baldwin pretends to examine the cards carefully, and without looking up, begins. How do you think is going on, our new Edward VIII? As Duff spouts sycophantic platitudes, Baldwin continues.

Yes, I've got high hopes. After all, he's popular, charming, a man of the people, appeals to the young. It's so funny because to us, actually, he feels very stuffy. But to them, he represents a positive, youthful change. Yeah, this was a big moment. And probably there are echoes with how people view Will and Harry versus a much more traditional royal family as well.

It's the truth, though perhaps he labours the point slightly. Duff nods readily. A wonderful fellow. He turns over the trump suit for the round. Seven of diamonds. Baldwin pretends to examine his hand. There is, of course, one problem. Duff places a card into the middle, feigning confusion. Innocence. Baldwin feels his calm tone slip. The bloody Simpson woman. He throws an eight of hearts across the table. Duff turns over his own card with a smirk.

A trick, I believe. Duff! Well, I'm sure if you met the woman, that would change nothing. Baldwin can't hold back any longer. Edward is the head of the Church of England, for goodness sake. The church does not, under any circumstances, recognize divorce. Imagine then, if he marries a divorcee, makes her queen. The scandal, the public uproar, it could bring down this whole government.

Hitler and Mussolini are gaining power in Europe. Now more than ever, this country needs to be united, not pulling ourselves apart over an American nobody. Duff places down his deck nervously. A little strong, surely. Edward, he does things differently. He's a modernist. It's why the people love him. Baldwin really didn't want to do this. But seeing Duff recline complacently into his armchair, he realises he's got no choice.

There are rumours, Duff, about her and Germany. Okay, that changes things. Duff leans in, suddenly intrigued. Baldwin can't look at him. Apparently she's sympathetic to the Nazi party. There's a princess living in her building, Stephanie von Hoenle.

MI6 believe she's a Nazi spy sent by Hitler to promote the Nazi cause to the upper classes. And her and Wallace are becoming rather close. Duff coughs awkwardly. But like you say, rumors. Can we really take the risk? This needs to be dealt with quietly and soon. But to Baldwin's horror, Duff shakes his head.

I'm not quite sure what you expect me to do. Talk with her. Persuade her to leave the country. She's had her sordid little fairy tale, but now it's come to an end. But Duff simply reddens, coughs, stalls, mumbles something about not being sure he really carries that influence. Baldwin slams his cards against the table, enraged that Duff is too preoccupied with his own relationship with the king to carry out his wishes.

He realises he's going to have to talk to Edward himself. The country and his political career depend on it.

I get the context that it's the king and they're worried about national security, but it's still incredible to hear a prime minister trying to break up someone else's relationship. Yeah, because on one level, it's classism, isn't it? And it's misogyny, certainly. But then it has this geopolitical context as well. It's important to remember it's the 1930s and Europe is in disarray. And this kind of disruption could genuinely have a huge impact.

Four months later, July 1936, Hyde Park. The whole park is shrouded in a muggy haze. Ecstatic crowds in cotton dresses and shirt sleeves squint to catch a glimpse of Edward on horseback. Edward raises a stately hand to the crowd. He plasters on a serene smile. The wool of his heavy military uniform scrapes against his skin. Wallace had planned a picnic for this morning. She'd rung last night, her voice fizzing with excitement.

Under the oak at Fort Belvedere. I've ordered in those little cakes you like. The weather's supposed to be marvellous. What do you say? But Edward had been firm. His duties have to come first. A noise cuts into Edward's thoughts. He leans forward to calm his skittish horse and sees a police officer bring down a member of the crowd. All of a sudden, his security are rushing towards him, dragging him from his horse. What on earth?

Edward's on his hands and knees in the rough, dry dirt. He sees a metal object heading towards him. Good God. A bomb? He throws down his head, braces for the explosion, for certain death. In that moment, he thinks of only one thing. Not his title, not his country, but Wallace, dancing at Borough Court that first evening. The cool, mesmerising elegance of her movements.

The way she looked at him, not with fear or cold respect, but a warm, coquettish smile, as though she were challenging him. Seconds pass. Edward dares to lift his head. He sees not a bomb, but a revolver lying on the dry, cracked ground, loaded with a bullet meant for him. Right, so Europe's a tinderbox and someone has just tried to assassinate the king. Yeah, so this is an episode that lots of people might not know about. A guy called George McMahon...

attempted to kill him. Lots of rumors swirling. Was he in the employ of MI5? He claimed the Italian embassy paid him to do it. And of course, he went to prison, but only for 12 months. Edward stands up, as statesman-like as he can manage, brushes the dust from his uniform, mounts his horse and rides away, chin tilted to the sky.

calm, regal. But inside, he's filled with a twitchy ecstasy as he suddenly sees in total clarity what he wants to do with his life. He will marry Wallace. And surely, now he's king, no one can stop him.

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Let's face it, we were all that kid. So first call your parents to say I'm sorry, and then download the Instacart app to get delivery in as fast as 30 minutes all school year long. Get a $0 delivery fee for your first three orders while supplies last. Minimum $10 per order. Additional terms apply. A few weeks later, August 1936, off the coast of Split, Yugoslavia, Edward lies on the hot wooden deck of the Nalan Yacht.

Using his forearm for a pillow, he takes in the majesty of the turquoise sea. Above him, the skyline is laced with mountains, and below, the city is a hopscotch of sandstone and terracotta roofs. They're just feet from the shore, but no sound filters onto the deck except the rhythmic flick of the waves against the base of the yacht. He winds his legs around Wallace's neck. His bronzed skin merges with hers. He closes his eyes, but to his frustration, Stanley Baldwin comes into his head.

The Prime Minister had begged him not to come here. Think how it will look, Your Majesty treating Europe as his playground when fascism is spreading across the continent. We're trying to take a strong stance here. Like him drinking bellinis and sunbathing could trigger a diplomatic incident. Well, it depends how many bellinis you've had and whether you've got any clothes on. I also like the idea that you could trace it back like Franz Ferdinand, that you could go all the way back and be like, it was the last bellini.

Perhaps it would be prudent not to feature in any photographs. Edward thinks Baldwin simply doesn't want him to have fun. He slaps himself about the face. He's not wasting headspace on those lackeys today. Wallace is right. He's worked tirelessly for seven months. He deserves this. He stands up suddenly. Wallace's head almost hits the deck. She turns back to him with an amused expression. Are you trying to do away with me, Your Majesty?

The Your Majesty comes out in a giggle, like the punchline to an absurd joke. Edward rolls his eyes. Oh, don't remind me. Right, you lot. He turns to his friends, Duff Cooper roughly snoring in the sun, his wife Diana lazily thumbing the pages of her paperback. Who's for another drink?

Before they've even replied, he's running like a schoolboy. The yacht rocks under his weight. He swings open the door to the library, converted into a wine cellar for the trip. Brilliant. Sifts carelessly through the bulging shelves for a bottle of Bollinger, shakes it vigorously and runs back onto deck. The cork explodes into the ocean and Edward drenches his guests to a chorus of squeals and garroughs.

Wallace, though, is laughing, hysterically. She stands up, wraps her arms around his neck and plants a long, passionate kiss on his lips. He's thrown. What was that for? She just shrugs. You're looking like yourself again. Edward nods. He knows exactly what she means. Suddenly, he feels her body tense. Her cat-like eyes are wide, alert.

Edward follows her gaze, makes out a flash in the distance, the sun catching the lens of a camera. Edward might have struck up an arrangement with press mogul Lord Beaverbrook to ban the British press from mentioning Wallace, but he can do nothing about the foreign papers.

So the British press isn't allowed to mention Wallace at all. This is almost like having a super injunction. Yeah, that's a really good analogy. And there's this divide because the UK, as you say, they're bound by rules of conduct. But for the foreign press, this is a huge gossip story and they've got real celebrity status kind of apart from their royal standing. And we see echoes of that much later with Diana, with pictures of Kate Middleton that are

printed abroad and not here with Harry and Meghan, but this is kind of the beginning of that obsession. Wallace's voice is cold, angry. How dare they ruin this for us? Edward shakes his head. We won't let them. Amidst cries from the other guests, he rips off his shirt. The buttons rattle across the deck and he clambers over the railings. A smile spreads across Wallace's face. She unbuttons her sundress and takes his hand. They leap into the sea.

In the split second before his naked body hits the icy water, he realizes for the first time since becoming king, he feels completely and utterly free. Two days later, Dubrovnik, Croatia. As their yacht glides towards the harbor, Wallis hangs back. She's tried talking to Edward. They've got their Adriatic idol here on board. Why spoil it? But he's determined to visit the renowned Proto restaurant.

As the yacht lightly brushes the sea wall, Edward takes her hand. Just wait till you try the lobster. It'll be worth it, darling, I assure you. But just as she clasps her fingers around his, she hears it. Onlookers line the streets of the old town, shouting. Wallace feels a wave of childish annoyance, so much for a quiet dinner. But Edward is smiling. Do you know what they're saying? Wallace strains to make out their cries. Jeevala, you bav!

"'Wallace, listen. It translates as hurrah for the lovers.' Wallace is taken aback. "'So, for me?' Edward nods. "'And you had better get used to it.' Wallace turns to the crowd, offers them a gracious wave as she steps onto shore. Perhaps their idyll can continue on land after all. But as they walk the cool stone-tiled streets, Wallace is shocked to hear an American voice. A figure peels through the crowd towards her.

Bald, ruddy-faced, with a camera around his neck. "'Mrs. Simpson, are you gonna be the American queen, Mrs. Simpson?' Wallace feels Duff Cooper's hands on her back, pushing her forwards. The group quicken their pace, staring straight ahead. "'What was the doctor for, Mrs. Simpson? Is it true you hired him to perform arcane sex acts on the king?' Wallace feels her whole body tense with fury. "'How dare you! He was an ear specialist!'

Duff's low voice prickles her ear. Don't. They're not worth it. But Wallace shakes him off. I'm going back to the boat. Hearing Edward enter her room, Wallace doesn't lift her head from the mascara-soaked pillow. She's spent all evening poring over the papers.

Apparently, she's a hermaphrodite, a lesbian, a nymphomaniac, using training from a brothel in Shanghai to hold influence over the king. And, most crushingly of all, details of a traumatic botched abortion that left her infertile have made it into the newsagents and living rooms of America. What will her family say? We're almost 100 years after this, and the way in which the media covers women who marry into the royal family sounds like it's barely changed.

"'I wonder whether I should return to Ernest.' He plows his fist into the bathroom door. "'Wallace has thought about this, planned all evening what she would say. But now, seeing the wounded expression on Edward's face, it's almost impossible to get the words out. "'Your agreement with the British press won't hold forever. And once they break their silence, the public will turn on us. I can't let these lies about me ruin your reputation.'

"Wally, nothing in my life can run without you. I knew it before, but this trip has made it all the clearer. Marry me." Wallis is frozen. In the hundred versions of this conversation she played out in her head, none of them ended like this. Edward's looking at her urgently. "Well? Yes or no?" She sees hunger, desperation in his eyes.

What they have looks nothing like the sordid newspaper reports. Their love is real. Wallace decides at that moment to be with her king. She can handle her critics. Yes. She screams and holds him tight. Yes, I will marry you. Never seen you like this, Matt. Oh, I'm so happy.

It's September 1936, Buckingham Palace. Edward nervously approaches the Queen's sitting room, raps lightly on the ivory door. He's got to tell her. Whilst the British press continue to stay silent, his affair with Wallace is splashed across the American papers. But he's sure if his mother hears it from him, she'll understand.

He runs through the spiel one last time in his head as he treads the plush carpet. She's perfect. She's funny. We love to walk around naked. She taught me this cool German word, spiel. Around him, every wall is weighted with portraits of his illustrious ancestors. But he's unnerved to discover his mother's not alone. Edward's private secretary, Alec Hardinge, tries to form a smile. But his posture is crumpled, uncomfortable.

Queen Mary, meanwhile, is icily cold. Hardinge was just dropping something off. She nods to dismiss him. Hardinge scurries out of the room, eyes to the floor. Well, how was your holiday? Thrown. Edward can't go through with it. He mumbles about the weather, food, air quality. He's still talking as Queen Mary swans over to a console table and begins unwrapping a bundle of papers.

"'I rather hoped you'd bring this up yourself, but since you haven't, Hardinge thought that I should see them.' Edward internally curses, vows to relieve Hardinge of his duties at once. Queen Mary stiffly places a newspaper on the table. "'Tell me it's rubbish.' The minute he sees the headline, his blood runs cold. "'King to wed Wally.' Queen Mary is trying to read his face. "'Well, Edward, tell me it's nonsense.'

Edward sinks down into an armchair. I'm sorry, Mother. I can't do that. Queen Mary lets out a short, cruel laugh. Stung, Edward persists. Wally isn't a conventional queen, but then I'm not a conventional monarch. And I think it's high time we do away with traditions and marrying for love. And the people will respect. Queen Mary shakes her head. Queen, you must be mad. Wallace makes me so incredibly happy.

Don't you want me to be happy? Queen Mary spits out her words. What about service and duty? Your country? She's standing over him now. Edward has never felt less like a king. This infernal woman will ruin the whole lot of us. You have to make a decision. Wallace or the crown?

This is the first episode in our series, Abdication. A quick note about our dialogue. In most cases, we can't know exactly what was said, but all our dramatisations are based on historical research. If you'd like to know more about this story, you can read King Edward VIII by Philip Ziegler, Duchess, the story of Wallace Warfield Windsor by Stephen Birmingham, The Crown in Crisis, Countdown to Abdication by Alexander Laman,

and Traitor King, The Scandalous Exile of the Duke and Duchess of Windsor by Andrew Lowney. I'm Matt Ford. And I'm Alice Levine. Lydia Marchant wrote this episode. Additional writing by Alice Levine and Matt Ford. Our sound design is by Rich Evans. Script editing by James Magniac.

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