Abdication | The Decision | 2
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Matt, today's episode is high stakes. It's about one choice and the whole country is watching. I hate to do this to you. I think that's the introduction from the Coughing Major series. You're joking. I did actually just copy and paste it. But it kind of fits if the prize isn't a million pounds and is in fact the crown. I think you've taken that from Netflix. It's 5am on the 4th of December 1936. Dieppe, France.

Wallace Simpson peers out across the orange-tinted water. In the crisp dawn light, she can make out the painted houses and masts on Dieppe's waterfront, the ferry's destination. Razorbills swoop and squawk around the boat, which is silent other than the low murmur of its chugging engine. Wallace lets the cool, salty air hit her in the face and for the first time allows herself to take a breath.

Just a few hours earlier in England, Edward had kissed her tear-stained cheeks, held her so close she thought she might crack, and whispered, You must wait for me in France. No matter how long it takes, I shall never give up on you. But as the ferry starts to dock, Wallace is horrified to hear a throng of people chanting on the port side. Voilà, l'adam! It's a while since I studied French. Is that, I would like a cup of tea? It's ta-da! Mrs. Ha, ha, ha!

She can't understand it. All the covert planning, the late-night flit, it's all been for nothing. She rushes below deck where she's greeted with the concerned faces of her two chaperones. Brownlow, the king's gentleman-in-waiting, and Inspector Evans, a surly Scotland Yard bodyguard who Wallace already dislikes. Fraught with nervous energy, she tries to sound commanding, but her voice comes out as a desperate whimper. Now, please, the car. We must get ready.

But strict French border guards are passing back their documentation and shaking their heads. Brownlow explains, apparently we need to register the vehicle at the port. Wallace feels a wave of irritation. How could Edward not have sorted this? At the loading bay, Wallace leans anxiously against the car, her coral-painted fingernails drumming nervously on her thigh. She can see the crowd getting closer, great swarms of them. One girl readies a camera.

- For your head. - The smell of burnt rubber. Camera flashes illuminate the interior.

Her hip phone smashes against the back of the front seat rail as the car bounces over a speed ramp. Then another, momentarily winded. Her face is now flush against Evans' shoe. No man, she thinks, is worth this level of humiliation. She feels a surge of anger as the car swerves right, then left, then tears. Lying there on the floor of the car, staring into the blackness of the footwell, she can't help but think, how on earth did it all come to this?

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So, Matt, are you rooting for Eddie and Wally or not? I find it very difficult to root for any member of the royal family, past or present. But I do have some sympathy for Wally. I think she's being treated very badly. And just this whole view of other people judging who consenting adults can and can't marry feels very old fashioned.

Yeah, it does feel old-fashioned, doesn't it? But there are certainly echoes with what we're still talking about now. The treatment of women and how they disproportionately shoulder the burden of scandals we've talked about before. This media intrusion, the deals that are done with certain institutions and the papers that the public don't even really know are in place. And of course, the rigid aristocracy, which forms the backbone of many British scandal episodes that we enjoy. So at the end of the last episode, Edward was presented with this choice, the crown war.

or Wallace, what do you think ultimately he's going to choose? Given that this story is called The Abdication. Right, sure. This is episode two, The Decision. Two months earlier, the 23rd of September, 1936, Balmoral, Scotland. In the chilly bedchamber, Edward whistles as he does up the stiff buttons on his starched white shirt. His bare feet two-step across the tartan carpet. It's his first time hosting at Balmoral.

Over the next few days, much of the country's nobility, politicians and journalists will be dining and shooting on this estate. A nerve-wracking occasion for any new monarch. But Edward's feeling optimistic because by 4pm today, after three weeks away, Wallace will be back by his side. And Edward will have the opportunity to prove to his mother that together they're the perfect hosts. He's even looking forward to today's official engagement, opening a new hospital in Aberdeen.

Missing me? Good, because I've got a surprise. Managed to get on an earlier train. I'll be with you in 30 minutes. Unless you've got other business to attend.

Well... He begins before he's sure where the sentence is heading. Really, I won't mind. I can easily make my own way to the house or castle or whatever it is. Edward chews his lip. He knows he has duties to attend to, but this is Wallace's first visit to Balmoral. The house will be full of important people, and the only thing they'll be whispering about to each other in discreet corners is Wallace Simpson. He can't let her face the lion's den alone. He just can't.

No, no, I've nothing in particular. Makes a change. Wallace teases. I'll meet you off the train. Edward pulls on a pair of slacks and hurries down the staircase without buttoning the fly. In the wood-panelled dining room, his younger brother, Bertie, is cracking the top of a boiled egg. I'm afraid I need a favour, Bertie, old chap. The hospital opening. You're going to have to take my place. Bertie's mouth is agape.

But they're expecting you. Something's come up. Please, Edward, don't make me do this. All those disappointed faces when they realise it's me, not the king. Tell them I'm still in official mourning for father. Perfect. They'll have to understand that. But you've just been on holiday. It's all over the US papers. Edward ignores him.

Bertie always was such a worrier. What are you doing instead? But Edward has no time to reply. He calls the valet to prepare his Buick and races out to meet Wallace. Positive he's doing the right thing. Edward puts his foot on the accelerator. The countryside, gorse and heather, a faint slither of North Sea in the distance, quickly gives way to the dour granite of the town.

He can't wait to touch her, hold her, inhale her. This podcast is taking a slight turn into erotic audiobook. He pulls up outside the station. He knows he should wait here, out of sight. But at the last minute, wild anticipation grips him. He flings open the car door and half runs across the station forecourt. As the engine heaves its way into the station, Edward runs down the platform, peering into windows, craving the first glimpse of her face.

And all of a sudden, there she is. A fur coat draped over her tall, sleek frame. A teasing expression across her face. I wasn't expecting an escort. I couldn't wait a second longer. Four? But he can see from her face she already knows. This. He draws her into a long, passionate kiss. The smoke, the noise, the crowds. It disappears in an instant. All that matters is Wallis.

But then suddenly, Wallace is pulling away. She seems to shrink, covers her face with her handbag. A weasel-faced journalist shouts over to them with a deep Scottish drawl. Shame you couldn't make the hospital opening, Your Majesty. Lot of people looking forward to seeing you there. I never knew Nicola Sturgeon was a journalist in the 30s.

Edward places a hand on Wallace's back, whispers in her ear, keep moving. But Wallace's voice is fraught with anxiety. He's taking pictures. It's okay. He can't print anything. Not in this country. I've an agreement with Lord Beaverbrook, remember? Our relationship stays out of the papers.

They had an agreement with the king to keep certain details secret. Yes, the monarchy are all powerful. They're managing to keep the floodgates closed. So at this point, Wallace's name isn't in all of the headlines. So the British public are largely in the dark. The only people who know about this affair are people with access to US media. So high society and even then a really small coterie. So this is top secret.

The next morning, Edward's sitting at breakfast, feeling a little worse for wear, when Bertie comes running in. The paper! They know you went to meet Wallace! Edward laughs at his brother's crumpled, anxious face. So? It's not like they can print it. Bertie doesn't reply, just places the paper down in front of him, smoothing out non-existent creases.

On the front page, an article detailing Bertie and his wife opening the new infirmary on account of Edward's mourning. But positioned next to it is another headline. King and Carter the station to meet guests. That's a really clever tactic that papers use. If they're not going to print the story...

They print a story about the person they want to run a story about. And then on the same page, a story related to what they actually wanted to run it about. So when celebrities had super injunctions, there'd be a story about the celebrity that had one about something completely different. And then on the same page would be a story like about infidelity. Really? So that's how they, in the hope that you as a reader go, hang on a minute.

I genuinely never knew that. So subliminally, they're getting in there. How clever. How vile. Yes. How deeply threatening and entertaining at the same time. Edward's stomach lurches. He pushes away his breakfast plate. Please, Bertie. Mother can't see this. Edward's wracked with fear. He can't let his mother discover he's shirked his royal duties. This weekend is his one chance to prove he can have both.

Wallace and the Crown. Later that day, 24th of September, 1936, Balmoral, Scotland. Wallace carefully takes her bottles of Dior perfume, her face elixirs, and her rouge palette out of a Louis Vuitton travelling case. She spreads her silk gown across an ugly floral armchair, hangs her haute couture gowns on the dour wardrobe. But no matter what she does, she can't seem to make herself the least bit comfortable.

Wallace shivers. Her cavernous chambers at Balmoral, next to Edward's, are usually reserved for the Queen. The sober floral wallpaper, the tartan carpet, the four-poster bed with its frills and tassels. When she stands here too long, it feels like it's closing in on her. "Wally, darling, are you ready? The Churchills are here." Wallace composes herself, checks her crisp baby blue suit in the mirror, hurriedly runs a comb through her already perfectly coiffed hair.

After the unfortunate start, she's determined to get the guests on side, to show them that what's written in the American press is a load of baloney. She can't give them any reason to block her marriage to Edward. Wallace checks her face one final time before opening the door to Edward. He nozzles her neck as she passes. Darling, you'll crease the suit. She hurries down the stairs, switches on a smile, throws open the doors to Winston Churchill and his wife with a warm, courteous smile.

She's got no ambition to be anybody's queen, but at least for this trip, she can show them all she's the perfect hostess. Two hours later, the guests are milling about in the sitting room, sipping martinis and awaiting lunch. From the hallway, Wallace hears the rumours abuzz with laughter and impassioned conversation. She feels her heart rate settle, just a little. Is this actually going rather well? She breezes into the room, beaming.

Everybody, lunch is served. Had the cooks rustle up a surprise. You're going to love it, I'm sure. But as guests meander past her, she sees Bertie's rather solid, dumpy wife, Elizabeth, Duchess of York, throwing her what looks like a tight-lipped grimace. All in her imagination, surely. The same Elizabeth, Duchess of York, who went on to be the nation's beloved Queen Mother. And in the corner, Bertie's whispering anxiously in Edward's ear.

Wallace feels her belly twist. What now? The Duke and Duchess of York file out of the room without meeting her gaze. And Wallace is left alone with Edward, who summons a curt, embarrassed cough. Um, next time we have guests, why don't I greet them? Why? What did I do? Stuffy little thing. The King ought to meet his guests personally. You know I don't go in for silly old rules like that, but Bertie and Elizabeth are insisting. Oh.

Wallace tries her best not to look hurt. You're not upset, are you? Like I said, it's such a little bother. She paints a playful smile. It'll take more than that to break me. Anyway, I'm pretty sure I can win them over with lunch. Edward grins. That's the spirit.

But in the long dining room, the guests are staring perplexed at toasted sandwiches. Chicken, bacon, lettuce and mayonnaise between three layers of bread. Club sandwich! Oh God, I hope she did it with fries. Dig in. Elizabeth is already calling over a footman. Would you get cooked to do me an omelette? I think I'd like something a little more usual. Wallace feels anger rise in her throat.

You haven't even tried it yet. I know how you love your food. Elizabeth's expression darkens. What are they, anyway? They're just club sandwiches, of course. They're all the rage back home. But we're not back home, are we? Wallace feels the rest of the table's eyes on her. She fixes her smile. Come on, we're making a scene for our guests. Edward's guests. Oof.

Later on, when the ladies retire to the drawing room, Wallace finds herself suddenly alone with Elizabeth. She watches as the woman draws herself up to her full five foot two height, folds her arms like an angry gnome and whispers, come off it, sleeping in Queen Mary's room, playing hostess. Clearly you already view yourself as queen of the country. But let me tell you, that simply can never happen.

And Elizabeth breezes off into the crowd, leaving Wallace winded. Wallace tells herself all this will be fine once they're married. I'm no expert. Just from the outside looking in, I would say if you're in a problematic relationship, presuming that marriage will solve that problem is not good logic. If you think that the family will be endeared to the fact that you are inextricably linked to them rather than casually linked to them, I think you're being optimistic.

It's two weeks later, the 5th of October, 1936. A gentleman's club, London. Bertie necks a scotch on the rocks, lights a cigarette, and then another. The room's filled with burnished leather, cigar smoke, and snoring lords. He's anxious waiting for Edward to arrive. He tells himself his mother's right. He needs reassurance. He has to know, once and for all, if it comes to it, Edward would never choose that woman over the crown.

There is no eventuality in which Bertie becomes king. A shooting pain grips his stomach. Bertie winces. He's always been unwell. As a child, their nanny had been obsessed with Edward, the future king. Bertie was ignored and starved. Their parents took years to notice. And by then, Bertie was saddled with lifelong stomach problems. It's incredible to think that a child growing up in the most privileged family in the country...

would go hungry. It kind of indicates how much time you are spending with your child to not notice that. I mean, if you spend any time with any children ever, they will tell you frequently if they're hungry and they will tell you very, very loudly. After a painful 20 minutes, two further whiskies and six cigarettes, he finally hears his brother's polished Oxfords clicking against the marble tile floor.

He looks up to see Edward, swaggering over with no regard for his lateness. Wally was showing me her new designs for Fort Belvedere. She really has such an eye for the details. Bertie doesn't respond. A waiter sets down two more drinks. Anyway, how are you, old chap? I must say you look ghastly. Bertie touches his sweaty, pallid cheek, self-conscious. Wasn't Balmoral splendid? Wally was the perfect hostess. Thought of everything.

Bertie can't believe he's talking about the same trip. Balmoral was deeply mortifying for all who attended. A sickly smile spreads across Edward's face. Bertie feels his stomach cramp. Wally should start divorce proceedings next month. That teddy bear Ernest is being a sport and admitting adultery. Some woman in a hotel room. So we should have no problems there. All being well, we'll be wed before the coronation. Bertie has to cough to give himself room to interject. But...

Prime Minister Baldwin? Oh, please. I hear enough about that old bore. He's against the match, isn't he? The Dominion leaders are split. There's a risk of rebellion across the Commonwealth. A time when it's more important than ever for us to stay united. I'm not sure you appreciate what's happening in Europe.

Yes, currently very serious in Europe in the 1930s. The Nazis are basically taking over. So this is what we call in the biz bad timing. The ice in Edward's glass clinks as his hand shakes. He fixes Bertie with a condescending smile. Bertie feels like he's six years old again. How about you leave the politics to the grown-ups? But I'm saying there's no world where you'd pick Wallace. Edward just shrugs.

It won't come to that. Now how about a game of billiards? As Bertie hauls himself to his feet, feeling more queasy than ever, he knows he must speak to his mother. As very soon, his worst fear just might become a reality. Two months later, the 1st of December, 1936, South Wales. Edward smiles as an excited six-year-old girl, frock carefully pressed, feet bare, breaks away from the crowd.

She proudly thrusts a bunch of limp dahlias into his hand. The whole place, the mining village and all the people in it, seem to be smothered in a veil of soot. It licks at the walls of the ramshackle workers' cottages, stains shirt sleeves and lurks in the crevices of weather-worn skin. Edward has a speech prepared for today, furiously redrafted by his advisers for days on end.

But having spoken with the villagers about their employment struggles for almost two hours, he knows he wants to say more than platitudes. As employment and housing are a passion of mine, I want you to know I'm very sympathetic to your plight. Something must be done. Saying that housing is a passion of yours when you live in a palace isn't always going to land well, is it?

I mean, housing's a passion of mine. Look at where I live. Look how many I have. You'd be as passionate about housing if you lived in this gaff. Through the ecstatic whoops and broken choruses of God Save the King, journalists pipe up. What is it that needs to be done, Your Majesty? Perhaps that's something Mr Baldwin should be concentrating his energies on. Instead of your love life, Your Majesty, Edward suppresses a smirk, more or less successfully. So are you going to have an American queen, Your Majesty?

Edward stares, statesmanlike, beyond the heads of the crowd, at a slag heap in the distance. Whatever questions are thrown his way, he deftly deflects them. As he waves farewell to the village and goes to warm himself in the waiting car, he congratulates himself on a job well done. It seems his people, his subjects, really do love him.

But back home at Fort Belvedere, newspaper magnate Lord Beaverbrook is waiting, warming his large hands by the crackling fire in Edward's study. His round, ruddy face glowing red in the flames. Edward meets him with an impatient, questioning gaze, but Beaverbrook takes his time before responding. I have ensured our newspapers keep their silence on your romantic situation out of respect for the monarchy. I'm very grateful.

Edward feels himself getting irritated. He's never completely trusted Beaverbrook. Tell me, do you know Alfred Blunt? Never heard of him. He's the Bishop of Bradford, Blunt by name, and it seems Blunt by nature. Edward coughs, trying to make it clear he doesn't have time for games. But Beaverbrook laboriously unclasps his brown leather briefcase, unfolds a collection of papers and begins reading.

You don't get it. Yeah, I'm just checking that you get it. Yeah, I get it. You get it? Yeah, so just so that I know that I get it. What is it?

There are four clues in there to unlock the next round. He holds the papers out to Edward, who screws them up. He's never been one for religion. What on earth was that? A sermon. Edward scoffs, but Beaverbrook continues. A sermon that has now been published in both The Telegraph and Argus. That's it. The silence is broken. MUSIC

But that... it's so vague. It's not enough, surely? Come on, man. Out with it. You're not going to like it, Your Majesty. I'm not going to like it.

Edward feels a chill run through his body. What little protection he and Wallace had left is gone. So far, he's been able to manage his family, and even that wretched Baldwin.

But after all the uproar in America, Edward knows the press and the public are going to be another beast altogether. He collapses into a large brown leather sofa opposite Beaverbrook, stares at him and all he represents. Edward knows he's a popular king, but he also understands it's no longer just him in the line of fire. He must do all he can to protect Wallace. And if that means fighting back, that's just what he'll have to do.

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Two days later, the 3rd of December, 1936. Ryansden Court, London. Edward pulls back the rumpled peach silk sheets, kisses Wallace on the nape of her neck, inhaling her scent. She stretches languorously. It's good to see her relaxed. The last couple of days have been hell for the woman he loves. The initial media storm was encouragingly civil. The facts, as Beaverbrook had promised, nothing more. But the public outcry that followed was not.

The vast majority of it had been aimed at dear Wally. Threatening letters, caterwauling outside her apartment at all hours. Mark the Herald angels sing, Mrs Simpson's pinched our king. Nice that they've given it a festive twist given that it's December. She's been too scared to go outside. But this evening, Edward managed to slip into her apartment unnoticed. And the two are revelling in their rare moment alone.

Wallace turns over to plant a kiss on his forehead. Shall I ring for coffee? He nods and leans against the dusty velvet headboard as she drapes a silk kimono over her naked body and disappears into the hall. For the first time in weeks, Edward realizes he's feeling something close to happiness. But then he hears a crash, the splintering of glass, followed by Wallace's piercing scream.

Oh my God! The utter bastards! I'm sorry, I'm so sorry!

Wallace buries herself into him and whispers through her sobs. I have to go, Edward. You must let me go. France, maybe? Please. I'm not safe here. Edward is crestfallen. He's not sure he can go through any of this without her by his side. But even he has to admit the risk is just too great now. He feels tears streak across his face. Very well. I'll arrange everything. You'll be out of England by the end of the week.

The following night, the 5th of December, 1936, 10 Downing Street, London. Edward is pacing about the study, staring at the spines of books without registering their titles. His pupils are wide. He pushes his hand through his usually well-oiled hair, now frizzed and unkempt.

He takes a handkerchief out of his pocket and wipes his brow. Goodness, if Wallace could see him now. He barks at the junior advisor, cowering in the corner. Hurry him up, will you? Ridiculous! Keeping his king waiting like this! The man flees the room. Edward drums his fingers on the back of an armchair. He can't wait to tell that jumped-up Baldwin he has a solution to this whole mess. Finally, Baldwin enters the room.

He wears neither a collar nor a tie. We just sat down to supper. Can I help you? No. Edward lets the victory seep into his voice. On the contrary, I can help you. I've got the answer. It's all arranged. I've spoken to the BBC. I'll make a statement. Give my side of the story. Direct to the people. The problem here is the press. They're twisting the story so far from the truth. They'll understand when they hear it from me.

Baldwin attempts a week, your majesty. But Edward's in no mood to be interrupted. And then I'll go away for a while. Europe, it's all arranged. Two private planes under the king's name are waiting at Hendon. And I'll let the people decide for themselves, marriage or abdication. And when they have, Wallace and I will return as man and wife. Edward finishes with a flourish. But when he finally looks over at Baldwin, he sees tears in the man's eyes.

Your Majesty, I'm very sorry, but I'm afraid that's impossible. Edward feels himself fall silent, his own eyes now stinging with tears as the whole terrible realisation hits him. He looks Baldwin direct in the eyes. You... you've made your mind up, haven't you? You want me to go? I'm so very sorry. I never wanted it to come to this. Edward is dumbstruck. He slips out of the room for the first time, unsure of what to say.

and where to go. The following day, 1pm on the 6th of December, Restaurant de la Pyramide, Vienne, France. Wallace sinks into a red velvet bistro chair. Her eyes are ringed with dark circles. Her skin is pale. After a day and a half of travelling, she's now thoroughly sick of Edward's gentleman-in-waiting, Brownlow. His small talk bores her, and now she's desperate for something to eat.

But just as she turns to give the waiter her order, the candle on the table flickers. Outside, a loud noise. Shouting, banging. The walls of the restaurant shudder. Brownlow's face looks grave. They've found us. We have to get out of here. Wallace feels a prick of irritation as Brownlow grabs her roughly by the arm and bundles her down a back staircase. But to Wallace's shock, he doesn't lead her to a door.

but rather the sweaty, bustling kitchen, where a table has been positioned below a single rusty paint-peeled window. Brownlow doesn't give her a second to protest. He's already climbing through the window himself. I'll catch you. Don't worry. But Wallace is already stricken with worry. How on earth has it come to this? She takes off her crocodile pumps, climbs up onto the table, its legs trembling beneath her, and gingerly sticks one foot out of the window.

But last did French communication system! She's alone in France with a man who is clearly mad.

Later that night, Wallis finally arrives at Villa Lavier outside Cannes, curled up, shaking in the footwell of the Buick. As she cautiously pulls the woollen blanket off her head, she can't believe it. The night is alive with camera flashes, armed police and what seems like half the population of Cannes. Her heart lurches with despair. "Why won't they leave me alone?" The car squeezes cautiously through the gates.

The second she hears the engine cut, Wallace staggers out, legs numb and tingling, straight up to her shocked hosts, the Rogers, yet more friends of Edward, and demands to use the telephone immediately. She calls Edward and makes a desperate plea. Don't do it, Edward. Don't abdicate. All this backlash is already too much for me to stand. If you go, it'll only get worse. Please. I can't do this anymore. ♪

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That same night, a gentleman's club, London...

Edward throws two cards down on the baccarat table with such a flourish that half his whiskey spills onto the green felt. Seven. His voice is more than a little slurred. The po-faced banker reveals his hand. Nine. Banker wins. Edward feels his cheeks burn. The players in front of him blur in and out of focus. Embarrassment turns to anger. He places both hands underneath the table and with a rush of adrenaline, upturns it.

What on earth are you doing, Your Majesty? Seemed to have lost my winning streak. Stalks out into the night.

The icy winter air gnaws at his skin. He doesn't care. Edward, where are you going? God knows. Another drink or two. Three? You can't. I can do anything I want. I'm the king of bloody England. That is an argument winner, to be fair to me. And yet when you use it drunk, it doesn't have the same gravitas. Edward finally allows the tears to come.

He breaks into a fast walk down Embankment, swigging his whiskey. Duff tries his best to keep up, a bewildered expression on his face. Edward! But Edward veers maniacally onto Westminster Bridge, leans over the side. She's going to leave me. Wallace? No, she'd never. She can't take it anymore. She told me tonight...

"'What? You or the press scrutiny?' "'It's the same thing. "'She's going through hell because of who I am, "'and she wants it to stop.' "'Edward peers into the churning blackness of the Thames below. "'Duff takes a hesitant step forward. "'Please, Your Majesty, just take my hand.' "'But Edward's shouting. "'There you go. This is the king you want. "'This is what you all want. "'Single, miserable, empty.'

I could jump off right now and I wouldn't give a damn. Duff takes his chance, positions himself between Edward and the bridge railing. No one wants this. This will all blow over. This is not the way. The two drunkenly slump onto the sodden pavement. Edward catches a glimpse of his reflection in the puddle and suddenly sees things clearer than ever. There's no choice to be made. There is simply no him without Wallace.

I've seen men arguing on bridges drunk late at night. The thought that you would ever see the King of England behaving like this is a great leveller. 1pm on the 8th of December 1936. The Queen's private dining room, Buckingham Palace. Edward looks across the table. A luncheon of salmon and potatoes lies untouched. The lemon cream sauce is beginning to congeal. But neither Edward, Bertie nor their mother can summon much of an appetite.

Instead, they sit in heavy silence, waiting for Edward to speak. But as he clears his throat, he catches a knowing glance between his mother and Bertie. Edward recoils in shock. It's never been like this. He's always been the favourite. The looks, the brain, the charm.

It was always Bertie left out of the joke. Oh, how the tables have turned. Patience wearing thin, he presses on. I wanted you to both be the first to know that I intend to abdicate. Queen Mary takes a napkin from her knee, pushes back her chair and stands up without a word. The abruptness of her movements makes Edward falter.

I've looked into all possibilities, but now I feel I have no choice. Good old Bertie will, I'm sure, do a stellar job in my place. Bertie's breathing becomes irritatingly loud. Edward notices a drop of sweat run down Bertie's forehead, watches as he repeatedly fails to light a cigarette.

Edward looks over to his mother, but she stares out the window, lets the silence hang. Edward snaps. Ma, I said... I heard what you said. Her tone remains cold, but Edward hears her voice crack just a little. And nothing has ever brought such humiliation to me, to this family, to this country...

Wally is the other half of me. I simply cannot function without her. I'm sorry to have upset you. Queen Mary lets out a strangled sort of gasp. Upset? My son, the king, is dead. The words sound so ridiculous that Edward has to stop himself from laughing. He stands up, goes to comfort her. You haven't lost me, Ma. Wally and I will remain at Fort Belvedere. Now Queen Mary turns to face him.

Remain in Britain after this? The outcry? The scandal? You and that woman shall have to live in exile. Where? The queen responds lightly. I'm sure one of your little friends on the continent will have you.

But the fort, it's my home. When you are part of this family, when you are serving this country, you don't get to keep all the trappings of royalty and lose the responsibility. What are we to live off? Your personal assets. Edward thumps his fist on the table, his face flushed with fury. Personal? I won't have more than 5,000 a year. It's a slight underestimation, but he wasn't expecting this.

He's still a member of this family, goddammit. A prince. He feels ambushed. Queen Mary simply shrugs. But behind him, Bertie clears his throat. I'm sure we can provide you with some sort of allowance. Edward knows he should feel some gratitude. But the idea of going cap in hand to little Bertie. Damn and blast! You have made your choice, Edward. And then Edward sees this for what it is.

A rash, desperate final attempt to bring him back on side. Determined to not let them break him, he takes a deep breath and stands up. I hope to see you both at the wedding. He goes to kiss his mother goodbye, but to his horror, she backs away. Bertie looks at the floor. I can tell you now, we will not be in attendance. If you betray us like this, you shall never be welcome in this family again.

10th of December, 1936, Windsor Castle. Edward watches nervously as BBC engineers busily assemble equipment, unpacking leads and transmitters from black leather cases. His eyes dart every few seconds between the clock and the small chair before the large condenser microphone. No one looks at him. He grips the mantelpiece to his left as the room tilts before his eyes, his mother's words reverberating in his head.

You shall never be welcome in this family again. This morning, he tried to call Wallace. He needed to hear her voice, feel reassured. But there was an issue with the connection, and they were only able to exchange the briefest of words. He hates being away from her. He hates his family. Imagine not being able to text. Can you picture being in this situation, such a massive life moment, and you can't even send the woman you love a gif?

Quick selfie of him by the mantelpiece. About to do it. There's that little emoji face that's like, tongue out. Just abdicated. He wishes she was here with him now, by his side, where she belongs. Instead, he's alone. His stupor is broken by a door slamming behind him. He turns to see Sir John Reith, Director General of the BBC.

A new fear grips him.

He steadies himself as a technician announces they're going live in three, two, one. Again, Edward glances at the clock. The room falls silent. Wreath begins. This is Windsor Castle. His Royal Highness, Prince Edward. He clears his throat, tries to gather his composure, tells himself this is his time, his opportunity. He thinks again of Wallace, his family. The silence goes on.

Nine seconds. Ten seconds. Eleven seconds. And then, finally, he begins. At long last, I'm able to say a few words of my own.

This is the second 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 Launey. 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. Our associate producer is Francesca Gilardi Quadrio Corzio.

I'm Dan Taberski. In 2011, something strange began to happen at the high school in Leroy, New York. I was like at my locker and she came up to me and she was like stuttering super bad. I'm like, stop f***ing around. She's like...

I can't. A mystery illness, bizarre symptoms, and spreading fast. It's like doubling and tripling, and it's all these girls. With a diagnosis the state tried to keep on the down low. Everybody thought I was holding something back. Well, you were holding something back intentionally. Yeah, well, yeah.

You know, it's hysteria. It's all in your head. It's not physical. Oh my gosh, you're exaggerating. Is this the largest mass hysteria since The Witches of Salem? Or is it something else entirely? Something's wrong here. Something's not right. Leroy was the new dateline and everyone was trying to solve the murder. A new limited series from Wondery and Pineapple Street Studios. Hysterical.

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