Lady Clementine

by Marie Benedict

His scolding tone infuriates me, as does his use of my formal name. I am not his child. Does he really think that I will disappoint him? Has he forgotten how hard I’ve prepared these past three years to work alongside him? Throughout my two pregnancies and confinements, I’ve continued to study the stack of political tomes and daily newspapers that he assembled to fill in the patchy education I had before attending Berkhamsted. During the freer periods in between, I’ve chiseled away at my natural reticence—my sometimes crippling nervousness, in fact—by honing my speaking skills, first campaigning for Winston and later meeting with labor groups on his Liberal endeavors. All this while entertaining in the manner expected of the president of the Board of Trade and later the home secretary, serving the expensive Pol Roger champagne for which Winston has a penchant, no matter the strain on my tight budget, on half the income promised for these roles and a dwindling stream of royalties