Lady Annabel Goldsmith

Lady Annabel Goldsmith left us last week at the age of 91. During Jane Austen’s time, their roles would have been reversed. She would have been Darcy, with Mark Birley and Sir James Goldsmith as Elizabeth Bennett. Both her husbands were wellborn but of inferior birth to her. I met her about sixty years ago, and she was as aristocratic as they come, and as down-to-earth as her puckish irreverence would take her. A quick smirk and a raised eyebrow would turn into something prurient and funny.

Her two great loves were the two men she married and her six children. Her bad luck was that both men were terrific womanizers. Good women—and she was among the best—are known to forgive womanizers because womanizers tend to adore, understand, and worship their wives. I happen to be speaking from experience.

I had the sad duty to write about the death of her firstborn, Rupert, off the African coast back in 1986 in The Spectator. She wrote me a thank-you note that was heartrending in its beauty and elegance. Rupert was the best-looking young man in England, and he and I became close buddies after I threatened him with a baseball bat. “Never come within fifty yards while I’m with a girl,” I warned him. He wrote and sent me books when I was staying with the Queen 41 years ago. I had the same problem with Zac many years later. Another great looker-I could not find the bat so I offered money.

Annabel’s temperament was almost oriental in its outward impassivity. Civility and basic respect for others were a must with her, but she was subtly provocative and had a wicked sense of humor. Wonderfully mischievous, she enjoyed revving it up when the Austro-Australian Princess Michael would complain about me at Annabel’s annual summer party. Annabel would listen to the Austrian, then seek me out, come very close, and whisper: “The Kents simply adore you.”

Her summer party, by the way, was the last of its kind. Annabel’s bash in her large and magnificent garden in Richmond mixed a few brainy types, journalists of the better kind, her young brood and their friends, a couple of dukes, playboys and politicians, and a rogue or two. Annabel had Lady Thatcher and Sir Dennis as regulars, and she made sure no lefty type embarrassed them. Not that there were many lefties around her house. She made a special effort for Lady Thatcher’s dinner neighbors; they had to be intelligent above all. The food and drink were as good as they get, and in all the years I attended I cannot remember a single one that was rained out.

Asked by her son Robin what exactly Marie-Christine of Kent had against Taki, her reply was curt and to the point: “Does the ham like the knife?” She did better with Claus von Bulow, who was an old friend of hers before he was accused of trying to murder his rich wife in America. Claus was found not guilty on appeal. Old jokes by John Aspinall and Jimmy Goldsmith about Claus had surfaced, and the know-nothing press was writing terrible things about him. Claus’ godfather was not Goering, and he was certainly not a necrophile. “Aspers” had spread that particular tale because some had found Claus rather boring, so he “decided to give him some exotic glamour.” Oh well.

Gossip writers, especially left-wing ones, are notoriously petty and know very little, and took some of the outrageous jokes seriously. Poor Claus had been run out of New York because of his conduct during the trial—he had moved his mistress into his wife’s Fifth Avenue apartment, shocking the Yanks. Once back in London, not every door was wide-open to him. But Annabel’s certainly was. He was an old friend. I was there when she gave a coming-home party for him. It was a hot sunny day, we were all in our summer whites, and Claus was beaming as Annabel had her arm entwined with his, taking him around and introducing him. What he didn’t see was her other arm-index finger, to be exact—pointing to a large yellow pee spot on Claus’ trousers, in case anyone had missed it. It was a scene out of a Marx Brothers movie.

Annabel tended to befriend men and women who had many redeeming vices. So-called bad boys and naughty girls were never snubbed by her, but harsh, aggressive women spouting stupidities were not her cup of tea. Today’s so-called society hostesses suffer from an unquenchable craving for publicity. Annabel was the exact opposite.

Her grandest love and passion were her children, a rare trait among women of her class, but perhaps, like Rick in Casablanca, I’ve been misinformed. Robin, Jane, Zac, Jemima, and Ben will now face life without her. They will find it tough, but time will help.

What remains for me are those whispered memories of our youth and good times. She stood out in this heedless society of ours.

Goodbye, dear Annabel, and as we Greeks say, may the earth that covers you be soft.