Shownotes Transcript
Wondery Plus subscribers can binge entire seasons of British Scandal early and ad-free. Join Wondery Plus in the Wondery app or on Apple Podcasts. Matt, can you just give me two seconds to finish this? Is that alright? Yeah, sure. I didn't know you kept a diary. It's not a diary, per se. Okay. What is it then? Because I can see some words written down there. It seems to be men's names that you're putting scores next to. What's that? Stamina, flexibility, repertoire. Yeah, it's, um...
I guess it's just a bit of a league table. Hang on, my name's on there. Yeah, it's comprehensive, yeah. What's it a league of? It's all of the men that I've podcasted with. Oh, okay. Do other female podcasters do this? Oh, yeah.
And you all swap notes on us? Definitely, yes. Crikey. I can see some of my scores, actually. I seem to be scoring zero on nearly all of them. Honestly, really, just don't overthink it. It's hard not to, really. I've scored ten on something there. What's that? Yeah, I'd focus on that. Yeah, that one is attendance. 2am, November 1962. Upper Grosvenor Street, Mayfair. Margaret Campbell bolts upright in bed.
She squints as she takes in the familiar outline of her mahogany dressing table, her Chesterfield. Everything is in shadow until her eyes come to rest on the half-open sash window. She pulls her gown around herself as she pads across the cold floorboards, slides the window shut. Her breathing starts to calm. She feels herself drifting back off when she hears it again. Without making a sound, she grabs the crystal ashtray from her bedside table.
takes it in her fist, then tiptoes to the door. She has to get downstairs, to the phone. At the top of the staircase, she crouches, strains to hear over the sound of her pulse in her ears. The footsteps have stopped, but just as she's about to step forward, she feels a man's gloved hand wrap around her mouth. The ashtray drops to the carpet. She feels the intruder's face move close, his cheek brush against her ear.
And where do you think you're off to? She freezes. She knows that voice. And the sour, drunken breath it's floating on. She gulps for air as he removes his hand. She wants to yell. To tell him to go to hell. But her voice keeps catching in her throat. Don't worry. I got what I came for. She sees him waggle something above his head as he hops down the stairs. Margaret can't quite make it out in the dark.
But as he opens her front door, she catches a glimpse of it in the moonlight. Her stomach plummets. Her diary. She bounds down the stairs, but she isn't fast enough. Margaret watches helplessly as Ian Campbell, the Duke of Argyle, her estranged husband, barrels into a waiting car. The driver's wheels screech as they take off into the night. She slumps to the ground. That diary contains the name of every man she's slept with in the last year.
times, lengths, locations, positions, preferences. Is this a thing that women do? I thought you'd question lengths. That means durations, I think, of sessions. If even a sliver of that information gets out, it will destroy her reputation and her family. And she knows it'll only be a matter of time before she becomes the most notorious, scandalous duchess in Britain.
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From Wondery, I'm Alice Levine. And I'm Matt Ford. And this is British Scandal, the show where we bring you the murkiest 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 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?
Okay, brand new series for you today, Matt. Last time, you told me about Asil Nadir, someone who was outside of the British establishment and wanted in. Yes, people on the outside always are trying to break into that inner sanctum. But this time, we have someone who was inside, flitting through the very upper echelons of society, but who was then booted out. Oh, is this Prince Andrew? That is a great guess. Although, he's actually not officially Prince Andrew.
been booted out yet, has he? So no, it's not him. But there is an overlap because in this story, there's a very public examination of someone's sex life. Does that help you out at all? Ah, yes. Is it Fergie? By which I mean Sarah Ferguson, not the former Manchester United manager, Alex. Or the black-eyed pea. Indeed. So if this involves toe sucking, then maybe I should line my stomach. No, there is sucking though. It's not toes, however. I don't know if that makes it better or worse. Oh God, I know it is. Is it...
No, not if our lawyers have anything to do with it. He's incredibly litigious. I don't think you're going to get it. And I actually can't afford for the purposes of protecting the show for you to guess anymore. So I'll just tell you before we get sued. Have you ever heard of Margaret Campbell, the Duchess of Argyle? What am I supposed to say here? Because the honest answer is no.
I think you should have lied, but it's too late for that. So let me tell you a bit about her. She was a wealthy socialite who enjoyed a very healthy lifestyle.
Private life. Okay. If I can say that. Obviously, no judgment from Team British Scandal. Nowadays, we don't think anything of a woman who understands her own pleasure. But this story takes place in the 1950s and 1960s when people were somewhat less open-minded, to put it very mildly. Although, it appears that they were completely free and breezy about public shaming, robbery and revenge porn, as you will find out. Well, that sounded like a perv. This sounds great. It's right up your street.
This is the story of a divorce that scandalised the nation and exposed the hypocrisy of the burgeoning sexual revolution. It was an early tabloid sensation that set the tone for celebrity exposés. This has ripples throughout the decades that we have looked at on this show. This is episode one, Divorcee to Duchess. 16 years earlier, 1946, the Strand, London.
Margaret Sweeney bundles up her ball gown, steps out of her Bentley and onto the red carpet. Looking up at the Savoy Hotel, lit so beautifully against the night sky, her heart feels fit to burst. She can't remember the last gala she attended with her husband, Charlie. At one point, she thought she'd never be fully accepted in these circles. Her Scottish father's new money, always looked down upon with slight disdain.
Margaret's worked hard to position herself at the centre of this social milieu. And of course, she knows her looks and marriage have helped secure her place. She smiles as she takes in the champagne fountain. She really hadn't realised how much she'd missed all this. The war put paid to her social life. The few events that had taken place had been such dreary affairs. That really was the worst impact of the Nazis. LAUGHTER
There goes my bloody weekend. Thanks, Adolf. In the heart of the Blitz, Margaret had feared she'd never see the glamour of high society again. But tonight, life is finally returning to normal. She squeezes Charlie's hand in excitement. Entering the grand ballroom, everything is just as she remembers. The chatter, the music, the clinking of glasses. Across the crowd, Margaret sees a friend approach. Margaret, you sly minx! How was Cannes?
They embrace swapping air kisses. But Margaret's puzzled. She hasn't been to Cannes. It suddenly sounded like you enjoyed yourself. Those hotel walls were paper thin. Her frown deepens. Honestly, if I hadn't spotted Charlie popping up for air now and again, I'd have never have known you were there. Oh, no. She turns to look at Charlie, but he stares at his feet. Don't be bashful. God, I'd love it if my husband still tossed me round the room like that.
Doesn't sound like it was fun. You're really telling on yourself. Sounds very tiring, like somebody might get hurt. Yeah, it sounds like you've been dancing at a ceilidh or something. You're like, done a wrestle. Margaret cannot bear to hear another word. Champagne! I think a drink is in order. Excuse me. She pushes past Charlie, carves her way through the crowd. The buzz of the party around her is becoming overwhelming, making her dizzy. She presses past the bar and clatters out of the fire exit.
Margaret, wait. I... I was rehearsing for a ceilidh and I didn't want you to have to dance like that, OK? You promised it was over, Charlie. You... I expected to make allowances while the war was on. But my God, Charlie, now...
After all I've been through? After the... Margaret's lips pinch shut. She tries to form the word, but her stammer stops her from saying, miscarriage. She holds up a hand, signals for a taxi. When I think of all the men who asked me to marry them, princes, earls, movie stars, and I turned them all down for you, that used to make me proud. A cab draws up. Margaret slips in.
Sleep where you must tonight, but I don't want to see you in the morning. Collapsing into the back seat, Margaret refuses to cry. If she starts now, she might never stop. And she's already wasted far too many tears on Charlie Sweeney. But no more. First thing tomorrow, Margaret is going to pay her lawyers a visit and file a petition for divorce. 18 months later, Margaret's flat, Upper Grosvenor Street, Mayfair.
Margaret clips her voice as she insists for the third time there must be some mistake. Could you check again? Under Margaret Wiggum. She's on the phone with Buckingham Palace. The Queen Charlotte ball is fast approaching and she's banking on it being the event to relaunch her in society circles. The line falls quiet. Perhaps I should be clearer. Palace Protocol dictates royals not socialise with divorced persons at official engagements.
There's no invitation forthcoming, Miss Sweeney, under either name. I see. Good day. She slams the phone down, walks to her sofa, grabs a cushion and starts thrashing it against the backrest. Bastards! This divorce was supposed to be liberating, but so far it's been anything but. Friends disappeared, phone calls dried up, invitations forever getting lost.
The establishment had never really wanted her, and they jumped at the first chance to get rid of her. Margaret flops onto the sofa as her one remaining friend, Diana, comes in. Fifteen years I've attended that ball. The bloody life and soul of it, too. Diana sits, offering her a cigarette. I should have had Charlie killed. I'd at least get some sympathy as a widow. She puts the cigarette between her lips. Would have been a damn sight cheaper for Daddy, too.
Margaret takes a long, deep drag. I honestly can't bear to think how thoughtless I must have been during your divorce, darling. No idea how beastly those toffs could be. She feels Diana's hand on hers. Well, there is one silver lining. Margaret tilts her head, curious, as her friend reaches for her handbag. Seeing as you've been officially excommunicated...
She furrows her brow as Diana produces a small card. It looks exactly like the invitation she's been expecting from Buckingham Palace. Only, it isn't. It's a list of all the microwave meals for one you can now have. You don't have to buy or cook for two anymore. Forget Charlie Sweeney. Now you can have Charlie Biggum. What is this? An invitation to your new life. Margaret looks at it closer.
Every time the Bluebloods throw a party they won't let us into, we host a little alternative soiree. And I think it's going to be exactly what you need. She sees a devilish glint in Diana's eye, and Margaret feels it speaking to a long, dormant part of her soul. If the establishment no longer wants her, she can't pretend not to be upset. But damn them if they think she's just going to shrivel up and die quietly.
She's no longer playing by their rules. Margaret Sweeney is going to make a new life for herself. Two weeks later, Knightsbridge. Margaret brushes down her ivory satin gown, takes in the townhouse's grand white stucco facade. She's surprised by the butterflies in her stomach. She feels Diana pat her arm in reassurance just as the door opens and their squealing host grabs her by the wrist. Darlings, quickly, you're just in time.
She's ushered through into a crammed drawing room. About 40 men and four other women stand shoulder to shoulder, everyone's eyes fixed at the same point on the floor. Margaret stares down in confusion. She wonders what sort of party Diana has brought her to, as she stares in disbelief at two small but anatomically detailed wind-up copper penises balanced precariously on a chalk-drawn starting line.
She stops a little squeal on her lips, clutches her pearls. I actually just thought that was a saying. I didn't think people actually did it. I guess that's where the saying comes from. This very moment. Which one do you fancy? She turns to find a devastatingly handsome man talking in her ear. Maybe five years her junior, and she feels a nervous tingle in her stomach. Well, I suppose both look good to me. She tilts her head, sees a playful grin creep across his face.
Diana was right. This is exactly what she needs. Look, you're going through a divorce. You've been rejected by high society. What you need is a wind-up copper penis. Sort of fight club, because that's what it feels like.
A sort of clandestine betting circle, you know, like illegal boxing matches. A cockfight, if you will. Oh, my God. And is that where that comes from? That is where it came from. They used to do it with wind-up copper penises. People were outraged. They did it with cockerels and people were cool with it. She grips her champagne flute as the penises are set loose and the room erupts in cheers. But Margaret's focus stays fixed on this stranger...
until she feels a hand touch her hip and she turns to see another man, equally handsome, equally captivating. Excuse me, but are you the Margaret Sweeney from the song? She rolls her eyes. Cole Porter once included her in the lyrics to one of his songs as part of a rather unflattering rhyme.
And what was it? He wrote in Anything Goes a little ditty called You're the Top. And it was all about things that were best in their field. So one of the lyrics was, you're the Nile, you're the Pisa, you're the smile of the Mona Lisa. Lovely. Oh, very nice. And when it transferred from Broadway to the West End, he updated it for a British audience. And the rhyming couplet that Margaret was included in was, you're Mussolini, you're Mrs. Sweeney.
I mean, Mussolini had some fans, but they were in small number and I don't think that's seen as a positive thing. You're like, just have another go. Happy to be in it, but can we maybe brainstorm what I'm compared to? Because I liked Pisa. I liked Mona Lisa. Margaret replies, I am, but I promise I'm nothing like Mussolini. The second man smiles. Shame. I rather like a dominant woman. Dance? No.
She takes the hand of one handsome stranger, then another. Before she knows it, hours have passed, and she's been in the arms of this latest man for five straight dances. She nestles her head into his chest as they sway. How on earth did that swine, Charlie Sweeney, ever fumble a prize like you? She looks up into his eyes and grins. I'm very easy to fumble.
Pushing onto the tips of her toes, she places a kiss on his lips. The feeling as he kisses back is electrifying, a sensation she hasn't felt in years. Giddy with the attention, she makes herself a silent vow. She's done with monogamy. There's a whole world of men out there for her to enjoy. She's rich, beautiful, single. And she won't ever let society shame her again.
Six months later, Gardiner, Paris. Captain Ian Campbell smiles at the conductor, pats down his jacket, slips a hand into his right pocket, then pulls out a fistful of papers. His seat reservation for the Golden Arrow to London and a few loose betting stubs. This is obviously pre the Channel Tunnel. You go to Gardiner now, you can get a train straight to London. So what was the Golden Arrow? This is your all-inclusive ticket. This is your train ferry train.
It's all timed perfectly and you just get to hop from one leg to another. It's an integrated transport policy. It's what we love on this show. He winces. He lost a small fortune at the races yesterday. The only thing those bloody donkeys earned him was another fight with his wife Louise. He's glad he's been summoned to Scotland. He can't stop thinking how neatly this inheritance solves all his problems. Inverary Castle is a thousand miles away from his crumbling marriage in Biarritz.
And best of all, he'll become Ian Campbell, 11th Duke of Argyle. He just needs Cousin Niall to hurry up and peg it. He drifts off, picturing the lavish new life awaiting him, when a dazzling flash snaps him back to reality. Outside the carriage, a gaggle of reporters is yelling questions, taking pictures. Confusion floods him. He wasn't expecting tabloid attention, especially not in France.
But things become clear when he sees the familiar face taking the seat opposite. Well, I'll be damned. Maggie Wiggum. He hasn't seen Maggie in over a decade. He's stunned to see she looks no different. A sight that makes him feel every one of his 45 years. Captain Campbell, my gosh, how on earth are you? Almost entirely awful, thanks. You. I like him.
I really like that. Rather than going, yeah, everything's great. God, smashing it at the moment, crushing it at work. I love it when people go, actually, a bit of a mess. Yeah, I've ruined everything. But, yeah, good to see you again. You like that, do you? People admitting that things aren't going well, we need more of that in life, don't we? I agree, except when it's like a drive-by hello. And you're like, hey, how are things? And someone's like, wife left me. You're like, oh, all the best. See you soon. Call me. What's your number? Oh, I don't have time for this.
No wonder she left. You're annoying. I'm going to have to leave you now. I've got to get the train. You don't read the room, Brian. That's why she's with your brother now. Margaret tips her head towards the reporters. Read tomorrow's papers. You'll find out. He smiles. He read a report of Maggie's loose new lifestyle in his wife's tattler. I was sorry to hear about your divorce to old Charlie. Margaret shrugs. Actually, I wasn't sorry at all. The man was a drip.
She laughs. Most men are, in my experience, good for one night and no more. Best thing that ever happened to me, my horse. Liked it so much, in fact, I'm thinking of doing it again soon. Margaret raises an eyebrow, lights a cigarette. Oh, if it's not too personal, what happened between you and your first wife? I did like Janet. Ian smirks. Funnily enough, you did. He smiles as she looks up, her eyes widening.
It was in Café de Paris, 1931. You came walking down that huge staircase and I nudged Janet and said, see that girl, Jan? I'm going to marry her one day. I think I've gone off him now. I haven't. In front of your wife going, she's all right, isn't she? I'm swooning. Might marry her next. I like a bad boy. Margaret splutters out a surprised laugh. She never forgave me.
Through the cigarette smoke, he sees a naughty sparkle in her smile. Ian grins. And in that moment, he realises. He let Maggie Wiggum slip through his fingers once before. He's not going to let it happen again.
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Two months later, Margaret's bedroom, Mayfair. Margaret wriggles her way up the mattress, brings her back to rest against the velvet headboard, carefully slips the lid from her Montblanc pen and opens her diary, runs a finger slowly down the list of men's names, then stops when she reaches Campbell. With a gentle stroke of her pen, she places another mark next to it, a nine.
I wonder what the criteria, what the marking scheme is, basically. Because, you know, I would probably, as a SWAT, perform to the mark scheme. You know, if I know how I'm being graded, I want to get full marks. So, yeah, I'm going to do what's required. Yeah, and then afterwards, little nod to the judges. LAUGHTER
Some people would just never give a ten, would they? Because they'd say, well, in a way, perfection doesn't exist, so then nine is the highest you can score. Or, would she say, that genuinely was a ten? Poor Ian. I mean, he's trying his bloody hardest, he's probably completely out of puff, and all he can get is a nine. A nine for that? I could have suffocated to death and I got a nine. This is rigged.
Looking at the tally, she notes the considerable lead Ian's been building these past few weeks. When she hears him holler from the bathroom... Jesus Christ! ...he swaggers back through in his shirt and pants, toweling his hair. How many mirrors do you have in there? Every time I take the old chap out for a squirt, I'm surrounded by a thousand reflections of that damn thing. Margaret smirks. Lucky you.
What are you writing? Another heroic night of lovemaking with the stallion Captain Campbell? Margaret snaps the diary shut. It's private. She squeals as he dives onto her, kissing and nuzzling her neck, trying to prize the diary from her grip. But she's not letting go. No, if you must know, I was looking to see what parties you could take me to.
Ian rolls off her, picks his trousers up from the floor. Ah, as much as I'd love the world to know I'm boffing Maggie Wiggum, it's hardly becoming of a duke. Boffing! Fantastic. Great word. Bring it back. I'm a big fan of bonking, both the action and the word, but boffing is even better. An ex-colleague of mine used to use the word tonking. Tonking!
She's off tonking, you know, every once in a while. Tonking? Sounds so metallic. We're like Tonka toys, I guess. We associate it with big trucks. Margaret feels her face scrunch. So I'm good enough for a captain to cheat on his wife with, but not up to scratch for a duke. Is that it? She gets out of bed, pulls on her dressing gown. No, it's just there's certain conventions.
She's sick of these double standards. I can tell you firsthand, these toffs are all at it behind each other's backs. Utterly depraved the way some of them carry on. At least I'm honest about what I want. But isn't she being a bit hypocritical because she is a bit depraved and she's also a toff.
Well, she is and she isn't. She is absolutely new money. Her father was a self-made millionaire. She grew up in New York. She didn't really have any of the necessary indicators of breeding, even though she went to finishing school. So she kind of talks the talk. She was obviously in a marriage that would give her that status. But even more so than now, as we know from previous series of British Scandal, she's
If you're not the real deal, you're very quickly rejected from these elites. This is so funny because to the rest of us from the outside looking in, she's as posh as the rest of them. And yet when she gets a real high society, there is a barrier through which you cannot pass if you're not from the right family. Ian pulls her towards him. I'm not saying I can't see you again. I just have to be careful. I am still married. And after the funeral tomorrow, I'm going to be an actual fucking duke.
Margaret smiles. She knows the spite she's feeling isn't really directed at Ian. Listen, why don't you come up to the castle next week? We'd have the place to ourselves. We can swan about like king and queen. Skinny dip in the loch. You can show me how all those filthy toffs behave. Margaret titters. Give me a few days to deal with the handover. Polish my piles of gold. Then I'm all yours. What do you say?
Margaret promised herself she'd only take lovers for the odd night. Nothing as involved as this. But she's starting to like this Ian Campbell. And an invitation to christen a castle and defile its newly appointed duke, that's far too tempting to turn down. Two days later, in Verary Castle...
Ian paces the floor of the castle's drafty drawing room, partly to stay warm, mostly to work out the anxious energy building inside him. How horny is he? He needs a good tonking. Then there's the matter of death duties, sir. Ian spins round. There's more?
Bloody hell, is everyone trying to skin me to the bone? Property taxes, upkeep and insurance, staff salaries, an endless parade of leeches bleeding him dry. How much? The accountant gives a feeble cough. Um, 500,000, sir. The figure hits Ian like a sack of wet sand. I can quit. Fuck my old boots. He just can't understand it.
How is inheriting this huge castle, a whole dukedom, putting him in more debt? Selling some land might provide short-term relief, but a more sustainable option might long-term be to renovate the estate into a working historical attraction. If they want money, tell them I'm dead.
Ian slumps in a chair. It'll be a bookie. Ever since the papers announced he'd become Duke, they've all known where to find him. Your Grace, a Mrs Mussolini for you. Calling with congratulations? Ian frowns as he takes the phone. Mussolini? Come on, Ian, remember the song, mate. Come on, my darling. Argyle speaking.
At the sound of Margaret's voice, Ian's mood soars. He shuts his eyes and thinks of her. Ian sinks back into a reverie, but he isn't imagining Margaret wearing her negligee.
He's picturing her buying it in Harrods. He can't even afford to settle his Harrods account right now. He'd almost forgotten Maggie is the only daughter of a filthy rich fabric tycoon. Love that that's what he's focusing on. Yeah, I bet you paid for it with cash as well, didn't you? He flicks a playing card with his thumb as his eyes settle on the pile of unpaid bills. He starts to wonder whether he might be able to have his cake here and eat it too.
Two days later, in Verreri Castle. Margaret's eyes widen as her cab pulls up outside. She takes in its bold, gothic magnificence. Ian greets her on the gravel. He ushers her into the atrium and she gasps at the sight of it. Twirling around slowly, she basks in its grandeur. She can hardly believe her good fortune as Ian wraps her up in a kiss before taking her bag from her. Let me give you the tour. I have a surprise for you.
She lets Ian take her hand, follows as he leads her through the stunning grounds. She takes in the immaculate lawns and then the sparkling water and shoreline of Loch Fyne. And a picnic basket, overflowing with cold lobster, smoked salmon, oysters. Dug out our finest bottle from the dustiest corner of the cellar too. She never realised Ian could be so romantic. She collapses on the rug.
softens as Ian excitedly runs through the offerings of his seafood feast and lets herself relax into the warmth of the afternoon. Two hours later, she smiles as Ian pulls out a blanket and places it around her shoulders. How about a fire and single malts? She's surprised to discover how much she's missed this kind of intimacy. She'd always considered her relationship with Ian as primarily sexual.
But here at the castle, things feel different. Ian feels different. It's not just sex, it's seafood and whiskey. All the three components you need for a functioning relationship. Shellfish, single malt, tonking. She raises a hand to Ian's face and kisses him passionately. Wood smoke and whiskey fill her senses as she moves onto his lap.
When they eventually break apart, Margaret smiles a slow, sensual smile. Ian reciprocates. Careful with them. I could get very used to this. The words make Margaret's heart flutter because she's thinking the exact same thing. Six days later, in Verary Castle, Ian's bedroom. They must be knackered. Red raw. Margaret wakes in a warm sunbeam, stretches luxuriantly.
rolls over to greet Ian, but is met by an empty pillow. Confused, she sits up. She sees Ian stood by the window, his back to her. Ian, is everything all right? You can have a break. This is why it's different for aristocrats. Working class people had to go to the mill or the mine. They couldn't do six-day sessions like this. Oh, this was the dream of early socialism. LAUGHTER
It's without working people to have six-day tonkathongs, just like our rulers. She sidles up to him, slips her arms around his torso, rests her head against his back. Darling, you're scaring me. What's the matter? Ian slowly turns to face her. His expression is stern, but his voice is soft. Marry me. Margaret steps back, her mouth open. What? What?
He takes her hands, puts them to his chest. ''You think us aristos should be honest about what we want?'' ''Well, here you are. I want you to marry me.'' Margaret staggers, unsure her legs will hold out. ''That could be because of the six days.'' ''Well, quite.'' ''I've spent this week watching how happy you are here, how much you suit this castle, and I honestly don't know how I could spend my life in this place without you. I want you as my duchess.''
You are married. And you hate marriage. We both do. Ian sighs. I know. But up here, things could be different. We'd have everything we'd ever need. Away from everyone else. We could make our own rules. He was really ahead of the old devolution curve there. Margaret can't think what to say. You'll want time, of course. I'll leave you to think.
He steps out. Margaret watches him go, shell-shocked. She shuffles to the bathroom, splashes her face with freezing water, stares into the mirror. She can't deny it. She'd be happy here. And of course she's thought about it, being a real-life duchess, shooting straight back to the top of the social ladder. With one simple word, she could have it all. Her old life back, but better. The temptation is intoxicating.
But it's insanity. There's no way she can say yes. It's far too complicated. She resolves to go and let Ian down gently, only to be met by him standing at the foot of the staircase, holding the biggest ring she has ever seen in her life. A Clan Campbell heirloom, to show I'm serious. Margaret stares at it. Its sparkle is hypnotic. She owns plenty of jewellery, but nothing like this.
She can feel her finger gravitating towards it. It feels reckless, but it also feels right. She cannot believe she's about to say yes to this, to marriage, to the castle, to Ian. But she is. Margaret Sweeney is going to become a duchess.
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Wondery's award-winning podcast that's now streaming on a TV near you, starring Michelle Williams and Jenny Slate. And to top it off, we're dropping brand new bonus episodes where I sit down with the cast to spill all the spicy secrets.
desire, friendship, self-discovery, and the ultimate bucket list of pleasure. This is a story that had everyone talking. Listen to the original Dying for Sex and brand new episodes on the Wondery app or wherever you get your podcasts. You can binge the original series before anyone else and completely ad-free on Wondery Plus.
In 1976, a Georgia native, Navy veteran, and peanut farmer named Jimmy Carter won his bid for the presidency. What Carter didn't know then was that the next four years would be the most difficult he could ever imagine.
Hi, I'm Lindsey Graham, the host of Wondery's podcast, American History Tellers. We take you to the events, times, and people that shaped America and Americans, our values, our struggles, and our dreams. In our latest series, we explore Jimmy Carter's time in the White House, from his unexpected presidential victory as an outsider vowing to clean up Washington, to his remarkable diplomatic breakthroughs and legislative accomplishments on energy, education, and the environment.
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Two years later, in Verreri Castle, Margaret Campbell's heart swells with joy as her new husband, Ian Campbell, 11th Duke of Argyll, carries her over the threshold. A cheer goes up from the waiting estate staff as they kiss. Welcome home, Your Grace. Margaret can't remember ever feeling so happy, and she's in the mood to keep celebrating. I have something to give you in the bedroom.
Margaret, I can't walk. It's been 14 days on the trot. Let me replenish on some level. I'm on a drip. She raises an eyebrow as Ian slips off his jacket. Or on the landing, if you really can't wait. But her face drops as she sees him walk to the boot room. Maybe later, but we should make the most of the daylight. The roof has arrived tomorrow and I want to be ready. I know people joke about the sex drying up in marriage, but...
That's immediate. That honeymoon period was literally the journey from the church. Margaret blinks, flummoxed. Rufus? Tomorrow? Can that not wait until after the honeymoon? Ian looks at her quizzically. Darling, this is the honeymoon. He kisses her cheek, handing her a pair of Wellingtons. Everything I want is right here.
Margaret had had visions of a European motor tour, around the world cruise, as Lady Campbell. Not wellies and her own back garden. Don't be absurd, Ian. We have to have a honeymoon. We've got the rest of our lives to rebuild this place. Ian starts pulling on his boots. We're not frittering money on jollies. I want this place on its feet as soon as possible. I do too, darling, but really, after all that's happened, I think we could stretch to a little holiday. Okay.
He shakes his head. Sorry, Maggie. You're a duchess now. And a duchess has duties. She goes to protest. Then stops. She knows how prickly Ian gets about money. She doesn't want to start a fight. Especially when the solution is so simple. She's certain her father would gladly pay for a honeymoon. Cover those expenses Ian's so twisted up about. It's been a stressful few years for them both. What with Ian's divorce dragging out.
Maybe a modest advance on her inheritance could let him enjoy a few well-deserved luxuries too. He's given her so much, it's really the least she can do. She peers down the corridor, then picks up the hall phone. Hello, Daddy. It's me. Cupping her hand around the mouthpiece, she turns to face the wall. I need to ask a favour. Eighteen months later, in Verreri Castle, 9pm.
Sat in his private study, Ian stares at the statement in his hand. A hot, clammy sweat rises up his neck. £1.8 million in debt. And nothing coming in to stem the losses. This was back then. This is mega debt. 48 and a quarter mil in the red. It's over. Just declare yourself bankrupt. Burn the place down.
He snatches up a decanter, trickles its dregs into a glass, then downs it. The familiar scorch of the whiskey calms the storm for a second. He'd assumed he'd be sharing a bank account with Maggie when they married, but her father objected, insisted on keeping things separate, and Daddy's word is law. It's humiliating having to beg his wife for pocket money every week. MUSIC
Ian drags himself onto his feet and trudges downstairs. He finds Margaret in the library, writing checks for the contractors. He's about to speak when Margaret cuts across him. Darling, there you are. I have a question. She begins rummaging through a pile of receipts. There's an outstanding bill in here for £4,000 in your name for fur coat? Oh, that. Yes, that was a gift for...
Louise. Ian's heart almost stops when she pulls it up, his eyes snagged by the bright red overdue stamp. He watches her expression shift. Louise, your ex-wife, Louise. Ian's mind reels. He can't tell Maggie the truth, that he gambled away his son's school fees for next term, so he's having to keep their mother sweet with expensive gifts bought on credit. Ian, what is going on? Is there
Something's still between you, Ian winces. Of course not. No, it's just something I owe her. Margaret stares at him. It's silly. It was agreed in the divorce. He hopes his poker face is holding out. In the divorce? But wouldn't it have been in the official paperwork? He cuts in. Christ, Maggie, I didn't follow all the ins and outs. Louise insisted she has the right clothes. I feel exhausted just thinking. He sees her soften.
She turns back to her chequebook. Well, I would prefer to settle this quietly. No sense in making it any more unpleasant than it already is. But this has to be the end. You're not to speak to Louise again. Understood? Ian takes the cheque she's offering, sees it's written out to him for £4,000. I mean it, Ian. I will not be made a fool of again. Promise me. Ian looks into her eyes. If that's what Maggie needs to hear, then that's what he'll tell her.
I promise. He walks over and gives her a kiss, but not before making sure that she's signed the cheque. Three months later, in Verreri Castle, 10am. Margaret stands at the castle door. Here's guests arriving outside. She and Ian are due to give the inaugural grand tour in two minutes, but there's no sign of him anywhere. She twiddles her pearls. She looks around at the stunning transformation.
She's worked tirelessly on this restoration. She hears lumbering footsteps behind her. It's Ian, hungover and shabby. Where have you been? Ian avoids her eye as she paces towards him. Getting ready. He looks astate, his kilt squiff, his sporran sagging.
She pulls him close to neaten him up. That's how you know when a Scotsman's sad is that his spore and sags. It's like when orcas' fins bend over. But it also happens with age. Come on, it's our big day. Let's go and make the clan proud. Margaret steps out to greet her public. And in that moment, waving out to the applauding crowd, she truly feels like a duchess. A feeling that instantly sours when she spots an unexpected face.
Louise, wearing a mink coat. What the hell is she doing here? Ian continues waving, his smile fixed. Jesus Christ, Maggie, not now. What do you mean not now? You promised me you'd never speak to her again. I'll give you four grand. And she's here, in that coat. She couldn't have worn a cagoule? She's provoking me. She's not heard of Berghaus or Superdry? No.
Before she can respond, he addresses the crowd. Thank you all and welcome to Inverary. If you'd like to follow me, we'll start in the armory. Ian leads the guests through, but Margaret doesn't leave his side. Did you invite her? She has no right to be here. Ian presses forward. Yes, I did. And yes, she does. She has every right. Every right? Ian, what the hell? But Ian snaps back.
Christ, Maggie, she's the one who's going to end up here after all. The words stop Margaret dead in her tracks. What? After I'm gone. She looks at Ian in confusion. When Ian Jr. takes the title off me, Louise is the new Duke's mother. We'll be expected to move in. Oh man, this is awful. Margaret feels her stomach hollow out. This is as much her castle as ours. She cannot fathom what she's hearing. And what happens to me?
Ian shrugs. Well, I'll be dead, so I suppose that's Louise's call. Margaret is absolutely blindsided. You know how this whole thing works. But Margaret had no idea. At all. She'd just assumed she'd inherit Ian's estate as his widow. She definitely didn't know his ex-wife stood to take everything out from under her. Her eyes drift over to Louise. That coat. Then back to Ian, chatting blithely away to guests.
All her work, all that money, he was just going to let it go. To Louise, she feels her blood start to boil. There's no way she's going to let a second husband rob her of the life she'd mapped out for herself. Not now she's clawed her way back to the top. She is the Duchess of Argyll. She is going to get this castle. And she won't let anyone stand in her way.
Follow British Scandal on the Wondery app, Amazon Music or wherever you get your podcasts. You can binge entire seasons early and ad-free right now by joining Wondery Plus in the Wondery app or on Apple Podcasts. Before you go, tell us about yourself by completing a short survey at wondery.com slash survey.
Hey, I'm Cassie DePeckel, the host of Wondery's podcast, Against the Odds. In each episode, we share thrilling true stories of survival, putting you in the shoes of the people who live to tell the tale. In our next season, it's February 14th, 1979. Elmo Wartman and his three children are stranded on a remote Alaskan island after a massive storm destroys their sailboat.
Miles from help, they have to face the brutal cold with barely any food, only a sale for shelter, and a leaky plastic dinghy. Desperate to survive, they build a raft and try to reach safety. But as starvation and frostbite take hold, and days stretch into weeks, their endurance is pushed to the limit. Follow Against the Odds wherever you get your podcasts. You can listen ad-free on the Amazon Music or Wondery app.
From Wondery and Sammersdat Audio, this is the first episode in our series, The Dirty Duchess. 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 The Grit in the Pearl by Lindsay Spence, The Duchess Who Dared by Charles Castle, and you can watch A Very British Scandal from the BBC and Amazon. If you've got a scandal you'd like us to cover, get in touch with us.
British Scandal at Wondery.com. British Scandal is hosted by me, Alice Levine. And me, Matt Ford. Written by Chris Lockery. Additional writing by Alice Levine and Matt Ford. Our story editor is James Maniac. Sound design by Dan King. Our engineer is Jai Williams. For Samistat, our producer is Redzi Bernard. Our assistant producer is Louise Mason. Our senior producers are Joe Sykes and Dasha Lisitsina.
For Wondery, our series producer is Theodora Leloudis and our senior managing producer is Rachel Sibley. Executive producers for Wondery are Estelle Doyle, Chris Bourne and Marshall Louis.
In the early hours of December 4th, 2024, CEO Brian Thompson stepped out onto the streets of midtown Manhattan. This assailant pulls out a weapon and starts firing at him. We're talking about the CEO of the biggest private health insurance corporation in the world. And the suspect. He has been identified as Luigi Nicholas Mangione. Became one of the most divisive figures in modern criminal history. I was targeted.
premeditated and meant to sow terror. I'm Jesse Weber, host of Luigi, produced by Law & Crime and Twist. This is more than a true crime investigation. We explore a uniquely American moment that could change the country forever. He's awoken the people to a true issue.
Finally, maybe this would lead rich and powerful people to acknowledge the barbaric nature of our healthcare system. Listen to Law and Crime's Luigi exclusively on Wondery Plus. You can join Wondery Plus in the Wondery app, Spotify, or Apple Podcasts. At 24, I lost my narrative, or rather it was stolen from me. And the Monica Lewinsky that my friends and family knew was usurped by false narratives, callous jokes, and politics. I
I would define reclaiming as to take back what was yours. Something you possess is lost or stolen, and ultimately you triumph in finding it again. So I think listeners can expect me to be chatting with folks, both recognizable and unrecognizable names, about the way that people have navigated roads to triumph.
My hope is that people will finish an episode of Reclaiming and feel like they filled their tank up. They connected with the people that I'm talking to and leave with maybe some nuggets that help them feel a little more hopeful. Follow Reclaiming with Monica Lewinsky on the Wondery app or wherever you get your podcasts. You can listen to Reclaiming early and ad-free right now by joining Wondery Plus in the Wondery app or on Apple Podcasts.