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Ruth Longford | @BHTravel_
Aug 26, 2022

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Former prime minister and 20th-century statesman David Lloyd George reflects here with Frances Stevenson, his longtime secretary, and mistress. It is 1943, the year they were married Ruth Longford.
A political mistress and her legacy of love.
My grandmother sometimes spoke to me about the past, knowing that I planned to study history at university. Her mother had brought her up to expect that after a short period of respectable employment she would marry. At 23, Frances felt trapped as a language teacher in a girls school, and so she began training herself in typing and shorthand, hoping to become a journalist. Instead, she became a secretary to David Lloyd George.
Frances spent the summer of 1911 with the Lloyd George family, coaching the youngest daughter. She liked them all but was particularly dazzled by Lloyd George, at his peak politically as a reforming Chancellor of the Exchequer. At the end of the summer, Lloyd George continued to invite her to do small translation jobs for him. Finally, he asked her to become his secretary but explained that he could work with her only if he made her his mistress as well. A difficult choice, she went away to consider it.
Lloyd George then wrote that an insider-trading scandal over Marconi shares was about to break, and he needed her during that crisis. Feeling needed to be a persuading factor for Frances, and from then until the end of her life she was Lloyd George’s most ardent and loyal supporter.
From the seclusion of a small girl's school, Frances moved to the heart of world events. Over the weekend when the British Cabinet debated whether to enter the First World War, Frances stayed with Lloyd George because his wife, Margaret, preferred to spend a great deal of time at the family home in Wales. Frances, unlike Margaret, loved to pamper people and create a beautiful and comfortable home. And for many years, she had no children to distract her. Lloyd George’s daughter Megan became a bitter enemy when she discovered that her former tutor was having an affair with her father, but even she admitted that being with Frances was “like sinking your feet into a thick pile carpet into which you sank your feet gratefully.”
Frances Stevenson’s credentials to accompany Lloyd George to the Versailles Congress of 1919. Lloyd George’s visa for his prewar visit with Adolf Hitler. The author’s mother, Jennifer Stevenson, and her nanny enjoy a carefree day. Jennifer toddles along beside Lloyd George. At age 12, Jennifer poses with Lloyd George before returning to school.
One poignant story I remember was about Ignacy Jan Paderewski, the Polish prime minister, and former concert pianist. He was asked to play the piano for relaxation one evening after a long day of discussion, and he said that he could not. According to him, if he did not play for one day, he noticed the difference; two days and his critics noticed; and if he did not play for three, his public noticed. Since he had not played since the start of the war, his refusal to perform prompted Frances to sit down at the piano instead, and she entertained the guests—far less skillfully, but well enough for everyone to sing along.
Lloyd George was faithful to neither his wife nor his mistress, but Frances nonetheless kept her position with him, always putting his interests first—even above those of the child she eventually chose to bear him at the age of 40. Frances and Lloyd George’s daughter, Jennifer Mary, was born on October 4, 1929.
Jennifer felt loved by both Lloyd George and Frances but, although they did visit her, she lived separately from them and was brought up mainly by nannies. Though relations between mother and daughter were never easy, I, Jennifer’s daughter, loved my indulgent grandmother uncritically.
At university, I was able to use my inside information to write a dissertation about Lloyd George and his controversial attitude toward World War II. Winston Churchill, to Lloyd George’s intense chagrin, once suggested that Lloyd George might emulate Vichy France’s Premier Henri Philippe Pétain and collaborate.
Indeed, Lloyd George was publicly pessimistic about the outcome of this war, and only too aware of how close to defeat the British had been in the First World War. He was horrified by the alliance Adolf Hitler managed to broker with Josef Stalin in 1939 and saw Britain standing alone and ill-prepared. Hitler’s mistakes, and Japan’s causing the United States to enter the war, were lucky for Britain. After meeting Hitler in 1936, Lloyd George had not expected him to make mistakes.
During the depression of the 1930s, Lloyd George yearned to do what Franklin D. Roosevelt was doing in America, or indeed what Hitler was doing in Germany—invest in schemes that would put people back to work. He traveled around Britain campaigning for votes to support his own “New Deal,” and just as he had copied the German insurance schemes for his reforming innovations in 1906, he went to study what Hitler was doing to restore Germany’s economy in 1936.
No one outside Germany in the ’30s fully understood the lengths to which Hitler would go. Lloyd George had no idea of how far Hitler’s tyranny and control were already beginning to reach, but he did condemn Hitler’s anti-Jewish stance. He thought it was wrong and wrote forcefully to that effect in a magazine called The Standard in April 1937.
Lloyd George was 76 when World War II began. He was not fit enough to work as he had in World War I, but he did make a significant contribution. When Neville Chamberlain appealed for loyalty from the House of Commons, Lloyd George stood up and said: “He has appealed for sacrifice…. I say solemnly that the Prime Minister should give an example of sacrifice because there is nothing that can contribute more to victory in this war than that he should sacrifice the seals of office.” Chamberlain resigned the next day, and Churchill became prime minister.
On June 19, 1940, Lloyd George was asked to join the Cabinet, and he refused. My mother wrote to him from school begging him to reconsider, and asking why he was staying out when his contribution was so vital. Lloyd George replied that he was unhappy with the way the war was being fought and felt he would be powerless within the current Cabinet. He probably thought he should stay available to provide alternative leadership if required. In the meantime, as he aged, he became happier to spend time on his farm in Surrey.
In 1945 Frances, left, and Jennifer, 15, stand in the doorway of Ty Newydd, the house where Lloyd George died.
In 1941 Margaret Lloyd George died, and in 1943 Frances finally became Lloyd George’s wife and publicly nursed him through his final illness. He died in 1945.
For the 30 years, she was a widow, Frances’ greatest pleasure was still talking about David Lloyd George, explaining his ideas and helping historians in any way that she could. She set up a museum about him in Wales and, as an old lady, she brought history alive for her granddaughter.
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Style | The Houseboy Wanted to Serve Me. I Tried to Oblige.
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The Houseboy first messaged me six months ago on the online dating site OKCupid.
“Hi,” his message said. “I am a houseboy. I will clean your house, or anything else you want me to do. I expect nothing in return. I like serving strong, confident women. I also like women who smoke.”
I have always loved the absurd, and this scenario seemed too strange to pass up. I wanted to meet this man with a housecleaning fetish. And, frankly, I wanted a clean apartment.
I had joked with friends about how great it would be to have a manservant, someone who would clean, do my dishes and laundry and all the other things I hate doing. I’ll happily degrade him, I’d say. I’ll throw olive pits at him. Whatever turns him on.
“I’m a strong, confident woman,” I wrote. “I need my apartment cleaned. When can you come over?”
We started messaging and then texting. Although most of our interactions were fetish-related, there were moments of intimacy. Sometimes, at night, he’d ask me how I was doing.
“I’m O.K.,” I’d say. “Kind of lonely.”
I had been single for nearly four years, and it was easy to confide in this stranger who already had made himself so vulnerable to me. Although our exchanges didn’t always make me feel better, it was still nice to know someone was rooting for me.
Even so, I told him not to tell me his name. I thought he would like it better if I just referred to him as the Houseboy. After all, I wanted him to get something out of the situation, too. If his fetish was to serve a woman who would boss him around and make him feel worthless, I would try to play the role. His fantasy didn’t work if I didn’t play along, and I wanted to hold up my end of the bargain.
We set up a date for him to come over and clean. But at the last minute, he backed out.
“I’m sorry,” he said, “but I’m broke. I don’t even have subway fare. I could ask my dad for it, but I don’t think he’ll give it to me.”
A friend said, laughing, “He needs to get a real job as a houseboy to support his houseboy fetish.”
I tried twice more, and both times fell through. I didn’t hear from him again until I started my YouTube series.
“Ladies of Leisure” was something silly I thought up when I was drunk. It was a simple premise: I would sit in my bathtub, drink martinis and sing karaoke. Sometimes I would smoke cigarettes.
I posted a few videos on YouTube. My friends thought they were funny. I thought they were funny. That was all I thought would happen.
And then, I got a text from the Houseboy.
“Your videos are really good,” he said. “I bet they would go over well in the smoking fetish community.”
Over the next few days, people started following my YouTube channel. They had names like “AshtraySlaveNY” and “SmokingFetishVids.” I had gone viral. Except the people watching my videos were people who got turned on by watching me smoke.
“Are you right- or left-handed?” the Houseboy texted me.
“Sometimes you smoke with your left hand. You’d look more comfortable if you smoked with your right. It would be hotter.”
“That’s not really the point of the videos,” I replied.
I started to lose interest, but he kept texting me.
“Do you need a chauffeur tonight?” he would ask.
Or, “When are you going to put out a new video?”
Or:, “I want you to use me as an ashtray. Let me be your pig-slave.”
And then, I needed a lamp. And some wineglasses. And Ikea is in Red Hook, which is a hassle to get to. So I texted the Houseboy.
“It’s your lucky week,” I wrote. “I need a ride to Ikea.”
“I want to,” he replied, “but I don’t have money for gas. I know it’s not very slavelike to ask for gas money. But I’m broke.”
“That’s fine,” I said. “Cheaper than a cab.”
We made a date for a Friday at 2 p.m. Two o’clock passed, and then 3. I called him, trying my best to be domineering.
“I’m on my way,” he said. “There’s really bad traffic.”
Twenty minutes later, I called again. “Where are you?”
“Close. Ocean Avenue and Parkside.”
Finally he showed up, around 3:45. I walked outside to meet him, and saw a man waving at me from a red Toyota.
Perhaps I should have been scared, but I wasn’t. I was looking forward to seeing what this man, this Houseboy I had been talking to for months, would be like in person. I felt I already knew him. I walked over to his car and opened the door. The Houseboy was overweight and had long dark hair with streaks of gray. As I had already known, he was in his early 40s.
“Do you know how to get there?” I asked, trying to be cold.
“Yes,” he said. And then, “You’re really pretty. I couldn’t see your freckles in the videos.”
He started driving. Although I was trying to play the part of the cruel, confident woman, I couldn’t help but make friendly conversation.
“Yeah,” I said. “But not particularly religious.”
“What do you think about Israel and Gaza?”
I sighed. “I honestly don’t know if it can ever get better,” I said. “There are thousands of years of history there. Everyone hates each other too much. And no one is willing to compromise.”
He responded with an educated, nuanced take on the situation. I was surprised. I knew the Houseboy was kind, but I didn’t expect him to be so smart. After all, he lived with his father and couldn’t even afford subway fare.
When we got to Ikea, I told the Houseboy he could push my cart. He agreed, thanked me and went to get one. I led the way, walking two steps ahead of him through the assorted goods in the Ikea Marketplace. Occasionally I stopped, picking up bowls and wineglasses. I needed a new comforter. I needed a lamp for my room.
We checked out. I swiped my credit card, put my stuff back into the cart and walked out of the store, the Houseboy at my heels. He loaded my haul into the back seat of his car, taking care to put the fragile things on the floor where they wouldn’t break.
“You’re not going to take the B.Q.E.?” I asked, when we drove by an entrance to the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway.
“I’m afraid we might get stuck in traffic,” he said. “And then we’d never get off.”
When we got to my neighborhood, I gave him directions back to my building. He parked across the street, and I loaded things into reusable shopping bags to carry up to my apartment. The Houseboy offered to help me take them upstairs.
“O.K.,” I said, handing him a bag. “That’s me over there.”
I opened the door to the building. We walked up two flights, and I unlocked my apartment. I put my bag down on the floor, and the Houseboy put his down, too.
“I have gas money for you,” I said. “How much do you think? Twenty?”
“Oh, no,” he said. “Eight, at the most. Honestly, I’ll probably just give my dad six, and keep the rest.”
I gave him $11. We stood awkwardly, a few feet away from each other. It seemed strange to hug, but doing nothing felt uncomfortable, too.
“Thanks,” I said, and I opened the door to let him out.
“It was a pleasure serving you,” he said. “I hope you call me again.”
He started to walk out the door, but stopped and turned around.
“By the way,” he said. “You seem really nice.”
I wasn’t sure if that was a compliment, coming from a man who wanted to be abused. Maybe I should have been meaner. Maybe I should have made him take the B.Q.E. Maybe I should have lectured him on Gaza, interrupting him when he tried to give his perspective.
“I’m a little bit of a princess,” I often say.
And, “I like to get what I want when I want it.”
But the Houseboy saw through me. I wanted to give him what he was looking for: I wanted to dominate him, boss him around, make him feel bad about himself. But in the end, I couldn’t. When it comes down to it, I’m uncomfortable throwing olive pits. I’m not good at calling someone names, or ignoring his presence. I just want a friendly ride to Ikea with a smart guy who can talk intelligently about Middle East politics.
I guess I’m nice. But my apartment is still a mess.

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