by Karen Harper
No, it was the heat of need and even desire, the desire to be protected and loved. It was regret that I had not told this dear man why I held back, why I had asked for a marriage without the marriage act and for the cold process of conceiving our children without sexual intercourse. But my silence had been not only for my shame, but for my desire to protect his feelings for his hateful brother. And what would Bertie have done if I had told? Called David out to some sort of modern duel? Cut him off forever?
As if he’d read my panic, his arms came hard round my waist from behind, and he bent to kiss the nape of my neck, then slid the tip of his tongue down my backbone to the top of my slip. Though still feeling flushed, I shivered. Now? Now in the rush of preparing for a visit from Winston’s war information chairman? Now, when I could have been killed this morning?
“I could not bear to lose you,” Bertie whispered against my skin and tightened his arms, moving them up to just under my breasts, then gently cupping my left breast through my garments.
“Or I you. That’s why it frightens me so that you still say you are going over to visit the forces in France. Your visit to Italy was different, because it seemed farther from the heat of . . . of the action.”
“But I will be back. I will be back, and we will go on, as a family with our dear girls—and together, my love. But for now this war must come first. We’ll go to my office to wait for Bracken and his bad news as soon as I button you up.”
Button you up, his words snagged in my brain as he let me go and went about his task. My breast, my entire body tingled. Surely, he thought I had been too buttoned up in our marriage, certainly in our lovemaking or lack of it, and that was entirely my fault. Yet he had put up with it, honored me, needed me, and cherished me. I still wasn’t certain when—or if—I would tell him about his dear David’s cruel attack years ago, but for the first time in years, since life in these times could be so short, I longed to atone for his empty bed.
* * *
“The war room generals have already dubbed the new rockets ‘doodlebugs,’” Brendan Bracken told us as we sat in Bertie’s office a quarter hour later. “Actually, they are a form of buzz bombs called V-1 rockets, pilotless, that get over the Channel in record time and can obviously be controlled, we think, at least approximately, for targeting.”
With a shudder, I put in, “The whine or scream before the sound cuts out is as horrifying as the blast.”
“The prime minister calls them terror weapons. The numbers of dead are not in yet, but there will be high casualties. We can only pray our bombers or the advancing Allied forces soon get to the bases from which they are being sent. Then, sadly, though this is top secret from the public too, we have picked up some information there will soon be mobile launch bases for such hellish rockets in The Hague, the Netherlands, for an even more advanced rocket that can clear the Channel in something like four minutes.”
“Too fast to be intercepted or shot down?” Bertie demanded.
“We will try, of course, sir. They are working on that straightaway.”
“But,” I put in, “you said some of this is top secret too. You didn’t mean secret from our citizens? How could something this beastly and obvious be kept from our poor people who finally had hope we were winning since the D-Day invasion?”
“I need to explain that too, ma’am. Astute of you to pick up on that. Until we can promise to intercept at least some of them, we feel we must keep the public in the dark about the news of these Wunderwaffen, these wonder weapons. We will claim that there were gas line explosions that created the noise and destruction.”
“Ridiculous!” Bertie said, rising from his desk chair. “They arrived in daylight. They have been seen!”
I should have kept silent and let him handle this, but I could not. “I agree!” I insisted. “Shall we start lying to our dear citizens who have already given and suffered so much? And then tell the truth later—or they will surely find it out and recognize it themselves—that they have not been trusted to take the truth?”
“The point is, Your Majesties,” Brendan said, tugging at his tie as if he might hang himself, “they have been through so much and these are diabolical and deadly. Just for a few days until—”
“I repeat,” Bertie said, “nonsense! Rumors and the truth will spread. I counsel against this and will phone Winston at once.”
“Brendan,” I said, my voice more quiet now, “I speak my mind here, which the prime minister has encouraged me to do. I lived through a close call today from one of these deadly doodlebugs, if that must be their cute name. It shrieked unlike any plane or bomb I have heard, and I have heard plenty of them. It then cut to a deadly silence followed by a dreadful blast. It was unlike the bombs the Luftwaffe rained on us before, for I have heard them too. So have our dear, beleaguered people who have been through the Blitz, and they will know their government is lying to them and that may break the bond of unity.”
“Well said,” Bertie put in. “Brendan, tell whichever general came up with this idea—for I cannot believe it was the prime minister—that the queen’s close call will be reported to the newspapers with her impressions of this so-called wonder weapon, and we hope that official news releases will not be filled with fakery. The signs and mottoes have boasted ‘England can take it,’ and she—we—can.”
“I’ll head back immediately with that advice, Your Majesties,” Brendan said and, looking abashed, quickly bowed his way out.
We collapsed into each other’s arms. “These new weapons are terrible news but for one thing,” Bertie whispered. “They show Hitler is panicked. He sees the handwriting of the Allied victory on his bloodstained, European wall and fears he cannot stop our forces there—so he does this here.”
I nodded and held him closer, proud we had stood together on this. Advise and consent was really the duty of kings and queens, but we had come out stronger than that. I felt too that I must do something special before Bertie risked himself by going to France to support our fighting troops.
Sadly, we must both make out wills, which we had been hesitant to do, as if it would be bad luck. And I must somehow make my way to Bertie’s bed and blast apart my too-long celibacy before something happened to one or both of us.
* * *
We both finally faced the possibility of our deaths, more than we had let ourselves do before. We made out our wills, and I made a separate one about the division of my personal jewelry. Someday, our dear and dutiful daughter Elizabeth would inherit all the royal tiaras, the diamond bracelets, and the ropes of pearls stretching far back to the first Queen Elizabeth. So I made certain that Margot, our spirited, go-getter Margaret Rose, had a good share of personal family items.
Lilibet was not happy to hear what we were doing, but she was old enough to understand. I promised her that she could go with me to see her father off at the airfield tomorrow evening when he went on an inspection tour of our forces in France.
That last night before the day he would leave was torment. I wanted to say so much to him, so over a late private meal after the girls were in bed, I did.
“Bertie, you are not going for long, but I shall miss you. I cherish our time together, the family we have made.”
We were in my sitting room, both tired, both distraught that the attack of the V-1s had continued, taking lives, destroying property and hope that our island was now safe since our soldiers were attacking the European mainland. At least Winston had agreed with us, insisting on a turnabout of plans to tell our citizenry the truth about the so-called wonder weapons.
As ever, I deeply regretted that the war had taken such a toll on Bertie. He looked thinner, so tired, and his persistent cough sometimes wracked him.
Yet I talked on, holding his hand, sitting close to him, while he listened raptly, looking almost dazed. His eyes seemed to glow with warmth and love.
“My beloved,” he whispered, “tell me the truth. Do you have some sort of premonition about these coming days we are apart? That I
might not return, that another robot rocket might strike near you?”
“No, I . . . I have no premonition but a hope about these hours we have left before we part. That you might hold me, that I might love you—as I have not for far too long.”
His eyes widened, and his lower lip dropped.
“I will lock the door,” I rushed on, “if you can help me to undress. You did a fine job with my clothing earlier today. And since we both convinced the powers-that-be we are against fakery, let me say, I love you and want you—want you to love me, really, man and woman, husband and wife.”
He nodded and blinked back a tear. He pulled me to my feet and into his hard embrace. We walked, almost danced toward the door to my bedroom, before he remembered to run back to the hall door and lock it firmly.
“If I don’t call for Bessie, I think they won’t come,” I told him as we walked together into my bedroom and he locked that door too.
“I hope this night lasts for a long time,” he whispered, tugging my hand as we walked toward the bed with its sheets turned down.
I trembled in his arms and my voice shook when I whispered, “And after you come home, I hope that our love lasts for our forever.”
Chapter Thirty
Warrior Queen
Late afternoon the next day, Lilibet and I accompanied Bertie to see him off on his trip to Normandy. He had promised he would not be on the battle line but would meet with the generals and encourage the men, especially those wounded. Our destination was the RAF Northolt aerodrome in Ealing, so we only had just a tad over ten miles to drive. Despite our nervous chatter, I could hear a ticking clock in my head. God forgive me, and I had told no one, but this looming separation weighed heavily upon me, though last night had eased my guilt somewhat.
“Mummy, did you hear that the American magazine called Time has written that my uniform marks the first warlike garment to be worn by an English queen since the days of Boadicea? It sounds as if they know a bit of English history, doesn’t it?”
Bertie blew out a puff of smoke. “Ancient history, perhaps,” he answered for me. “Yet it rather sounds as if they don’t know a fig about current affairs, as you are not quite queen yet.”
“I didn’t mean that part of it, and pray I will not be for many, many years. Remember when Margot finally realized I was next in line, she said, ‘Poor you.’ I’ll bet that was because she saw how hard it is to be king or queen too. I am just glad to serve until that sad day, and—oh, sorry, Mummy, because I know you are on edge about Papa going over to France with all that fighting.”
Although she sat between us, Bertie reached across her to squeeze my hand. “Talk about warrior queens,” he said. “Your mother defends and protects me, you know. She’s the warrior here.”
We smiled at each other across Lilibet as she glanced from one of us to the other. I thought of a line from his D-Day speech to the nation and Empire: The queen joins me in sending you this message. She well understands anxieties and cares . . .
How true those words, truer than he knew, for although I had unburdened my secret about my birth mother to him, and although we had truly slept together for the first time in years, I still had not told him how David had abused me. But was that attack my fault? I had pursued the dashing Prince of Wales as had so many others, and so was I to blame as much as—
“Almost there,” Lilibet said. Bertie squeezed my hand again and let go as we motored through the guarded gates. I noted a great deal of runway and very few aeroplanes, but then, no doubt they were in battle.
We were driven out to the waiting Lancaster bomber that had been redone inside from a fighter to a carrier. “Come in with me,” Bertie said before he stepped outside the motorcar. “Let’s all take a look at what they have done to the interior for my tour.”
Bows and salutes, officers’ names, meeting the pilot and copilot followed. Such brave, fine young men, and so many like them in the air fighting for us even now.
In the cabin of the aeroplane, Lilibet tried out the seat Bertie would use while I looked around at the décor. They had laid a carpet in the aisle and had arranged a desk for him and a nice galley. Ashtrays, so they knew him well.
I went forward into the cockpit, gazing at a maze of equipment and dials, then glanced out the window to try to get an idea of what the view would be.
And . . . and, coming straight for us, downward in a slight arc with its shriek muted, was one of those damned V-1 rockets I’d seen in photographs since my own close encounter. How could they know we were here? Would they try to kill the king before he could fly over to France?
I screamed and pointed. Bertie bent to look, his chin on my shoulder as our pilot guide squinted out into the setting sun.
“Down!” he shouted. “Both of you, down!”
“Lilibet,” I screamed, “get on the floor!”
Bertie shoved me down and dove back into the cabin, yelling, “Get down. A rocket coming straight for—”
The rest of his words were drowned by the screech I had hoped never to hear again. But it veered over us, silent now, and then came the blast and shudder of the plane, of my very soul.
Bertie came back to help me get up. “Lilibet’s all right. Are you? And don’t think this is some sort of sign. I will be all right. And,” he whispered, “the vows we made to each other for truth and unity and love last night—not even war or death can ever change that.”
Those last words paraded back and forth through my brain as we bid him farewell and waited by our motorcar—with one eye to the sky for more screaming rockets—as the Lancaster carrying Bertie took off into the evening sky. Unity, yes, we had both promised as we joined our bodies for the first time since our honeymoon, when I had claimed—Lord forgive me—that I was ill. But I had vowed the truth to him, and now here he went off to war. I had not told him all the truth, not one word about David and me.
“Mummy,” Lilibet’s voice broke into my agonizing, and she reached over to take my arm. “You’re biting your lip until it is almost white. Time will pass fast. Especially since you, but I too, will be busy filling in for him as Counsellor of State, and doing all those visits. He’ll be all right, you know he will, however tired and even ill he seems sometimes. I rather thought he was a bit jolly and jaunty today and you too before that beastly bomb. I know how that feels, really I do, for when I receive a letter from Philip . . . well.”
Well, indeed, I thought. This perceptive young woman had picked up on our sudden shift to a special joy from our newfound intimacy. What would I do without her, and Margot too?
I waved, although the aeroplane was a mere dot swallowed by the grey eastern sky.
* * *
One of the most rewarding and exciting events I attended while Bertie was in France—from which he wired me encouraging notes—was visiting the Second Battalion of the Home Guard under the command of my dear brother, that is, half brother, Mike. It had to be the Home Guards for him since he had been wounded in the Great War, which burdened him with physical disabilities and caused him to be rejected by the Army for medical reasons. I greatly liked his wife, Betty, so I promised I would write a report to her of how things were going under his command.
Just like poor, dear lost Fergus, Mike was a favorite to me of my five older brothers. Before he suffered from shell shock and a head wound and was a prisoner of war, he had been a tease and a great deal of fun. He was a bit solemn now, but then the formal occasion demanded it. Despite how bravely and loyally he had served Britannia before, I knew he longed to be with our fighting forces.
I had seen him so seldom lately that I did not care how formal this occasion was. As we walked together toward his assembled Home Guard volunteers I was to inspect, I took his arm.
“Is it true the king is over there?” he asked without turning his head, so only I could hear.
“He’s in his element when he is with our men. General Eisenhower always says the same and calls the American soldiers and airmen his ‘boys.’”
&
nbsp; “Father’s not well.”
“I know. He’s never gotten over losing Mother.”
“Life’s losses . . . Yes, but we go on. We Bowes Lyons have backbones of steel—from Mother, though she knew how to bend, have fun, and enjoy life. We carry on, no matter what, you especially with all your challenges and burdens, my dear-sister-Majesty,” he added and squeezed my arm against his uniform before I gently, regretfully pulled it back.
Ah, a little hint of the old joking Mike, from before our family’s losses, before that first war they dared to call “great,” though that just meant “large.” So, I decided then and there, this was great war the second, an even larger, horrid, hellish war.
* * *
As busy as I kept, I missed and feared for Bertie terribly. In a way, I felt I had only begun to make amends. Perhaps it was because I had not completely cleared my conscience yet, or perhaps it was because I had recently been to a spate of funerals of friends.
One of the V-1s—for I refused to call them by their doodlebug nickname—had hit between the palace and Parliament during a Sunday-morning service and had obliterated the Guards Chapel and some of our friends. Others in attendance were people we knew and had entertained in better days.
I was told the nave of the venerable chapel had been demolished but the altar was so completely untouched that several candles still burned to light the carnage as the rescue workers swept in. Sixty-three servicemen and -women and fifty-eight other worshippers were killed and scores more injured. I had not sent a message to Bertie on that, for he was seeing enough Nazi slaughter on his own. But to be in church, praying for victory and peace, and then to be obliterated seemed especially wrong.
And here I sat in church this morning at St. George’s Chapel at Windsor with Margot and Lilibet while the bishop prayed for those lost souls, our servicemen and -women and the nation. As I peeked down at the order of service on my lap, the words blurred. As stoic as I strove to be, especially in public or with my girls, a tear slipped out and then another to wet my lashes. If I blinked, I would give myself away with slick cheeks.