by Rhys Bowen
“At least it’s better than the other stag we were offered,” I said in a low voice. “Can you imagine wanting to give us a stag’s head? It’s about the worst present I could imagine.”
“No, it’s not.” Darcy looked up from the next gift he was unwrapping. “This one takes the cake, I believe.”
He held up an oil painting. It was of a house and gardens, daubed in bright primaries as if painted by a six-year-old child or a clever chimpanzee. A woman with a parasol was strolling among roses on one side—at least I think that’s what it was. As oil paintings go it was absolutely hideous.
“Who is it from, do you think?” I asked and went to see if there was a card attached to the paper.
“I don’t need to look. I already know,” he said. “It’s my great-aunt Ermintrude. She believes she is a gifted painter and sends the family paintings for special occasions.”
“Oh heavens, we won’t actually have to display it on a wall, will we?”
“Only if she comes to stay, which she probably won’t, given that she lives in Yorkshire and no longer likes to travel.”
“Phew. That’s a relief. Wait a second. Don’t open any more until I’ve written this down. We have a lot of thank-you letters to write.”
“And also a lot of presents to hide in an attic until the giver comes to stay—then we’ll have a desperate rummage for them and display them in the appropriate setting,” Darcy said, holding up a rather awful purple vase with green vines curling up the sides of it and a giant red hibiscus on one side.
“What makes people think that a young couple would want to start out life with things like these?” I asked. “It would be so much more sensible to give us things we’d actually use like bed linens and teapots.”
Darcy grinned. “I rather suspect that they are objects stashed away in their own attics, maybe former wedding presents that they never liked. We’ll wait until someone else gets married and we’ll pass them along to continue the everlasting cycle.”
“Darcy, I’d have to hate someone an awful lot to give them that vase,” I said. “Perhaps it can accidentally get broken during shipment?”
Darcy laughed. We opened more packages. Some were quite baffling. One aged relative had sent one silver spoon. One.
“Perhaps she means it to be a christening spoon in advance,” Darcy suggested.
But some were actually nice, and useful. Silver fish knives and forks, pastry forks, a Royal Worcester coffee set, crystal brandy glasses, an Irish linen tablecloth big enough for the table at Eynsleigh. I was touched that the king and queen had given us a beautiful ormolu clock. This was a gift to your great-grandmother at her wedding, the queen had written. I stood looking at it in awe. I knew, in theory, that Queen Victoria was my great-grandmother, but having an object that had actually been given to her on her wedding day somehow meant that the connection was real.
It took us until we had to change for dinner to work our way through them all.
“I’ll telephone Carter Patterson in the morning and have them come and pack them up and ship them to Eynsleigh,” Darcy said. “We’ll have to see what Sir Hubert actually wants to use and display.”
I went to say something but he added, “I know it’s officially your house now but as long as he’s around I think we should tread carefully, don’t you?”
“I quite agree. But I think he might welcome some of these. A lot of his good silver was stolen by that awful gang and probably won’t be recovered.”
“Good. Then we can put the stag on the dining table.” Darcy gave my shoulder a squeeze as we went up the stairs.
* * *
NEXT MORNING THE moving company arrived to pack and ship right after breakfast.
“So we’ll be off, then, Fig,” I said. “I’d like to be back at Eynsleigh before the presents are delivered.”
She looked distraught. “But you can’t leave now, Georgiana. You absolutely can’t.”
Fig, actually wanting me to stay? This was something new. Then she added, “You promised to help me select my ensemble for the palace garden party. You are there so often. You know what is worn. I, on the other hand, hardly ever have a chance to mingle with the royals, except when they are up in Scotland and it’s always Highland dress anyway.”
I took pity on her. I had known that feeling so often—worrying about what to wear, knowing that I didn’t possess the right sort of dress, that other women would be in Paris creations while I wore something run up by the gamekeeper’s wife. Now, thanks to my mother and Zou Zou I did own some smart frocks.
“Silk or lace, I think,” I said. “And probably long.”
She shot me a despairing look. “Silk or lace? I own a couple of calf-length summer dresses but that’s about it. It’s never warm enough for summer clothes at Castle Rannoch.”
“You could wear what you wore to my wedding, Fig,” I said. “That looked very nice.”
“Did you really think so?” She went rather pink.
“Oh absolutely,” I lied. She had chosen a cerise-colored two-piece that had not actually enhanced her pasty white skin or gingery hair.
“Not a little too formal, do you think?”
“I don’t think one can be too formal for Buckingham Palace,” I said. “Maybe not such a big hat. It might get in the way at a garden party—poke someone in the eye.”
This was extremely tactful of me. Fig’s hat had bright pink feathers that stuck out in all directions and made her look as if a large bird had landed on her head and proceeded to make a nest there.
“Oh, maybe you’re right,” she agreed. “But I don’t have much in the way of hats. Except summer straws and felt hats for church.”
“We could go and see Zou Zou,” I said. “She has hatboxes full of them. I’m sure she’d lend you one.”
“I couldn’t borrow a hat from a foreigner,” she said, scathingly.
“She is a princess,” I reminded her.
“A Polish princess. I gather the place is full of them.”
“Then you’ll just have to make do with what you have,” I said. “How about taking one of your plain straw hats and attaching some of these feathers on one side.”
“That might work.” She looked quite hopeful. “Would you help me?”
“All right,” I agreed. So we spent the rest of the morning playing with hats and feathers and silk rosebuds and the end result was actually quite satisfying.
“Gosh, thanks awfully, Georgie,” she said as she put on the hat and examined herself in the mirror. “You are a brick. And so talented. I could not have done this without you.”
I didn’t know what to say. These were probably the first kind words she had ever uttered.
Chapter 4
SATURDAY, AUGUST 3
BUCKINGHAM PALACE
Off to Buck House, as Darcy calls it. I still feel a tad in limbo about what happens next. Will it really be back to normal life at Eynsleigh, and Darcy accepting that desk job at the Foreign Office or wherever it is, going up to work on the eight forty-five? Still, I should be jolly happy and jolly grateful. I am married to the most wonderful man in the world. What more could a girl want?
The big day dawned fine and sunny. We had enjoyed such a long spell of fine weather that I was quite nervous it would finally break and the garden party would be conducted under umbrellas. But it was already warm by nine o’clock when Darcy and I joined Zou Zou for breakfast at her lovely home on Eaton Square.
“What time is this bean feast to start?” Zou Zou asked, helping herself liberally to scrambled eggs and smoked haddock.
“Two o’clock,” I said.
“It will be absolutely roasting by then if you’re not in the shade,” she said. “I hope you’re wearing something cool.”
“I was going to wear my new powder blue silk,” I said.
“Oh, darling, don’t do
that,” she said. “It has sleeves. You’ll sweat under the arms. Yes, I know a lady never sweats, but you will. And it will show. Something sleeveless and light, I suggest.”
“The only sleeveless dresses I have are cocktail,” I said.
She wagged a finger at me. “I know. You should wear that delightful new Chanel number I brought back from Paris the other day.”
“Zou Zou, I can’t wear your new dress,” I said.
“Why not? I think it will fit you.”
“I meant because it’s your new Chanel. It wouldn’t seem right.”
“Oh, fiddle-faddle. You know it’s my mission in life to make people happy,” she said. “Speaking of which, I’m off to Ireland on Monday. I promised your father-in-law. Big race coming up, you know.”
I knew very well she wasn’t going to Ireland to see her horses, but to be with Darcy’s father, but I just nodded. We had hoped that something would come of this romance but they still seemed to be skirting around each other cautiously. And frankly I couldn’t see Zou Zou ever settling down in a remote Irish castle.
So I allowed Zou Zou to kit me out for the garden party. Not only her beige silk dress with the navy trim but her jaunty little navy hat and gloves that gave it a nautical air. I looked très, très chic, as Darcy put it. He, poor fellow, was going to suffer in the heat as gentlemen never took off their morning suits and hats.
“I’m going to find a big tree and stay under it all afternoon,” he muttered to me as our taxi drove toward the palace.
“You can’t. You have to be sociable and chat.”
He made a face. “Between ourselves, I’m dreading this,” he said.
I looked at him with surprise. I had never known Darcy to be afraid of anything.
“Are you apprehensive about meeting royals en masse?” I asked.
“Absolutely,” he said. “You forget. I don’t mingle the way you do.”
“But you’re now related by marriage,” I said. “And most of them are awfully nice. You know the Prince of Wales, don’t you?”
“Yes, but I gather he’s not here.”
“No?”
“Sent abroad on a mission to visit the Commonwealth, to keep him away from a certain lady.” Darcy muttered this, in case the taxicab driver was listening.
We drew up at the side entrance that led straight to the gardens and joined a line of other suitably dressed visitors waiting to enter. Binky and Fig were in line ahead of us and Binky turned back and waved. One by one our invitations were scrutinized and we were allowed onto the grounds. A band was playing. Small tables had been set out on the lawns. Binky and Fig came up to join us.
“Spiffing, absolutely spiffing, wouldn’t you say?” Binky looked as delighted as a small child.
“It’s jolly nice,” I agreed.
Champagne and lemonade were handed round. Then came the trays of canapés. I took a vol-au-vent and was about to pop it into my mouth when I realized it was too large to eat in one bite. I bit into it and puff pastry flakes promptly flew all over my navy front trim. What’s more there was a lot of dry pastry and very little filling.
“I don’t think much of these, do you?” Fig commented.
“There’s too much pastry and not enough . . .” I began, when a dry pastry crumb went down the wrong way. I realized, to my embarrassment, that at any minute I was going to cough. I put my hand up to my mouth, half choking as more pastry flakes came flying out.
At this moment there was a roll of drums, “God Save the King” was played, the doors leading to the terrace at the top of the steps opened and Their Majesties came out, followed by their children and spouses. I tried to stop coughing, swallow the remains of the vol-au-vent, brush off the crumbs and look respectable as we were lined up to be presented. If only the trim hadn’t been navy blue. . . .
“Are you all right?” Darcy whispered.
“Went down the wrong way,” I tried to whisper back, which only made me start coughing again. I was brushing furiously, while holding my breath, as the royal couple came closer. Queen Mary, as usual, looked calm and elegant in gray silk. The king, I thought, looked tired and frail. He had never really recovered from that bout of pneumonia.
I had been feeling rather proud of myself when we arrived at the palace. I was no longer the shy awkward girl. I was a sophisticated married woman, here with my husband. And I looked jolly nice, even if it was Zou Zou’s frock I was wearing. But now I had lingering pastry flakes down my front and I was terrified that if I opened my mouth to speak to the king and queen more pastry flakes might come flying out.
The royal couple had drawn level with us and stopped as they recognized me.
“Ah, young Georgie. Back from your honeymoon so soon?” the king asked as I curtsied to him. “I wasn’t expecting to see you here.”
“We’re back from the first part of it, sir,” Darcy said. I shot him an inquiring look.
“Oh, so you’re off somewhere else now?”
“I’ve told them they should go up to Balmoral ahead of us,” the queen chimed in. “They can have the estate to themselves. It is the perfect spot for a honeymoon. All alone with that glorious scenery and trout fishing . . . Should I have my secretary telephone and let them know that you will be coming?”
“It’s very kind of you, ma’am,” Darcy said, which was good as my brain had gone numb with panic. “But I’m afraid our honeymoon trip is already planned.”
“Really? And where shall you be going?”
“Kenya, ma’am.”
I gave a little gasp, which was the wrong thing to do. I put my hand up to my mouth again as another cough threatened. I didn’t dare breathe. I just stood there, holding my breath.
“Kenya? You’re going to Africa for your honeymoon?” The queen looked surprised.
“That’s right,” Darcy said, giving me rather a smug grin.
I shot him a quick glance, still speechless, still holding my breath.
“My goodness. How ambitious,” the queen said.
“You’ll be going on safari, I expect,” the king chimed in, giving a nod of approval. “Going to try and bag an elephant or a lion?”
“I’m not sure of our plans yet, sir,” Darcy went on. “Only that we’ll be leaving in a day or so.”
“How terribly exciting. Shall you be traveling by ship?” the queen asked, turning to me.
I took a cautious breath. “I’ve no idea, ma’am. Darcy has kept me in the dark about our plans.”
“I wanted it to be a surprise for her,” Darcy said. “So I said nothing until everything was in place. We are going by aeroplane. It only takes five days instead of a long steamship voyage.”
“We shall certainly miss you at Balmoral this year,” the queen said, “but I’m sure it will be a great adventure.”
Equerries stepped in to chivvy them along the waiting line. As soon as they had passed I turned to Darcy. “Did you just make that up or is it true?”
“Now, why would I make it up?” he asked. “Of course it’s true. I didn’t say anything because I wasn’t sure of all the details and whether we could secure a passage by air. But now it’s all set. I managed to snag the last two seats on the next flight out and we leave on Tuesday.”
I had sworn never to say “golly” again now that I was a married woman but it just slipped out. “Golly,” I said.
The band struck up a lively tune, the crowd broke apart as the presentation had finished and more drinks and eats were handed around. I avoided any further food embarrassments and sipped a lemonade as we chatted with other guests. The Duke and Duchess of Kent came over to us. I hadn’t noticed before that Princess Marina was expecting a child. That was jolly good news. I offered congratulations.
“Maybe you’ll have your own good news before too long,” Prince George said, giving me a knowing wink. “I don’t imagine that husband of y
ours wastes any time.”
They had just moved on to converse with other guests when one of the footmen sidled up to me. “Her Majesty would like a word, my lady,” he said. He addressed Darcy then. “If you could spare your wife for a few moments, sir?”
I was led away to where the queen was sitting in the shade of an enormous beech tree.
“Ah, Georgiana, my dear,” she said. “Do sit. Do you have a cool drink? It’s rather warm, isn’t it?”
I noticed that in spite of her long sleeves, she didn’t appear to be sweating at all. I don’t know how the royals do it. They never seem to exhibit any of the bodily functions of us mere mortals. I think they can go all day without visiting a loo!
A footman handed me another lemonade. I sat, beside her, praying that this wasn’t to persuade me to go to Balmoral instead of Kenya. She did like to get her own way.
“So you’re off to Kenya,” she said. “Such a long way for a honeymoon. What made your husband decide on that country?”
“I have no idea, ma’am. Darcy had promised me somewhere special,” I said. “But this came as a complete surprise.”
“I’m sure you’ll have a wonderful time,” she said. She hesitated, toying with her glass. “Did you know that my son will be arriving in Kenya any day now?”
“The Prince of Wales?” I said, careful not to call him David in public.
“Indeed. The king dispatched him on a long Commonwealth tour, hoping, of course, that a certain lady might find someone else during his absence, or, failing that, might blot her copybook in a way that even my son found unforgivable.” She leaned closer to me. “One does understand that she has not exactly been faithful to my son during their relationship. A secondhand car dealer?” She raised her eyebrows. “The German ambassador? So many rumors but I’m assured that most are true. The question is how much my son is prepared to forgive.”
“You are giving her enough rope to hang herself,” I said and she chuckled.
“Precisely. On the other hand . . . the latest cable from David says that he plans to stay on in Kenya after his official engagements are concluded and spend a few days with a certain Lord Delamere.” Again she leaned closer to me. “One wonders why. He has never shown that much interest in safaris before; in fact he once made it known that he thought it was poor sportsmanship to kill a magnificent animal just for a trophy. So I’d like to know just what he plans to get up to there.”