Naughty In Nice

by Rhys Bowen

  “South of France?” He gave a throaty chuckle. “Not for me, thanks, love. They eat frogs’ legs and all kinds of funny stuff, don’t they? No, I never did take to France. Not after my boy Jimmy didn’t come back from the Great War. So you go and have a good time, but I’m happier where I am.”

  I looked at him and squeezed his hand. “Oh, Granddad, why do things have to be so difficult? If only I had some money I could do more for you.”

  “Don’t you worry about it, ducks. I’ve got me a nice snug little house and a garden and Hettie to take care of me. I’m happy as a sandboy.”

  “I’m going to write to Mummy,” I said. “She should be doing more for you.”

  “I wouldn’t take her money,” Granddad said with a brisk shake of the head. “Not German money. Not from him. Wouldn’t touch it.”

  “She does have money of her own, I’m sure.”

  “I told you, I’m quite happy here. So you go off to the south of France and don’t give it another thought. How did you manage to wangle that, by the way? Last time I saw you, you said you were stuck for the winter with that brother of yours and his nasty wife.”

  “Yes, well, they’ve gone to stay with Fig’s sister on the Riviera, and I’m to follow them in a few days.”

  “Oh, they’ve turned generous suddenly, have they?”

  I shook my head. “Not on your Nellie, as you would say. Actually, they don’t know I’m coming. I went to see the queen today . . .” I broke off as Mrs. Huggins returned, carrying a tea tray.

  “Hear that, Hettie?” Granddad looked up at her. “She went to see the queen. She hobnobs with the queen just like you and me pop down the Queen’s Head Pub.”

  “Fancy,” Mrs. Huggins said. “Here’s your tea, then, your ladyship. Let it stew first.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “You’re very good to my grandfather.”

  “Ah, well, he’s a lovely gentleman. He may not be a toff in your eyes, but he behaves as good as any toff.”

  Granddad chuckled as she left.

  “She’s trying to get me to the altar, that’s what,” he muttered to me. “But I sort of like things the way they are—her in her house and me in mine. Now, what were you saying about the queen?”

  “She’s asked me to do a small task for her on the Riviera, so I’m going out to join the family.”

  “So young Queenie will be going abroad again, then.” Mrs. Huggins reappeared.

  I opened my mouth but before I could reply she went on, “Won’t that make them proud of her? You should see her mum these days. She don’t half give herself airs. Goes around talking about ‘my daughter what’s employed by royalty.’ And lucky she got that job when she did because things ain’t gone well with that family. What with her dad out of work now and her married sister’s moved back to the house with her three little ones, they’re in a right state there. I think it’s only the thought of Queenie earning her way as a lady’s maid that keeps them all going.”

  “I’m not exactly sure I can take her with me,” I said slowly. “If I didn’t, then maybe she could stay with you until I came back?”

  Mrs. Huggins looked shocked. “Not take her with you? Why? Ain’t she turning out satisfactory after all?”

  “Oh, no, nothing like that,” I lied with a bright smile.

  Mrs. Huggins pursed her lips. “It wouldn’t be proper for a lady like you to go traveling without a maid, would it?”

  “No, I suppose it wouldn’t,” I had to agree.

  “Well, then,” Mrs. Huggins said as if this settled everything. “Come on, drink up that tea before it gets cold.”

  The Queenie question was settled for me when the tickets were delivered to my door the next day. Travel arrangements for Lady Georgiana Rannoch and maid was written on the envelope. I tried not to think of the havoc she might wreak at a French villa.

  The next days were chaotic as I sent off the servants and closed up the house. But then the miracle happened and I became one of those people I had so admired, following a porter to my seat on the boat train, bound for the Continent. I wished I had some way of contacting Darcy to let him know I was going abroad. As it was he might arrive at Rannoch House to find it closed up and me nowhere to be found. Really he was the most annoying man—never in one place for more than two seconds and of no fixed address. Why couldn’t he have a club, like Binky, so at least I could leave messages for him? Then I realized he probably liked it that way. He didn’t want to be tied down. I should accept that and try not to include him in my plans for the future. But it wasn’t that easy to put him out of my mind.

  I thought about him as the train steamed through grimy London backstreets. Darcy was an opportunist, like Belinda. He was good at crashing parties and securing invitations. Maybe he was already on the Riviera at this moment. My heart beat a little faster.

  By the time we arrived at Dover, Queenie had obviously been enjoying herself in the third-class compartment with the other servants.

  “I told them other maids that her ladyship and me goes abroad all the time and what’s more we stays in blooming great royal castles. You should have seen their faces. Green with envy they was.”

  I thought they were probably just sickened either by the swaying of the train or by Queenie’s inappropriate boasting. “Queenie, a real lady never boasts,” I said. “If you want to become a lady’s maid, you must learn to act with decorum.”

  “Who’s he when he’s at home?” she asked. Actually, it was closer to “’Oo’s ’ee when ’ee’s at ’ome?”

  “Decorum. It means behave like a lady.”

  “Bob’s yer uncle, miss. I won’t do it no more. I promise I’ll act with—decoration.”

  “Queenie. It might be helpful if you read some books and improved your speech. Real ladies’ maids are very refined. As refined as their mistresses.”

  “I can’t help it if I was born dead common, miss,” she replied.

  I sighed. “Go and make sure our luggage gets on the boat and then keep an eye on it until it’s safely carried ashore in France.”

  We went on board. The weather had worsened and the crossing was miserable. The ship bucked and rolled and half the passengers lay green and groaning with rugs over their knees or stood vomiting over the railing. One of the only useful things I had learned from my mother at an early age was how to survive a rough sea crossing. One goes straight to the bar, when one comes on board, and orders a brandy ginger ale and a good meal. I did this. I noticed that the ship’s restaurant was deserted and I was one of the few people daring to eat. The only other occupants were an elderly parson and wife and two men sitting close together at the bar. I couldn’t help noticing that one of the men looked very French and was devastatingly handsome. Also that he was drinking champagne. My spirits lifted. I was on my way to the Riviera, where there would be oodles of attractive Frenchmen. I would learn to flirt like Belinda and I was going to have a good time.

  As I passed the Frenchman to reach my table I heard his companion say, “So is it tournesols?”

  My French is pretty good but I didn’t understand this last word.

  Then my handsome Frenchman replied, “No, it is only a chair. Much simpler.”

  At this the first man nodded and left the bar. As the French coast came into sight the Frenchman got down from his bar stool. As he came toward me I saw a flash of recognition cross his face, followed in succession by surprise and—was it anger?

  “Que fais tu ici?” he began, then he checked himself, frowned and nodded politely to me as he went past.

  How strange. He had addressed me not only as if he knew me, but as if he knew me well. He had called me tu, which was the very familiar form of address. But I was sure I’d never seen him before in my life. I paid my bill and went to find Queenie and my luggage. Oh, well, one was supposed to have adventures when one went abroad and they were starting even before I reached France.

  I was met by an extremely wet and windblown Queenie. “I ain’t half glad to see France,
miss,” she gasped. “All those people hanging over the side and being sick fair turned my stomach.”

  “Queenie, you look like a drowned rat.”

  “Well, you said to keep an eye on your luggage so I stayed with it,” she said.

  I looked at her fondly. She may have been clueless in the extreme, but she certainly was loyal. She’d stayed up on deck with my luggage, even though nothing could have happened to it during the crossing.

  “Well done, Queenie,” I said. “We’ll soon have you on the Blue Train, where you can dry off and have a cup of hot tea.”

  We followed our porter ashore and were whisked through customs to a special platform where the Train Bleu was waiting. Even on this dark and gloomy day those Pullman coaches seemed to glow with opulence. The porter found my compartment, which had a small berth connecting for Queenie. Really, it was most civilized.

  Queenie came through to join me, looking slightly less damp and wild. “I was soaked right down to me knickers, miss. I’ve put them to dry on the radiator.”

  It was no use admonishing her.

  “And you know what I’ve been thinking, miss?” she went on, taking a place opposite me without being asked. “I know I speak real common, so I’ve decided to better myself. When I get home I’m going to save up and take them ‘hellocution’ lessons. People are going to think I’m a proper toff, just like you.”

  Oh, golly, I’d got Eliza Doolittle on my hands now. “Good idea, Queenie,” I said.

  At that moment there was a toot and a slamming of doors, and we glided out of the station. A big grin spread across my face. I was really on my way to the south of France and adventure. About two small annoying facts I chose not to think: one, that I was to share a villa with Fig and her sister, and the other, that I was supposed to commit a robbery for the queen.

  Chapter 7

  January 21, 1933

  On the Blue Train. Heading for the Riviera. Hooray!

  The gray, rain-splashed French countryside flashed past us, with rows of leafless poplars between brown fields of stubble. Darkness was falling as we reached the outskirts of Paris. Instead of going into the Gare du Nord, as other trains from the Channel did, this train skirted the perimeter of the city, moving through dingy suburbs and going over lots of points until at last it stopped at the Gare de Lyon on the southern side of the city. The attendant knocked on my door. “Does your ladyship require anything while we are in the station?” he asked in French, assuming, I suppose, that anyone who traveled on this train spoke the language. “Should I arrange for a dinner box for your maid? There is only the first-class dining car for people like yourself.”

  “Thank you, that would be most kind,” I replied in the same language.

  “And dinner will be served as soon as we leave the city,” he went on. “The dining car is to your left.”

  A box was delivered for Queenie, who wasted no time in tucking into it. “Funny bread,” she said, “and this ham tastes of garlic, but it ain’t bad. My friend Nellie ’uxtable, what works down the Three Bells, said we’d have to eat frog legs and little birds. I told her not to be so ruddy daft. Just’cos she went on the day trip to Boulogne once, she thinks she knows about France.”

  “It’s not polite to talk with your mouth full,” I pointed out as crumbs spattered over the seat of my compartment, “and I think you should take your meal in your space. I am going to get ready for dinner.”

  I wasn’t sure whether one dressed for dinner on a train. We certainly hadn’t on trains I’d traveled on before, but then they hadn’t been this train. I was wearing a decent jersey dress, but I found my pearls and put on a little lipstick before I ventured to the dining car. In truth I felt a little shy about going alone to dinner. I know I’d been brought up to mix with the cream of society in theory, but in practice the cream of society rarely came to Castle Rannoch and I still felt schoolgirlish and awkward among the real social butterflies.

  “Bon appétit, milady,” the attendant said as he held the door open for me. I passed through the connecting area and opened the door to the dining car. I looked down the rows of white-clothed tables, their silver and china gleaming in the glow of little lamps. From here I couldn’t see a table that wasn’t occupied and wondered what the protocol was about joining other diners and whether I could ever pluck up courage to do that.

  Of course the first person I noticed was the handsome Frenchman, sitting alone with another bottle of champagne beside him. He looked up from his soup and caught my gaze. He didn’t smile or nod as would have been usual. Instead he frowned at me.

  “You are English?” he asked in French.

  I replied that I was.

  “Curious,” he replied. He was about to say something else when a voice from farther down the car called to me, “I say. Aren’t you Georgiana Rannoch?”

  It was a smartly dressed English lady, probably in her late forties. She was sitting with an exquisite and obviously French woman, dressed in what looked like a man’s black suit topped with a stunning necklace. I agreed that I was.

  “Would you like to join us?” the first woman said. “It’s rather full at the moment but we have room, don’t we, Coco?”

  The Frenchwoman nodded and smiled. “Bien sûr,” she said, waving a cigarette holder in my direction.

  The Englishwoman stuck out a hand. “You look the spitting image of your father. I used to know him well. I’m known as Vera, by the way. Vera Bate Lombardi, and I believe we’re related, at least through marriage.”

  I sat down on the chair she had pulled out for me. She waved imperiously and a waiter appeared. “My lady will be joining us, so set another place and you’d better bring us another bottle of Veuve Clicquot.”

  I wasn’t sure I wanted to dine with a rather bossy Englishwoman who claimed to be related to me, but it was better than standing like a wallflower.

  “I actually stayed at Castle Rannoch when you were little,” she continued, “although I don’t suppose you remember me. We went out riding together once. You were a splendid little horsewoman.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “I don’t often get a chance to ride anymore and I miss it.”

  “So do I,” she said. “I’m in Paris most of the year now, traipsing around behind Coco, and one can hardly get a decent gallop in the Bois de Boulogne.”

  “You do not traipse behind me,” the woman she had addressed as Coco said in English. “It makes you sound like a dog on a lead. Since you take bigger strides than I, I am usually running to keep up with you. But you must introduce us, Vera. This very English young lady will not speak to me unless properly introduced.”

  I laughed, but Vera said, “Sorry. Frightfully bad of me. Coco, this is Bertie’s daughter, Georgiana Rannoch. And this is my dear friend and business partner, Coco Chanel.”

  My eyes opened wider at the mention of that name. “Chanel ? The couturiere?”

  “The same.” She shrugged in that delightfully Gallic way. “I do not think you wear my clothes.”

  “Can’t afford it,” I said. “I would if I could.”

  “So you go to stay on the Riviera?” Chanel said, eyeing me critically, almost the way the handsome Frenchman had done.

  “I think that’s where this train is headed,” I said and she laughed, a melodious and wonderfully sexy laugh.

  “Delightful,” she said. “I will make you model for me. I am going to unveil my new collection at a special showing for the rich English on the Riviera and you will be my perfect model.”

  “Oh, not me,” I said, my face turning bright red. “I’m frightfully clumsy, you know. I’d trip over my own feet and rip your gowns. I tried modeling once and it was a disaster. I put both legs into one half of a pair of culottes.”

  This time both Vera and Chanel laughed.

  “I am sure you would be splendid,” Coco said. “Wouldn’t she, Vera? Exactly the look we want to achieve—the English rose, but with naughty overtones.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t have many
naughty overtones,” I said.

  “You will, once you are mixing with that crowd on the Riviera,” Vera said. “They are all frightfully naughty.”

  “The English?”

  “Oh, yes. Worst of the lot. They’re so repressed at home, after all those years in boarding school, that they become positively wanton the moment they hit Calais.” She leaned closer to me. “Your dear departed papa was no saint, I can tell you. Tell her what this collection is all about, Coco.”

  “It is the mixing of masculine and feminine,” Coco said,

  “of country and town, of day and night. I have borrowed some fine English tweed jackets from my friend the Duke of Westminster.”

  “And some stunning pieces of jewelry from my aunt,” Vera added. “She mentioned that I might bump into you, by the way, when I saw her yesterday.”

  “Your aunt?” I was confused, not being quite sure which branch of my family she belonged to.

  “Queen Mary,” Coco explained.

  “Queen Mary is your aunt?”

  Vera made a face. “Not officially, of course. My mother was a Baring, of the banking firm, but I think everyone agrees that my real father was the Duke of Cambridge. Prince of Teck.”

  “Oh, I see. The queen’s brother.”

  “She was married to someone else, of course, but I must say he treated me like a daughter and the family has always acknowledged me.”

  While I was digesting this the champagne was poured. I took a sip and remembered another item in the conversation. “You say the queen has lent you some pieces of her jewelry for your fashion show.”

  Vera put her fingers to her lips. “I’d rather that news wasn’t broadcast too loudly. I promised her I’d take frightfully good care of them. You know what she’s like about her things.”

  “I do. That’s why I’m surprised she lent you jewelry.”

  “Ah, I usually get what I want out of people,” she said. “Don’t worry, we’re going to watch it like hawks. Besides, it’s well insured.”

  “And these jewels will be worn with the gentlemen’s tweed jackets?” I asked cautiously.