On Her Majesty's Frightfully Secret Service

by Rhys Bowen

  I put that letter on my dressing table, then opened the other. It bore Italian stamps and I noticed the date on the postmark. January 21, 1935. Poor Belinda—she had written to me in January and I hadn’t replied.

  My dear Georgie,

  Well, I have done it! I have fled to Italy as I promised and have rented an adorable little cottage on the shore of Lake Maggiore, just outside the town of Stresa. The views are spectacular. I have oranges growing on my back terrace. I have engaged Francesca, who comes in daily to cook and clean. She is determined to fatten me up and cooks the most divine pastas and cakes. So everything is going as smoothly as one could hope at this moment. Except for the loneliness. You know me—I like to be in the middle of things, out dancing, having fun. And here I am shut away from my own kind, reading books and even knitting during the long evenings. I’m not a very good knitter, I have to confess, and the poor child would be naked were it not for Francesca and her sisters, who have knitted little garments with lightning speed for me.

  As to the question of the poor child—I am still in an agony of indecision. I cannot be saddled with a baby. How could I? If word got out I should be spoiled goods for life with no hope of ever marrying well. To be honest, with my past I have little hope of securing the son of a duke or earl, but an American millionaire would do quite well! But what to do with the baby? At least I have made inquiries about a clinic where I can give birth. Not in Italy, definitely. All those Francescas fussing around me!

  Fortunately Lake Maggiore lies half in Italy and half in Switzerland. So all I have to do is take the steamer to the top end of the lake and admit myself to a lovely clean, sterile and efficient Swiss clinic in good time for the birth. Golly, when I write that word I feel most apprehensive. One hears such horror stories.

  I sit here on my terrace, watching the ships going up and down the lake, and I think of you. I hope you are with your dear Darcy and all is finally well. I did read in an English newspaper that his father was found to be innocent. Jolly good for you and Darcy, finding out the truth. I’m glad one of us is going to be happy. Do let me know when the wedding will be, won’t you?

  Or better yet come over to stay for a while, if Darcy can spare you. You’d love my sweet little house and we’d pick oranges and gossip and laugh just like we did when we were in school together. Please say yes, even if it’s only for a week or two. I will happily pay your fare. To be completely honest I wish you could be with me around the time of the birth. It’s rather frightening to know that I’ll be alone with no relative to hold my hand. Of course my family cannot be told under any circumstances. Can you imagine my stepmother crowing with delight over my downfall and shame? She would probably try to stop me from inheriting Grandmama’s money if she knew.

  So do write back, dear, dear Georgie. I long to get a letter and long even more to see your smiling face.

  Your lonely friend,

  Belinda

  I put that letter to join the queen’s on my dressing table and sat staring out of the window. White clouds raced across the sky. Seagulls wheeled in the strong spring breeze. I pictured Belinda’s lake with the orange tree on her terrace and poor Belinda sitting all alone, dreading what lay ahead of her, hoping for a letter or a visit from a friend.

  I should go to her, I decided. I’d want my friend to come to my aid if such a thing had happened to me. There was nothing to stop me from going out to Italy if Darcy was away. He hadn’t told me how long he’d be gone. I don’t suppose he knew it himself. In the past he’d been in such far-flung regions as Australia and Argentina. This time it might be China or Antarctica for all I knew. And Belinda had offered to pay my fare. I now had a small savings account so I could afford to buy the ticket, but that money was for my wedding . . . if it was allowed to happen.

  I went over to the wall and tugged on the bell pull. Now that I had come to a decision I wanted to leave on the next boat before I got cold feet about crossing the Continent alone.

  Chapter 2

  MONDAY, APRIL 8

  KILHENNY CASTLE

  At last I have a plan and a mission in life. Can’t wait to see Belinda and her orange trees!

  Almost immediately I heard the patter of little feet running down the corridor toward me. My door opened and a little freckled face, topped with the brightest red hair you have ever seen, poked around my door.

  I smiled at the eager little face, thinking how different she was from my former maid, Queenie. I would have had to ring at least three times before she showed up and then the whole room would shake with the clomp of her approaching feet. But Queenie was now happily installed as undercook with Darcy’s great aunt and uncle. Either she had improved or they simply didn’t notice when she burned down their kitchen but I had heard no complaints about her. I rather suspected that their house was so eccentric and chaotic that they’d only laugh if her puddings wound up on the ceiling.

  “You rang, my lady?” my new maid asked, dropping a curtsy.

  “I did, Kathleen,” I said. She was a girl from Kilhenny village, the daughter of the baker, and had proved herself a quick learner and so eager to please it was almost embarrassing. She was like a devoted spaniel, not leaving my side for a second. Of course, she was not without her share of mistakes, as she had never had to wash silk stockings, press velvet or handle any other delicate fabrics. Fortunately I did not possess much of the above and most of my wardrobe had been left at my brother’s house in London. But I have to say she learned from her mistakes and never repeated them.

  “Please go up to the box room and bring down my suitcases. You’ll find my labels on them. And then pack all my things, the way I showed you, between tissue paper.”

  Her forehead wrinkled and she looked as if she might be about to cry. “You’re going away, my lady? You’re leaving us?”

  “We’re going to London and then maybe to Italy.”

  “We?” she asked in a horrified voice.

  “You’re coming too, of course.”

  She had wide blue eyes to start with. These now became impossibly large with alarm.

  “Holy Mother of God!” She crossed herself. “London? And Italy? Me? Oh no, my lady. I could never go to foreign parts.”

  “But a lady’s maid always accompanies her mistress when she travels,” I said. “Who else would look after the luggage and help me dress on the train?”

  She had backed away now until she was pressed against the door.

  “But, my lady, when I took on this job as your maid, I thought it meant looking after you here, at Kilhenny Castle, not tripping off to foreign parts. My mother would never let me go and be among all those heathens and wicked men.”

  I tried not to smile. “Actually they are not heathens, Kathleen. In Italy they are all Catholics like you.” It did cross my mind that they pinched bottoms in Italy, but I added, “Your pope himself lives in Italy.”

  Her face brightened a little. “The pope? That’s right. Rome is in Italy, isn’t it? And the pope lives in Rome. Will you be seeing him, then, your ladyship?”

  “I think that’s highly unlikely,” I said. I realized as I said it that I could have bribed her with a possible visit to the Vatican, but I couldn’t see how I would fit Rome into a stay on the Italian lakes on the Swiss border. “The place I’m staying is far from Rome, I’m afraid,” I added.

  Her face fell. “No matter,” she said. “Me mother wouldn’t let me go even if it was to see the Holy Father himself. She’d die of worry and grief.”

  “It would only be for a few weeks at the most, Kathleen,” I said. “And what about when Mr. Darcy and I get married? We will probably decide to live in England most of the time.”

  “England?” she echoed, making it sound as if I had just said Zululand. She shook her head violently. “I’m sorry, my lady. I’m proud and happy to be your maid when you’re here at the castle, but don’t go asking me to travel with yo
u to heathen parts, because I couldn’t desert me mother like that.”

  It seemed that even London counted as heathen parts to Kathleen. I was afraid she had made up her mind. I was either going to travel maidless back to England or I was going to have to reclaim Queenie. Oh golly. The thought of bringing Queenie back to Rannoch House was almost more than I could bear. My sister-in-law hated her so violently that I’d have to endure a constant tirade. And then Queenie would probably prove my sister-in-law’s point by clogging up the loo and flooding the bathroom or burning my best velvet dress.

  I sent Kathleen up to retrieve my suitcases and tried to think of a way around this. I could travel without a maid, I supposed. Many modern women did. Even Princess Zou Zou had flitted between here and London with no maid for the first month before she sent for her maid from Eaton Square. The problem was one really needed a maid to assist in dressing and undressing. So many dresses and blouses were made with tiny buttons down the back, impossible to do up alone. And frankly I had little idea of the correct way to clean the various items I wore. I tried to recall how awful Queenie had been. Did I have an exaggerated memory of her disasters? She hadn’t been too bad most of the time. And she had been jolly brave on a couple of occasions, helping to save me from dire predicaments. And she loved going abroad. So did I owe it to her to give her the chance to accompany me to Italy? I realized that it would not be the right thing to sneak away without telling her.

  I waited until Kathleen, now rather weepy at the thought of losing me, had reappeared with my bags, then I went downstairs and found Mrs. McCarthy in the kitchen.

  “If his lordship comes back, please tell him that I’ve borrowed the estate car for a few moments,” I said. “I’m going to see his great-aunt.”

  “I will do that, my lady,” Mrs. McCarthy replied. “So I’m hoping it was good news that you had in all those letters?”

  “It was, thank you,” I replied. “It appears I have to return to London immediately to meet the queen.”

  “Fancy that.” A look of awe crossed her face. “Never did I think that I’d hear those words spoken in a house where I was working. But then I’m forgetting that you’re related to His Majesty yourself, aren’t you? Mr. Darcy told us about you being so highborn and quite pally with royalty.”

  “So you’ll tell Lord Kilhenny, will you?”

  “That you’re going to be meeting the Queen of England?” she asked.

  “No, that I’m borrowing the estate car. I won’t be long.”

  Then I hurried out before she could prolong the conversation.

  As I drove through the village I looked at it quite fondly. It was comforting to know I would be back, that Darcy and I would visit his father and share festive occasions with him. At last a place where I would belong and be welcome. If I was ever allowed to marry Darcy, that is. I felt a knot in my stomach when I thought of meeting the queen. I could just imagine her smooth, imperious voice saying, “No, Georgiana, it is quite out of the question. You may not be permitted to marry him and that’s that.”

  Maybe I was reading too much into that letter, I told myself. Maybe the queen just wanted to hear from my own lips that I wanted to marry Darcy. I negotiated the steep hill beyond the village and crossed over the little bridge. The stream was running high after so much rain. Then I turned in at the gate leading to Mountjoy, home to Sir Dooley and Lady Whyte, Darcy’s great-uncle and great-aunt. In spite of its name Mountjoy was not on a hillside, nor did it look joyful. It was a large ramshackle building with gables and a turret at one end. Chickens and ducks wandered across the forecourt. A few sheep and a cow looked over the fence from the field to my left. At the sound of the motor a pack of dogs emerged from the front door and jumped around me, barking wildly. As I came to a halt the owner of the house came out. Great-Aunt Oona was a large woman with many chins. She always wore an odd assortment of clothing and today she was wearing a purple silk tea dress with a fringed shawl over it, a flowery apron over that and to finish off the whole outfit gum boots.

  “What in the name of goodness is all that row about?” she demanded. Then she saw me and a smile lit up her face.

  “Well, aren’t you a treat to behold?” she said. “I was just saying to Dooley last night that we should go over and rescue you, now that Darcy has flown the coop. I expect it’s pretty bloody with just Thaddy there. Has he reverted to his old bad-tempered self?”

  “He’s a bit grumpy sometimes,” I admitted. “He’s missing Zou Zou.”

  “Well, of course he is. And worried about her, I don’t doubt. A round-the-world air race indeed! And that little contraption she’s flying is little more than paper and string. Still, it’s Thaddy’s own fault. I told him he should make his intentions known. Snap her up before some other man does. But you know him.”

  I nodded. “Too proud,” I said. “Doesn’t think he has enough to offer her.”

  “Absolutely right. Well, you’d better come inside, hadn’t you?” She led the way, shouting to the dogs, “Out of the way, you great stupid beasts,” and then bellowing, “Dooley, come down here on the double. It’s your favorite young lady come to see you.”

  We went through into a sitting room where there was, as usual, nowhere to sit. Every surface was piled high with papers, books, a violin, a basket of eggs, a summer hat and a large tabby cat. Oona lifted the eggs from an armchair and motioned for me to sit.

  “You’re in luck,” she said. “That girl of yours baked shortbread this morning. Got a deft hand with baking, I’ll say that for her. She’s a gem, she is. And Treadwell’s getting past it, although he won’t admit it.”

  It was astonishing to hear Queenie described as a gem. “Disaster” and “hopeless” were more usual descriptions. It really did seem that she might have found her niche at last.

  “So she hasn’t done anything dreadful lately?” I asked. “Not destroyed Dooley’s battle of Waterloo again?” (Uncle Dooley was reenacting the battle of Waterloo with toy soldiers in an upstairs room. He took it very seriously.)

  “He’s done with Waterloo, more’s the pity,” Oona said.

  “Done with it?”

  “Wellington won. Napoleon has been sent to St. Helena. All over.” She clapped her hands. “And now Dooley’s lost. Doesn’t know what to do with himself. I told him to repaint the soldiers and start another battle, but his heart has gone out of it.”

  As she was speaking, the door opened and Uncle Dooley came in. He was a tiny sprite of a man, in absolute contrast to his enormous wife. His eyes sparkled when he saw me.

  “Here you are, Dooley. Something to cheer you up. Your favorite young lady.”

  Dooley beamed and came over to kiss my hand. “How lovely to see you, my dear.” He turned to Oona. “She’s looking awfully well, isn’t she?”

  “She always looks well. Picture of health,” Oona said. “Darcy certainly picked a winner.”

  I felt my cheeks turning pink at this discussion about me.

  “Where is the boy?” Dooley said. “Haven’t seen him for a few days.”

  “He’s gone, Uncle Dooley. I’m not sure where. You know what he’s like.”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised if he isn’t a gun runner or a drug smuggler,” Dooley said calmly.

  “Of course he’s not,” Oona said. “He’s a spy. You know that. That’s why he can’t tell us what he does.”

  They both laughed at this as if it was a great joke. Then Oona found a bell among the chaos and rang it. Instead of Treadwell the butler it was Queenie who appeared.

  “You rang, Lady Whyte?” she asked. Then she saw me. “Whatcha, miss,” she said.

  Again I marveled that she could address Oona perfectly but had never managed to call me “my lady.”

  “We’ll have coffee and some of that shortbread you made this morning, Queenie,” Oona said.

  “Wouldn’t you rather have some of the plu
m cake?” Queenie asked. From the guarded look on her face I suspected another disaster.

  “No, the shortbread, please. You know Sir Dooley is particularly fond of shortbread.”

  Queenie twisted her apron nervously. “It’s just that it didn’t quite turn out as I expected.”

  “But I tried a piece. It was delicious.”

  “That was before I tipped the rest into the washing-up water by mistake,” she said. “I tried drying it out, but it don’t taste the same really.”

  “Honestly, Queenie,” Oona said with a surprisingly understanding smile. “Oh well. Plum cake it had better be.”

  As Queenie went out Oona gave me an exasperated grin. “She’s getting so much better too. Whole days without an accident and she really does have a light touch with baking.”

  “So you wouldn’t want me to take her off your hands, then?” I asked.

  “Why? Were you planning to?”