On Her Majesty's Frightfully Secret Service

by Rhys Bowen

  “Lady Georgiana to see Her Majesty,” I said.

  He opened the door for me and I went to give the cabby a large tip. He pushed it back at me. “That’s all right, love,” he said, forgetting the “Royal Highness” this time. “I’ll be able to boast about this in the pub all year.”

  So I was dry and feeling happy as I was escorted up the staircase to the queen’s private sitting room. I was so relieved when we turned right for the private quarters and not left, which might have indicated one of the grander rooms—the Chinese Chippendale being my absolute nightmare, decorated as it was with lots of antique statues and vases. The footman knocked, opened a door and announced, “Lady Georgiana, Your Majesty.”

  The queen had been standing looking out of the window. The view was at the side of the palace, over the garden, which looked awfully bleak and desolate in this weather. She turned as I was announced. “So many days of rain recently,” she said. “The king really misses his walks in the garden and one can’t even see the daffodils from here. We’ll have tea in a few minutes, Frederick.”

  “Very good, ma’am.” He backed out.

  She smiled and held out her hand to me. “Georgiana, at last,” she said. “I was quite worried when I didn’t hear from you.”

  I went over, curtsied and kissed her cheek, all without tripping, bumping noses or committing any other sort of faux pas. I really must be improving with age!

  “I must apologize, ma’am, but nobody was in residence at Rannoch House. My brother and his family were in the south of France for the winter. They only returned a few days ago and forwarded the post to me. I came from Ireland right away.” I should point out that my royal relatives expected to be addressed as ma’am and sir.

  “I’m glad to know all is well then,” she said. “Do sit down. You are looking well. I expect the Irish country air agrees with you.”

  I thought she was looking rather tired and drawn, but didn’t say so as she led me across to a small brocade sofa and sat beside me.

  “I trust you and His Majesty are both in good health?” I said.

  She shook her head sadly. “I regret that His Majesty’s health continues to decline,” she said. “I believe it was the war that took so much out of him that he has never recovered. That and worry about David. He has said several times, ‘That boy will be the death of me.’”

  “I’m sorry to hear that, ma’am,” I replied.

  “His one aim seems to be to stay healthy enough for the upcoming jubilee,” she said. “And he is determined to remain on the throne until David tires of that woman and marries someone suitable.”

  “Can you really see that happening, ma’am?” I asked. “When I last saw the Prince of Wales he appeared to be completely under her thumb.”

  Her Majesty sniffed. “The boy is weak. Always was. Strangely it is Bertie who appears to be the weak one, but he has a core of iron compared to his brother. If it weren’t for his stammer he’d make a good king. And he already has heirs, unlike David.”

  “But he can never marry Mrs. Simpson, can he?” I asked. “She’s married to someone else, for one thing, and as head of the church he could never marry a divorced woman.”

  She leaned slightly closer to me. “From what one hears, the American woman whose name I will not even pronounce seems to believe that when he is king he can rewrite the rules and pronounce her queen against all opposition.”

  “How silly,” I said. “Parliament would never allow it.”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised if she should think he can dismiss Parliament,” the queen said with a sad smile. “And speaking of royal marriages . . .” She broke off as the door opened and a tea tray was wheeled in. It was laden as usual with all sorts of delicious foods—shortbreads and slices of rich fruitcake and lemon curd tarts and thin malt bread. I looked at the latter with a sigh of despair. Protocol demands that one eat only what Her Majesty eats and too often the queen selects just a slice of malt bread for herself. So I was overjoyed to hear her say as the dishes were placed on the low table before us, “Ah, shortbread. My favorite.” She leaned forward to take a piece. “Do help yourself, Georgiana. And will you have Assam or Lapsang souchong?”

  “Assam, please,” I said, tentatively putting a piece of shortbread onto a Wedgwood plate.

  A maid poured tea. “Will that be all for the moment, ma’am?” she asked. Then she curtsied and departed, leaving us alone.

  “About my marriage,” I dared to say. “We haven’t heard anything more from the king’s private secretary so I wondered if there was any problem with granting my request.”

  She looked up from her teacup, giving me the sort of haughtily severe look usually reserved for the Prince of Wales’s friend. “Abandoning one’s destiny and obligation is not a matter to be taken lightly,” she said.

  “I understand that, ma’am. And if I were closer to the throne of course I would think differently. But you have four healthy sons. You already have grandchildren and I’m sure they will produce many more. My own brother has two heirs. Before long I shall find myself fortieth or even fiftieth in the line of succession. So unless the Bolsheviks invade and behead the entire royal family or there is an even more virulent flu epidemic than the last one, I cannot foresee myself being called upon to ascend the throne.”

  A brief smile crossed her lips. “I do see your point,” she said. “It should be a relatively simple matter, but for one thing. The British Parliament does not harbor kindly feelings toward the Republic of Ireland. Their former campaign of bombings and hostile acts has not endeared that nation to us, has it?”

  “Darcy might have been born in Ireland. His father is an Irish peer and he is Catholic, but he is also a British subject, working, if I am not mistaken, for our government from time to time.” I was amazed how passionately I was able to speak to her. No mumblings or stumblings. Thus emboldened, I decided to deliver the crowning blow, although that was probably an unwise choice of words. “And may I remind Your Majesty that my future husband saved your life and that of the king, taking a bullet in your defense when a communist agitator planned to assassinate you?”

  She nodded. “Quite true.” I could see she was looking almost amused. “Georgiana,” she went on, “I have never seen you so eloquent or so forceful. Well done. I can see now how much this means to you. Of course I am aware that Mr. O’Mara chose to retain his British citizenship after the republic was established. In fact, the only stumbling block to your marriage seems to be his Catholic religion. I take it he is not prepared to renounce it?”

  “He has said he would, as a last resort if all else failed. But I would not force him to do that. His religion means a great deal to him. And if you remember, Princess Marina was married at the abbey but also had a Greek Orthodox ceremony later. She was not forced to renounce her religion.”

  The queen nodded again. “Quite true. But for some reason our country does not harbor such hostile thoughts toward the orthodox religion. The Reformation and subsequent struggles have embedded a deep hatred of Rome into the British consciousness.” She took a sip of tea while I held my breath and waited for what might come next. She put down the cup and saucer. “But in the end sanity will prevail, I am sure. To be honest with you I only wanted to hear from your own lips that this marriage was what you wanted. I would have preferred it if you had come to the palace yourself and asked the king and myself in person, rather than having your betrothed do it with a secretary on your behalf.”

  I had to smile. “I didn’t know he planned to do that. He can be rather impulsive, and he was so relieved that his father had been exonerated and he was now free to marry.”

  “If we had said no, if we denied you this right, what would you do?” she asked.

  “Move abroad. Defy the ban and marry there,” I said.

  She smiled now. “That’s all I wanted to hear. Very well, Georgiana. You need worry no longer. I will ma
ke sure this goes through without a hitch and soon. When are you thinking of planning the ceremony?”

  “In the summer, ma’am. Of course not too close to the jubilee celebrations.”

  “The jubilee celebrations will be over by the end of May,” she said with a smile. “I see no conflict there. And you will be married in London or Ireland?”

  “In London, I hope. Darcy was thinking of the church on Farm Street in Mayfair.”

  “Not Westminster Cathedral or the Brompton Oratory?”

  I gave a sheepish grin. “I don’t think I have enough friends and family to fill either of those.”

  “Your choice. It’s your day, after all.” She reached across and patted my hand. “Do you plan to convert to his religion?”

  “I’m not sure at this moment. I do have to agree to raise our children as Catholics and I have no objection to doing that.” I took a bite of shortbread and managed to chew and swallow it without coughing. I was making so many improvements. I was jolly proud of myself!

  “So where do you go now?” the queen asked. “Back to Ireland?”

  “No, ma’am. Darcy is away at the moment and frankly I find the castle rather gloomy with just Lord Kilhenny in residence. And I have a task I have to fulfill. A friend is currently living in Italy and not in the best of health. She has asked me to join her for a while.”

  Did I sense that the queen’s ears pricked up? She turned to look at me. “In what part of Italy does she reside?”

  “On Lake Maggiore. Near Stresa.”

  It was she who coughed on her shortbread. I wondered whether protocol would allow me to pat her on the back, but she took a sip of tea and recovered her composure. “A remarkable coincidence,” she said.

  “What is, ma’am?” I asked, trying not to sound too curious and carefully replacing my own teacup on the table so that whatever she told me next I did not react with surprise and slop tea into my saucer.

  She turned toward me suddenly. “Do you know the Martinis?”

  This was not what I had expected. “You make them with gin and vermouth, I think. I don’t drink cocktails very often.”

  She shook her head. “No, I mean the family, not the drink,” she said. “Old Italian family. The Counts of Marola and Martini?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t mix much with European aristocracy.”

  “But you know his wife,” she went on. “You and she were school chums.”

  Oh no. Not another supposed dear friend I had either never heard of or long forgotten about? She had sprung these on me before when she wanted me to do something for her—usually something difficult or unpleasant.

  “We were?”

  “Well, maybe not bosom friends, as she must be a little older than you, but you were at the school in Switzerland at the same time. Waddell-Walker is the name.”

  “Oh yes. Camilla Waddell-Walker. I do remember her,” I said. An image swam into my head of a bony, horsey-faced girl with a permanent supercilious sneer. Belinda called her Miss Cami-Knickers. She had been the prefect in my dorm during my first year at Les Oiseaux and she was always finding fault with Belinda and myself. Mostly Belinda, of course. I would have been a well-behaved young lady if Belinda hadn’t tried to lead me astray. Camilla was constantly saying “It simply isn’t done!” when we giggled or played pranks or behaved in any kind of unladylike way. Luckily she didn’t know that Belinda sneaked out to meet ski instructors or to smoke behind the gardener’s shed. I don’t know what she would have said to those sorts of infringements!

  The queen smiled. “Splendid. You do know her. As I was saying, she made a really good match and is now the Contessa di Martini. Paolo’s family is extremely wealthy and powerful in Italy, although I have heard that they are showing Fascist leanings, of which I do not approve. That horrible bald-headed man Mussolini.” She shuddered. “I can’t understand what these Continentals are thinking when they elect such unappealing leaders. Hitler—short, dark and that ridiculous hedgehog mustache—and Mussolini, bald and pudgy.”

  This was not getting us any closer to revealing why we were on this topic. She must have realized this because she said, “Now, where was I? Oh yes. The Martinis have a villa on Lake Maggiore. Near the town of Stresa. They are currently in residence and going to hold a house party next week.”

  Oh crikey, I thought. I bet she wants me to crash the house party and steal some antique for her. I should tell you that Her Majesty is passionate about antiques and will go to great lengths to obtain an object that completes her collection. Not that she would condone stealing, exactly, but if she found out that a particular jug that was missing from her Royal Worcester service might be found at a particular house or castle, she might be tempted to ask me to retrieve it for her. She had done so in the past.

  She cleared her throat and went on. “My son the Prince of Wales is going to be a member of that house party. So is a certain American woman I will not name.” She paused. “He is being rather obtuse and secretive about why he is going there. And it is all the more embarrassing as an official British delegation is being sent to an important conference there, at the same time. His father told him it would put them in an awkward situation if it were known that he was in the vicinity. They might feel obliged to include him in official functions, but he absolutely refused to change his plans. So this leaves me to wonder why this particular house party is so important to him, and a disturbing thought enters my mind. . . .”

  She paused, toyed with a piece of shortbread on her plate, then looked up again. “We know the American woman has been looking into filing papers for divorce in the most discreet manner possible. We have been unable to find out whether she has actually succeeded in obtaining a divorce from Mr. Simpson. My fear is that she has done this and that she and my son plan to marry secretly at this villa.”

  “Golly!” I exclaimed. I’m afraid my list of expletives is somewhat limited. I hate still sounding like a schoolgirl, but this sort of thing just pops out in moments of crisis.

  The queen then reached across and covered my hand with her own. Another completely uncharacteristic gesture. “As you can imagine, I am extremely worried. If my son presents this marriage as a fait accompli, could it then be dissolved? It would kill his father, I am sure of that. And would we then have a king married to a twice-divorced gold digger?”

  “Oh, ma’am, surely not. He may be besotted with her at the moment, but he will do the right thing in the end. When he becomes king he will step up and do what the country expects of him.”

  She sighed. “One hopes so. But I am afraid, Georgiana. That’s why I am so relieved to find out you will be nearby. You can be my eyes and ears on the spot. If there is a secret wedding ceremony the servants will know of it. Your friend the countess may even share the news with you.”

  My friend the countess probably wanted to see me again as little as I wanted to see her, but I couldn’t say that. Instead I pointed out that I had not been invited and could not force my way into a house party.

  “I shall write to the countess immediately,” she said. “I shall remind her that you were school chums and tell her you will be in the vicinity and that you will naturally want to pay your respects to your cousin David, of whom you are so fond. I don’t think she would dare to refuse a request from me, do you?” And she gave a little smile.

  She picked up her cup and drained it. “I feel so much better now,” she said.

  I drank my own tea in silence. I wasn’t quite sure what she wanted me to do. If they were actually getting married, I could hardly rush in as they were saying, “Do you know any cause or just impediment why these two may not be joined together in holy matrimony?” and shout out, “He’ll be the head of the Church of England and it forbids divorce and furthermore his mother forbids it!”

  “What exactly do you want me to do, ma’am?” I asked.

  “Just observe. Just let me kno
w the truth. That’s all I ask,” she said. “I will, of course, be happy to pay for the travel expenses for you and your maid.”

  Ah. Slight problem here. “I’m afraid my maid will not be traveling with me,” I said.

  “Traveling without a maid?” She looked shocked.

  “My current maid didn’t want to leave her family in Ireland.”

  “A maid not willing to go where her mistress goes? What are servants coming to?” She shook her head, almost dislodging one perfect gray curl. “My maid would follow me to the ends of the earth if I asked her to. Can your family not lend you one?”

  I didn’t like to say that Fig would not lend me a hand if I was drowning. “I’m afraid not, ma’am. They have only brought down a minimum number of servants from Scotland.”

  “But you simply cannot travel without a maid across the Continent.” She sounded quite upset now. “A young girl alone on a foreign train? There are any manner of rogues and thieves. And who would dress you?”

  “I’m sure you have noticed that my wardrobe is quite limited, compared to most ladies of our standing,” I said. “I shall take simple garments like these on the trip.”

  “But you will need evening frocks if you are invited to join the house party, which I hope you will be,” she said. “I know. When I write to the countess I shall tell her of the mishap with your maid and hope that she might find you a local girl to assist you while you are in the area. There. That should take care of it.” On the strength of this she poured herself a second cup of tea. “But I still don’t like the idea of your traveling alone, Georgiana. You must take a first-class sleeping berth, naturally. And lock your door at all times. And let the porter in your car know you are alone and need to be watched over.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said. “But please don’t worry. I have traveled across the Continent before.”

  “I shall be happy when you are married and have a husband to take care of you, Georgiana,” she said.

  So shall I, I thought.