The Royal Nanny

by Karen Harper

  I left little Harry behind in the undernurses’ charge. I must admit, I was almost as excited as Mary, but not for the same reasons.

  ON OUR WAY out to the luncheon site, a cluster of men and women brandishing pitchforks and scythes ran out of a woodlot and blocked the road. I pulled Mary closer to me on the inside bench of the omnibus. They had handkerchiefs over their noses and mouths as if they were highwaymen. Were we to be robbed right here? One of the footmen tending the boxes of food cursed, and one of the maids screamed.

  Our driver pulled the horses to a halt and ordered, “Clear the road!”

  No one budged. I could see seven of them as I craned around but I did not stick my head out. One man among them shouted, “Tell ’em fancy shooters, king and prince too, that ’em groundskeepers and bird beaters been tramplin’ our crops, usin’ our land. We don’t want all that open space with ’em bird culverts. You tell ’em, ’cause they don’t listen to the likes of us, even Reaver don’t much!”

  Were they speaking of Chad? He’d taken over his father’s duties several years ago. But didn’t he get on well with the local people?

  “I’ll tell them,” our driver promised. “Let us pass. We have women and children here,” he said, stretching the truth a bit.

  “So do we, and it’s time the uppers knew it,” the speaker shouted and strode back to look in where I sat with Mary. I shoved her behind me and stood at the rear entry to block his view of her as I looked down at the irate man. “You tell ’em all what we said!” he shouted up at me, waving his pitchfork like a sword. He wore a cap as well as the handkerchief, so all I could see were his pale blue eyes. He was very young, thin and lanky. I could tell that and no more.

  “We most certainly will,” I managed to get out in a strong voice. “Every word. Now please let us pass.”

  Perhaps it was the word “please” or the fact I’d agreed or that I’d faced him without a blink, but he ordered the others, “Let ’em go. They heard us good.” They backed off and disappeared into a nearby woodlot.

  “Sorry ’bout that, Mrs. Lala,” the driver called back to me as he started us up again at a good clip. “We’ll have to tell the king and the prince, that we will. Just a rabble don’t like the king’s men what don’t let tenants clear weeds and plant crops where the coverts for the birds are, where the drivers make the birds fly so the lords can get good shots. And the local folk not ’lowed to poach. They don’t like the hares let loose to breed for the hunt neither, ’cause they eats the gardens.”

  “Yes. Yes, I see why they might be upset.”

  But, I thought, did they have to accuse their fellow countryman and neighbor, Chad Reaver, too?

  THOUGH STILL SHAKEN by our encounter with the rabble-rousers on the road, I was absolutely astounded at the grandeur of the luncheon in an open-sided tent called a marquee in the middle of a field. Silver tureens held steaming hare soup, trays displayed beautifully arranged fish and cutlets, carafes and sterling settings on linen tablecloths covered a U-shaped table surrounded by padded, brocade dining room chairs. Monogrammed china and flower arrangements were everywhere, even at the children’s table where Finch and I sat with David, Bertie, and Mary. I scanned the servants for Chad’s wife but didn’t see her.

  After the main table was served, we too were offered food from a vast array of the king’s French chef’s dishes of cold salmon pâté, pigeon pie, tomato salad, haricots verts, Russian salad, and jellies. Tortes and cakes, pineapple ice cream and raspberry sorbet with tea or coffee finished the repast. The only thing we did not have at our table were footmen pouring wine and champagne kept on crushed ice in the makeshift serving area. Not my idea of a hunting picnic, but I reckoned I still had much to learn. And much to eat.

  But I did glance over at the kaiser now and again. I’d seen photos of the Russian tsar, and he looked so much like Prince George they could be mistaken for brothers. However, the kaiser did not resemble his English relatives at all. He had a rounder head and a huge, handlebar mustache curled up at the ends rather than trimmed and turned down. Even for the hunt, he seemed extravagantly dressed and had two guards standing behind his chair. I saw that, indeed, David had been right, that he hid his deformed arm. His pompous stance and hand stuck in his bright blue jacket reminded me of a gazette picture I’d seen of Napoleon.

  When the children went off to be presented at the big table, Hansell told me, “Now here’s a good history lesson for you, Mrs. Lala. Forget the face that sank a thousand ships, the beautiful Helen of Troy. Forget Cleopatra and all that historical legend. In the here and now, which lady at the table do you think is the infamous Mrs. Alice Keppel?”

  “The beautiful blonde sitting three persons away from the king?”

  “No.”

  “The brunette with the huge pearl earrings directly across from him?”

  “One more guess before we have the children back again.”

  “After that problem on the road, it’s not my best day. Oh, but I do remember Rose told me she does not dress well, which narrows down the search a bit. But tell me then.”

  “The one in the russet gown and green hat with ostrich feathers.”

  I saw who he meant. Alice Keppel, the mistress and advisor to the king of Great Britain and the Empire, was plain as could be. Rose was right: She did not dress elegantly as did the other ladies, including, of course, Queen Alexandra, near whom she was seated and who was decked out in fur and ropes of pearls.

  “Well,” I said with an exhaled breath.

  “So, beauty is only skin deep, and maybe not even that. I heard His Majesty has portraits of beautiful court ladies in his sitting room, and he has a beautiful wife, yet, I wager, Mrs. Keppel is the love of his life. She is of such an amenable, affable disposition that even the queen has come to accept her, perhaps to like her. This will be history someday, so live and learn, yes? And, by the by, not to change the subject, but when do you plan to tell the king about those rebels on the road?”

  “When he is not surrounded by his family and certainly not in front of the children.”

  “Speaking of which, here they come. Whirlwind time again.”

  “Lala and Midder,” David said, as the children came back, looking quite triumphant, “we’re to go watch the shooting, but we can’t have our own guns. And I think Grandpapa is wishing the kaiser didn’t come, because they don’t seem that friendly.”

  “That can happen, David,” Hansell said. “Blood is not always thicker than water.”

  “The blood from the birds they shot? They say they brought down eight hundred already, mostly pheasants that got flushed out by the beaters from over there,” he said pointing. “See those lads in the smocks, and I hear they make a pretty penny for their day’s work.”

  Bertie put in, “They have to count the b-birds the d-dogs bring back to make a b-big bag. Chad has to write it d-down in his book for Grandpapa and Papa too. It’s like a contest, like a little war the k-kaiser said, but his English is kind of funny, sort of like Mother’s but k-kind of worse.”

  “Yes, well,” Hansell said. “Perhaps we’d best not remark on how others talk. Let’s just hope your and David’s German is not funny when you talk to the kaiser, or Madame Bricka will want to shoot you.”

  That settled them down. Me too, as Mary came back to join us after she’d had a few minutes with her parents, being introduced to everyone.

  “I whispered to Papa what happened on the road, Lala,” she told me. “We women have to stick up for ourselves. Madame Bricka says so, and you did too. He’s going to tell the king, but not now to ruin his day. That’s what Papa said. ‘Not ruin his day.’”

  I was disappointed I hadn’t seen Chad as the luncheon broke up and elegant carriages carried the lady guests back toward the Big House. But just before I mounted the steps of the omnibus, there he came, attired in a crisp, colorful uniform, striding toward us, followed by an entourage as if he were a king of his own domain.

  Granted, the royal and noble men had l
ooked fine in their tweed caps and Norfolk jackets, specially made to allow them to raise their arms to fire the guns their loaders handed them in quick succession. But I hadn’t realized there were such fine uniforms for the gamekeepers and their staff. The so-called beaters or bird drivers wore smocks and black felt hats with bright ribbons. The keepers who patrolled the grounds—no doubt the ones the folk on the road despised—wore bowlers encircled with gold cords and boasting an embroidered golden acorn on the front. But Chad was all in red, coat and hat with breeches and gaiters, brass buttons and a silver hunt horn with a golden tassel to match the acorn on his green velvet cap. I froze and stared in awe.

  He saw me then. He gave a quick nod and lifted a gloved hand to the brim of his cap and hurried on, but I think that was for me. I sighed like a silly green girl, before I forced myself up into the omnibus. As we pulled away, I craned my neck to look back, but the loaders and shooters were tramping off into the field again, with Chad leading, so he was quite lost from view. And lost to me.

  As Mary and I rode back in the omnibus in the company of guards and the other carriages and wagons, the blasts of the shooters rent the air again. I saw Chad in my dreams that night, striding toward me, shooting hot looks at me and blowing his horn for me to follow him. We went into the woodlot where we struggled with each other and then fought ghosts wielding pitchforks. I woke quite exhausted, as if I hadn’t slept at all.

  As soon as I’d had breakfast with Mary and Harry, I was summoned to the prince’s study and there stood Chad.

  Chapter 14

  I was upset to be summoned by the prince, to the very room where poor David and Bertie had suffered many a scolding. But to have Chad there with him, waiting for me, made my knees tremble.

  Of course, they must only want to discuss what had happened on the road yesterday. Mary said she had told her father about it, and I had no doubt the omnibus driver had too. Did they tell the prince that Chad’s name had been mentioned in the accusations, or was he here because he oversaw the workers who were hired to protect royal game coverts instead of the estate tenants’ gardens and fields?

  I began a dreadful blush, throat to forehead, but I curtsied under their gaze. Chad nodded as if in greeting or encouragement.

  I felt trapped in a small, red box, for the walls were covered with red fabric. A massive oaken case with a glass door displayed the prince’s collection of shotguns. A large desk and a worn leather sofa crowded in on me as did shelves lined, not with books to read, but rows of matching embossed leather scrapbooks which no doubt held the prince’s precious stamp collection. Pictures of navy ships hung from the walls and cluttered the desk, with only one photograph of his children. I saw the large barometer on the wall, which David had told me their father often strode over to tap in the middle of a rebuke, as if he needed to know which way the wind was blowing. It was dim in here compared to the way I kept the day nursery. The air smelled of cigar smoke, and I suddenly felt faint.

  I must have wavered on my feet, for Chad’s hands were strong on my upper arms as he sat me on the couch and knelt on the floor, leaning close.

  “Is she quite all right?” the prince asked.

  “Charlotte?” Chad asked.

  “I’m . . . I’m fine. Really. Just didn’t sleep well last night.”

  I tried to rise for one must not sit in the prince’s presence, but he held up a hand to keep me there and pulled over the chair from his desk. Chad sat beside me, and the prince’s knees kept us both in place. Though seated, he did tower over both of us on the sunken seats of the couch.

  “I can understand why you didn’t sleep,” His Royal Highness said. “What happened on the road yesterday was a disgrace and a shock. Perfectly beastly. The princess and I are grateful to you for taking good care of one of our children—again.”

  I nodded. I suppose he meant the time I’d rescued David and Bertie from their cruel nurse. “It did upset me, sir,” I admitted. “And Chad, they mentioned ‘Reaver’ as being to blame too.”

  If Prince George was surprised at the two of us using our Christian names to each other, he did not let on, but said, “The driver told us, and Mary gave her excited version of it too. She said you hid her behind your skirts and faced them down and made them leave.”

  “They’d said their piece by then, but I wish they had done it without those sharp tools—which could have been construed as weapons.”

  “Most provocative and heedless. Can you describe any of the men? Perhaps the spokesman?”

  “You’ve heard, sir, they all wore kerchief masks?”

  He nodded but Chad spoke. “Height? Weight? Tone of voice? I suppose they were all dressed for field work?”

  “Their spokesman was young, but perhaps most of them were, because their elders would know better,” I said, speaking slowly. I found myself strangely torn between wanting to help but understanding the pain of the farmers. “And tone of voice—angry and desperate. He always said ’em instead of them, if that helps.”

  The two men looked at each other. The prince said, “That’s local dialect, so I see you have been a bit sheltered here. Chad and his father have made a concerted effort to elevate their speech, as have others who work here or at the Big House.”

  A bit embarrassed, I could only nod. So Chad and I had that in common too, trying to better ourselves. How hard I’d worked back in London, even when I was a mere nursemaid, to rid myself of Cockney talk, which I easily fell back into the few times I visited at home.

  “Well,” the prince said, sitting back sharply in his chair, “as for that rude fellow sounding angry and desperate, aren’t we all at times? But it must be seen to, Chad, lest the protest grow to a rebellion. I cannot have my children and staff threatened on this estate, so keep your ear to the ground and your back covered. Do not be going out in the coverts alone. Meanwhile, you and I will speak with a troublemaker or two.”

  Chad said, “If only the royal nursery could spare her when I go out, I would take with me the woman who talked them down, eh?” His words—If only the royal nursery could spare her—had come out bitter, and I understood that. Yet he had helped me here today, so perhaps he didn’t detest me as much as I thought.

  To my surprise, the prince smiled. “Mrs. Lala—Charlotte,” he said, leaning slightly forward again, “I repeat, we are grateful. We are blessed to have you tend our growing royal brood as well as Chad tends the estate hatchlings. If you need a favor—an extra undernurse—more supplies, especially when the new baby arrives next month, you have but to ask. I owe you one—or two, probably three favors.”

  “I would just ask, sir, that you don’t fence the children in because of that incident. The oldest are just starting to feel their wings. They long for horses and bicycles, friends, fun, and just a bit of freedom on the estate.”

  “How like you to speak for them and not yourself,” the prince said, rising, so Chad and I got up too, as he steadied me by my elbow. “I assure you, their grandfather has bicycles coming, and we’ll see to riding lessons, but we must instill discipline too. You just be certain that you are ever with Mary on the grounds and that Finch and Hansell go with the lads.”

  “Yes, sir. With two undernurses, I’m sure that little Harry and the new one will be well tended too.”

  When I was dismissed, Chad went over to open the door for me. How I wished I could pull him out into the hall to say the things that I’d wanted, that I was sorry—about the loss of his child, I mean . . . that I wanted to see him again, only to return the feather picture to him, of course . . .

  He whispered, “Charlotte,” and closed the door firmly behind me. I heard their voices from within, but the only words I recognized were Chad’s “. . . also plans to stop those poachers, sir.”

  I turned away and hurried back to the nursery.

  AS IF HE were an early Christmas gift, a fourth son was born to the Waleses on December twentieth. His full name was George Edward Alexander Edmund, and he was a fussy, colicky baby. The poor princ
ess suffered through another hard birth and was given ether to allay her pain. We all knew she hoped that was her last child, and so I tried to cherish him—which he worked against by squalling day and night. I took to walking with him at night like a ghost up and down the hall, thinking my own thoughts of doubt and regret. Chad had been right: What I had lost haunted me, though I loved these children and my position. Bless Princess May for insisting I take an extra half day off a week. Meanwhile, life and our patterned rotation of places went on. Now and again, I would take out the shimmering feather picture Chad had tried to give me as a betrothal gift almost two years ago. I cleaned the glass and the frame, then wrapped it and put it away with my foolish regrets and dreams as yet another year rolled by.

  Thankfully, the next December, that of 1903, was mild, and I sometimes took short walks outside after the children were in bed, just to savor the quiet and clear my head. Mostly I strode round the outside of the house itself, filling my lungs with crisp air. I looked up at the stars in the dark heavens, which seemed to wink and glitter. Sometimes I walked to the glasshouse and peered in the windows at the green, growing bounty inside, lit by a single lamp at night, but I never went in now. From here I could see the Big House with its windows lit and the royal standard that flew on the roof when Their Majesties were here. Currently, the queen was in residence and the king in London for, in truth, they often lived separate lives.

  I turned to head back, walking quickly and quietly toward York Cottage when something huge hissed over me and took me down. I tried to scream but the air whuffed out of me. On the ground, I fought a great woven spiderweb. A huge net? A man fell or jumped on top of me.

  “Not a sound, you damned bastard or else— Charlotte?”