The Royal Nanny

by Karen Harper

  We whizzed on down the road, though my heart was thumping as if we already rode uphill. I hoped no one would see my tears and trembling lower lip, but the truth was I didn’t need this bike, for I was flying. Still, the pain of being so near and yet so far from him was renewed agony.

  “Isn’t it great, Lala?” Bertie called out when we joined the others. “I can say words like ‘big, beautiful bicycle’ and not stutter one bit, so when they get back, I want you to tell P-Papa!”

  “David beat me here,” Mary interrupted, “but I’m getting closer! Girls can ride fast too!”

  So I was back with my own little family, the only one I would ever really have.

  MY NINTH CHRISTMAS at York Cottage, the year of 1905, with the prince and princess in India, seemed different. That day, the children’s grandparents were with us, and later we’d be going to Sandringham House for the gala celebration. Perhaps I was getting used to the glamour and generosity that had once amazed me. I would not say the glitter was off the tree or the shine off the candles, but this year Christmas did make me strangely homesick—not as much for my own family as for a home of my own.

  I’d heard Princess May say last year that Christmas at Sandringham was like the world of Charles Dickens wrapped in an exquisite package. It was becoming a new tradition that Mr. Hansell, using broad gestures and different voices, read Dickens’s A Christmas Carol to all of us assembled at York Cottage before we went to the Big House.

  As ever, the children were on pins and needles to have to wait so long to open their gifts. Yet my charges, even David, sat as if entranced from the very first lines “Midder” Hansell read: Marley was dead, to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about that. The register of his burial was signed by the clergyman, the clerk, the undertaker, and the chief mourner. Scrooge signed it . . . Old Marley was as dead as a doornail.

  “But he still comes back as a ghost,” Bertie whispered, twisting around in his chair ahead of me. “Remember that ghost who locked us in the t-tower in Scotland?”

  Holding the sleeping Johnnie in my arms with George beside me on the same seat, I motioned for Bertie to turn around and pay attention. But the ghosts of Christmases past were in my thoughts, happy memories tinged with sadness. I hadn’t gone to London to see my parents this summer because Johnnie needed me. Then there was the haunting of my heart with memories of the Yuletide with Chad the year he gave me the gloves, the time we made snow angels, the time . . .

  Johnnie sucked in a breath, and his eyes flew open in surprise. I knew a rough breathing spell was coming, so I immediately tipped him up against my shoulder and patted his little back. His velvet-soft head tilted against my neck. He cuddled in, the little gasps not so bad and quickly past.

  I jumped when David and Bertie shouted “Bah! Humbug!” the first time Mr. Hansell read those words. I wished they would quiet that down, for Johnnie jumped each time, so I rose and, bouncing him against my shoulder, walked him out into the hall. Even with the door barely ajar, I could hear how they chimed in—now with their grandfather’s booming voice—each time “Bah! Humbug!” was said until the happy, tearful ending when Tiny Tim cried out, “God bless us every one!”

  Applause, of course, for Mr. Hansell. At this point Princess May always led the children in singing carols in the sitting room, but without her, there was no one to lead. I loved to sing and could have done it, but I would not presume. Chad might have once implied I was more mother to my charges than was Princess May, but I dared not think such thoughts. Besides, with their grandparents here, that helped to fill the gap of their parents’ absence.

  A bit later, I left Johnnie sleeping heavily in his cradle with his undernurse Jane watching him and traipsed outside to the coach house near the stables to watch the presentation of Christmas gifts to the York household and estate staff from the king and queen, in place of the wandering Waleses. In a curved queue, about three hundred folk waited outside in the frosty but snowless night, gardeners, foresters, stable hands—including Chad and his wife with his gamekeeping staff.

  Since his parents were away, David, who was nearly twelve, had the honor of sitting just inside the coach house door with Their Majesties. While the rest of us stood behind their chairs, I kept a good eye on George and Harry. I and the nursery staff had received new outfits and a holiday stipend, the latter of which I’d sent home for my parents’ gift.

  In turn, the household, then the estate staff, many of the latter who were married, stepped forward with their mates and were each able to select a large, wrapped joint of beef and wished “A Happy Christmas!” by the king.

  I held my breath as Chad and Millie Reaver stepped forward. Like the others, Chad doffed his cap and made a slight bow while Millie bobbed a quick curtsy. Chad’s gaze met mine, lingered, then darted away. Millie stared at me and when she turned sideways to move on—just as that time so long ago when we had talked in the glasshouse—I was certain she was slightly pregnant. Well, I mean one can’t be a little bit pregnant, but she could not be too far along. Maybe she had conceived about the time Chad and I had our last privy chat, that day on the bicycles. If that was the time—somehow, that hurt.

  As if I’d caught Johnnie’s malady, I gasped and sucked in a throat of chill air. I started coughing and gestured to Mary to watch the two youngest boys as I moved to a far corner of the coach house. No way was I going outside, so that Chad and Millie might think I was following them.

  Despite the evident danger of another childbirth for her, I had to admire her pluck. She was desperate for a child at the risk of more grief, and I understood that. I would die for Johnnie, and he wasn’t even really mine.

  “Char, are you all right?” Mabel asked as she came up beside me. The king and queen had brought some of their staff with them, including Mabel. Bless her, she extended a little flask of something in her hand, and I took a swig from it.

  “Spiced cider,” she whispered, “nothing like the toffs drink. I’ve got to hurry back to the Big House, see that the tree candles are lit for the children in the grand saloon. I oversaw the decorating of the tree, with the queen standing right beside me. A Christmas tree is one of the few things Queen Victoria’s Prince Albert liked that the king abides.”

  “I remember,” I told her, my voice sounding raspy. “King Edward redid Buck House and got rid of the old queen’s beloved Osborne House. Must the royal offspring always resent their father?”

  “Char, you think too much. Come on, it’s Christmas. Oh, by the way, you should see the wrapped gifts—some for your little Johnnie too. I guess you’ll have to open those for him this year with the princess gone.”

  She took back the flask and darted off. Your little Johnnie, she had said. Yes, unlike with the other children, I felt that he was mine, though someday, I supposed, I’d have to give him up. But not to death’s cold hand, not like Chad and Millie had to do, and the king and queen also. That indeed would be a haunting far worse than any fiction of what poor old Scrooge went through. How sad the story of Tiny Tim being crippled, and Johnnie had problems too. By next Christmas Eve, I vowed, he would be stronger, better, if not normal, in his own way, just fine.

  BUT, AFTER THE York Cottage festivities, I could not help but think that sometimes the royals nearly abandoned their children. Not only would Johnnie’s parents be in India for months, but almost as soon as they returned, I’d been informed, they were heading for Norway, and Mary was to be prepared to go along. The event was the coronation of the prince’s sister Maud, as queen, and her husband, newly named Haakon as king of Norway.

  Mabel had also told me that Queen Alexandra thought all that a farce because the new Norwegian king had been elected by a popular vote, no less, and it set a dreadful precedent. I rather thought that sounded fair, though a bit too American. But Mabel had whispered that Alexandra was also incensed that her daughter-in-law May must have convinced Prince George to sanction such an event. Well, the only thing about all that which really bothered me—besides the children bei
ng without their parents longer—was that the Waleses were going to miss David’s twelfth birthday.

  I hurried to catch up with the children piling into the horse-drawn omnibus for a traditional ride to the Big House. The estate workers had greatly dispersed, but a few stood about. Not the Reavers, thank heavens, for it yet bothered me to see them together. But a lanky man was calling to a woman who was maybe his wife. He was calling her Lil and telling her to keep back from the omnibus full of “’em uppers.” And there was something about his voice . . .

  I jerked my head around. That man. It had been over three years, but I could have sworn he was the leader of the pack that had halted this very omnibus and threatened us as we were heading to a picnic with the kaiser. And yet, it was Christmas and the prince—even Chad—were not here to tell right now. Nothing else had come of that for a long time, so the rebellion must have died down.

  Still, if anything untoward happened, I’d have a better description of the lanky man. I would be able to say, at least, that he had a wife named Lil. If I ever had another chance to talk to Chad, I’d warn him, though. I looked around, craning my neck to see if there could be any of that man’s cohorts hanging about to stop us again, but I saw only darkness.

  With a jolt as the horses started to pull, we headed toward the Big House, ablaze with lights.

  Chapter 19

  On a lovely day the next spring—it was 1906, amazingly, six years into the new century—I kept Harry and little George out of the way of flying feet and darting undercooks and two scullery maids in the main kitchen of Sandringham House. Johnnie was taking a nap, watched closely by both of my undernurses, and this was my afternoon off. I planned to meet Mabel and take the boys for a walk with us. The leaves were fully budded and the robins and skylarks sang, so why not?

  Poor Harry, recently turned six, had been put in splints like Bertie had, but Harry was also in heavy boots to help straighten what his father called knock-knees. Despite his difficulty walking, the boy always wanted to go along, but I felt so sorry for him as the contraptions made him seem clumsier than he already was. Right now, he and three-year-old George knew they’d be in for a treat from their grandparents’ kitchen and Mrs. Grey, the head cook.

  I told her, “I hope we’re not in the way if we just stand here and smell those wonderful aromas.”

  “Never in the way,” the sprightly woman called to me as she supervised pouring and stirring and oversaw the arrangement of several silver food trays. “Not the queen’s grandchildren! Edwina here will fetch the little ones some biscuits. It’s the lemon sauce for the sponge cake you smell. Her Majesty has three friends and, of course, Lady Knollys to lunch.

  “And how’s that youngest little angel now?” Mrs. Grey asked as she fringed china plates with springs of parsley. The plates held displays of cold meats; asparagus tips; cucumber; egg sandwiches; cheese canapés with pickles; a salmagundi salad with spring flowers round its rim; and—oh, my—scones with strawberries and clotted cream, my very favorite.

  “Johnnie’s doing much better now, Mrs. Grey. Still not sitting up well at nine months but breathing easier.”

  “Well, good news all round about little ones, since Chad Reaver finally got his child.”

  The stone tiled floor under me seemed to tilt. “They— The baby is all right?” My heart thudded in my chest. Finally, a child. How happy Chad—Millie too—must be. Finally, Chad had some good after the bad.

  “A girl, what’s that name they gave her?” Mrs. Grey asked yet another cook, one who must be new from the village since I hadn’t seen her before.

  “Penelope, nickname Penny,” the girl said, stirring something on the huge iron stove. “Still so sad, such a price to pay.”

  “What?” I cried, thinking of Johnnie’s breathing problems. “Is the child all right?”

  I caught a look they gave each other just as Mabel appeared from down the hall with three tall, white-gloved footmen. The men carried the trays out of the kitchen while a third stood like a sentinel in the corner, evidently waiting for the tray with the dessert.

  “Sorry I’m tardy, Char,” Mabel called to me over the bustle. “Did the lads get a treat?”

  Mrs. Grey was pouring lemon sauce over the sponge cake, set among rosebuds on its own round, cut-glass tray. When I nodded, wide-eyed but didn’t speak, Mabel hustled the three of us outside and propelled us over to a bench by the back door herb garden.

  “They told you about the Reavers, didn’t they?” she asked.

  “Yes, just now, about Chad’s little girl.”

  “I wanted to be the one to let you know. Can you have these two go play by that little horse head swing Her Majesty had built for their sister?” she asked, pointing to the weather-worn swing that dangled from the branch of an old apple tree. “Maybe Harry can swing George.”

  I told the boys, “Harry, you watch George and don’t swing too hard, then we’ll go for our walk.”

  “It’s swell, Lala,” Harry said, ever the little helper. “I know it’s your time off and you brought us anyway.” With his mouth still half full of a biscuit and dragging his feet in his boots, he took George by the hand and tugged him over to the old swing.

  Mabel grasped my hands, which I had gripped in my lap.

  “There’s something wrong with the Reaver baby, isn’t there?” I asked. “What if they lose her after all they’ve been through?”

  Mabel’s lower lip dropped. She squeezed my hands tighter. “They didn’t tell you all of it then. Well, I mean it just happened yesterday evening. Char, their baby’s thriving, has a wet nurse even, because Millie died giving birth. They’re burying her day after tomorrow.”

  MABEL WALKED THE boys back to York Cottage for me. I sat on the bench, queasy and crying, watching the wind move the empty horse head swing that creaked as if a ghost sat there. And maybe it did. Not Millie’s to haunt me, but strange regrets. Grief for Chad. Torment that maybe I should have married him. Agony over whether to try to write him, comfort him, attend the funeral or just stay away.

  And could this mean another chance for us? He’d said he still loved me, but my way was set now with protecting Johnnie just as he must care for his Penelope. I’d vowed to Princess May I’d never leave Johnnie, and I felt fierce about protecting him.

  I sat there until Mabel came back, pulled me off the bench and made me walk and talk. She and Rose were the only ones who knew my feelings for Chad, but I’d not told them that he had declared he loved me yet after all these years. The first day I’d met him, he’d said one had to learn to take the bad with the good. The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away, my mother would have put it, though she would have had my head on a platter with lemon sauce if she’d known I loved a married man.

  But he was not married anymore.

  THE NEXT YEAR, the king decreed that David was ready for the Royal Naval College. “Midder” Hansell had objected, Finch was stoic about it, and I was appalled. Since David was so immature and shaken, I had tried to enlist the support of Princess May to appeal to the prince for more time. But she had said she could not interfere with his decision that “The Navy will be the making of him.” In her own words, she had added with a sad smile her usual comment, “After all, Lala, we must keep in mind that his father may someday be his king.”

  The poor boy passed a three-day battery of grueling tests—of course, dare they deny a future king?—to become a cadet. This morning, his family and the staff who had been close to him were assembled outside York Cottage to bid him farewell for the months he would be away until Christmas.

  At least, I had said to buck him up, the college was on the beautiful Isle of Wight, at Osborne House, though that held no fond memories for him. Soon after Queen Victoria had died, King Edward had given her beloved place to the nation, so David had no ties to it. I had been hoping the king would overrule his son about sending David off—with Bertie and the other boys to follow when they also turned thirteen—but the carriage was waiting to take David to the ra
ilway station.

  I could see the poor child was trembling. He dreaded leaving here, and I could not blame him. What ties had he ever had to “regular lads,” as Finch called them? And, even more than his brothers, he had chaffed and suffered under his father’s strict rules and regulations. For their whole lives, it seemed to them, they had already had a strict commander, and today Prince George was decked out in his full uniform as if reliving his beloved naval days.

  By contrast, David looked as if he were pained by his blue jacket with its brass buttons, stiff white collar, and sharp navy cap. Under his parents’ watchful gaze, he went down the line of the house servants, then to his personal staff, Finch, Mr. Hansell, even Madame Bricka, with whom he had never gotten on. Then me. I held little Johnnie in one arm, a full family member though the sweet, little blond boy had no notion of what was going on or what lay ahead for him. When I gave David a one-armed shoulder hug, for we had said our tearful good-byes earlier, he threw his arms around me and held tight.

  But he knew better than to sob as he had earlier, “Lala, I don’t want to go! I don’t want to leave here, leave you and Finch, and what will Bertie do without me? But I’ll write, Lala, I will write!”

  Then, silent, still trembling, he loosed me, stepped back, and squared his shoulders. He hugged his sister, then shook hands with Bertie, Harry, and George. But I did regret the fact he didn’t so much as pat Johnnie on his head or grasp his little hand. The more I’d tried to get him to warm up to Johnnie, the more coldly David had treated him. It both angered and hurt me.