by Karen Harper
Finally, by the end of November, I began to believe them and relax a bit, and my growing group of female friends helped with that.
Last week, Margaretta Eager had visited me for the second time, and we frequently corresponded by post. She had been so relieved to hear every little detail about how her Russian girls were getting on—and my repeating how graciously and cleverly Olga had accepted the photograph. Of course, my friend Mabel Butcher was still dear to me, as busy as she was as head housekeeper at the Big House.
Today I was enjoying sitting in Rose’s sewing room off the kitchen while Johnnie took an afternoon nap upstairs and I had tea with Helene Bricka and Rose.
“You should see the gown Princess May is wearing to the queen’s birthday party at the Big House next week!” Rose told us. She had an eager audience, for Helene dearly loved the princess and anyone who supported her. I yet felt as if I were an understudy of sorts for the sartorial styles of the Marlborough House and Buckingham Palace set.
“I hope,” Helene, chatty as ever, said, “it’s quite grand, because the queen is always trying to upstage her. Why it even annoys her that May has such good hearing she can pick up on distant conversations, while the queen can’t catch things said right at her, let alone their quite pointless race to see who collects the most Fabergé agate animals and those ornate eggs with the surprises hidden in them! Why, the queen, I hear, has two large electric lighted cabinets full of those carved creatures and bejeweled eggs—eggs, no less!”
I didn’t want to hear all that again, so I asked Rose, “So what will the gown be like?”
“English-made as usual, not imported from the Frenchies like some I could name.”
Helene gave a sharp nod. “When she is queen, she will promote British fashions, not foreign. Oh, I know in the olden days it was treason to so much as think about the current sovereign’s demise, but the king is not well. Too much wine, women, and song, not to mention those gargantuan meals he puts away and those dreadful cigars.”
There was a moment’s silence as Rose and I glanced at each other.
All three of us knew the Prince and Princess of Wales did not covet their fate to be next in line to the throne. They dreaded and feared it.
“Oh, well, about the gown,” Rose went on. “Of course, it is on the cutting edge of the shift in women’s styles. Raised waistline, less tight, the hips smaller and the skirts less full. Frills and flounces are so passé now. But I guess “passé” is a French word, is it not, Madame Bricka?”
“Hmph. Too much change too fast is never good. Someone had best tell Prime Minister Lloyd George that. All those liberal ideas! Pushing through that so-called Great Budget with pensions and national insurance for the masses, as if people cannot put in an honest day’s work for themselves anymore. The very idea! No wonder the royal family doesn’t like or trust him. Give the man on the street too much power, and we’ll have more protests and riots, like in Russia. But I didn’t mean to interrupt. I daresay, Charlotte will be the only one of us to attend the gala party with the children, so best you tell us of the gown, Rose, and she can report on the other ones later.”
Rose put down her teacup as if she needed her hands free to describe it. “It’s striped white and gold silk with tassels in the Egyptian style. Neckline and sleeves trimmed in gray chinchilla. And,” she whispered, though we were quite alone, “the corset hardly pulls in the waist, though it does push up the bosom, which will be dripping with diamonds below a six-strand choker of pearls in that look the queen has made her own.”
“Touché,” Helene pronounced with another nod. “Dear May knows how to hold her own, even fight back, but with beauty and dignity.”
I thought about that as we chatted on. Beauty and dignity would stand her well at this elaborate party. Finch and I were to escort the three youngest boys so their grandparents could show them off as if they didn’t belong to Prince George and Princess May at all. But, sometimes, I too felt they were more mine than theirs.
How I often wished Princess May would worry more about her children. Mary had turned stubborn about her studies, however much the prince harangued her. David and Bertie were both desperately unhappy at naval school.
And last month I had stood horrified in the study to hear His Highness tell Harry, “You are a boy and not a little child, so stop that sniveling. Do not behave like a baby or I shall send you somewhere else.” And now he was doing just that. Harry was to be sent away to live and study at York Gate Cottage, Broadstairs, the seaside home of the court physician, Sir Francis Laking, when the doctor would not even be there, because the boy needed the sea air and to be built up, the prince said. Soon it would just be George and Johnnie in my care. George was a handful, even as clever and charming as he was for a boy who would be seven next month. And Johnnie—I always worried what he would say or do, even though I’d finally relaxed my fear he’d have another convulsion.
Rose’s voice sliced through my thoughts. “Charlotte, whatever is it? You look as if you’ve been sucking on a lemon, my dear. I’d give anything to see the fabulous creations at that party, so you’d best take good mental notes for me. Oh, I know, you’re more worried about the children behaving there.”
With another of her signature sniffs, Helene put in, “With that Mrs. Keppel in attendance, and all the hanky-panky that goes on during and after these gatherings, I just hope the adults behave themselves.”
FOR THE CELEBRATION of Queen Alexandra’s sixty-fifth birthday, the Grand Saloon of the Big House was absolutely aglitter with lights and jewels, silks, satins, crystal, and china—and filled with chattering people. I wore my best gown, chocolate silk with beige ruching and a touch of lace, though I’m afraid it was of the old cut. Earlier in the day, Rose had piled my hair up and made some ringlets with her heating iron, and I wore tiny, single-pearl earrings. As Finch and I walked in with the children, I saw something that made me think of Helene’s words about the adults behaving themselves.
For the first time, I saw the women were also smoking, not just the men. No cigars, though. Including the queen, they were puffing on thin cigarettes they took from flat, gold and gem-encrusted cases before one of the gentlemen swooped in to light them for them with a lucifer. The air beneath the chandeliers was quite blue with the smoke.
“Makes me dizzy,” Johnnie said. Immediately, I loosed his hand and stooped to look him in the eyes.
“Want to sit down? Does your head hurt or is it spinning?”
“I feel good, really.”
“Ha,” George told his younger brother. “You are hardly ever acting good, really. You’re always into something.”
“No bickering, either of you. Smiles and manners, or you’ll get reminders from me and Finch later.”
Finch put in, “I always did like your name for that, Lala.”
“Better known as punishments,” George said with a roll of his eyes.
“But not for Johnnie,” Harry dared to say. “Just Georgie and me.”
I gave the nine-year-old a pat on the head. Did they really see it that way, that I was harder on them and coddled Johnnie? “I love all of you just as much, but in different ways,” I told them. And then I was saved from trying to explain more by Johnnie pulling his hand away and dashing off toward the lighted cases of the queen’s Fabergé animals.
I lifted my hems and tore after him with Finch and the other two in my wake. I’d decided against tying Johnnie to me, thinking it would look bad, but that might have been a mistake.
“Look, Lala,” Johnnie told me as he gazed up awestruck at the lighted cases. I couldn’t help but think the expression on his face must have been what I looked like the first time I saw the royals’ tall Christmas tree. “A zoo! But pretend animals.”
“Yes, that’s right,” I told him, pleased by that comment, for he often merged the real world with his imaginary one. “Pretend animals, not real ones.”
George said, “But I’ll bet Grannie’s Russian dogs and Grandpapa’s little Caesar are
here. Still, the ones in this case would skid great on the floor in the hall, or be bully chess pieces.”
George was the cleverest of the Wales brood, even more than David had been at that age. Sharp-tongued but kind, he sometimes helped me with entertaining and watching Johnnie, and I was grateful for that.
Harry tugged at my sleeve. “But there are some real animals over there, Lala! Goldfish! See? Right on the big birthday cake!”
I grabbed Johnnie’s hand so I didn’t have to chase him again, and we went over to the six-tiered, elaborately decorated cake on a table of its own. Between each of the layers, next to the small pillars that held up each tier, were round crystal bowls with three goldfish circling in each. The boys watched mesmerized, and it was Johnny who spoke first.
“They are going in circles but they want to be in the sea. They want sand and shells.”
“Ah, there are my lads!” a familiar voice boomed out as King Edward approached. I curtsied as the boys, Johnnie too, swarmed him, hugging his legs, nearly knocking him over. I was amazed at how much he had aged since I’d seen him but two months ago. Heavier, fleshy jowls and a bit bent at the spine. A cigar in one hand, of course. “All right,” he said, “before we have any more of this grown-up chitchat folderol, let’s have a butter pat race on Grandpapa’s pant legs, and you can all bet on the winner. Now, don’t you worry, Mrs. Lala, they’ll be fine with me!”
As Finch and I backed off, he told me, “I’ll keep an eye on the lads from over there in the corner.”
“I’m going back by the door. It’s closer if Johnnie needs me.”
Off the boys went to the head table while I held my breath, but it did give me a chance to look around. Princess May’s gown was stunning, and I’d tell Rose so, but the queen herself, sitting at the head table, dripping in diamonds and greeting guests, had outdone herself with the decorations in the vast room. She always loved ornate displays and, although it was December first, the room had a harvest theme with swags of grape leaves and pheasant feathers decorating windows, tables, and the massive picture frames on the walls. I supposed the feathers were from Chad’s birds, ones maybe the king, prince, and their cronies had shot. I scolded myself for thinking of such far too much lately—that lovely things had to die so that the royal and rich set could live this way.
Under a burst of wheat stalks tied with a gold velvet ribbon on the wall, I sat in a tiny jade-green silk upholstered chair and kept my eye on the boys, praying Johnnie would not act up or say something outrageous. But I blessed his grandfather from afar for taking time to play with them, even in the midst of all this.
I could see one of the beautifully scripted dinner menus, propped up against the array of goblets next to each silver table setting. I squinted a bit to read it. Oh, my, eight courses. First Course, Oysters and Stewed Trout; Second Course, Green Pea Soup or Grouse Soup. I thought of that agate figure of the grouse David had filched so long ago on my first visit to this house. I’d seen it in the lighted case tonight. I sighed. As spectacular as was this grand display, as much as I admired it all, I no longer felt in awe of these people and places. Instead, I saw the excess here as well as the excellence.
The Third Course was Poached Salmon with Mousseline Sauce—whatever that was—and Cucumber. The glasshouses out back always grew summer vegetables in the winter. And where were those fish coming from with the ponds newly frozen over? You’d think they should serve Prince George’s daily lunch fish called Bombay Duck. Not duck at all, but crisp-fried and highly seasoned fish imported from India. And I had seen he was quite out of sorts if something else was served to him at York Cottage promptly at one.
The Fourth Course had a variety of choices, or did they eat them all? Roast Saddle of Mutton, Roast Duckling with Apple Sauce, something called Parmentier Potatoes or Broiled Rice and Creamed Carrots. The Fifth Course was shorter: Roast Partridge Squab with Cress. I was glad Johnnie couldn’t read yet. Those just as well could be some of his pet peeps.
The Sixth Course was Cold Asparagus Vinaigrette, though I could not fathom why they didn’t just have that with the main Fourth Course. The Seventh was Pâté de Foie Gras—how the king loved French food—and Celery, no less. Finally—and here my mouth started to water—Cheese Tarts. Also Peaches in Chartreuse Jelly. Did that mean they would be colored green? And, with the cake, French Ice Cream.
My stomach rumbled at the mere thought of cake and ice cream, though I had already supped back at York Cottage with Johnnie on mutton, potatoes, and, for dessert, custard. I was quite used to nursery fare, though I did occasionally eat what the downstairs staff were having.
As I glanced up from that amazing menu, I saw Chad, dressed in his hunt master uniform, looking so handsome. It was almost as if I’d imagined him. He was indeed standing in the doorway nearest me, frowning, looking over the crowd. When his gaze snagged mine, he smiled and walked over as if he’d been searching for me alone.
Chapter 24
Shall we dance?” Chad asked, his voice teasing as he took my hand, kissed the back of it, then let go. “Or shall we just stare into the fishbowl—the entire room, not the ones holding up that huge cake.”
“Johnnie was entranced. Forgive me for being surprised, why are you here and in your formal hunt garb?”
“The king is going to have a few of the queen’s borzois paraded in with gifts in leather pouches they will wear and he wanted each dog collar—I mean, Lady Knollys thought that up—to have a feather in it to go with the room. I was asked—told—to bring nearly a hundred feathers for this. Frankly,” he said, not glancing around but still staring at me, “I would have used fir boughs and pinecones in December.”
I had to laugh at that. As if he were some sort of interior decorator instead of an outdoorsman. But he was right: some sort of solid simplicity would have moved me more than all this gleam and glitter I had now become so used to. It was so good to see him, as those times were few and far between, though he did materialize sometimes with a new pet chick for Johnnie when the others got too old.
“But I couldn’t say no to the feathers,” he added. “The king’s already out of sorts that it’s going to rain and ruin the hunting tomorrow, so he’ll have to entertain the men inside all day. I think Johnnie looks good.”
“Speaking of the Imp,” I said, “I’d better check on him.” I leaned slightly to the side to be sure things were going well with the king and the boys. Just in time, for the king was evidently scanning the crowd for me and Chad was blocking his view. I excused myself and hurried over, into the little circle of guests who were cheering on three melting butter pats running down the sharp crease of His Majesty’s black silk pant leg.
Pointing at a pouting Johnnie, the king told me, “The boy says he doesn’t like butter but jam, and we’re not racing jam tonight, Mrs. Lala. It’s set him off a bit. Best take him back for now, eh?”
I decided a walk out in the hall was in order. I didn’t see Chad where I’d left him, but he was in the corridor. Six elegant-looking borzoi hounds—the queen owned more than I could count—were lined up with little ribboned saddlebags on their backs. One of the king’s equerries was sliding wrapped gifts into each bag, more Fabergé animals I surmised. At each holiday, birthdays too, gifts seemed to proliferate as if they were breeding under the huge tables.
I held on to Johnnie’s hand so he wouldn’t charge the dogs and upset things. But, as Chad looked up at us, winked at Johnnie—or me—and began stuffing pheasant feathers in each collar, the king’s fox terrier Caesar appeared from somewhere and ran yipping at the waiting, larger dogs.
They ran, scattering feathers and gifts along the corridor, barking madly, while Johnnie laughed and clapped and Chad swore. Then the boy seemed to go very still amidst the noise and chaos. His eyes took on that dull, dead look I had seen only once before. Oh, no, not here amidst all these people!
The king came out into the hall with an entourage and shouted, “You bad, bad boy!”
For one moment, I thought he
meant Johnnie, but Chad rushed to retrieve Caesar for the king as more people spilled out into the hall to see what the ruckus was.
Johnnie wavered on his feet, then seemed to come to attention, standing stiff. Panicked, I pulled him against me. With him pinned to my side, I half-lifted, half-dragged him down the corridor away from the growing crowd, searching for a place to shelter him before the horror began.
Panting, my pulse pounding, I tried the knobs of several locked doors beyond those for the Grand Saloon before one opened on a small, narrow room with floor-to-ceiling empty shelves, perhaps ones for the silver and china now on the dinner tables. I prayed my boy would not go into another convulsion. However grand the day and great the people, everything could be ruined, and it was Johnnie who mattered above all else.
I had no choice but to lay him on the floor. I searched for a light, saw no pull cord or switch, but when I closed the door, a light overhead came on. My heart thudded as hard as the rhythm my poor boy beat on the wooden floor as his limbs convulsed. I held his head steady, horrified at the dazed, contorted expression on his face. Tears coursed down my cheeks and dropped on his.
The noise in the hall quieted, even as Johnnie eventually did. How long had this seizure lasted? Endless. He opened his eyes, though he didn’t seem to see me. Dazed. Not quite there.
I heard the door handle turn, felt the whoosh of air. I tried to block whoever was there from seeing, but—
“Charlotte? Is he all right? What happened?”
Thank God, it was Chad.
“He had a sort of seizure. Convulsions.”
“Should I get a doctor? I think there’s one always near the king lately.”
“If you do, then maybe they won’t say it’s nothing this time.”
He closed the door and kneeled beside me. I leaned against his strength. He put one arm around my shaking shoulders.
“He’s had this before?”
“Once, months ago. August, on the royal yacht. They decided it was a onetime event, but I feared it wasn’t.”