Long Live the King

by Fay Weldon

  ‘So much advancement in this world happens by chance,’ she observed to Frederick Ponsonby, ‘and not necessarily because of intrinsic merit.’

  But he was trying so hard to hear what his wife was saying he paid no attention to her. She turned to Sir James and said much the same to him, but instead of taking up the point he said, ‘Don’t worry your little head with matters better suited to an Oxford debating society than to a family dinner,’ and added, ‘tell me, have you been using ammonia on your hair? You must be careful. It can be most corrosive.’ Defeated, Isobel fell silent.

  After dinner that evening, the men having had enough brandy and the ladies having seen to their toilettes, all took coffee, more brandy and little almond cakes in the drawing room.

  Isobel had eaten frugally, but the company of the King induced to appetite, and she accepted one of the cakes which the footman offered. It was a mistake: the pastry was powdery and left its traces scattered on the black jet beads of her dress: she had to brush the crumbs away with her hand as unobtrusively as possible. But the tiny crumbs stuck between and under the beads. May noticed, and stared, and looked coldly astonished, and Isobel felt sorry for May’s children, and indeed for May’s mother-in-law the Queen, who had been the recipient of one or two such looks during the course of the evening. May never said a word out of place, but had the art of making others feel ill at ease, by virtue of their stupidity, frivolity or vulgarity.

  Isobel found herself grateful that Arthur had married Minnie, who was incapable of putting on airs, and would be a kind father if only he could think of anything other than motor cars. Thinking of Minnie gave her a pang of acute anxiety – ah yes, the invitations! But she would not think of that now. She, illegitimate daughter of a coal miner, was dining with Royalty en famille. She would do her best to enjoy it.

  ‘December is not a good month for our family,’ the King was saying. With the move from the dining table his good cheer seemed to have evaporated. ‘Forty years ago almost to the day my father Albert the Good died at Windsor, and ten years ago our dear son Eddie in this very house. And it was at Christmas thirty years ago that I nearly met my end of typhoid fever, to the great distress of my good mother. Or so I am told. Though what my mother felt, and what she said that she felt, I now realize, were not necessarily the same thing. One is tempted to bring out the planchette board and ask her a question or two.’

  The letters, the diary entries, the busts of John Brown, the statues of Ganesh, the planchette board, recently found, through which the Old Queen apparently tried again and again to raise the spirit of her beloved husband, evidently still preyed on the royal mind.

  Hoepner the giant footman approached to fill the King’s glass with more brandy, and Isobel saw the Queen nod at the servant almost imperceptibly and the Monarch’s glass remained unfilled.

  The King, deprived of his brandy, asked for a plate of devils on horseback to be brought in: they came at once as if they had been waiting, not even having to arrive from the kitchen. The King ate heartily. Isobel longed for bed.

  Robert brought the conversation away from the dangerous subject of the Old Queen to the Coronation – he had the courtier’s natural skill of keeping the conversation on an even keel. Now the King forgot about ghosts and told stories about his mother’s coronation in 1837. Victoria had been only eighteen when crowned; the Archbishop of Canterbury had forced the ring upon the wrong finger, causing her pain; the Bishop of Bath and Wells had turned over two pages, bringing the service to an end when it was not over; the crown had been too heavy for her little head to bear; someone had left scraps of food on the altar itself.

  ‘I am the more determined, dear Alix,’ he said, ‘that my own coronation will go perfectly, be properly rehearsed, every detail attended to. The Empire needs a spectacular ceremony, witness to the grandeur of this nation of mine. It is not for myself that I want pomp and circumstance: that their King should be glorious is no more than the Nation deserves.’

  It was quite a speech. Alexandra leant forward and patted the straining stomach.

  ‘Little Tum-Tum,’ she said.

  The Coronation! All Isobel could think about now were the three invitation cards that should have been sitting safely in her little fruit-wood writing desk, and which Reginald had failed to retrieve, these having gone with the last post and a telephone call confirmed that they had already been delivered, so swift and efficient was the post: and how she must now tell Robert because it would be worse not to, but hardly knew how to set about it.

  When, after all had retired, Isobel lay awake in a strange bed, in a bedroom surprisingly small for a royal residence, but with a handsome bathroom adjoining it, containing a most enviable cedarwood water closet, Robert forcibly pulled back the heavy crimson velvet curtains she had closed around the bed, and done so most carefully, fearing they had possibly not been shaken for twenty years or so. He was naked, which was completely out of character, glimmering in gaslight which he had turned down low. He said he had a confession to make, and Isobel’s thoughts went at once to Consuelo. Just as Sunny had confessed to Consuelo on their wedding day that he loved another, Robert was now going to tell her, Isobel, that he loved another and that the other was Consuelo. Even as she thought it she knew it was absurd. And of course he did not say any such thing: what he confessed was that he had invited the Baums to the Coronation and he would be obliged if she, Isobel, could see that the tickets were despatched to them.

  ‘It is not that I love their company,’ Robert said, ‘though I find them pleasant enough, and the little wife to be remarkably intelligent, it is simply an obvious and prudent move, in the light of my new business interests.’

  ‘Of course, my dear,’ said Isobel, as smoothly as she could, ‘shall I send them all three invitations, or only two?’

  ‘Send them two,’ said Robert. ‘There is no need to be lavish. How I have mistaken you, my dear. I thought you might send up a great wail of protest, but I am glad that you have not.’

  The bed had been turned down by Lily and now he stepped into it naked. Isobel stretched out her arms to him, and did what she imagined many a woman had done to allow herself time to think, encouraged him in the wilder excesses of love. She allowed him to do, for the first time in all her life, what only whores do, and what, it was rumoured, Sunny required Conseulo to do, so by the morning she was exhausted, and a little sore, and no further forward in her thinking at all, other than she could no longer imagine what her objections to the Baums had been. Clouds of dust had indeed risen from the curtains, perfectly visible in the gaslight, so energetic had been his attentions, and indeed her response to them. All she could do was hope that it was not thoughts of Consuelo that had so inspired him to lust, and even thinking, if only briefly, that if such was the case putting up with Consuelo’s existence in her life might even be worth it. When Robert went back to his dressing room, his dongle – as he called it: she had no word for it – still so lively he could almost have hung his top hat on it, the wintry light of Christmas Day was already showing through the curtains.

  Christmas at Dilberne Court

  In the absence of the parents at Sandringham the young people Arthur, Minnie and Rosina dined alone in the Long Hall at Dilberne Court.

  A skeleton staff was left behind in Belgrave Square – the rest decamped on Christmas Eve in three heavily laden carriages, to light fires, dust and generally bring the place back to life. Rosina, when in residence, as she now was – writing about the hardships of the rural poor – always underestimated the number of personal staff she needed.

  ‘I am perfectly happy with a baked potato and an egg for supper, and I can run my own bath and open my own wardrobe, thank you very much.’ At the same time it was observable that Miss Rosina – she abhorred ‘Your Ladyship’ – did like freshly baked bread for breakfast and expected clean ironed clothes in the wardrobe, and could fly into a temper if they were not provided, so by the time her personal needs were looked after, cleaning could get negl
ected. Rooms where she allowed the parrot to fly freely quickly grew musty and required scraping and cleaning without damaging delicate French-polished surfaces. Lady Rosina was not a favourite with the servants. Minnie was less demanding but hot water still had to be fetched for her daily bath and coals carried for her fire. She wore a washable smock for her painting but her studio was up on the attic floor and refreshments had to be brought all the way up from the kitchen.

  Master Arthur at least spent most of his days in the workshops and made do with bread and cheese at lunchtime but still liked a good choice of food at breakfast and dinner. It was the staff’s experience that the greater part of their work went unnoticed and unappreciated; the family’s assumption being that comfort and cleanliness simply happened of its own accord, or through the power of some divine being.

  The staff worked late and rose early, and by noon the great dining room was prepared for Christmas dinner at one, the oak beams waxed – an epidemic of death-watch beetle had first to be smoked out – the great chandelier dusted and its many faulty light bulbs replaced – electricity now took the place of candles, not nearly so flattering to the female complexion – and Mrs Neville the housekeeper had worked wonders with the great refectory table. The linen was spotless white, five glasses glittered beside each of the three table settings: the best silver and china had been put out: napkins shaped into white swans: sprigs of holly and ivy, set in cut-crystal bowls, formed a charming centrepiece. Even Rosina allowed herself a gasp of admiration at the sight.

  The turkey, a golden, diligently basted giant, reared especially for the festive day on the home farm, and stuffed with veal and pork, was placed early on the sideboard, to rest on its silver hotplate. Three courses of suitable midwinter fare came first – game soup, scalloped oysters and jugged hare – then Mr Neville the butler carved the bird, and Reginald the head footman served roast potatoes and a bean purée from the ornate silver tureens it took strong arms to manage, and ladled plenty of good gravy from the porcelain sauce boats – a wedding gift to the young couple from her Grace, Consuelo, Duchess of Marlborough – followed by mince pies and Christmas pudding lit with plentiful brandy and decorated with holly. In the absence of the Earl and Countess all felt particularly young and free. The servants, knowing that what upstairs failed to eat, they would in time, were cheerful too.

  Mr Neville had come up with the best bottles the cellar could provide: from Bordeaux, a Pomerol and a St Émilion; from Burgundy, a Chablis; and for dessert a sweet Sauternes. Also, in honour of Minnie, his Lordship had purchased some rather more dubious wine from outside France, an Inglewood from the Napa Valley, which had not yet had time to gather any cobwebs.

  Four hundred years’ worth of ancestors looked down from the walls. All were distinguished, most were handsome, few looked exactly likeable. Three of the eldest sons had died unexpectedly in tragic accidents when young.

  Rosina had laughed when Minnie asked if it was some kind of curse and said, ‘Three in four hundred years isn’t many. It happens in all the best families. Cui bono? The second sons, of course,’ which rather shocked Minnie. The upper classes in this strange, wet, ruined, winter landscape seemed to have ingested a lofty cynicism along with their mothers’ milk – but since she supposed that for generations all had been put out to wet-nurses the phrase was misplaced. Perhaps it was the very absence of mother’s milk did it? And wasn’t it rather tactless of Rosina to bring the subject up at all? Robert had inherited the Earldom on the death of his elder brother. What was she doing here with these people she did not understand? If only they asked her to add her own family portraits, Billy and Tessa O’Brien, with their wide faces, generous features and smiling lips, she would feel better. But she could see it was never likely to happen. It was not individuals who were honoured, just their titles. There was one done by Stanton before he had gone mad and just painted streaks: perhaps she could ask her mother to bring it over when she came. If she ever came. No, she must not think like this. She had made her bed; she must lie on it. It was a pleasant enough bed, with Arthur in it. Love carried you along for so long, then dreams became reality, practicalities began to seem important. She thought she might be pregnant. What then?

  She tried not to think about it. The conversation turned to royal rumour.

  ‘Pater’s so stuffy about what goes on,’ complained Arthur. ‘One longs to know. But he shuts up as tight as a clam when it comes to the Palace.’

  He talked of how he’d asked his father about the rumour going round the Mews about a letter found in the archives of the House of Lords, written to the Lord Chancellor in the Prince’s hand a week before his sudden death of abdominal pains and fever – symptomatic of typhoid, it was true – yet dying so quickly and unexpectedly. Typhoid sufferers usually lingered. In the letter he had asked how one might set about divorcing the Queen of England. Arthur had asked his father if there was any truth in the matter and he had been given short shrift.

  ‘You’re a fool to listen to gossip and no child of mine to repeat it,’ was all Robert had said, refusing to be drawn.

  ‘And the death of Eddie, Bertie’s son: in direct line to the throne,’ said Rosina now. ‘That was rather strange. The boy may have been half-witted and probably Jack the Ripper, but he was twenty-eight and perfectly healthy. First they said it was influenza: then it was typhoid. Sudden death within the week, like Albert. That must have suited a lot of people.’

  ‘Great-Grandmama as a Borgia Queen!’ said Arthur. ‘Let’s hope the parents get home safe from Sandringham.’

  ‘And poor Bertie got the blame for both deaths,’ said Rosina. ‘First for his father’s – Albert got the alleged “chill” on his way home from stopping Bertie running off with an actress; and then for his son’s – Bertie was off seeing Lady Daisy when Alix was away and he should have been at home keeping Eddie off the streets.’

  ‘Lady Daisy?’ asked Minnie faintly. Chicago was as nothing compared to this.

  ‘Daisy Warwick,’ said Rosina. ‘Bertie’s long-term mistress. They’re all going to be there at the Coronation in a specially built showcase. His triumphs laid out for everyone to see.’

  ‘That’s enough, Rosina,’ said Arthur, suddenly. ‘He is the King, after all, and Pater’s friend.’

  After that Arthur and Rosina lost interest in scandal, but began to behave as they would not dare to do in the presence of the Earl and Countess. They became children again. They teased the servants. Rosina declined the soup, summoning Mr Neville and saying animals were her friends and she did not eat her friends; Mr Neville must understand that from now on she was a vegetarian. Arthur chimed in to complain about the absence of boiled beef and carrots from the menu. He could tell from the cutlery, he complained, that there was to be no meat course after the bird, was Cook trying to starve them? What had got into the two of them? They were all desperate, given so much by fate, she decided, but never what they wanted. Arthur had his mother’s approval, but never his father’s. Rosina had her father’s, but never her mother’s.

  And then hearing herself, to her sorrow, tell Mr Neville that she had joined the Temperance movement and that lips which touched liquor would never touch hers, Minnie had to wonder what the matter was with herself. That she was pregnant? Surely, surely not. Oh, please. She was a slip of a girl, not a woman.

  Mr Neville stayed polite, just rather rigid in his body movements; then as the staff ran off to change glasses, add cutlery, squeeze lemons for lemonade, provide turnips, carrots and parsnips to bolster up the bean purée, and set a salted topside to boil, shame set in.

  ‘We are too bad,’ said Rosina, ‘I know the better way and approve, as Ovid said, yet I follow the worse. Video meliora proboque, deteriora sequor. You went to Eton, Arthur, you should know. You are excused, Minnie, because you didn’t. We should say sorry because of course we are, but one isn’t allowed to say sorry to servants. It is shocking that the most idle amongst us live so well and those that work so hard should exhaust themselves obli
ging our whims.’

  ‘One can hardly live without servants,’ said Arthur. ‘And they can hardly live without us. They like a small panic from time to time. One is doing them a favour.’

  ‘You and I could live perfectly well enough without them, Arthur,’ said Minnie, ‘if we were only back home. The houses are newer and heated and the windows fit, and there are machines to pick up dust and wash the clothes and even the dishes. The few servants we have are black and are happy enough working for us. My father says he’d rather employ them than our own kind, who are so often drunk and dissolute and fall into the machinery, no matter how many guards you put up.’

  She didn’t add that when whole thumbs or bits of fingers were found in the hamburger mix they were usually white not black. It was the kind of information the Hedleigh family didn’t like to hear, even Rosina, who fought so assiduously for truth and justice. Only the lower orders talked of health and horror. Oh, she was learning fast. Too fast.

  The servants came, bustled, crashed around a little, re-warmed chafing dishes, and went. Reginald the footman replaced Mr Neville – and Christmas lunch continued with its extra course, except all were now hoist with their own petard, Rosina feeling obliged to eat the parsnips, Arthur the topside, and Minnie to eschew wine in favour of lemonade. None of which any of them particularly wanted. It set them all to giggling again.

  ‘At Eton when it got to this stage,’ said Arthur, ‘we’d fire butter pats at the ceiling until the beaks stopped us. At Oxford we’d break the places up after a good dinner.’

  ‘Your mothers mistreated you,’ said Minnie. If she was pregnant and it was a boy what then? They would make her send him away when he was eight in case he ended up one of those men who never married.