In Royal Service to the Queen

by Tessa Arlen

  David Bowes-Lyon? Oh, dear God, please not him! “How nice, Your Majesty. How long is he staying?”

  “A week, maybe two.” I took a long, steadying breath and pressed my hand against the base of my rib cage. Philip would be in London by the end of the week, and the worst thing imaginable that could happen would be upon us this evening.

  I pictured Uncle David’s triumphant face as he was introduced to Philip over an inviting, highly caloric spread of sandwiches and cake. Each delightful morsel of Philip’s flaws and his lack of suitability would be handed to her brother, on a tea plate, by his sister. And everything Bowes-Lyon had suspected at Windsor last Christmas would be passed on to his gossip-grinding cronies, suitably embellished and enacted in a series of comic vignettes.

  A solution to this almighty hiccup would have to wait. After my weekend with George, I simply would not let my fears of Uncle David, his waspish tongue, and the damage he could do with it stand in the way of informing the queen of my marrying.

  Stop being such a little coward and get it out, Marion.

  “How delightful, ma’am. It has been a while since your brother was here,” I said, and she wrinkled her nose in much-looked-forward-to pleasure.

  “As you know, Crawfie, my brother is such good company, such immense fun: charades, putting on little plays, games of dumb crambo. The times simply flies. Now, how can I help you?”

  “Some good news of my own, ma’am,” I said with a commendably steady voice. “I am engaged to be married.” There was a brief pause, and I bit the inside of my lip to stop from rushing into explanations.

  The queen put her head on one side; her smile widened as her eyes bored into mine. “How very delight-ful. And who is the lucky man? He must be a Scot!”

  “He is, ma’am, from Dunfermline. His name is George Buthlay, Major Buthlay.”

  “And what does Major Buthlay do for a living?”

  “He is a bank manager at Drummonds Bank, ma’am.”

  “In Edinburgh?”

  “No, ma’am, in Aberdeen.”

  “Ah, so a small bank, then, how nice. Well . . . congratulations, Crawfie. What splendid news.” But it wasn’t splendid. I could tell by the glacial expression and a smile that had snapped off as soon as her words of congratulation had managed to slide between her teeth. I steeled myself for the worst part of my happy news.

  “George and I are planning to marry when the family go up to Balmoral this summer.” She treated me to a long silence, but I screwed up my courage to wait her out.

  She said something, but between the pulse booming in my cold-deafened ear and sheer panic, I wasn’t quite sure I had heard her right. I shook my head.

  “I said, Crawfie, that Major Buthlay will have no objection to you returning to your post at the beginning of September?”

  Return at the beginning of September?

  I tried to swallow, but my throat muscles didn’t seem to be working. “I actually don’t think I—”

  “You do see, don’t you, Crawfie, that leaving us now would be most inconvenient. Margaret . . .” She paused. “Still such a child, not yet seventeen. Now that poor, dear Alah has gone, she needs a firm, steadying hand. And you, Crawfie, have such a stable effect on her.”

  I stared at her, aghast. “Margaret is very mature for her age,” I reminded her. “And immensely intelligent. I thought perhaps some tutors might be engaged. I often feel that she has long outstripped my abilities.”

  She waved tutors and a more challenging curriculum aside. “We are talking about Margaret—not Lilibet! Margaret is a very headstrong girl. She needs structure to her day, a framework, not a haphazard schedule from an array of tutors! You simply cannot abandon us now, Crawfie. It would be unthinkable.”

  I had plucked up my courage to talk to her about my eventual departure, and, damn it all, I would see it through. I would set a date with her now and hold her to it.

  “Yes, I understand your concern, ma’am. I am quite willing to wait—”

  “Yes, that will suit us perfectly. Make your plans for when Margaret turns eighteen—the summer after next. When she takes up her royal duties.”

  “The August after next? Perhaps . . . I am not quite sure . . . Maybe . . .” My words tumbled out of me as if someone else had said them. I heard them dully in my congested head and realized too late what I had done. Do not agree to another year! The nails of my right hand dug into the palm of my left.

  The ice that was building in the room thawed a fraction. The queen looked down at her lap for what seemed like a long and dusty age. She sighed and, lifting her head, gazed sadly across at me, as if I was the most disappointing creature she had ever had to deal with.

  “You are free to come and go as you please, Crawfie. No one would dream of asking you to stay longer than you wish to.” A small hurt smile. “But”—she dropped her voice to a murmur of gentle rebuke—“we would be so grateful if you would at least give us until August of next year. Unless, of course, something untoward happens.”

  I was witless, completely lost for thought or words. It’s not quite so bad. A year from this August I will be married to George.

  “I am so glad you understand the situation, Crawfie.”

  And with that she was done with me, and I was free to race for the cover of my sitting room. “Something untoward happens?” I said to my sitting room as I closed the door. Would some shadowy character waylay poor George one night and bash him over the head? I threw myself down on my sofa, breathless with laughter. I had done it. I had told her that my time as royal governess had an expiration date.

  My laughter faltered and ended on a hysterical squeak. Lilibet and Philip’s engagement would face a serious setback if David Bowes-Lyon sat down to tea with a man whose father was branded as a careless boulevardier and whose mother had lost her mind when he had deserted her and their children to hopeless poverty. I hoped that Philip didn’t just look like a Viking; I prayed with all my might and main that he had the courage and brass of the entire blasted Danish horde.

  Chapter Nineteen

  March 10, 1946

  Buckingham Palace, London

  Prince Philip of Greece, suntanned from weeks in the tropics, strolled into my sitting room with all the athletic élan of a Hollywood film star, and I understood for the first time what the Woman’s Own magazine meant when they referred to “chiseled features.”

  No wonder Lilibet is walking on air. I fixed a severe expression on my face, determined to pay attention to the more important aspects of his character and not be submerged by charisma.

  Lilibet performed introductions. “Philip, this is my dear Crawfie,” she said, and conscious of the need for a little more formality, she added, “Miss Crawford is my governess. Crawfie, this is Prince Philip of Greece.”

  The Norse god in front of me extended his hand as I was trying to decide whether protocol required a half bob. The hand was warm and dry as it briefly clasped mine—a nice firm handshake said a lot about a man.

  “Hullo, Crawfie, how are you?” A pair of intelligent, clear gray eyes gazed steadily into mine. “Friend or foe?” they seemed to ask.

  “I am very well, sir, thank you.”

  “Crawfie is coming to tea with us, Philip.”

  “Good show, we need to mass our supporters.” I was used to the stiffness of foreign royalty when they were talking to those who serve, so I was struck by how at ease he was with me.

  He continued to gaze at me. “Actually, I remember Crawfie quite clearly.” His serious expression softened. “Didn’t you come with Lilibet and her family to Dartmouth—years ago?”

  Had she reminded him that was where he had first met me? I didn’t think so. His demeanor might appear to be relaxed, but his observant eyes were alert. Prince Philip of Greece was here to make a good impression.

  “Yes, I remember it too. You rowed all the way d
own the river Dart when we left in the yacht. You almost put out to sea!”

  “One way to escape the press-gangers.” He glanced at Lilibet’s beaming face to see if he had made her laugh.

  “It must be wonderful to be home again,” I said to keep the conversation going, as clearly Lilibet was just going to stand there and smile.

  “It most certainly is.” He glanced at Lilibet again. “But I forget how cold and orderly England is after the Far East.” He turned to Lilibet. “Do we have to wash our hands and comb our hair? It is getting on for half past four.” He laughed. “Ahem, sorry, navy punctuality.”

  She laughed. “We are having tea with Papa and Mummy, not the nannies.”

  “Same thing,” he teased. “I’m afraid I arrived a bit early,” he explained to me. I noticed that although his uniform was impeccably well brushed and pressed, it was far from new, and he had clipped the edges of his frayed cuffs. This shabby, postwar lack of vanity was endearing, as were the well-polished shoes that needed to be reheeled. Philip’s easy confidence made little things like an impoverished wardrobe seem of no consequence at all—at least to me. I wondered what stiff-upper-lip and highly starched Tommy Lascelles would have to say about a down-at-heel prince with shiny lapels.

  “I had better run and change.” Lilibet, reluctant to leave him even for the negligible amount of time she lavished on her appearance, walked to the door. “I won’t be more than a few minutes.” And she left me there with this young matinee idol who strolled around my sitting room and inspected a gallery of photographs of the princesses.

  “Margaret, now, there’s a character.” He shook his head in smiling admiration at a photograph of her standing on her head in the middle of a Girl Guide sing-a-long. “Someone had better find an interesting job for Margot, or watch out!” He sat down in a chair facing mine by the fire.

  “Oh, I think she is settling down admirably well, considering all the upheaval.” It was too early to share family anecdotes and secrets.

  He gave me what I later came to call his gimlet look: a quick appraisal followed by a short, thoughtful silence. “Yes, of course.” A brusque nod as he registered my evident loyalty to the Windsor family’s personality girl. “Someone told me that living in the tropics thins the blood. I had forgotten how cold it can be here in March.” I wondered if he meant the palace or just England in general.

  “You are talking to the wrong person, sir. I’m from the frozen north.”

  “Ever been to Lossiemouth?”

  “Nowhere colder on earth than Lossiemouth, sir.” A teensy-weensy bit competitive, are we? I kept my smile on the inside.

  “You’re right, their weather comes straight down from the Arctic. I used to dream of swimming in those frozen waters when I was sweltering in my bunk on board ship in Singapore—ninety-nine degrees and so humid it stifles your breath. D’you mind if I smoke?” He got up from his chair to offer me one. When I declined, he lit his with a battered navy-issue lighter and stood before the fire, careful not to block it. He exhaled a plume of smoke that caught in a draft from the window and eddied around his head. He laughed. “Good thing I like camping out!” And I realized that he already considered Buckingham Palace his home.

  I realized he was watching me closely through half-closed eyes. “Lilibet says”—his voice was well pitched, with only a trace of the arrogant drawl of Britain’s upper classes—“that she trusts you more than anyone else in the palace.”

  More than her own family? I wanted to ask.

  It was flattering to hear such praise, perhaps a little forthright considering he had been introduced to me not five minutes earlier. I smiled at the obvious compliment. Philip apparently was winning me over. “We have been together through some difficult times,” I said. “The princesses and I were at Windsor throughout the war. It was inevitable that we would become very close. Both Their Royal Highnesses—”

  “Speak of the devil.” He smiled as the door was flung open, and the irrepressible Margaret was with us. “How did you know I was here?”

  “I offer bribes to a network of pages and footmen.” She was laughing. “We have an additional treat this afternoon: Uncle David is coming to tea.” She glanced at me out of the corner of her eye to see if I recognized this as a major drawback to Philip’s interview, as she called it.

  “What?” Philip looked so stunned, I wondered what he had heard. “I thought he was in Paris, with you know who!”

  Another outspoken remark! I realized that Philip had a reckless side to him. Margaret shot me a derisive look and laughed. “No, not Uncle David the Duke of Windsor. The other Uncle David: Mummy’s younger brother, David Bowes-Lyon. Blimey”—her Mrs. Mundy voice meant that she was in top form—“now, that would be sumfink, mate.” She saw my frown and ignored it. “If he turned up, poor old David Windsor might just get a jam sandwich, as long as he didn’t bring Queen Cutie with him.”

  Philip was already laughing as he lit another cigarette. He is nervous, I thought, and utterly grateful that Margaret is here. He is hoping her playfulness will lighten this meeting. I prayed that Margaret didn’t send things over the top.

  “Queen Cutie?” he asked.

  Before Margaret could reply I explained, “Noël Coward’s pet name for Mrs. Simpson. I mean the Duchess of Windsor. And, Margaret, don’t you dare mention Uncle David Windsor this afternoon.”

  Lilibet swished through the door, her bay-brown hair gleaming in waves to her shoulders. A rich blue twin set deepened the shade of her eyes to dark sapphires and emphasized her complexion, as delicate as the unfurling bud of a rose. I glanced at Philip, who had almost come to attention as she came into the room, and saw the admiration in his eyes. He pulled up a chair so that it was close to his and waited for her to sit.

  I tried not to watch them too closely as they laughed together. Philip had turned in his chair so that his entire attention was directed solely to Lilibet, who leaned back in hers, one leg crossed over the other, her high-heel-shod foot swinging, as he recounted a wartime near miss on HMS Whelp in the Strait of Malacca.

  “And then there was heavy fire, all around us. We were surrounded! And a midshipman piped up, ‘We’re for it!’ ” Philip affected the falsetto of the young and scared as he lifted both his hands up in an appeal to a higher authority, and Lilibet’s robust, delighted laugh joined his. “And I heard myself mutter, ‘Not on your bloody life, mate!’ ”

  I looked over to Margaret, and she gave me her cat smile, and I allowed myself a nod of approval.

  This was it! This was surely the real thing, their unaffected and complete delight in each other. How unselfconsciously at ease they were! A misty moment of my own: Stop it, you silly sentimentalist!

  Remembering that they were not alone, Lilibet turned to Margaret and me. “The weather is supposed to be lovely this weekend!” We both nodded enthusiastically. “Philip, are you perhaps free Friday to Monday? Because we are going down to Windsor—all the daffodils will be out!” She smiled as if this was a prize worth winning.

  “Windsor? Love the place.” Lilibet blushed at his enthusiasm. “I’m on furlough for two weeks, so, yes, I’m free. What do I bring?”

  She laughed. “Come as you are, and if you have riding boots, bring those too, but we have a tack room full of them.”

  Her understanding of his limited wardrobe was touching. There is nothing like being twenty and in love, I thought with some wistfulness. I wondered how George and I would have fared if we had been younger and bolder, before the world had taught us to be cautious and sensible.

  Margaret, unable to contain herself, would not be left out. “No, we are not going to talk about horses, Lilibet. Do you like to sing, Philip?” she asked him. “I hope you do. We are all in love with the songs from Oklahoma.”

  He threw back his head and laughed. “You had better hope I don’t—tone-deaf!”

  “Dance at all?�
�� She was at her most challenging.

  “Oh yes, I’m a fabulous dancer, aren’t I, Lilibet?”

  “Leave him alone, Margaret. You can be in charge of all the entertainment at Windsor, and we will do whatever you want.” And to Philip: “That means she will sing all the tunes from the show for us over and over. Once she lifts the lid of a piano, she’s at it for hours!”

  “And you and I can dance to them all. So, that takes care of the entertainment. What about riding?” He brought the subject back to one Lilibet most enjoyed.

  “There’s a perfect mount for you at Windsor: he is well over sixteen hands, so a good size. He has a nice temperament and enough spark to make him interesting,” she said, her face grave and considering as she thought of the best choice for him in Windsor’s large stable.

  “That wasn’t the horse I rode last time, was it? My God, it was a nightmare.” He looked at the three of us and shook his head. “Mouth like iron with a will to match, and he certainly had it in for me.” He lit a cigarette and sat back in his chair. He stretched his long legs out in front of him, crossed at the ankle. “What completely unnerves me about horses is how smart they are: they know the minute you get up on them exactly how well or poorly you ride. They take two or three minutes, pretending to be docile, while they work out all your faults. After that it’s curtains for the novice rider.”

  “Philip, when were you last on a horse?” Lilibet asked.

  “Well, let’s see, I am a sailor . . . so not much riding during the war. I believe the last time was Christmas 1944, and it was at Windsor, on this particular horse. Whatever direction you were riding in, it insisted on an alternative route. We galloped knee-deep through slippery mud, forded ponds, dashed under low branches.” He looked around at the three of us giggling away and smiled. “My legs were jelly by the time that bastard was done with me. When we finally got back to the stables, hours later, everyone had gone in for tea. As I slid off him, he turned his head and nonchalantly bit me in the backside. I think his name was Beelzebub.”