by Tessa Arlen
She nodded. “I think he has to, because Tommy Lascelles and the government think they are.” She stared down at her hands, now folded quietly in her lap, and then up at me. Her frank gaze fixed itself on my face, appealing for confirmation that she had it right. “You see? It is not as simple and straightforward as we had first thought.” In a few short months Lilibet had accomplished a monumental leap of understanding that had brought her out of her nursery paddling pool into the salty ocean in which the rest of us mere mortals struggled to keep our heads above water.
But she has inherited her mother’s steel and her never-say-die determination, I thought as I watched Lilibet’s chin come up and her face take on the sort of resolve I had seen in the queen when she had made up her mind what was to happen. “But we mustn’t give up even if things are not looking quite so hopeful, must we, Crawfie?”
It seemed nonsensical to me that a great-great-grandson of Queen Victoria didn’t measure up. “Lilibet, I don’t see that any of these issues really touch on who Philip is. They are situations that surrounded his family during turbulent times.” I cleared my throat, searching for the right words. “What about his uncle, Lord Mountbatten—the man who recaptured Singapore? I heard that he is going to be our next viceroy in India. So, he obviously carries some weight. I am sure Lord Mountbatten is in support of Philip continuing here in England and will sponsor him to become a British citizen. It’s done all the time, isn’t it?” I watched her resolute expression dissolve into one close to despair.
“Yes, I wondered when you were going to ask that. It seems that Uncle Dickie is a bit of a two-edged sword: on the one hand, Clement Attlee and his cabinet approve of him because of his liberal views, but as a new prime minister, Attlee worries about supporting anything that might be controversial. It wouldn’t take much for everyone to decide they don’t like Attlee’s policies and run back to Mr. Churchill. And even though Uncle Dickie is one of Papa’s oldest friends, he finds him a bit too pushing these days.”
Or rather your mother does. I remembered that Winston Churchill, whom the king revered, was not too keen on Mountbatten and referred to him as “the man who wants to give away India.” Because part of the new viceroy’s mission to India was to ease the way for their independence.
“Why does the king think he is pushing?”
“Mountbatten is considered to be overly ambitious.” She opened her hands palms upward, as if asking for divine intervention. “He is too enthusiastic,” she explained. “It’s his style that sometimes upsets people. Anyway, it is not Papa’s way to be obvious and thrusting.” She dropped her head and shook it at Mountbatten’s determination to shine. “It annoys Papa. I think he feels that Uncle Dickie is somehow encouraging Philip to . . .” She couldn’t bring herself to finish.
To push Philip to marry you? Did it really matter that much to Uncle Dickie that his nephew marry the future Queen of England?
It was important not to let her dwell on Mountbatten’s possible engineering behind the scenes. “In England conspicuous ambition is frowned on. The approved style is to murmur nothings and look modestly down one’s nose as accolades are heaped on us. We are expected to greet acknowledged success with a polite murmur of thanks and a deprecating cough.” Lilibet laughed and the tension that had been building in the room eased up a fraction.
“When it is seen that none of Philip’s in-laws are war criminals and he has become a British citizen, I am sure you will be able to iron all these wrinkles out with His Majesty when you go north to Balmoral. It’s just a question of standing firm and not giving up.”
“I just wish that Lascelles and Adeane and all the rest of them would stop nipping at Philip’s heels.”
“They will as soon as your father gives his consent to your marriage.”
“Well, it’s all down to Balmoral, then, isn’t it, Crawfie?” She got to her feet. “Heavens, look at the time.”
“Will your uncle David be joining you at Balmoral?” I asked, and she looked surprised. So, she hadn’t worked it out about him yet.
“Yes, of course he will, but he has no say in the Philip thing at all.”
I wouldn’t be so sure of that, I thought.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Summer 1946
Limekiln Cottage, Dunfermline, Scotland
Day after day of sun had graced our usually gray-skied summer, and I couldn’t have been more miserable if I tried.
George, now firmly established at Drummonds in Aberdeen, announced his arrival for the weekend with a postcard: Leaving Friday at five. Should be with you by seven thirty! George. The postcard had plopped through the letterbox on my first Friday morning in Dunfermline, followed by George’s arrival that evening.
The following week the postcard arrived promptly on Friday morning. Marion, Pressure of work—unable to get away—perhaps next week. George. The forward-slanting handwriting, interspersed with dashes, was an indication of his haste to return to Drummonds’ banking demands. I was disappointed, but mostly for George working away in his stuffy bank during one of Scotland’s most lovely summers. When he canceled his next visit, I was concerned he was overworking; the following week, I was resentful. Now I was close to despair.
“I think we should pick the last of the green tomatoes and make chutney.” My mother’s voice interrupted my brooding. I straightened from weeding a row of sturdy plants laden with fruit that would never ripen, even in this glorious summer.
“George said we should have grown our tomatoes under glass.” She wrestled a large vegetable marrow into the wheelbarrow. “We can make marrow jam . . . I wonder if Mrs. Ross has any ginger.”
“I had no idea he was an expert gardener as well as a banker.”
“Marion, there is no need to be sour. This new job means a lot more responsibility for George.” I struggled for patience as I turned the earth around rows of broad beans. “Drummonds in Aberdeen is five times the size of the little branch he ran here.” She shaded her eyes so she could see my face. “He is working for a larger pension for both of you. It’s quite simple, dear girl; he’s just too busy to get away.”
I knew otherwise. George had been very clear about his view of how things were between us when he had come for his first, and only, visit at the beginning of summer.
“I’m not getting any younger, Marion.” He did not sit down on the picnic blanket with me but hovered on the edge holding a large thermos of tea. “I had really hoped you would have some idea of when you would be leaving them by now.”
His expression was so closed off I couldn’t tell whether he was angry or hurt. I scrambled to my feet, scattering cheese-and-pickle sandwiches. “You see, it has been a year since you said yes, and now you say that you only informed the queen this spring about our engagement.” He wasn’t exactly angry, but he looked down at the thermos in his hand as if it was holding back on him. “And when she pressed you, you agreed to continue until this time next year. I don’t understand. Are you . . . ?” He turned his head away.
I didn’t know what to say. I put my arms around his waist, but he started to pull away. I stepped in and put my head on his shoulder, locking my arms behind his back. “Surely they could find another teacher for Margaret. Why does it have to be you?”
Because they don’t think that way. I was trapped between my love for George, my duty to the queen, and Lilibet and her rocky road to love.
“George.” I tried to keep the fear out of my voice. “It’s really not like most jobs. I can’t just up and leave them like that. I have a duty to the Crown—something that is expected of me. Most of the household staff work for the family for life, or else they find it so demanding that they only last two or three weeks. After all these years I can’t leave them stranded.” I can’t leave Lilibet to struggle on alone.
He detached himself from my embrace. “Stranded? Marion, I feel stranded!” He lifted his arms out to the sides as if
he was alone on a rock in the middle of an empty ocean. “And what about your duty to yourself . . . and to me? Is it because you don’t want to give up a life of glamour for the humdrum of being married to a retired provincial bank manager?”
To my relief, the pain had gone from his voice—somewhat. “Of course not, George! But this has been my job for most of my adult life. I have to leave it in a way that I feel is right!”
He reached down and put the thermos on the ground. I noticed that his face was thinner, and the sunlight showed up the gray in his hair.
“Even with the car, it is at least a two-hour drive from Aberdeen to Dunfermline, and the cost of petrol has gone sky-high. I had hoped that we would be married by now and setting up a home together.” To my relief his voice took on a slightly accusatory note. Anything was better than seeing the puzzled hurt on his face.
I did not say that his decision to take the Aberdeen job had complicated our lives, because it had. “I hoped so too, George.” Were our dreams fracturing under the pressure of a long-distance relationship?
“My promotion means a larger pension when I retire, but if we were married now, we could be together in Aberdeen until then. I know it would mean a small flat, and not a house of our own in Dunfermline, but it would be so much better than nothing at all.”
I bit back recriminations about his new job. “But, George, we never talked about living in Aberdeen. We talked about living in Dunfermline to be near my mother when we both retire. The plan was to retire together so we could live down the lane from her. I can’t live with you in Aberdeen and leave her here alone!” Although she had lost none of her spark, my mother was looking older and skinnier with each visit. And even if she didn’t say so, I knew she was lonely. “I can’t bear the thought of being so far away from her.”
“You are certainly far away from her now. And you haven’t given notice so we can be married in December. You are staying on for another six, or seven . . . or however many months she requires!”
He ran his hand through his hair, making it stick up in the front, and his lips thinned in a tight and uncompromising line. Is it my fault that he feels the years are slipping away? I should never have caved to the queen, never agreed to wait until Margaret turned eighteen! But I wasn’t the one who had taken a job in Aberdeen—I was doing everything I could to leave a career of fourteen years as carefully as possible.
“Your mother isn’t the problem, Marion. She can always come and live with us in Aberdeen. But until you leave the Windsors—” He broke off to frown . . . a full frown: eyebrows lowered; his chin sunk down onto his chest. “Well, until you leave the Windsor family, there is no us.”
I swallowed down frustration. “Yes, I understand about leaving the Windsors, but we never discussed my living in Aberdeen . . . ever!” I folded my arms across my chest.
“Well, like you, I have no choice, it seems. The bank wants me to stay on until April, and they will make it worth my while financially. And you haven’t left the Windsors, have you?”
I saw a way out of this impasse. “But that’s just it . . .” I cried, as if we had both been given a gift. “You have to stay on longer at the bank, and I have to stay on at the palace.” I spread my hands out to show how easy our new plan would be. “Then when you are released from Drummonds, it will only be three months before I am with you. We can buy the cottage, arrange for the work to be done on it, and it will be ready for us to move into by next August!”
A long silence as he peered into my face, his eyes narrow with suspicion. “Are you quite sure about that? Are you quite sure you will be free next summer?”
“Yes!” My voice sounded firm and sure, but I felt anxiety stir. What about Lilibet? You haven’t explained to him about Lilibet!
He laughed as he watched my face. “You are not sure, are you? Of course there will be another year required of you. Maybe if we are lucky, they will let you leave in two years.” He walked away from me and stood looking out toward the river. When he turned back to me, his face was stern. “What I would like to know is this. When you told the queen that you were engaged and would be marrying this year, what did she say?”
“She asked me to wait until Margaret was eighteen.”
“What an unreasonable expectation. And it’s hardly as if it’s a full-time teaching job, is it? She just wants to keep you there to suit her convenience because Margaret is a handful she doesn’t want to have to manage.”
He was quite right, of course. Having spoiled their youngest daughter all her life, both of her parents were at a loss as to how to deal with Margaret’s headstrong and willful ways. If Alah was still alive . . .
Go on, get it all out, tell him what worries you most. Tell him about Lilibet. “It’s not just until Margaret is eighteen. I can’t leave Lilibet until she is engaged to marry Philip.” I watched his jaw clench. “It . . . it has not been easy for her, George. It seems that neither the king nor the queen wants her to marry just yet. And when she does, I think they would prefer someone more conventional for her than Philip . . . and she is very much in love with him.”
“And I am very much in love with you, Marion, and neither of us are getting any younger.” He put his hands in his trouser pockets, looked down at the picnic blanket and the scattered sandwiches.
A flutter of panic started in the middle of my chest. “She is only twenty, with no one in her corner but me,” I pleaded. Surely he would understand? “If Philip were from an old aristocratic family, educated at Eton, and belonged to all the right clubs, he would be a shoo-in. But he’s not.”
He snorted: he could give a damn about Philip’s suitability. “God knows I am a conservative man, Marion, but quite frankly, these people still behave as if we were all in the 1800s. All this expected deference and allegiance is outmoded; their type of monarchy is a remnant of the past. Do you know how people see them?” His frown returned, his brows so far down I couldn’t see his eyes. “As a useless bunch of parasites and, worse, a drain on taxpayers’ money. Dear God, anyone would think they actually did something useful for the country.” He glared at the view for a moment before turning a scowling face back to me. “And anyway, isn’t Philip a prince? What more do they want for their daughter? Europe has run out of kings, unfortunately.” He heard himself, and thank goodness he stopped glowering. He ran both his hands through his hair and shook his head. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be unreasonable. Come on, don’t look so stricken,” he said with a little more grace. “We’ll find a way. Let’s do what your mother does when things look bleak. I’ll pour us a cup of tea. Though whiskey would be more welcome.” We sat down on the blanket and poured tea into Bakelite cups. A strained and awkward silence gathered between us. We are not out of the woods yet, I thought.
“Does it really matter who she marries?” He poured more tea into my cup.
“She will be the Queen of England one day. Of course it matters who she marries. Her life will be one long round of duty and hard work: endless functions, endless public appearances, with very little time for her own family. It is important that she has the man she loves by her side.”
He grunted and shrugged his shoulders. I could see that he didn’t understand, couldn’t possibly understand, the myriad of duties expected of a constitutional monarch, and he seemed rather cynical about the notion of having one’s true love by one’s side in the daily battle of life.
“She’s far too young to know her own mind—an overprotected child. What does she know of this Philip?” Impatience for a family he considered useless returned. “From what you’ve said, she hardly knows him. And all European royalty chase women, are serially unfaithful, and keep mistresses. Imagine coping with that over the banquet table.”
“Oh really?” I said, without bothering to consider that his accusation might have grounds. “And what do you know about European royalty, eh?”
We had reached a stalemate. There was no
more to be said. I packed up the remains of our picnic, and we drove back in silence to my mother’s cottage. Ma, after accurately assessing our mood, lost no time in wading in with her tuppence worth.
“I think you are being a wee bit stubborn for your own good, Marion,” she whispered at me as we made supper together in the kitchen.
“No, Ma, when George asked me to marry him, he knew exactly what my situation was—”
“Would you look at the man, Marion? He puts in hours at the bank all week, gets up at dawn to drive to see you here, drives again all Sunday afternoon to be back for Monday morning. He’s nearly fifty; he should be able to put his feet up in his own house on a Sunday afternoon, with his wife making a nice supper for him, not waiting months, years, for her to give up her job to marry him.” She put three kippers under the grill. “You could earn more money teaching at Dunfermline grammar school. When was the last time they even gave you a raise? I can’t believe how stingy they are . . .”
“Ma, please don’t do this. Please don’t erode everything I have done.”
“I am doing nothing of the kind. I am merely pointing out that by kowtowing to that woman’s unreasonable expectations, you are jeopardizing your future.”
I turned away from her and threw my tea towel on the kitchen chair, cornered and defensive. “I am disappointed that you can’t see my side, Ma. For years you were proud I had a career and that I held a position of responsibility too. Neither you nor George seem to consider that the princesses are like my own children. I will not end my relationship with the family in a way that will make me regret it for years.”
I glanced through the door. George was in the living room with a newspaper over his face and his feet up on a leather pouf. “He is having a snooze now, for heaven’s sake, and there are two women in the kitchen making his supper.”