In Royal Service to the Queen

by Tessa Arlen

  “I like the apricot gold,” I said, pointing. “Yes, ma’am, that one, to your left. Rich, sumptuous, and the sheen is beautiful. When you stand next to Her Royal Highness, you will be a perfect foil for her gown.”

  She held the swathe of apricot up to her face and walked to the mirror, standing this way and that to let the rich glow play on her face. “It is very pretty.”

  “It’s regal,” I flattered her.

  “Indeed.” She let her arms relax to her sides, trailing the silk on the floor, and turned toward me. “Margaret . . .” she insisted.

  I nodded. “Yes, I have just come from her. I think she would enjoy being part of the planning, and she has such a wonderful eye. May I find her some part to play, other than being a bridesmaid? Perhaps the flowers for the table, for the reception?” The queen shook her head; flowers were her preserve.

  “The bridesmaid’s bouquets?”

  A little moue as the queen considered. “Now, that is a nice idea, Crawfie. Yes, let her do that—they will have to match the wreaths they are wearing in their hair, and they must be very small bouquets, nothing that would get in the way of their being useful. Now, how can I help you?”

  She came back to her sofa and pushed the dogs off a heap of silk rectangles.

  “You could congratulate me, ma’am,” I said, hoping that my voice didn’t sound as quivery as my wavering resolve. “Major Buthlay and I were married in Scotland: a small, private ceremony—just the family.”

  The smile slid from her mouth as if it had been stripped off her face. A dark shadow of silence threatened to engulf us both. I held my breath and waited. “Have you told the girls yet?”

  “No, ma’am, I wanted you to be the first to congratulate me.”

  She graciously recognized my loyalty with a dignified lift of her chin. “Quite right, Crawfie, quite right. Well! What wonderful news!”

  “Of course, I will honor our agreement to remain until August of next year: when Margaret turns eighteen. Both of us”—my voice gained strength from the imaginary George, standing behind my chair, his hand resting lightly on my shoulder—“that is, George and I are quite happy to abide by that agreement. The only difference will be . . .”

  “That you will return to your husband when you go to Scotland.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  “Mr. . . . Boothby, is it?”

  “Major Buthlay, ma’am.”

  “Yes, of course. A lovely old Scots name.” She became thoughtful. “Perhaps he might wish to come and live with you here in London, so that there is no need for you to return to Scotland at all, except to visit your mother.”

  I saw the years stretching away as I kept Margaret company until she married and had children. Another Alah, but with a husband, living in a poky flat in Kensington Palace. I watched the queen turn my marriage into a benefit—so much easier to cope with a married-off retainer than a lonely old maid going through the change.

  She finished thinking through her plan and smiled. I couldn’t bear to hear what she had in store for me.

  “There is so much for you to think of right now, ma’am. The wedding is less than three months away. There is all the time in the world to make our plans for Margaret and the future.”

  She tossed the apricot silk aside and picked up a square of ice blue silk, the color of water in early spring. “Con-grat-u-la-tions, Crawfie. I see you have not wasted time in following up on your engagement to Major Buthlay. If you do indeed honor our arrangement, there will be a generous pension for you when you retire.” She hesitated, and her smile flashed. “And we will have to see about a little grace-and-favor for you in Kensington Palace.” Once the queen embarked on a plan, there was no stopping her.

  A flat with a kitchenette? A one-room bedsit? Kensington Palace was full of little hutches for the no longer useful.

  She needs me more than I need her! I waited, curious now to see if she would reveal how generous she would be. “Nottingham Cottage is empty and is such a dear little house, perfect for two.” I must have looked surprised, because she sat back among the cushions, her smile complacent as she crossed her ankles. She smoothed a square of silk with a pale, plump hand. “Strangely enough, I said to His Majesty just the other day, what a pity that Nottingham Cottage is empty. It is not good for lovely houses of that age to be left vacant. Did you know it was designed by Christopher Wren?”

  * * *

  • • •

  governess pips lilibet at the post were the headlines that greeted me on my breakfast table a week later at Windsor Castle. And if they greeted me, they were certainly shrieking in unison to Her Majesty, who enjoyed all our national newspapers with her morning cup of tea.

  “Congratulations, Mrs. Buthlay!” Two footmen bowed their compliments as I came through the terrace door from my morning walk.

  “Good morning, Miss Crawford, I mean Mrs. Buthlay!” Bobo’s tight-lipped smile froze on her sour face as she scuttled down the corridor.

  “Congratulations, my dear Mrs. Buthlay.” Mr. Ainslie beamed. “What tremendous news. What do they say in Scotland? ‘A long and canty life together’?” He closed the gap between us and said in a low voice, “Miss Burford, Mr. Markham, and myself would like to toast to your happiness this evening. Would you be free at seven o’clock for dinner with us?”

  And finally: “Blimey, Crawfie. You are a dark horse. Does Mummy know? I would give anything in the world to have seen her face when she picked up her Daily Mail.”

  “Stop it, Margaret; not everything in life is a joke.” Lilibet got up from my sofa. She was holding a bunch of deep red roses, still dewy from the garden. “Congratulations, Crawfie; we are so very happy for you. We got up early to pick all the red ones!” I buried my face in the sweet fragrance. “Mr. Bonner sent his compliments and said their scent will be stronger as they warm up!”

  “Mummy does know, doesn’t she, that you are married?” asked Margaret.

  “Oh yes, of course. I told her as soon as I came back from Scotland. There really is no harm done, except for the cheeky headlines. I wanted to tell you my good news in my own way.”

  “I expect she’s furious, though.” Margaret was enjoying the situation too much. “She hates being taken by surprise.”

  Lilibet sighed. “Margaret, don’t—”

  “Don’t what? It’s true. I wouldn’t complain if she was pleasant when things don’t go her way. She is still picking apart my suggestions for the bridesmaids’ flowers.”

  Lilibet wasn’t listening. She was gazing out of the window, lost in her own thoughts, untouched by the tension in her family.

  Friction in the Windsor family was well above simmering point. Tea yesterday afternoon had been a torment for everyone.

  “What’s wrong with a little color!” Margaret’s eyes flashed when the queen had vetoed her flowers for the bridesmaids.

  “Darling, they are wearing coronets of white orchids and tiny little roses—to go with their dresses.” The queen barely glanced up from checking off one of her lists.

  “Oh!” Margaret rolled her eyes. “So much easier if you had told me their flowers were decided on before you asked for my help!”

  “Where are they all going to stay?” the king snarled at Tommy Lascelles and Peter Townsend. “I don’t want carloads of people rolling through the bloody gates, expecting to stay with us!”

  A collective exhalation of relief echoed around the drawing room from the courtiers as the queen answered, “Darling, it won’t be a problem at all. Our train will shuttle them back and forth from Southampton to London. Peter, find an appropriate hotel, will you? The Dorchester or the Savoy—somewhere large enough to take our guests. They can all stay there, together. A chance to catch up, to spend time. All your uncles, aunts, cousins, and second cousins, Bertie, all together again. They will love it!” She focused her smile on the king and waved her hand
as another hitch was smoothed over and made to sound like fun.

  My attention came back to the argument between the sisters in my room. “She was not cross at all—and especially not with you, Margaret.” Lilibet rushed to defend her mother and mollify Margaret’s hurt. “She is having the time of her life.” Lilibet clipped a couple of inches off rose stems as I arranged them in two large vases. “I think she’s marvelous: she has a solution for every problem. If she wasn’t married to Papa, she would make a perfect managing director of a large business consortium! She is so busy and happy. And the last thing in the world she cares about is a silly headline about Crawfie getting married before me. I should imagine most people think it is charming that the woman who looked after us all these years has only just said yes to her longtime sweetheart.”

  She beamed at Margaret’s scowling face. “I love your idea for the bridesmaids: white chrysanthemums and ivy. Just don’t mention it again for a while so she can adjust to the notion. Come on.” She linked an arm through Margaret’s. “Now I must dash—Mr. Hartnell is coming for a fitting!”

  “Is he bringing all three hundred and fifty seamstresses?” Margaret asked.

  She giggled. “No, just three this time. The rest are all shut up in some warehouse with the windows whited out and trying to sew with gloves on—poor things.”

  “Where’s Philip?”

  “With Uncle Dickie; he wants to show Philip our wedding present.” And to my questioning eyebrows: “Broadlands—Dickie, or rather Edwina’s, country house. No, not giving it to us, Crawfie; it is where we will be spending our honeymoon.”

  · · ·

  “The main idea of all this carry-on, of course, is to distract the Great British public from the deprivations of postwar austerity.” Margaret was slumped down in my sofa; her agitated foot caught the leg of the coffee table with a clout. “Sorry.”

  “How are the bridesmaids’ flowers?”

  “Do you know something, Crawfie? I’d rather do French verbs than talk about flowers—Mummy has taken that part over, and I have no idea what flowers they are going to use—if any at all. At least the cake has shrunk to four meager tiers and stands a pitiful nine feet: Papa put his foot down. And please, Crawfie, don’t ask me about the wedding breakfast menu. I am so tired of talking about food. When it’s not about food or flowers, it’s unpacking hundreds of awfully ugly presents and saying, ‘How original.’ With four days to go, I am completely sick of weddings. I’m going for a ride in the park with Peter. It’s our last day here before we all toil back to the palace to get ready.”

  She marched off across my room and was out of the door before I could say a thing, leaving me to mull over her lightning changes of mood, which had now turned into what amounted to sour grapes.

  Who was she riding with again? Peter? I was aware that Peter Townsend and Margaret had formed a friendship during the South Africa trip, but surely there was no need for him to play chaperone since their return? I had a soft spot for Peter ever since he arranged George’s visit to London with such painstaking care, but it did seem rather odd to me that he should still feature so prominently in Margaret’s life.

  My head was aching from the endless Windsor family arguments, and the queen’s pressure on all of us to make the wedding the event of the year. I would go for a nice long walk; that should surely clear my head of Margaret worries.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  November 1947

  Buckingham Palace, London

  When is Major Buthlay coming to London for the wedding, Crawfie?”

  “He arrived this morning.”

  “Staying nearby?” Lilibet did not look up from a thank-you letter she was writing. Our days, even some of our nights, had been taken up with reading lists, amending lists, and then rereading them all over again, and Lilibet dedicated two hours every day to write thank-yous to wedding-gift givers. “Good, because I want to meet him before everything takes off. Do you think he is free for tea tomorrow? Because I have a surprise for you both. At least I hope it’s still a surprise, because Margaret was in on it.”

  I sent a fervent prayer that George wouldn’t be stiff and silent when he met my princesses. He had a way of hiding behind his reserve, and it made him come across as just another dull and dour Scotsman.

  George arrived punctually for tea with Lilibet, Margaret, and me. When the doors opened and the footman announced, “Major Buthlay, Your Royal Highness,” my face flushed, and I could hear my heart thudding thickly in my head.

  And there he was, dressed correctly in his best suit. He paused inside the door and bowed from the neck. He looked so composed, so at ease, as if coming to tea at Buckingham Palace was a part of any working day at the bank. But who could possibly be anything but relaxed when they were welcomed by the sweet, smiling face of Lilibet?

  We poured tea, and Susan showed how clever she was at finding ham sandwiches inadvertently dropped behind the sofa cushions.

  “They are hunting dogs?” George inquired.

  “Herding,” Margaret said. “They are used for herding—cattle—in Wales. Hard to believe, isn’t it, when you look at how short their legs are. But they are very fast, if you don’t let them get too fat, and very bossy.”

  George took in Susan’s round, feathery bottom and her determined digging among the cushions, a look of profound perplexity on his face.

  “Her Majesty is hoping you will move to London, Major Buthlay, until Marion retires, of course,” Lilibet said after we had poured ourselves more tea and moved the plate of sandwiches to the top of the bureau.

  George smiled. “You are asking the wrong Buthlay, Your Royal Highness. It is my wife who decides where we are going to live for the next few months.”

  “We all hope she decides yes to London. I must say, I think Nottingham Cottage would be perfect for you both. Perhaps Crawfie will show it to you while you are here. How long are you staying?”

  “Just for the week.” His eyes swiveled over to meet mine. “I . . . I would love to see the cottage.”

  Lilibet had not forgotten George’s love of theater. “Lots of good plays on at the West End,” she said, pouring more tea. “Be there in a flash from Nottingham Cottage.” She lifted wide, innocent eyes and raised her eyebrows at her sly suggestion. “Just thought I’d mention it!”

  I was completely beside myself with happiness. Three of the four people I loved most in the world were sitting together talking museums and theater. “Crawfie always took us to the Victoria and Albert, the National Portrait Gallery, and the Natural History Museum when we were girls—it was always so much fun!” Margaret had forgotten all about her cigarette holder. She sat forward in her chair; the tension of wedding preparations had eased—for now.

  “When I was a boy,” George remembered, “I must have been five or six at the time, we visited the Natural History Museum in our summer vacation. The three of you are too young to remember, but in those days they had a giant grizzly bear standing in the main hall—stuffed, of course. It was a colossal specimen, standing on its hind legs. I came in through the door, clutching my ticket, and there it was. I took one look and fled. Nothing would induce me to come back into the hall. My mother asked a porter if there was another way in, without going through the main hall. So he took us the back way, through the delivery entrance.”

  Lilibet laughed, and her whole face was transformed into that wonderful glowing smile. I watched George lean forward, entranced.

  Yes, she’s beautiful, I silently reminded him, and sweet—didn’t I tell you?

  “We can cap that one,” said Margaret. “When we were very little—how old, Crawfie, when Papa pretended to be a tiger?”

  “Lilibet was about eight, so you must have been four.”

  Margaret started to laugh. “One bath time, Papa put on a tiger skin with a huge head; its mouth was open in a roar to show its teeth. It completely covered him
from head to foot. Anyway, he came into the bathroom on all fours.” Lilibet was laughing so much she started to cough. “We screamed so loudly that Mummy came running in . . . she came running with a . . . with a—”

  “A tennis racket!” cried Lilibet.

  “Oh God, she was a sight. Alah was only just in time to stop her braining Papa with it.”

  I stopped laughing for a brief second to remember those days, so long ago. The pleasant, happy family life we had all lived together in Royal Lodge, before the duke’s brother had climbed into bed with Mrs. Simpson and the Duchess of York had become Queen Consort of England.

  As we got up to say goodbye, Lilibet picked up a list that had been sitting on her desk. “The seating plan for the ceremony in the abbey,” she explained. “My life is one long schedule or list these days. Look”—she put her forefinger on two seats marked with our names—“I have put you both in Poets’ Corner. Do you see? Yes, that’s right in the front. You will be able to see everything from there.”

  “I had no idea how considerate she was,” George said over dinner later that night. “I mean, really thoughtful. That would be your influence.”

  “No, she is naturally that way.” Too many weddings, too close together, had had a sentimentalizing effect on my moods, and my eyes filled with tears. “She has always been that way, right from the day I first met her. She was only six years old, and she was so worried about waking me too early that morning after my long journey from Scotland.”

  “Her sister is a different kettle of fish altogether—very outgoing and utterly charming too.”

  “Yes, she is the personality in the family. Margaret is more like her mother, and Lilibet has the same quiet desire to do the right thing as her father.” I pulled my handkerchief out of my pocket and blew my nose.

  He cleared his throat and, reaching his hand, patted mine across the table. “Now, what’s all this about Nottingham Cottage? Have you already seen it? Do you like it?” His mouth went down at the corners. “It’s not one of those nicely baited traps, is it? We won’t find ourselves living there in twenty years as you run over to the palace because Margaret can’t cope with her grandchildren?”