by Tessa Arlen
“And so do you, sir.”
“All well?” He tilted his head back to Lilibet’s closed doors.
“She is beautiful, sir. Absolutely beautiful.”
“Good, then shall we go down? I expect you should leave for the abbey now; you can go with Wing Commander Townsend.”
I could hear Margaret’s voice below us as we reached the top of the stairs. “No, no, no, Pam, you’re wearing it too far back on your head.” The sound of her clear, confident voice righted me in a moment as we walked down to the great hall, to the bevy of bridesmaids standing around Margaret as she gave her last-minute instructions.
Chapter Thirty-Five
June 1948
Nottingham Cottage, Kensington Palace, London
Good afternoon, Crawfie. Do you happen to have the kettle on?”
It was Lilibet standing at the front door of our new home at Nottingham Cottage. Her face a little fuller, her arms more rounded: glossy and sleekly pregnant. “Lilibet, you are the most welcome sight in all the world. You look so bonny!” I shepherded her through the door and into my drawing room.
“Robustly bonny.” She put a hand lightly on her belly. “I have gained pounds and pounds.”
She stood in the middle of my newly decorated drawing room: pale gray-blue walls and white paneling. She took my hand in hers. “Crawfie, I heard about your mother. I am so very sorry; it must have been awfully hard for you. I expect it still is.” Her natural unemphatic sympathy brought tears to eyes that I thought had cried their last weeks ago.
I nodded and tried to say thank you, but the aching void that filled my chest threatened to overcome me. I swallowed and pointed toward the little kitchen. “I’ll make us some tea.”
She followed me into the kitchen and smiled as I took down my mother’s old tin tea caddy. “Yes, a good strong Scots brew. Nothing like a cup of Brodies.” She sat down at the kitchen table. “You have done wonders with the place, though, Crawfie. It all looks so homely, so fresh and pretty!” She took in the blue gingham curtains at the kitchen window that I had made myself, the white cabinets, painted by George.
“There are lots of things that your grandmother gave me. The watercolors in the drawing room are a gift from her, and she was so helpful about finding affordable fabric for curtains and covers.” I covered a tray with cutwork linen and arranged Lilibet’s wedding present of Royal Worcester china to me. Then we carried everything through to the drawing room, Lilibet with the teapot and I with the tray.
She crossed the room and examined the watercolors formally organized on the wall on either side of the fireplace. “Granny’s presents are always followed up with lots of advice.” She smiled. “Did she send someone over to hang them for you? And then come over herself afterward to make sure it had all been done as she asked?”
I nodded, my shoulders shaking with laughter. “Yes, and then she took stock of our meager furniture and drew up several lists of places to go to furnish the house.” Most of it had been completely out of our budget. But the dowager queen had helped solve some of our problems: the curtains and chair covers had been affordable only because the old queen had written to a fabric store on my behalf.
Lilibet sat down and eased off her shoes.
“Swollen feet?” I asked her.
She shook her head. “No, not really; it is just nice to take them off. Honestly, I feel no different at all. He must be a very good baby; he has been no bother so far.”
“He?”
“Yes, I am quite sure it is a boy—probably because he is such a lazy thing.” She sipped her tea. “When did your mother become ill, Crawfie?”
The quick catch of grief at my throat, hastily swallowed down. “I think she had been ill for quite some time. She never really recovered after that terrible winter, and she certainly didn’t tell anyone how serious her illness was. She had a way of dismissing things that irritated her, or which held her up, or simply got in the way.” I had still not recovered from the shock I had felt when I had opened Betty’s letter two weeks after I had left Dunfermline for London. “It was her friend Betty who wrote to me and told me that I must come home. She had found her, you see, that morning, when she walked over to give her some bread she had baked. Ma had fallen in the night, and . . . had been lying there on the kitchen floor. I was on the next train home.” Lilibet’s eyes were fixed on my face as she nodded me on. “I was shattered when I saw how thin and frail she had become in just a fortnight. It was pretty much downhill from there.” I drew in a breath so I could relate the last with a steady voice. “She was in no pain when she died. The fall and lying on the stone floor had . . . brought on another bout of pneumonia. She had no strength left to fight the cancer she had just been diagnosed with.”
I didn’t say how unbearably lonely I had felt when I had returned to my mother’s empty cottage. Even with the arrival of Aunts Mary and Madge to help me with her things, I had felt desolate, my hands and feet cold, my heart so heavy with loss it was impossible to talk to them. When her house was packed up and Mr. Mackenzie had driven my aunts back to Aberdeen with some of my mother’s things, I had offered Betty the chickens.
“All of them, Marion?”
“I can’t imagine who else would look after them better than yourself, Betty.”
“As a gift?”
“Yes, there is still corn in the barn.”
“I’ll leave them here and come over and feed them every day. I can check on the cottage, make sure everything is all right.”
We had stood together at the top of the rise, and I had remembered pushing up the laden wheelbarrow on the day of the winter thaw. Where George had found me.
The chickens were looking for worms in the vegetable garden. “Mr. Ross says he will come over once a week and take care of the garden. He might even keep the vegetable patch going,” I said, reluctant to return to the cottage, to its emptiness.
The rattle of a silver spoon in a saucer brought me back to my drawing room. Lilibet poured us more tea, handing me my cup. Her round blue eyes fastened on my face. I nodded my thanks, reached for my handkerchief, and blew my nose.
“Dr. Marley said that pneumonia is sometimes called the old people’s friend. Her ending was peaceful.”
“I’m so very sorry,” she said as she reached out and patted my hand. “I know how close you both were. How proud she was of you. I am so glad that you have George—he is such an understanding man.”
I nodded. “Yes, he is very kind. He got on very well with my ma—she loved him as much as he loved her. Now, enough of all this sadness.” I stuffed my handkerchief back into my pocket. “It is wonderful to see you looking so well, Lilibet. When is the baby due?”
She shrugged and shook her head. “When he decides to come, I suppose. The doctors say first week in November. Granny is in heaven; she keeps telephoning with advice and suggestions of what I must eat. Anyway, everything is ready for him: the nursery has been painted yellow. I think it’s the same yellow Mummy chose for my arrival—and now she is busy interviewing nannies.” Why aren’t you interviewing the candidates? I wanted to ask her. It’s your baby this nanny will be looking after.
“Are you . . .” I paused. “Are you nervous about, you know . . . the birth?”
“Oh no, not a bit. After all, it is what we are made for, isn’t it?”
I didn’t say that it wasn’t what I was made for. The doctor had confirmed that George and I would not have children. “Maybe not such a bad thing, after all, Marion,” George had said when I had recovered from the news, his gentle face full of encouragement for the happiness of our lives. “What matters to me is that we are both together. I’ve waited so long to be with you.”
Lilibet stretched her legs out in front of her with her hands on the gentle rise of her belly. “It’s so quiet here, Crawfie; you would never think you were in the heart of London. It must be the wall around yo
ur garden. Are you pleased with this house, now you have everything straight?”
Will it ever be straight? I wondered. The cottage was a charming little place: seasoned red brick with its rose arbor around the door. But I didn’t say it was all about romance rather than practicality. George and I had papered our bedroom walls, retiled the kitchen floor, and made papier-mâché filling for some of the larger gaps in the window frames, in an attempt to lessen some of the more penetrating drafts.
“Yes, we have settled in—it is such a pretty little house. And how is the work on Clarence House progressing?”
A long sigh. Lilibet closed her eyes. “When Philip is not at the Admiralty, he is very busy supervising what has really become a complete rebuild. If this little cottage was rather scruffy when you got it, I am amazed that Clarence House was not actually condemned. It was a mess; actually, half of it still is. Would you like to come over with me one afternoon? You can see all Philip’s innovations for yourself. I have never known anyone who loves gadgets and domestic inventions as much as he does!”
Her eyes shone with the pride. “I can’t tell you what a relief it is that Philip loves to do things like renovate, improve, and generally take charge.” And then, mindful always of others: “Has George settled . . . I mean really settled to life in London?”
“Yes, I think he has. To be honest I was a bit worried about him at first. He has always been such a busy man, but as you can see”—I waved a hand toward the windows into our back garden—“his vegetable patch is extraordinarily productive; he spends a lot of time questioning the palace gardeners on what varieties of potatoes to plant. Mr. Bolton’s vegetable-and-fruit garden was the model for this one. Thank goodness my mother taught me to cook—though I am not as good a cook as she was . . . but practice is all I need. When I have the time.”
Her steady gaze was neither intrusive nor demanded an answer, but it was keenly focused on my face. Her voice light, almost offhand, she asked, “How is Margaret doing?”
I paused to consider because I am never quite sure. “She is a delight: a pleasure to have in class!” We laughed.
“Yes, that’s what you always used to tell Mummy. I hardly ever see Margaret these days; she is such a social butterfly. Mummy says . . .” A long pause. Lilibet lifted her chin and shrugged her shoulders. “Is she really out every night of the week? How can she stay out until all hours and then be ready to study the next morning?”
“My concern has never been Margaret’s ability, or her concentration and commitment to her studies. But she is very distracted with her social life.” I said no more because to do so would be disloyal. The last thing in the world Margaret needed was to be judged by her essentially obedient sister.
Lilibet picked up her handbag. “Mummy says that you have been a lifeline to Margaret ever since I married Philip. She says she couldn’t imagine what life would be like without you there to steady her.”
I had difficulty concealing the anxiety that this casual Lilibet remark caused. I knew the queen was an ostrich where her youngest daughter was concerned. She certainly knew that Margaret was out every night with her group of friends but either was too intimidated to correct her nearly adult daughter or simply did not have the inclination to, which was why I was still here. Margaret might have come across as a princess made of steel, but sometimes she looked so wan and apathetic the morning after a night of partying, I worried about her health.
I bit my tongue: my retirement was weeks away; it was time to concentrate on my life with George and not be pulled into what he called “Margaret shenanigans.”
“What on earth will you do, Crawfie?” Lilibet asked as I opened the front door to the sight of my husband propping up his bicycle against the gatepost and pulling off his cycling clips. “When you retire?”
I was too busy thinking about the play that we had tickets to see in the West End to concern myself with a serious answer. “What do people do when they retire, I wonder?” I said as my husband came up the garden path. “Perhaps I shall become the next Agatha Christie!”
PART THREE
1949–1977
Chapter Thirty-Six
April 1949
Nottingham Cottage, Kensington Palace, London
My retirement had almost become complete, except for the occasional call for help from the palace when Margaret threatened to cause havoc or came knocking at the cottage door to wail in exasperation about her mother’s demands and contradictions, or her own boredom.
When she had time, Lilibet would bring her beautiful baby boy over for a visit, and I would make tea, and we would play with Charles.
“Do you miss her?” George would ask. “Miss sharing this part of her life?”
“But I do share it, as much as I want to. And anyway, I knew she would be busy. She barely has time to spend with her first baby.” And truthfully I didn’t. I was too happy to have my own life, my life with George.
* * *
• • •
“Another letter from the Americans.” George made two piles: the bills made a taller one than letters from our friends in Dunfermline. “Ah yes, and one from Her Majesty the Queen—I expect Princess Margaret has been up to her usual naughtiness again. Please remember that you have retired!” He handed them both to me.
I waved the one with American stamps on it. “This is from Beatrice Gould. The journalist? Surely you remember? Beatrice and Bruce Gould are editors for the American women’s magazine Ladies’ Home Journal. I had no idea how popular it is, apparently rather like the Woman’s Own here in England.”
His gaze across the breakfast dishes sharpened. “I thought you said no to them.”
I picked up my knife and spread marmalade on my toast. So, he does remember. I shook my head as I ate. “I didn’t respond when the first letter came last month—I threw it in the kitchen boiler. Then I thought I should talk to the queen about it . . . so I talked it over with Lady Airlie a couple of days ago, and on her advice, I wrote to the queen . . .” I brushed away crumbs from my lips and chin. “Lady Airlie told me that the Goulds have been very persistent. They contacted the Foreign Office and pointed out that a series of informative articles about the princesses when they were little girls would go a long way to enhance relations between America and Britain. The American public are fascinated by our royal family.”
He nodded and picked up his Daily Telegraph.
“It has been done before, you know, when the girls were very young and the queen was the Duchess of York. She and Lady Airlie produced two illustrated books about Lilibet and Margaret Rose. They sold like mad. When I wrote to the queen, I told her that the Goulds had been in touch with me about writing a series of articles about the princesses’ education. And here is her reply.” I picked up the unmistakable envelope, slit it open with a paper knife, and pulled out two pages of heavy bond writing paper. It had been months since I had felt the embossed crest at the top of the page.
“Aren’t you going to open the American one? I am quite sure their letter will be much more interesting.”
“It’s just going to ask me again for an appointment to talk about my job as governess. Their magazine’s slogan is: ‘Never underestimate the power of a woman,’ which is presumably why this Mrs. Gould thinks that by writing to me every month, she will persuade me to talk to her about the princesses. I wanted to hear from the queen before I respond to her.”
I looked up to see what sort of expression his face was wearing. It was neutral, but I saw his lips tighten just a little. I had never been quite sure how George felt about Her Majesty. He outwardly liked and respected Lilibet, and I thought he quite liked Philip’s sardonic humor, especially when he came home one afternoon to find Philip tinkering around with our failing boiler. But he kept pretty mum about the queen. I smoothed the pages of Her Majesty’s letter, fully aware that George was watching me over the top of his newspaper.
I
scanned the first few lines. “Well, she clearly is not happy that the Goulds have contacted me. This is what she says: ‘I do feel most definitely that you should not write and sign articles about the children, as people in positions of confidence must be utterly oyster.’ ”
“ ‘Oyster,’ what does that mean?” His eyebrows lifted at one of the queen’s favorite expressions.
“It means tight-lipped, like an oyster, of course.”
“As we would say in the army: keep your trap shut. Does she say anything else other than a very straightforward no?”
I was already scanning ahead, frowning at the blunt advice offered in the queen’s looping schoolgirl handwriting.
“Yes, she does. She says this: ‘You would lose all your friends because such a thing has never been done or even contemplated amongst the people who serve us so . . . loyally.’ ”
George’s hand came down, palm flat, to slap the top of the table. “Why would she threaten you like that? ‘You would lose all your friends’! How would she know what your friends would do?”
I put the letter down in my lap. “I can’t read this to you if you are going to burst out every two minutes because you don’t like the way she puts things.” I could feel tears of humiliation building behind my eyelids. No divided loyalties! I reminded myself. “Shall I continue?”
He closed his eyes tight shut for a brief moment. “I’m sorry, Marion; I’ll be a mussel, or whatever it is. Please continue.”
I read for a second or two. “The next bit is confusing, so please be patient. I think the Goulds might have contacted someone else through the Foreign Office. I know they are desperate to print this article. Here is what she says: ‘Mr. Morrah—’ ”