In Royal Service to the Queen

by Tessa Arlen

  “Who is he when he’s at home?”

  “Dermot Morrah is someone she knows; he is an expert on heraldry and used to help the king with his speeches. I think he writes for the Times. He is someone she knows she can trust.”

  “And she can’t trust you? Why can’t she trust you? She trusted you with her children all through the war. She trusted you for sixteen years, for God’s sake.”

  But does she? Does she really trust me—after I championed Lilibet to stick to her guns and marry the man she loved? I looked across the breakfast table. George was more than frowning now. He was a thundercloud. If I had wondered before how he felt about the queen, now I was quite sure of his feelings for her.

  I folded the letter and put it back in the envelope.

  “Was that it? Was that all she said? Be an oyster and don’t lose your friends by doing something I don’t want you to do?”

  “No, I just can’t read it to you when you get so cross at every little thing.”

  “I won’t say a word until you ask for my opinion.”

  “Promise?”

  “Promise.”

  I pulled out the letter. “All right, then. Please just listen, George, and then we can discuss: ‘Mr. Morrah, who I saw the other day, seemed to think that you could help him with his articles and get paid from America. This would be quite all right as long as your name did not come into it.’ ” I cleared my throat, because what she had written next was not only condescending; it was a clear snub.

  “ ‘If you want a job, I feel sure that you could do some teaching, which after all is your forte, and I would be so glad to help in any way I can.’ ”

  I couldn’t look at him. I felt almost ashamed, as if the only thing I cared about was to make a few extra pounds out of my job as governess to her children.

  “May I speak?” I looked up at the face across the table. He put out his hand to take mine and then got up and came around to my chair. He pulled me to my feet and held me in his arms.

  “I don’t know why she would say that to me,” I said. “And she is so confusing. On the one hand she says no, I must not work with the Goulds. And then on the other that it’s all right for me to help Mr. Morrah write articles for them about the princesses.”

  George picked up the letter and read aloud: “ ‘Having been with us in our family life so long, you must be prepared to be attacked by journalists to give away private and confidential things, and I know that your good sense and loyal affection will guide you well. I do feel most strongly that you must resist the allure of American money and persistent editors. Just say No No No to offers of dollars for articles about something as private and as precious as our family.’ ” He finished reading and then said under his breath something that sounded like “pie-face.”

  “What do you think?” I asked. “I could collaborate with Mr. Morrah so he could write the articles for the Ladies’ Home Journal, because he doesn’t know a thing about the girls, and he would either make them sound like Goody-Goody-Two-shoes, or it would come off as sickly sweet.”

  “What does it matter? It is clear that the queen does not want you speaking directly to anyone. But a man who has never met them but knows about heraldry can write about her daughters. Isn’t that the difference she is pointing out?”

  The sting of the queen’s condescending advice and veiled threats was receding to be replaced by annoyance. The tips of my ears simmered with hurt indignation.

  “That is the only choice she is extending to you, apparently,” George said into the top of my head. “Come on, sit down. Let’s take it step by step.” He threw the queen’s letter down among the breakfast crumbs on the table.

  We sat down on the sofa side by side. “Tell me what you would like to do,” he said.

  I took his hand. “I’m not really interested in writing articles at all, but I would like our money worries to go away. I know this house is free, but it is expensive to heat, and I thought my pension would be larger.” I paused as I remembered the shock I had felt when the Lord Chamberlain sent me my retirement letter granting me a grace-and-favor cottage in Kensington Palace gratis for life, but an annual pension of three hundred pounds per annum had been a blow—it was half a salary that had never been large. Even the letters CVO—Commander of the Royal Victorian Order—an honor bestowed on those of us with many years of royal service, had been a wallop to my pride. The queen had clearly hinted at the title of Dame Commander when I agreed to continue on for another few months because Margaret’s nerves were so shattered by her sister’s marriage. I decided not to mention either of these severe disappointments.

  “I know you sit up late at night and worry about how we can stretch things because London is so expensive. And now with the bills for a new boiler . . . I thought perhaps I could make a little bit of money . . . Perhaps I should go with the queen’s suggestion that I help Mr. Morrah.”

  He said nothing as he stroked the back of my hand with his thumb. His brow puckered. “I feel like a fool for making such poor investments with my pension.”

  “Everyone is worried about their investments. The lack of jobs, the fuel crisis, and the financial mess we are in after the war. Then that terrible winter created so many more problems, so many more shortages. Everyone is struggling . . . and everything has become so terribly expensive. You mustn’t blame yourself . . .”

  He turned to me, his eyes searching my face. “I honestly think that we would be better off living in Dunfermline in your ma’s old cottage. It would still be cheaper than living in London. It costs us a fortune to have the maid come over and clean . . . and no one told us that it was an obligatory service. I am quite sure Betty would be pleased to make a few bob helping you in the cottage. And I could go back to work for Drummonds. I know they would have me back a few days a week. We have thought it about, but we have been too busy to really consider it.”

  I had been too busy with the royal family before, and now with my retirement, we were too short of money to really enjoy London.

  He misses Scotland, I realized. “Since Ma died we haven’t been north once. I had no idea the train fares were so high. I traveled for years on palace passes—it never cost me a penny. Perhaps you are right. London life is expensive—and we used to dream of going to the theater all through the season!”

  I picked up the envelope with the American stamp. The letter’s brevity was businesslike but very clear—unlike Her Majesty’s lecture on my comportment and her graceless suggestion that I assist Mr. Morrah for pin money.

  “I’m going to ask Mrs. Gould how much she would pay me,” I heard myself say.

  “She’s in London?”

  “Yes, she is arriving tomorrow and is staying at the Dorchester. She wants to settle things, either with Morrah or me. And she sounds like she is more enthusiastic about me. She says she wants authenticity.” I handed over the typed page of Mrs. Gould’s letter. “Read it.”

  When he was finished, he sat back and pulled me against him so that my head rested on his shoulder. “Before you do that, let’s do the arithmetic. I don’t want you doing something that makes you feel disloyal to the family. Let’s consider returning to Scotland. We can rent a little place in Aberdeen and keep Ma’s cottage for weekends or selling it. Either way I think the move back would offer a more affordable way of life.”

  We cleared away breakfast and sat down with the Aberdeen Press and read advertisements for house rentals. With the money we would make from the sale of my mother’s cottage, our investments, and my pension, we could just about manage the rent in a decent neighborhood and keep ourselves if we were careful. It was a dismal couple of hours. It would be cheaper to live in the cottage in Dunfermline, we decided.

  “At least we will not be worried about paying rent,” I said. “Would it be too expensive to install electricity in the cottage?”

  “I have absolutely no idea. But we ca
n find out. Come on, the one thing we can afford in this city is fish and chips at the Lyons Corner House at Marble Arch. Put on your hat and coat, and let’s get some fresh air.” As I buttoned up my coat and wound a scarf around my neck, I caught sight of Mrs. Gould’s letter on the sideboard and slid it into the pocket of my skirt.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  May 10, 1949

  Dorchester Hotel, Mayfair, London

  Beatrice Gould was the sort of woman who dressed for business. If she hadn’t been wearing three-inch heels, I would have towered over her in her perfectly cut charcoal gray suit and white silk blouse. Her hair was cut short in the latest fashion, a cap of blond curls. A broad lipsticked smile and two deep-set watchful eyes greeted me as I walked into her suite at the Dorchester and shook her extended hand. Her long manicured fingers felt like bird claws wrapped around mine.

  “Glad you could make it, Mrs. Buthlay. Much better to meet here on neutral ground than at your house.”

  Mrs. Gould had been persistent in asking for an invitation to Nottingham Cottage: “I want to soak up the atmosphere,” she had said on the telephone, “to get the feel of regal ground.” I had been deft in dissuading her: George’s vegetable patch would not have given her the royal frisson she craved, and the thought of her bumping into someone on the grounds terrified me.

  I felt like a traitor as she ushered me into the luxury of her suite. I wanted to blurt that this was a mistake, that I had changed my mind. She closed the door and gestured to a chair by the window. “I can understand your concern with confidentiality, Mrs. Buthlay. We won’t be disturbed here. All the time in the world to have a woman-to-woman chat.” She smiled; she wasn’t quite so formidable when she smiled. Her voice had sounded younger on the telephone, but even with her makeup and the unnatural color of her hair, it was clear to see that she was in her late forties. “How about a cup of coffee?” She didn’t wait for an answer but lifted a pot from the tray and poured. The warm air was filled with the fragrance of the real thing. “Cream and sugar?”

  She handed me a cup. I inhaled. Nothing postwar about this heavenly scent. I took a long luxurious sip. Oh God, I’m being seduced by a cup of coffee. I put down my cup and folded my hands in my lap: ready for business, aware of the assessing gaze that had fastened on me since I had walked into Mrs. Gould’s opulent suite of rooms.

  “I’ll come straight to the point, Mrs. Buthlay. We want you to be our writer for these articles: you know everything about the princesses—what was it, sixteen years as their governess?” She waved a thin hand in the air, its nails lacquered a bright red. “You have so much to share with us all. You were part of the family, a part of their lives. Why, if you were any older, you might have been their mother—of course we want you to write these articles! They would be charming, loving—a delightful experience for everyone.”

  Her confidence that I was their first choice far from reassured me; it swamped me with misgivings. I shouldn’t be doing this; I should be sitting at home waiting for Mr. Morrah to write me a polite letter inviting me to join him as a consultant. I swallowed and made myself ask the questions I had written down in list form yesterday afternoon. “May I ask . . . I mean, it would be helpful to know what you imagine the princesses’ childhood was like.”

  An understanding nod. “I believe that most people think that the princesses were probably spoiled, waited on hand and foot, young girls with no sense at all of the reality we all have to live with.” She lifted her hands in a helpless gesture. “You see, no one in America can imagine what it would be like to be born to rule as part of an ancient monarchy. That’s why you are vital to this endeavor. Because”—she paused to light a cigarette—“because your story would feel authentic and would put paid to all these fairy-tale images.”

  I hadn’t expected this down-to-earth clarity. I had been waiting for fairy-tale princesses wearing party dresses and eating breakfast off gold plates. But I needed her to be clear where I stood, that if I were to do this, I would not be pandering to a stock perception of two little oddities who were incapable of being children, or who weren’t people with emotions who could be hurt by these articles. “Mrs. Gould, may I be clear?”

  She waved her cigarette at me to continue.

  “First of all, royalty does not live in the real world. They can’t; it would be impossible.” I thought of Queen Juliana of the Netherlands riding around Amsterdam on her bicycle. “At least not British royalty. And the princesses were very far from spoiled. They were, and still are, kindly, sincere, and considerate people. They were brought up to say their prayers every night, to tidy up after themselves, and to be polite and well-mannered—especially to servants. They played imaginary games for hours—just like other children—hide-and-seek was one of our favorite games. They did not have cupboards full of toys and Victoria sponge cake for tea every day.”

  As I talked, I saw a brief glimpse of them in my mind’s eye: Margaret ate her toast with butter on her chin; Lilibet, careful, one eye on Alah, worried that she might drop crumbs in her lap. “They were brought up by a strict nanny who never overindulged them. This would be the story I would tell.” She was nodding intently. I almost expected her to pick up a notepad and pencil.

  “And during the war?”

  “We certainly had more than our share of air raids at Windsor, of doing without—just like all English children. They didn’t see their parents much in those years—hardly at all in fact. There was no glamour, no special privileges.” In some way I wanted to prepare her for how unspectacular royal life was. “We lived at Windsor Castle for the duration. I can promise you it was not as luxurious as this.” I looked around the claustrophobically heated room, the fashionable furniture, and the thick pile of the carpet that her expensively shod feet rested on. “The castle was practically empty: everything of value had been sent to be stored in Wales, and the building is ancient—underheated and gloomy. Living at either Windsor Castle or Buckingham Palace, even today, is very far from what people imagine.” I briefly saw the queen’s lavish teatime cakes and sandwiches and crossed my fingers at Her Majesty’s sumptuous way of tea. “The Royal House of Windsor are extraordinarily thrifty. I can’t imagine describing the children’s life otherwise.”

  She threw one slender, silk-clad leg over the other and leaned forward, her forefinger raised in acknowledgment. “That is exactly what we want, Mrs. Buthlay. Your portrayal of two little girls whose father became king unexpectedly, and how they lived through the war years. What it was like to educate the royal children from your perspective,” she rushed in to reassure me. “Of course, one of my journalists will help you.”

  “Thank you, but I don’t need help.”

  “She will simply assist you to write of your job, being governess to the princesses, into story form. Nothing whatsoever will appear that you feel is inaccurate or overblown. It will be your voice the reader will hear, telling the princesses’ story. The journalist would be part of your contract with us.”

  A contract? I hadn’t thought of a contract. I wished that George had come with me; he would have been in his element. I would need his help in negotiating anything with this formidable woman.

  “My husband, Major Buthlay, will sort that out with you,” I said, feeling daring, as I took one step closer to yes. “But one thing must be understood from the start. My name, and that I was royal governess, must not appear anywhere in this series of articles. Otherwise, I will write to Mr. Morrah and offer him my services as consultant to him.”

  “You won’t make any money if you work on this through him.” She blew cigarette smoke at the idea and picked up her coffee cup and grimaced as she took a sip.

  I realized with colossal embarrassment that I had completely neglected this important element of our discussion. Money was certainly to the forefront of Mrs. Gould’s agenda. She was still sitting forward in her chair, her cigarette poised. Her thin, dark, penciled-in eyebrows arche
d over watchful eyes; her lipsticked mouth gathered in a pout, ready to inhale her next lungful of smoke. Her avid enthusiasm for my writing the story did not match those cold, hard eyes—I saw Mrs. Wallis Simpson, bending over to demand kisses from Lilibet when she was a shy ten-year-old.

  “How much are you offering?” I asked, astonished at my temerity. When was the last time I had negotiated a salary? Never.

  She leaned back in her chair and tapped ash from her cigarette, her reply swift and sure as she quoted numbers already discussed and decided upon with Mr. Gould.

  “Thirty when you sign the contract. Another thirty when you have completed the full series with the help of our journalist. And thirty at the beginning of the release.” Her face was without expression; the hand that held the cigarette poised flopped out to the side as she waited.

  “Thirty?”

  “Thirty thousand pounds sterling. Our accountants can organize it so that you won’t pay any income tax. What’s the tax rate here? Something astonishing if you earn over twenty thousand pounds— ninety percent?” She laughed at the hardship that was Britain’s burden since the war.

  I was too stricken to respond as I grappled, overwhelmed, with the enormous figures she had thrown at me. Terrified that I had looked like a witless pea brain and she would decide to go with Morrah, I struggled to form at least one intelligent question.

  “This is for the Ladies’ Home Journal in America?” My voice, tentative and unsure to my ears, must have sounded as if I was questioning other sources of income, because she laughed.

  “If we sell to other magazines—here in England, for example, or Australia, Canada . . . New Zealand, and South Africa—you will receive an additional five thousand pounds for each magazine. I would suggest that you write a book at the same time as you are helping us with the articles. It could be released just after our series. There are plenty of publishers in the States who would jump at the chance to buy it. I don’t think you would regret it, Mrs. Buthlay. Either working with us directly or in following things up with a book of your own.”