by Tessa Arlen
She allowed me to mull this over. We could continue to live here in London and keep my mother’s cottage for summers in Scotland. Or we could leave London and buy a house near Aberdeen, a warm, modern house with views over the Forth—and still keep my mother’s cottage. And in the winter we could come down to London and stay in a pleasant hotel and enjoy the theater.
I wanted to be gone from this stiflingly hot room and the hard-faced, brittle creature in front of me. I wanted to find George so we could put on our old shoes and go for a long walk in the cool spring air so I could think this through. I gathered up my gloves and my handbag.
“Thank you, Mrs. Gould. This is very interesting, but I’ll have to think about it. I must talk to my husband.”
“Don’t take too long, Mrs. Buthlay. Mr. Morrah is standing in the wings, sharpening his pencil.”
I turned at the door. “You said something about a contract.”
She was all business again. “We have one ready for you. Would you like to sign now?”
“No, not quite yet, thank you. At any rate, you must amend it so that neither my name, nor who I am in relation to the family, will appear, anywhere. When that is done, we will consider signing . . . not before.”
“We wouldn’t want it any other way, Mrs. Buthlay. When you have talked to Major Buthlay, just give us a jingle.” She laughed. “I would like you to meet my husband, Bruce Gould. Perhaps dinner, the four of us?” Her lips stretched over her teeth in a wide, feral smile.
She opened the door for me, shook my hand, and directed me to the elevator. I turned with one more proviso about my contract and caught the exultant flash of triumph on her face as she closed the door. One half of the heavy double doors with the discreet brass plaque announced that people like the Goulds were so ridiculously well-heeled that they stayed in the Belgravia Suite of the Dorchester when they came to London.
I rang for the elevator and pulled on my gloves. How could I refuse such a sum?
The queen and Mr. Morrah have already decided to publish . . . with or without my help. Beatrice Gould’s suggestion that I actually write my own book made my heart bump with anxiety one moment and excitement the next. It had never occurred to me that I could write a book about my years with the Windsors. The doors of the elevator slid open and I stepped inside.
The thought that I might become the published author of a real book made me feel as if I had just bolted down a gin and tonic. Stop all this nonsense right now. I could hear my mother’s voice. What is it you really want to do?
I want to retire, with George, to Scotland, and live a simple, pleasant life that is not made troubling and difficult by trying to work out how to heat our house or find the funds to mend a failing boiler. I would like to roast a chicken in my kitchen and not eke out minced lamb with bread crumbs for rissoles.
I walked through the lobby of the Dorchester and out into the street, eager to rid myself of the heavy scented air. I crossed Park Lane into Hyde Park and slowed my pace. The leaves on the trees cast dappled shadows on paths where birds flew down to peck among flower beds erupting with joyful spring color. But I was still too close to Park Lane and its opulence, its long, sleek, shiny cars, and the fashionable men and women stepping out of them to walk in through the doors of luxurious hotels to drink cocktails as they made plans for the evening.
I kept on going until I found an empty park bench on the edge of the Serpentine. I sank down onto the sun-warmed wooden slats and lifted my face to the late-spring sunshine. Keep calm, I told myself as I flexed my fingers, unclenching them from their tight hold on my handbag. With my eyes closed, I listened to the shouts of children playing around me and inhaled the sweet scents of spring flowers and freshly unfurled leaves.
When I opened my eyes, a uniformed nanny wheeling a pram across the grass turned her head to a small four-year-old boy; he had his back turned to her and was digging in a patch of wet grass. Wet mud splattered his legs. She put the brake on the pram and ran back to him, quickly scooping him up from his muddy patch.
He cried out with rage and went flat in her arms like a board—his muddy boots kicking out. She knelt down on the pathway to brush the mud off his legs. I could see her laughing as she scolded. He put his arms around her neck and buried his face in her hair.
They are like our own, I thought as she opened her large handbag and produced a blue ball. Together they ran round the pram, the ball bouncing ahead of them. And when they grow up, they are still ours.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
January 1950
Nottingham Cottage, Kensington Palace, London
George, look at this. Look what the Goulds have done.” Hysteria bubbled up in my throat. I put my hand up to my forehead as I flapped a copy of the Ladies’ Home Journal magazine at him. There was a photograph on the cover of a pretty brunette in a red cardigan, her wide smile shining in a face vibrant with health and good food. But it wasn’t the brunette that had caused me such panic. “This is why no one at the palace sent us a Christmas card—and wouldn’t come to our mince-pie party!” I flapped the magazine again. I was so shattered when I opened the heavy brown envelope containing the first of the princess articles that I slumped against the front door, my legs too heavy to walk to the kitchen.
George slowly backed out from under the sink. “Two washers and it still leaks.” He got to his feet. “This whole place needs a complete renovation.”
“George, never mind the leak, look!” He groped around for his spectacles, which were perched on his head. My words were out before he could adjust them on his nose. “It says—in a banner across the cover, ‘The Little Princesses. From the time Princess Elizabeth was five, and Princess Margaret a baby, Marion Crawford was royal governess.’ ” I paused, waiting for cries of horror from my husband. For him to snatch the magazine out of my hand so he could roar words of shock that we had been so profoundly fooled by the ruthless Goulds. But George was silent. He had found his spectacles and was polishing them with a tea towel.
“I’ll go on, shall I? It says, ‘She has written a warm, friendly story of her seventeen years as playmate and companion to the two girls growing up behind the pageantry of royal life at Buckingham Palace. It begins in this issue’! There now, what do you have to say about that?”
George reached out and detached my hand from the magazine. He read it and let the copy fall to his side.
“We have been sent to Coventry; that’s what’s happened. That is why no one at the palace has been near us for days—except Lady Airlie. She kindly dropped in a moment ago and gave me this.” My hands were beginning to shake and so was my voice. The humiliation of Lady Airlie’s cold, clipped words, when she had always been so particularly kind and warm to me over the years, had made me feel like a housemaid dismissed for stealing. “I am to expect a letter from Lord Hyde’s office, the Lord Chamberlain to the Household, within the week, revoking my lifetime right to live here gratis. We have three weeks to vacate . . .”
“But we knew the queen would be annoyed. I thought you were prepared for the worst.”
“This is beyond the worst, George. I am being ostracized. Lady Airlie says the queen would never have said a word in anger against writing those articles if my name hadn’t been plastered across the headlines. Every single magazine that bought the rights to this article, across the world, has my name and the words ‘royal governess’ on the front cover. Of course she is angry. I have done the one thing she specifically said I must not do.”
I put both hands on top of my head in despair, and George took hold of them and held them in his. “She only made thirteen changes to the copy for the entire series when the Goulds sent it to her. She wasn’t happy that I had taken the Goulds’ offer instead of working with Mr. Morrah, but she was prepared to forgive. And now this!”
A firm shake of my hands in his. “For heaven’s sake, Marion, calm yourself. She was not prepared to forgive. She is
as mad as a scalded cat because you wrote it. She knew what was going to be printed because she was given every opportunity to edit it. And what did she do? She didn’t touch a word you said about her children, but she certainly took the trouble to take out the bit about her resenting Mrs. Simpson and the king for abdicating. And even that was all insincere fakery. She loves being queen; she eats it up. It’s not your fault, my love; it’s really not your fault.” He took me in his arms, outraged for my hurt. “My God, I don’t think I have ever met a woman with such a lust for personal power as Elizabeth Windsor. The abdication shot her into the spotlight, where she could play the role of queen consort to perfection. And she still pretends that the Duke and Duchess of Windsor ruined her life.”
“No, George. It’s really not about my writing the article.” I lifted my head from his chest. “It is the fact that the Ladies’ Home Journal used my name: Marion Crawford—royal governess. I was so careful to explain that my name was not to appear. It was in the contract! Why didn’t you check it?”
“I did—I read through every line, and there was no clause that stipulated your name was to be used. I particularly stressed this with Gould. And he told me that it was all agreed on in your first meeting with Mrs. Gould. I spent most of my time negotiating with the Goulds on world rights and then running back and forth between them and Macmillan, who wanted you to write the book. I had four days in New York, and most of it was spent on the subway or sitting in an office waiting for the contract to be rewritten.” I drew away from him, but he pulled me back. “If there is one thing we can be sure of now, at least we understand the intricacies of a publishing contract!” He lifted my chin and two tired eyes looked down into mine. “Marion, you have to believe me, I do know about how to protect your financial interests. But you told me that the first thing you had all agreed on was not to use your name. And there was not a single line in the contract that said anything about what name should be used on the cover.” And there it was. The unscrupulous Goulds had been careful not to stipulate that my name was not to be used—and had used it and my relationship to the princesses.
* * *
• • •
I woke after little sleep. Gray light filtered through the edges of the curtains. I heard George downstairs clattering about in the kitchen. The pain that had settled like a rock in the center of my chest as soon as I had woken made me want to stay in our warm bed and hide from the world.
I got up and swung my legs out of bed. The bathwater was tepid; I ran just enough to wash in and got dressed.
“You need a big breakfast, Marion. No, not just a cup of tea. When you have eaten something, it will not feel like the end of the world.”
I watched my husband bustle about. There was a copy of the Aberdeen Press open on the table. His search for a house was underway, a house north of the border. After three years of Kensington Palace eccentricities and archaic rules—no washing on the clothesline after midday; only vetted palace personnel to clean our house; a refusal to correct rising damp, which might ruin the appearance of the outside walls of the cottage; windows that did not fit properly but may not be replaced; and a boiler that sometimes produced scalding water in the middle of the day, but never in the morning or the evening—we were to leave the land of the Sassenachs, and George could hardly contain his delight.
We finished the washing-up, and George pulled the half-filled bucket of soapy water out from under the leaking sink to empty it in the garden. “Look who’s walking up our path. That’s right, Marion, it’s Lilibet.” He took me by the shoulders. “Come on now, sweetheart. Did you think she would desert you?”
There was a tentative knock on the door as my clumsy fingers fumbled at my apron strings. I glanced in the kitchen mirror, and a white face looked back at me.
Lilibet’s face was just as pale, underneath her suntan, her bottom lip caught between her teeth. But those large, clear, honest eyes told me everything.
“How could you, Crawfie?” she said as she took off her headscarf and came into the house. “I only got back from Malta yesterday. I don’t think I have ever seen Mummy quite so angry. She told me that she thought you had gone off your head. She’s speechless with fury.”
Hardly speechless, I thought, as I turned to go into the kitchen and make tea.
“No, no tea for me. I can’t stay. I just came here to beg you to apologize to Mummy.”
“But, Lilibet, I have. I have. As soon as I found out that my name had been used, as soon as Lady Airlie gave me the Ladies’ Home Journal.” I pointed at the wretched thing lying on a coffee table, and Lilibet averted her eyes as if it was the sort of smut only sailors bought in fly-ridden ports of call. “I wrote to her saying that the Goulds had been specifically told not to use my name. Her Majesty read the articles; she was invited to edit them . . . The Goulds worded the contract so that they could in fact use my name. I had no intention of them using it. But they did. You have to believe me.”
Lilibet shook her head; she kept on shaking it as I walked toward her, my hands outstretched. “Mummy thinks you revealed your name on purpose, to give credence to the articles, to make money out of us. But if you go to her and tell her how distressed you are about how this all happened, she will surely find a way to forgive.” Lilibet drew herself up. She glanced at her watch. So, this was not a visit to reconcile, to forgive me for our innocent misunderstanding of the contract.
“There has been a complete misunderstanding, Lilibet.” I tried again. “Let me give you Her Majesty’s letter to me where she actually gave me permission to work on these articles with Dermot Morrah . . . then perhaps you will understand.”
Lilibet pulled her headscarf out of her pocket. “There is only one thing I can think of that might help this situation. Her Majesty is going to visit Princess Marina at Kensington Palace the day after tomorrow at three o’clock.” Surely this couldn’t be Lilibet speaking? She sounded like Michael Adeane reading through her appointment schedule. “That will be your chance to talk to her.” In all the long years I had known her, Lilibet had never used formal titles with me. “I don’t think you realize how serious this is,” she continued with one of her best Girl Guide looks on her face, the kind she had used as a child when someone made a hash out of building the evening campfire. “You see, Crawfie, everyone who works for us, anyone who has had a connection with us, or who works for the household, might be tempted to reveal . . . to reveal our private lives to the press . . . for money.”
“No, no, I am sure they won’t.” My throat felt tight; my head swam. Surely Lilibet doesn’t believe that I have revealed my name on purpose?
“Oh, but they will. And I am afraid it is because of that.” She lifted her arm and pointed to the woman in the red cardigan beaming at us from the cover of the Ladies’ Homes Journal. “You see, the only thing we have of our own is our privacy, our right to privacy.” She tied her headscarf under her chin and walked to the door. “I hope you can patch things up, Crawfie, I really do. Otherwise, I have a feeling that the queen will forbid us to see you.”
* * *
• • •
I put on my shell-shaped navy blue felt hat and adjusted it so it sat straight on my head. I tucked the ends of my black-and-gray scarf into the collar of my navy wool coat and pulled on black suede gloves. I looked neat, subdued, and tidy in preparation for my unscheduled meeting with the queen. As I settled my hat more squarely on my head, I looked up and saw Lady Airlie’s cold face through the window. I jumped with nerves.
“No, thank you, Mrs. Buthlay, I don’t have time for tea. I have come from the queen. She has asked me to clarify a few points to you.” I had no intention of giving her tea; I had to be on my way in five minutes.
Standing in the middle of my drawing room, her face puckered with concern, her handbag clutched tightly against her body as if I might snatch it from her, she enumerated every one of Her Majesty’s grievances, and then, fixing her eyes
somewhere off to my left, she ended with, “And on no account are you to write to or try to communicate in any way with Their Majesties or Their Royal Highnesses. I hope I have made myself clear, Mrs. Buthlay. Her Majesty could not have been more emphatic. You are to sever all ties to the family and her household. You may not attempt to make any contact.” Her mouth softened, but she would not look me in the eye. “I’m sure there has been a misunderstanding between you and these ghastly people from the Ladies’ Home Journal. Some awful mistake. I have known you for many years, and I have always felt you to be a loyal and deeply caring member of the household.”
I nodded to acknowledge I had heard, too stricken to speak, and horrified that I might break down. There must be no tears: a show of emotion was considered vulgar.
“Good afternoon, my dear.” Lady Airlie reached out and squeezed my arm. “Please don’t try to see Her Majesty. She is very angry.”
* * *
• • •
“No, Marion, do not change your plans. You go and see the queen.” George glanced at his watch. “It doesn’t matter what Lady Airlie says. Lilibet told you it was the best thing to do, so trust her. If you set out now, you will be in time to catch her as she arrives. East Wing, don’t forget.” He ushered me to the door. “It doesn’t matter if we have to leave here, but it does matter that you leave on your terms. Off you go, and remember Lilibet urged you to ask forgiveness. Trust her judgment.”
Trust her? Of course I trusted Lilibet. In all my life I had never met her equal for honesty and above all her sound, reasoning head. Margaret might cry and make promises and then change her mind ten minutes later, but Lilibet was solid.
I walked up the gravel path to the front of Kensington Palace and its acres of gravel drive to the entrance of the Duchess of Kent’s apartments. There wasn’t a soul in sight, but I heard the queen’s Daimler long before I saw it; it purred up behind me and came to a halt in a crunch of gravel. Mr. Hughes got out and walked back to the side of the car. He saw me, and for one hopeful moment, I thought that he would call out, or at least tip his cap. But he opened the door, and with his head carefully averted, so he would not meet my eye, he handed out the queen.