by Wendy Holden
The Queen was gloomily aware that, apart from anything else, today’s poll would give people licence to ask more personal questions than usual. Old people were particularly shameless on the prying front, taking advantage of the immunity of age. Knowing they had little time to live, and little to lose, they asked anything and everything. Astrid expected the worst. She wriggled with reluctance in her shift dress and dug the heels of her beige court shoes into the Savonnerie carpet.
‘You’ve called Max, I take it,’ the King said casually. Only the fierce way his hands were gripping his newspaper betrayed the tension with which he awaited the answer.
‘I couldn’t get through,’ Astrid lied.
‘What? Again?’ The King slammed his cup down in his saucer so hard that the Queen winced. She took great pride in the palace china collection.
‘You haven’t been able to get through for days,’ Engelbert said suspiciously.
Astrid felt panicked. ‘Max,’ she explained, ‘is doing some hands-on experience at Stonker’s.’
‘I bet he is,’ snarled the King.
‘On the farm,’ Astrid hurriedly continued. ‘But it means he’s outside a lot and out of range.’
‘Well he goes inside sometimes, doesn’t he?’ Engelbert blustered, recognising a feeble excuse when he heard one. ‘He’s not a cow out at pasture.’
The King took up his silver spoon and dug violently into his boiled egg. It was detectably three or four seconds over the four-minute limit he preferred. This did not improve his mood.
The breakfast room door opened and Prince Giacomo, yawning, his unbrushed golden hair cascading over his face, shuffled through in baggy jeans and unlaced white trainers.
‘Good morning, Giacomo,’ said his father pointedly. ‘You’re late. Again.’
‘Keep your hair on, Pops,’ replied the young prince blithely.
The King stared upwards as if seeking divine guidance, or perhaps a shaft of lightning to reduce his troublesome younger son to a smoking cinder.
Giacomo dragged out a delicate gold chair and plonked himself down on it. ‘So wossup, man?’ He grabbed a slice of toast.
‘If you mean what have we been talking about,’ his mother replied patiently, ‘the answer is that we’ve been talking about Max.’
‘Max?’
‘Your brother, remember,’ Engelbert said ironically. ‘Maxim Albert William Carl Philip Emanuel Gothenburg de Sedona.’
Giacomo blinked. ‘Wow. Does he really have so many names?’
‘We need to find him a wife.’ Engelbert gestured at one of the white-gloved footmen to take his unsatisfactory egg away. ‘He’s got to come home and get married. For the good of his country,’ the monarch added stirringly.
‘Marry? Max?’ Giacomo was so astounded that he dropped his toast on to the antique carpet. ‘Marry who? He’s not even got a bird, not so far as I know.’
‘Quite,’ muttered the Queen.
‘We’re going to find him a bird, as you call it,’ the King said briskly, clattering his tea cup down in its saucer. ‘A bride will be chosen,’ he added pompously, ‘from among the leading families of Europe.’
Giacomo looked puzzled. ‘I’m probably being a bit thick . . .’ he began, frowning.
‘Surely not,’ the King put in witheringly. The Queen shot him a look.
‘. . . but,’ Giacomo continued slowly, ‘you’re actually going to make the poor sod come back from sticking his arm up cows’ arses or whatever it is he’s doing and marry some old munter he’s never seen before, just because it’s his royal duty?’
Engelbert sighed so hard in exasperation that the linen napkin covering his suit front fluttered with the force of it. ‘Well I wouldn’t have put it quite that way, but in essence I suppose that sums it up reasonably accurately.’
Giacomo was reaching for another piece of toast. ‘Bit heavy, Pops, don’t you think?’
‘I don’t disagree,’ muttered Astrid.
The King, now feeling rather persecuted, was swift to counter attack. ‘Come on, Astrid,’ he snapped. ‘You’re supposed to be supporting me. It’s your royal duty, remember? It could be worse. Max isn’t interested in anyone else, after all. We’re not insisting he tears himself away from the love of his life or anything, are we?’
Astrid flinched. Was there something knowing, something barbed, in her husband’s tone? She dared not raise her eyes and show him the pain in them, or see any unexpected insight in his. She remained staring at the table, hands out of sight, clenched agitatedly on her knees. ‘I’m not aware of him being in love with a person,’ she said in a monotone. ‘But he adores what he’s doing and he won’t want to leave it.’
‘He’s going to be a king; kings can’t be vets,’ Engelbert was ranting, when, in the service kitchen outside the large gold and white door, there was a shattering crash as someone dropped a plate on to the stone-flagged floor. The entire family jumped in shock. Engelbert’s angry gaze remained on his wife. ‘You have to call him,’ he said accusingly. ‘Now.’
Chapter 16
Max was on his knees in a grubby cowshed when his mobile shrilled. Politely, he ignored it at first, being deep in conversation with one of the Duke of Shropshire’s dairy girls about the mastitis from which one of the herd was suffering. Max was enjoying himself immensely; the comforting, earthy smell of the shed, the warmth of Daisy’s flank, the certain knowledge that he could cure the animal, all conspired to give him a feeling of ineffable satisfaction.
‘Shouldn’t you get that?’ Tamsin, the dairy girl, asked, as Max’s mobile rang insistently in the depths of the battered jacket he had thrown casually over the wall of Daisy’s byre. ‘It might be something important.’ She shook her loose red hair over her shoulders, rather hopelessly by now, it had to be said. It had been obvious from the moment the handsome young vet had arrived that the only female in the shed he was interested in had four legs and a pair of horns.
It occurred to Max that it might be Polly. They had arranged to meet later for supper. He felt a thousand pinpricks of fear in his stomach; was she calling to cancel?
Tamsin watched as he hurriedly pulled the mobile out and turned his back. A girlfriend? There must be some reason why he had so utterly failed to respond to the considerable efforts the farmyard assistants had made to interest him. Even the guinea pig girls had turned out daily in full make-up.
‘Oh, Mum, it’s you,’ she heard him exclaim warmly. That he had a good relationship with his mother somehow made him more attractive than ever. She sighed and patted Daisy, who was turning her large, square head and lowing enquiringly, evidently wondering where Max had gone.
‘How’s Beano?’ Tamsin heard as Max walked into the cobbled yard. ‘Oh, good. Good boy. What? Yes, I can talk, but make it quick,’ he said happily, glancing back and giving Tamsin a smile that made her heart turn right over. ‘I’ve got an important lady awaiting my attentions.’
‘An important lady?’ Astrid, at the other end, gasped. How important? Hope soared within her. Royal, rich, marriageable important? It might be all right after all . . .
‘Yes, I’m just sorting out her teats.’ Max chuckled. He felt, as he increasingly did these days, in an uncharacteristically skittish mood. He was doing exactly what he wanted. And if he wasn’t madly in love quite yet, he was, he knew, closer to it than he’d ever been.
‘Teats?’ Astrid had almost dropped the phone. Her hands were shaking.
‘Just an old cow,’ Max explained, wondering why his mother sounded tense. She was usually the first to get a joke.
‘What?’ she squealed.
‘A real old cow. C’mon, Mum. What’s happened to your sense of humour?’
Exactly what’s going to happen to yours in a minute, Astrid thought sadly. She clung to the final, few precious minutes in the knowledge that she was being loved and esteemed by her favourite son. After she had broken the news, things between them would be different for ever.
‘I just hoped you meant you’d me
t someone,’ she said wistfully.
‘Oh, I have met someone,’ Max said happily.
‘What did you just say?’ she demanded, and Max repeated himself.
‘Someone?’ Astrid yelped. ‘You’re not teasing me? Not the cow? A real person?’
He was laughing. ‘No, not the cow. Yes, a person. A girl.’
Astrid’s hopes soared again. If this girl had a title of some sort, was someone with wealth and connections that Engelbert would consider worthy . . . Her fingers crossed round the receiver.
‘She’s an archaeologist,’ Max was saying.
Astrid’s ears buzzed. The line from Sedona was a bit crackly, but had he really said aristocrat? ‘A what?’ she croaked.
‘Archaeologist,’ he repeated cheerfully.
An archaeologist? Astrid came to earth with a bump.
Archaeologist. There were some of those in the principality at the moment; she had passed them several times en route to official engagements. They spent their time up to their knees in dirt. Most of the men had beards, and the women were very plain, apart from one who hung around at the edge in a leopardskin bikini and pink wellingtons. It seemed unlikely that an archaeologist would fit the crown princess template.
‘Have you,’ she began cautiously, ‘have you, er, told this archaeologist who you are, darling?’
‘That I’m a prince, you mean?’ Max lowered his voice and glanced round. ‘Course not.’
‘Why of course not?’ his mother pursued patiently.
‘Well, no one here knows who I am,’ Max told her, making double sure Tamsin was out of earshot. ‘Apart from Stonker, that is.’ A slight impatience, Astrid noticed, had crept into his happy tone. ‘I don’t want them to. I want people to behave normally around me. Because it’s not as if I am anyone, in the sense that I’m more important or anything.’
Astrid suppressed a sigh. Max’s egalitarian streak was another reason why he had always been on a collision course with his father. She tried to look on the bright side; if this girl was unaware, at least she could not be interested in Max for the wrong reasons.
‘But you must have told her something,’ she pressed.
‘I told her that Dad ran a family firm and worked in tourism,’ Max said shortly. He had been rather pleased with this neat précis. It wasn’t a lie, and it didn’t offend anyone. ‘Also that the rest of my family lived abroad.’
‘I see,’ was all Astrid could think of to say.
‘Hey, Mum, you OK?’
‘Yes, of course,’ the Queen said hurriedly.
‘You sound a bit funny, that’s all. Look, were you ringing for a reason? Was there something you wanted to tell me?’
‘Oh . . . nothing, darling,’ Astrid said. ‘Nothing important.’
Chapter 17
Florrie’s world was even grander than Alexa had anticipated. The flat in Belgravia was huge. Vast and luxurious, with oversized windows whose thick lined curtains were big enough to have fitted a stage, it had lofty corniced ceilings, white fireplaces and fat four-seater sofas upholstered in yellow chintz.
The other thing Alexa had underestimated was the epic scale of Florrie’s laziness and fecklessness. But this, as it happened, was entirely to her own advantage. The fact that Florrie took it for granted that the rest of the world was at her service meant that Alexa had not only prime accommodation, but a full-time job as well.
Florrie happily allowed her to wait on her hand and foot, serve at her dinner parties, collect her dry-cleaning and even update her Facebook page. For Alexa, this was yet another opportunity; she could collect for her own page – now relaunched under her new name – the entire range of Florrie’s contacts, who, discovering she lived with Florrie, were usually happy to befriend her.
Alexa’s own Facebook page contained, besides wild fabrications about her background and schooling (she was careful not to be too specific, however), various images of her hunting, grouse-shooting, partying with royalty and frolicking on the yachts of the rich and titled.
But were the images really her? As they were almost always from the back, and taken in bad light, these pictures of the woman with long dark hair passed the only test that mattered; the very brief scrutiny that the attention spans of her target audience would allot them.
After he told her he had completely forgotten how to log in, Alexa had offered to update Ed’s page too. Ed was the most wonderful opportunity of all, the heaven-sent chance, the almost unbelievable bonus. He was Florrie’s inebriated viscount brother, offspring of Lord Whyske’s first marriage and, thanks to primogeniture, heir to three stately homes, walls full of Old Master paintings, various glamorous properties abroad and millions of pounds after death duties. And, more importantly still, he was single.
Desperate, therefore, to make herself useful, Alexa happily repositioned to their best advantage pictures of the viscount looking red-faced in a deerstalker, or red-faced in white tie waving a jeroboam of champagne. His status had not been changed for several months. ‘Bloody freezing after shooting,’ it said, which sounded odd in midsummer. Alexa altered it to: ‘Looking forward to my sister’s wedding bash; maybe I’m in the mood for love myself.’ It hadn’t taken her long to work out that Ed was the kind of person who had to be told to feel things. And feel things for her, in particular.
How she wished to change his status permanently to ‘married’. She had lost no time in laying plans to snare him. Being alone and intimate with him was the first step, and a simpler business than Alexa had expected, thanks to the poor communication between brother and sister. Whenever Ed rang up to make a date with Florrie, Alexa would invite him round at a time when she knew Florrie would be out and neglect to mention to her flatmate that the arrangement had been made at all.
It worked beautifully; round Ed would trot and up in the lift he would come. Waiting for him at the door would be a scantily clad Alexa; she would ask him in, sit him on the sofa and practically push her breasts into his face. Despite all this, so far she had not managed to tempt him into bed; Ed, a keen field sportsman, had no interests whatsoever beyond hunting, shooting and fishing.
Only once had Alexa’s hopes risen: greeting him in an unfastened flimsy negligee, having ostensibly arisen from the bath, she had been thrilled by the viscount’s gasp of pleasure. ‘That’s fantastic,’ Ed had panted. ‘I’ve been desperate to open my flies.’ It emerged, however, that his requirement was not sexual relief, but for Alexa to return to the bath, lie down, submerge her head and pretend to be a salmon, so he could test his fishing lures.
Nor was this Alexa’s only challenge.
Was Ed’s – and Florrie’s – mother suspicious of her? The terrifyingly well-groomed Lady Annabel had been chummy at first, vocally delighted that her daughter had a reliable companion staying with her, even applying to be Alexa’s friend on Facebook. But of late she had been positively icy, which Alexa had initially put down to preoccupation with the forthcoming wedding of Lady Beatrice.
But was this really the case? Or did Florrie’s mother suspect her? Was this the real reason she had wanted access to the Facebook account? Had her initial friendliness been flattery to deceive?
It took one very ambitious person to know another, and Alexa sensed that Lady Annabel was fiercely aspirational for her children. Ed, after all, might be slow-witted, plump and with a face only a mother could love, but he was the family standard-bearer and the future of the line. Florrie’s flatmate, with her unproven origins, was unlikely to be seen as a suitable partner.
And while in a mere matter of weeks Beatrice would be going up a cathedral aisle to marry a marquess, Alexa guessed that Lady Annabel was looking higher for her beautiful youngest child. There had been the recent near miss with royalty; Alexa could only imagine what Lady Annabel had made of that.
But Florrie’s mother was not, she guessed, the sort to give up easily. She was obviously a very determined woman, who had married into a line of determined people for whom morality and principle were secondary con
siderations at best. The marriage may have faltered, but there was no wavering in Lady Annabel’s sense of position, or her pride as mother of the sole son and heir to the family fortune.
The founding father of this family fortune, Sir Willoughby Whyske, had been interred, as befitted his position, in the family mausoleum at Willoughby Hall. On the front of his magnificent white marble tomb was a large carved plaque upon which he was described, somewhat euphemistically, as ‘owner of many large plantations in the West Indies’. Nor had Ebenezer Cleethorpe, who had married a Whyske in the nineteenth century and brought with him a vast industrial fortune, been noted for his humanity. His money had mostly been made before the Factory Act restricted the working hours of small children in his numerous Manchester cotton mills.
Of the founding ancestors, it seemed only Thomas Trevorigus had no blood on his hands. And yet he might have had something even more unpleasant on them. Trevorigus was a Cornish landowner who had in the early seventeenth century appeared at court in order to appeal for the monarch’s assistance with a legal difficulty. What the difficulty was, no one ever discovered; Thomas never saw his native county again.
His bluff West Country manner had apparently proved so immediate and lasting a hit with the King that James made him his Groom of the Privy Closet. This prestigious royal appointment involved attending to the monarch’s lavatorial requirements in every specific. The remainder of Trevorigus’s life was thus taken up with matters pertaining to the regal posterior, and so successful did he prove in the execution of his duties that on his deathbed, the monarch conferred the appointment on the Trevorigus family in perpetuity.
Thanks to developments in sanitary engineering, however, the position was no longer the hands-on responsibility it had been in the past, and now involved nothing more onerous than the annual duty of supplying the reigning monarch with twelve months’ worth of lavatory paper. Florrie had told Alexa how she could remember as a child seeing the liveried driver of the Harrods lorry making a detour to drive with slow ceremony past the Trevorigus-Whyske-Cleethorpes’ London residence so it could be saluted by the family before proceeding to the Palace. But due to the time-pressed nature of modern monarchy – that, at least, had been the official reason – this annual parade had some time ago been abandoned, and the supply was now ordered on the internet from Waitrose and delivered by Ocado.