The Royal Governess

by Wendy Holden

  He must have misinterpreted her musing silence for a critical one, because he suddenly added, “I had to do something after Mr. Adams got rid of me.”

  Her sympathy, despite everything, must have showed in her eyes because now he reached for her hand and squeezed it. “Stay with me? Just for tonight? I’ll go in the morning, I promise.” There was a smile in his voice. “Without taking a single picture.”

  She looked away. Outside the window, it had grown dark. She imagined the castle, lit up in the valley below. Dinner would have started now, drunken pipers and all. Lilibet would be in bed. If she stayed here, no one would miss her. She looked at the rug and the hearth, imagining a leaping fire, bright flames in the dark warming their naked limbs. Desire twisted in her belly.

  But then she remembered Mr. Adams, and something cold slithered down her spine. If she had been spared this time, it probably would not happen again. Any relationships from now on—in the unlikely event she felt like forming one—would have to be with insiders. No one else could be trusted.

  Something had switched within her; a realization. The world in general might be ambiguous, nuanced and contradictory, but not the royal world. That had no middle ground, no shades of gray. You were entirely in or entirely out. You had to choose.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Nineteen thirty-two ended, and 1933 got off to an inauspicious start. The unemployment figures continued to rise, and as austerity continued, the government refusing to reverse the benefit cuts introduced two years before, even the previously prosperous were now being pulled into poverty’s pitiless net. The situation abroad was no less concerning. In January, Adolf Hitler became chancellor of Germany.

  “He used to be a housepainter, apparently,” the duchess said dismissively. “He looks quite ridiculous, with that mustache.”

  Marion felt Hitler was far more sinister than laughable. Horrible things were happening in Germany. A huge fire at the Reichstag, the German Parliament, was instantly declared a Communist plot by the Führer, as Hitler called himself. The evidence was that a half-blind Dutch Communist with learning difficulties had been found nearby with a few household firelighters; experts, meanwhile, testified that the Reichstag blaze had been started with petrol and chemicals.

  Seeing the newspaper pictures of the bewildered young man, head hung in the dock in his prison clothes, Marion felt sick with pity. She had no doubt that it was a setup. She shuddered every time she passed Carlton House Terrace, where a huge red, white and black swastika hung from the flagpole of the German Embassy.

  Operation Normal continued, Marion always glancing over her shoulder in case of following photographers. A twisted neck, as well as a bruised heart, was the legacy of her relationship with Tom.

  But Lilibet’s company, her capacity for simple happiness, was the perfect antidote to the complex miseries adults inflicted on one another. They went to visit the pelicans in St. James’s Park, the princess having no previous idea that these huge, exotic birds lived so close to her grandparents’ palace. They went to the new cinema in Victoria Station, which specialized in cartoons. It had an elegant modern facade in the style of an ocean liner, and Lilibet loved sitting in the small, cave-like interior with its curved roof and rows of seats. Her favorite spot was right in the center of the front row.

  The fact that the cartoons were preceded by newsreels had almost blown their cover at first. Marion had not anticipated the effect that seeing film of her relatives going about their official business would have on Lilibet. “Look!” she shouted as, before the Three Little Pigs began, images of Queen Mary launching an ocean liner flickered over the screen. “It’s—”

  But Marion had gently pressed a hand across her mouth. The crowd around tittered, assuming an ultra-patriotic child. No one tittered, however, when Queen Mary was followed by Joseph Goebbels addressing the youth of Berlin before a pile of burning books.

  “Why are they setting books on fire?” Lilibet’s whisper was puzzled.

  Marion sighed. There was no easy way of explaining this. “The Nazis are getting rid of the ones they don’t approve of. The ones that they don’t agree with, and that don’t agree with them.”

  “But, Crawfie, you always say that it’s important to consider other points of view.”

  “It is. But Hitler wants to control what people think.” It was a relief when the Silly Symphonies music started and the trio of porkers appeared on the screen.

  But whatever storm clouds were gathering abroad, life at Piccadilly and Royal Lodge continued unchanged. As a sparkling winter gave way to a beautiful spring and the evenings warmed and lengthened, Marion walked in the Great Park in the early evenings. The size of it, rolling away in every direction, gave her a sense of freedom, and the ancient, timeless feel of the landcape was reassuring. There was an unexpected wildness to it, and a great variety of flowers. Their colors were intense: campions both pink and white, deep blue cornflower, creamy yellow scabious, sprinkles of sky-colored speedwell, rich scarlet poppies.

  She liked in particular to go to the great silver lake, Virginia Water. There was an intriguing little fort at the other side. Its turrets poked over the treetops, romantic and chivalric. She would stand there, wondering who it belonged to.

  Tonight, adding to the medieval effect, a herd of deer had gathered under an oak tree. With their soft brown backs stippled with white, pale legs almost invisible in the brightness, they looked like creatures from a medieval illuminated manuscript. Marion looked from them to the cluster of towers above the treeline across the lake. She found that she was holding her breath, almost expecting a slim white arm to appear from the shining water, holding a jeweled sword.

  Whosoever pulls this sword from this stone is rightfully king of all England.

  It did look like the fortress of a fairy prince: small, decorative, its battlements and castellations heaped with merry abandon. Against the blue sky, a jolly flag rippled. It was now or never, Marion thought. She just had to find out who lived there.

  She reached the end of its drive and heard music, laughter and loud talking. The owners were having a party.

  She knew the tune, and started to hum. It seemed to invite her in, up the drive. The gardens were similar to Royal Lodge’s: rhododendrons, azaleas, cedars. A smooth green lawn was edged by a semicircle of battlements, to match the little castle. They had real little cannons in them, with tiny cannonballs neatly stacked alongside. The whole place was like a life-sized toy. All that was required for the full effect was a regiment of little redcoats.

  An arched door, painted white, was open in the center of the little fort. But the laughter and music were coming from round the back. She could hear shrieks now, and splashing. She could see a pale stone terrace and the edge of a blue swimming pool. The shining horn of a gramophone. Waiters with champagne bottles.

  “Can I help you?” The voice came from behind her. It was low, female and warmly American. Marion froze.

  Slowly, she turned. The woman behind her looked like someone from a black-and-white photograph, with large black circular sunglasses and intensely black hair that shone like lacquer. Her face was pale and smooth, like the inside of a shell. She wore a white blouse and black skirt with bold zigzag patterns. The only color was her lipstick: a loud, bright red.

  “Are you press?” she asked.

  “Press?” Marion was confused. In her yellow summer frock, did she look like a journalist? Surely they wore mackintoshes and carried notepads. Cameras.

  There was another burst of laughter from the pool. Perhaps the woman was just being careful. Some of her guests might be well-known.

  “I’m staying nearby,” Marion explained. “I was out for a walk and saw, well, this.” She waved an awkward hand at the castellated building. “I was interested. I’m sorry.”

  The woman seemed to relax at this. Her red lips stretched in a surprisingly warm smile. “So whaddya think? You
like it?”

  “It’s beautiful.”

  “I tell David he’s got turrets syndrome. All these towers.”

  Marion laughed. She wondered who David was. The owner of this place, presumably.

  “That’s better. You’re real pretty when you smile, honey.”

  The woman had very thin white arms, with broad jeweled bangles flashing on each wrist. More jewels flashed on her fingers. She was holding a bunch of mint.

  “For the juleps,” she explained. “Always get the mint myself. Damn butler never can find a decent leaf in the whole damn garden. You like cocktails?”

  “I’ve never had one.” Nor had she ever heard of juleps.

  “Never had a cocktail? Honey, where you from?”

  “Scotland.”

  A well-shaped eyebrow rose quizzically. “I mean where around here. You’re staying nearby, you say?”

  “I work at Royal Lodge,” Marion told her.

  This seemed to surprise the woman for some reason. “With the Yorks?”

  Marion nodded. “I’m Princess Elizabeth’s governess.”

  She braced herself for warm interest. Who wasn’t fascinated by the little princesses? But the woman just looked at her. “Well, honey,” she drawled, eventually, “looks like you just walked right into the enemy camp.” She flashed a final red-lipsticked smile and was gone, mint and all.

  Marion thought about the encounter all week, but mentioned it to no one, not even Ivy. The woman had been friendly and charming, but the words “enemy camp” were ominous. She was taking no chances. She kept it to herself.

  All the same, the next weekend, she decided to take Lilibet boating. There was every reason to do so; it was a skill the child had yet to master. And if she knew who lived at the little fort, and the sight of it prompted her to reveal it, then so much the better.

  Ringed by trees and banked by bulrushes, Virginia Water lay under a warm blue sky. It was all very quiet. Birds could be heard, and the drone of the bee. Otherwise just the wet-wood slap of oars in water and the occasional grunt of the child who pulled them.

  Lilibet had begged to row the moment she boarded. Having applied her usual concentration and application, she was soon cutting through the water with clean, swift strokes.

  Trailing a hand in the rippling lake, Marion kept her gaze on the treetops and the cluster of towers. But Lilibet, grappling with the rowlocks, kept her attention on the workings of the boat.

  Time drifted by, slow like the floating leaves. Insects danced in the shafts of thick light. Across the silver water surface, the shadows lengthened. They would have to go soon.

  “What’s that, Lilibet?” Marion pointed to the miniature turrets.

  Lilibet twisted round, glanced briefly then twisted back again. “Oh, that’s the Fort.”

  Marion smiled. “I can see it’s a fort,” she said gently. “But whose fort?”

  “Uncle David’s.”

  “I didn’t know you had an Uncle David.”

  Lilibet stared. “Of course you do. Everyone does.”

  Marion shook her head.

  “But you must!” the child insisted. “He’s going to be the next king!”

  “Isn’t his name Edward?”

  “Yes. Edward Albert Christian George Andrew Patrick David.” Lilibet rattled off the names matter-of-factly. “But everybody in our family calls him David.” The princess looked at Marion. “You’ll probably just call him Your Royal Highness, though,” she suggested helpfully.

  Marion did not reply. Her mind was spinning. I tell David he’s got turrets syndrome. An American accent. A witty sophistication. Had it been, could it be, the famous Mrs. Simpson?

  “Duck down, Crawfie!” yelled Lilibet. Seconds later, they were clasped in the tangled embrace of a weeping willow.

  Marion was glad of the leaves concealing her face. Her thoughts whirled. Was she right? The woman had been nothing like the vulgar schemer, the predatory bigamist of Ivy’s stories. Perhaps she was someone else.

  Once they were out on the lake again, Marion returned to the subject. “Don’t you ever visit him?”

  “Who?”

  “Uncle David.”

  “No.”

  Something in the child’s tone made Marion hesitate. She sensed she was on the verge of something. Something connected to the woman she had met. Something that perhaps she should not know. Yet she could not resist. “Why not?”

  Lilibet pulled back on her oars. “Because of the bad lady.”

  Marion’s insides jumped. “The bad lady?”

  “Mrs. Simpson.” Lilibet carefully replaced an oar in the rowlocks.

  Marion swallowed. So there it was. Now she knew. She felt excited, but also wished that she had not asked the question. Mrs. Simpson was not a subject for a seven-year-old.

  But something in the child seemed released. After casting a cautious eye round the lake’s deserted shores, Lilibet leaned eagerly forward. “It’s a secret,” she hissed, her blue eyes huge. “I’m not supposed to know about her but I do. I’ve heard them talking. The bad lady is an evil witch, but Uncle David doesn’t think so.”

  Marion looked into the water. She agreed with Uncle David, but now was not the time to say so. She glanced about for a change of subject. “Look at those moorhens. Lilibet!”

  The boat was rocking wildly. “The oars, Lilibet!” Marion cried, as both threatened to slip into the water. She leaned forward and grabbed them just in time.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Lilibet did not mention Mrs. Simpson again. Marion listened and watched carefully, but there was nothing. Gradually, she forgot her concerns. There were lessons to plan—Lilibet was starting French now—and outings. At the zoo, Lilibet admired the elephant, thrilled to the tigers and clapped her hands at the chimps’ tea party. She seemed perfectly happy.

  Mrs. Simpson, too, was having fun, it seemed. Ivy had heard that she had been back at Fort Belvedere and danced all night with the Prince of Wales in a Mayfair club.

  “But what about the two other mistresses?” Marion asked.

  “Lady Furness and Mrs. Dudley Ward? They’re still around,” said the all-knowing Ivy.

  “So it can’t be that serious,” Marion concluded.

  Other things were, though. At Oxford, the Union debating society had sensationally supported the motion that “This House Would Not Fight for King and Country.” Marion read the story, chewing her lip. If the Oxford Union, the university institution regarded as the epitome of the Establishment, was taking an anti-monarchical, anti-patriotic stance, what did it mean for everyone else? What did it mean for the royal family? For Lilibet?

  * * *

  • • •

  SUMMER BECAME AUTUMN, and they returned to Balmoral. That the Prince of Wales was present seemed to imply that the royal engine was still running as usual. The king was certainly running as usual: as irascible as ever with his son. “STOP THAT INFERNAL ROW!” he yelled out of the window onto the terrace where the prince, in the rain, was playing the bagpipes.

  “I pray to God,” Marion overheard him saying to Canon Dalton, in an uncharacteristic whisper, “that David doesn’t have children and nothing stands between Bertie and Lilibet and the throne.”

  Marion, raising a spoonful of Brown Windsor soup to her lips, lowered it again, shocked. Lilibet and the throne! The idea was astonishing, frightening, horrible. But, thankfully, it was only the expression of an old man’s jealousy of his charismatic son. Later, though, thinking it over in bed, an echo of a distant conversation came back to her. The Prince of Wales to his sister-in-law: You know, I’ve just had the darndest idea. You and Bertie should be king and queen.

  And the duchess’s reply: Not even in jest.

  No, thought Marion. Not even in jest.

  * * *

  • • •

 
SHE SPENT CHRISTMAS with her mother in Edinburgh. She had not been home for many months, and the house, never large but always adequate, now seemed quite unbelievably small and dark. Her elbows seemed to bang against the passage walls. She had gotten used to huge spaces, she realized. To high ceilings and long, light windows. To breakfast trays being deposited at her door, lavish with butter and milk from the royal farms, each silver knife and monogrammed plate shining and placed just so.

  A line had been crossed. She had always thought she could come back, resume things, live as before. Now she realized she could not.

  Her mother was touchingly glad to see her, but full of questions Marion now dared not answer. Discretion was everything. Parrying the good-natured queries was difficult; her mother was puzzled, she could see. It made a division between them, invisible but there, like a glass wall.

  She tried to divert the flow with queries of her own. “How’s Annie?”

  As her mother sighed, she froze. “They went away,” Mrs. Crawford said.

  “Away?” Marion blinked. “Away where?”

  “Moved on. I don’t know.”

  Marion sank down onto a hard chair. She felt winded, as if someone had punched her. Slum people were itinerant, she knew. To be poor meant to be constantly on the move. She had meant to do so much for Annie, but she had so far done little, and now she could do nothing at all. Guilt broke over her in a huge wave, but in its slipstream, unacknowledged, came a ripple of what might have been relief.

  Nor was that her mother’s only piece of news. “Peter’s home,” she said.

  Marion felt a little spike of embarrassment—but her main emotion was joy. It would be a relief to see someone from the old days, especially kind, reliable, clever Peter.

  They met at Jenners again. Of the awkwardness of their last meeting there was no hint. “You look beautiful, Marion.” His pale eyes were admiring. “London’s agreeing with you, clearly.”