The Royal Governess

by Wendy Holden

  The old king was mourned, grievously. The newspapers showed the carpets of flowers that sorrowing subjects had left at Windsor and outside the Sandringham gates. The lawns around St. George’s chapel were completely hidden with blooms.

  Pale-faced in her black coat, wearing her black velvet tam-o’-shanter, Lilibet went with her parents to the lying-in-state in Westminster Hall. Queues of every class, creed and color stretched back two miles late into the freezing January nights in order to file past the royal coffin.

  “But we came in through a special door at the back,” Lilibet said excitedly on her return. She spoke breathlessly of the silent crowds, the scent of the great piles of flowers, the huge, glowing candles. But what had really caught her imagination was her father and uncles standing guard in military uniform, one at each corner of the purple-draped catafalque. “Uncle David was there and he never moved at all. Not even an eyelid. And everyone was so quiet. As if Grandpapa were asleep!”

  The funeral was to be a festival of gloomy ceremonial, featuring a lengthy procession through the streets of London. The coffin would go to Paddington, and from there by train to the burial at Windsor. There would be massed bands, muffled drums, carriages galore and what crowned heads of Europe remained after the last war. The princesses were required to attend.

  Marion went to see the duchess. “I think they would find it very long and difficult, ma’am. And the crowds would be enormous.”

  Elizabeth of York was at her desk, gaily signing cards with black edges. She rattled her fountain pen between her teeth. “Oh, very well, Crawfie. Perhaps they could just wave him off at Paddington.”

  They drove to Paddington through a strangely silent city. Businesses were closed as a mark of respect. Neon signs had been extinguished. London was as gray as the sky above it. The streets were black with the crowds waiting to witness the king’s last journey.

  The great terminus was heaving; the atmosphere was charged. If they were spotted, anything could happen. They must go somewhere for shelter, but where? The lavatories were obviously out of the question, although would have the advantage of separating them from Cameron. But they could hardly spend an hour and a half there.

  “The waiting room,” was the royal detective’s less-than-brilliant suggestion. Marion did not dignify it with a response. Fighting through the crowd to get to it, wherever it was, would mean being trampled underfoot.

  “The buffet,” suggested greedy Margaret.

  Marion spotted a sign and felt a rush of relief. “The stationmaster’s office!”

  The stationmaster of the Great Western Railway snatched his cap from his pink bald head, sent for tea and gave up his desk and chair. Over the hour and a half wait, his entire supply of notepaper was sacrificed to games of noughts and crosses.

  At the large, plain solid desk under the Bakelite clock, Lilibet marked a firm “X” next to two previous ones. “You’ve won again!” exclaimed Margaret, outraged.

  Her sister grinned her monkey grin. But almost immediately her smile faded. Above the crowds outside, other sounds could be heard. Drums, a band playing, the clatter of horses’ hooves.

  Lilibet stood up. Her small face was very pale and, just for a second, seemed to quiver. But then she raised her chin, put her shoulders back in their ink-black jacket and met Marion’s eye steadily. “We must go, Crawfie. Grandpapa is here.”

  Pulled by sailors with ropes before and aft, the king on his gun carriage came slowly down the ramp. The diamonds in the Imperial State Crown reflected the lights of the terminus. Spread beneath it, over the coffin, were the lavish folds of the Royal Standard. Its scarlet and gold provided a splash of brilliant color amid the grays and blacks of the waiting crowd.

  Lilibet gasped. “There’s Uncle David! And Papa!”

  “Look at their funny hats!” giggled Margaret.

  “Who are all those men behind them?”

  “Kings, I think.”

  “The one in the white uniform looks very handsome. But the one in all those feathers looks silly!” Margaret giggled again. “Who’s the fat man in the shiny cap?”

  A shiver went down Marion’s spine. She knew from the newspapers that General Goering, Hitler’s right-hand man, had wanted to represent the regime at the funeral. He had been discouraged, but someone had come, all the same.

  “What’s that funny sign on his arm?” Margaret wanted to know.

  The band played on with muffled drums. Above the station’s glass canopy, the daylight was fading. The last rays caught the crown on top of the coffin, which gave a final, brilliant glitter. As the cortege transferred from ramp to platform, the carriage wheels jolted on the rails. The gun carriage jerked, the coffin and crown with it. The diamond cross detached and clattered to the floor.

  “Christ,” the new king exclaimed impatiently. “What’s going to happen next?”

  * * *

  • • •

  THE FUNERAL WAS over, but a thick pall of gloom still hung over the York family.

  The duchess laughed much less these days. A muscle ticked continuously in the duke’s fleshless jaw, and his stammering had worsened considerably. Margaret, whose high spirits alone remained undimmed, had dubbed his displays of sudden rage “Papa’s gnashes.”

  What lay behind the gnashes was not discussed. But that it was the new king was obvious. There was a tension in the air, as if everyone was waiting for something to happen.

  Something was certainly happening in Spain. The former governor of the Canary Islands, a short, strutty man called Franco, had led a rebellion against the republican government. Marion read the newspapers avidly. Some commentators believed the Iberian conflict was the front line in what would become a war against Fascism. No Pasarán—the republican slogan, They Shall Not Pass—was frequently mentioned.

  Marion longed to be at Rotherhithe, discussing it with Valentine and his friends. She could imagine the candlelit arguments, the lively discussions, lubricated by rough wine from jam jars while, outside, the brackish Thames lapped the house wall.

  It would be something just to attend a public meeting, where Spain would be discussed. She dared not, however. If it became known that she went to political gatherings, there could be trouble. She began to frequent Speakers’ Corner at the north end of Hyde Park, a place where anyone could make a speech on any subject, and did so, on weekend afternoons in particular. She would stand, eagerly drinking in what was said, envying the orators their freedom of expression. Hers was beginning to feel rather crushed and compromised.

  The king, however, was all the Piccadilly household seemed concerned about. Devoid of explanation, but sensing something afoot, people had started listening at doors. It became normal to cross the Piccadilly hall and see a servant spring back from a keyhole. She had not intended to stoop like this herself. Until, that was, she had been passing the drawing room where the duchess was taking tea with the Archbishop of Canterbury.

  “You’ve heard about the ministerial boxes?” The high, breathy voice came floating out the door.

  Marion stopped and slowly retraced her steps. The ministerial boxes were sent from government departments to the king. They were covered in black leather, stamped with the crown and royal initials, and contained confidential state papers to be read and signed.

  “Some of the papers are sent back covered in drinks rings.”

  “Good heavens,” said the archbishop.

  “But at least it shows he reads those.” There was an agitated rattle of a cup in a saucer. “Others are sent back weeks late with no initials. He obviously hasn’t so much as glanced at them.”

  “How dreadful.”

  “Mr. Baldwin’s started to take out the sensitive things because apparently my brother-in-law leaves Cabinet documents lying about the Fort. In full view of that woman and her questionable friends.”

  “That sounds rather a security ris
k.”

  “Indeed it is, Archbishop. You know the Foreign Office are watching her? Bertie’s terribly worried.” Marion had never heard her employer sound like this before. Distressed, serious, close to tears, even. “David won’t tell him anything. Bertie’s not in his confidence at all. He has no idea what’s happening.”

  “Well, thankfully the British people have even less. The press blackout is holding.”

  Press blackout? Marion frowned. Was this why there was never a reference to Mrs. Simpson in the newspapers?

  “Yes, Lord Rothermere and Lord Beaverbrook are keeping their word. For the moment.”

  Marion pressed her back against the wall and looked up at the chandeliered ceiling. Press censorship was undemocratic. It was what they did in the Fascist countries Valentine’s friends were so concerned about. She should be outraged, she knew. But somehow it was different when you were on the other side, the side that knew. The chandelier above her glittered and tinkled. She felt a dark excitement. This was what it felt like to be at the center of things.

  The duchess was speaking again. “But there were pictures in the American press of that wretched Nahlin cruise. They’re calling it the greatest story since the Resurrection.”

  “Outrageous!” gasped the archbishop, as well he might.

  “Thought you’d appreciate that.” The old impish humor gleamed through for a second. “She’s getting divorced now, you know,” the duchess added, more gloomily. “If she gets the decree absolute, David could marry her before the coronation in May.”

  “Surely he won’t do that!”

  “Brandy, Archbishop?”

  “Yes please.”

  Amid a clinking of cut glass, the duchess went on. “Bertie’s been told that it could end in abdication.”

  “Abdication?” spluttered her interlocutor.

  Abdication? The hallway seemed to spin around Marion.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Things were worsening in Spain. The radio news, every night, related the melodious, unfamiliar names of towns falling to the right-wing rebel forces. Young British men in their droves were joining the International Brigades, the Communist-organized forces supporting the republic. It was easy to imagine Valentine joining them too, especially after spotting, in one newspaper, a “Special Dispatch from the Front Line” written by Esmond Romilly.

  Marion read it with shaking hands. It described a violent battle outside Madrid. Had Valentine been there? He probably didn’t know one end of a rifle from the other. He’d been a pacifist at school. But it seemed that the brigades were made up of idealists and amateurs: shopkeepers, university lecturers, waiters. What chance did they have against Franco’s professional soldiers?

  Meanwhile, at Piccadilly, Edward VIII continued to be the only topic. A stream of statesmen, legislators and experts now daily arrived at the house to see the Duke of York. From the circular gallery at the top of the residence, Marion observed a succession of important-looking people cross the hall below and disappear into the drawing room.

  Prime Minister Stanley Baldwin, harassed and clutching his trademark pipe. In glamorous, loping, unhurried contrast, the pin-striped Foreign Secretary Anthony Eden. Queen Mary’s distinctive toque was another that came and went, and Marion had even seen Alan Lascelles once or twice, stalking across the hall and quite unaware of her watching from above.

  As the tension mounted, she felt relieved she had not left royal service after all. In these strained circumstances, distracting the girls was all-important. They swam, they shopped, they visited museums, to which they rode on buses. At weekends, at the Little House, they cleaned intensely. Even Margaret, who hated housework.

  They were working on the crockery from the miniature oak dresser when there came the sound of a large automobile passing. Lilibet paused, up to the elbows in soapsuds. “What’s that?”

  “It’s Uncle David!” yelled Margaret, who stood at the window, arms dripping. They ran to join her. The car shot through the Royal Lodge gates and made a complete, sharp swing around the circular driveway. A spray of gravel scattered like gunfire across the stone steps.

  “He’s got someone with him!” Margaret gasped. “A lady!”

  Marion frowned at Lilibet before she could say anything. Thanks in no small part to her efforts, the smallest princess had no idea about the existence of Mrs. Simpson. On her own behalf she felt a tremor of disquiet. Would Wallis remember their meeting in the driveway of the Fort? It might be awkward if so.

  But it was years ago now. Surely not. And there was, anyway, an outside chance that the woman in the car was someone other than Mrs. Simpson.

  They hurried to the Lodge to find the duke and duchess, in their gardening clothes, standing by the car. A woman in white-rimmed sunglasses sat in the passenger seat. From a white headscarf of some floaty material peeped a front of glossy, center-parted black hair. Her face was pale, the only color her lipstick: bloodred.

  Marion felt a swell of dread.

  “We’ve just driven over from the Fort!” King Edward, resplendent in checked tweed and goggles, sat with his gloved hands on the polished steering wheel. His gold hair glinted in the sun and he was grinning through the clamped teeth holding his cigarette in place. “Thought you’d like to see my American station wagon!” he called to his brother.

  “But not his American woman,” the duchess muttered darkly into her husband’s boiler-suited shoulder. She looked uncomfortably aware of the contrast with the immaculate newcomer presented by her scruffy gumboots and string-tied coat.

  “Who is it, Mummy?” Margaret was pulling on her mother’s fingers. The duchess affected to ignore her.

  “Come and try it out, Bertie!” the king invited. He seemed full of rakish bonhomie.

  The duke looked doubtfully at his wife, then longingly back at the gleaming car. The magnificent cream roadster was long and roofless, with running boards, shining spokes, big glass-fronted headlamps, ribbed leather seats and glittering chrome fittings. Margaret was dancing excitedly round it. “Poop poop!” she was shouting, pointing at the big brass horn. “Poop poop!”

  They had recently read The Wind in the Willows.

  “You can honk it if you like.” His Majesty demonstrated the device’s mighty blast.

  Mrs. Simpson laughed as Margaret squeezed the great black rubber bulb and squealed with delight at the noise it made. The duke and duchess looked silently on, Lilibet obedient at their side.

  “Come and try it out, Bertie!” urged his brother again, gaily.

  The duchess’s plump hand pressed into her husband’s blue-boiler-suited back. “Go on,” she hissed. “Get it over with. I’ll show her round the garden.”

  Mrs. Simpson now rose gracefully from the passenger seat. Her clinging dark jersey suit, trimmed with white in Chanel’s signature style, perfectly displayed her flat stomach and nonexistent hips. A great jewel-studded cuff flashed in the sun.

  The duke climbed in the front where Mrs. Simpson had sat. They drove off in a spin of wheels and a splatter of gravel.

  Wallis walked confidently toward the duchess, high heels crunching through the gravel, red lips stretched in a broad, friendly smile.

  “A walk in the woods before tea, Crawfie?” the duchess murmured over her shoulder.

  “But who is it?” Margaret demanded loudly as Marion grasped her hand and pulled her away.

  She glared accusingly at her sister, whose air of superior knowledge was unmistakable. “Lilibet knows! Don’t you? Why can she know and not me? It’s not fair!”

  Later, they returned for tea. They entered the mint-green-paneled hall and crossed to the door of the drawing room. The servants gathered around it scattered guiltily.

  The garden tour and the car ride were evidently over. The duke, duchess and their visitors sat in a group round the central fireplace. As Marion and her charges paused in the doorway, the
conversation floated over to them. Mrs. Simpson, dark and at ease in one of the padded armchairs, was happily giving the duchess her opinion of the garden.

  “It’s pretty. But I wonder if it could be improved by moving some trees. And taking away part of that hill, maybe?”

  The duchess stuffed her cake into her mouth, apparently to stop herself from saying anything. Her eyes were blazing. Under her seat, her foot waggled furiously. She had shed the gumboots for a pair of heels, but an unraveled air hung about her still.

  The king sat next to Wallis, his blue eyes adoring. “Isn’t she wonderful? Her eye for design is absolutely unparalleled. You should see her flat.”

  “I’d love to,” said the duchess dryly.

  Wallis flashed her a dazzling red beam. “Drop by anytime for one of our potluck suppers!”

  The duchess began to cough.

  “They’re quite wonderful,” the king said. “Wallis does all her own shopping!” He spoke, Marion thought, as if this were a rare and amazing feat—which to him it possibly was.

  The duchess, red-faced and now almost choking, groped for a glass of water.

  “I ask for trout all the same size,” Mrs. Simpson went on. “And if the butcher doesn’t cut the steak the way I want, I get out my cookbook and show him the diagram!”

  The king’s eyes were sparkling. “Isn’t she wonderful?”

  “Astonishing,” said the now-recovered duchess, which was of course not at all the same thing.

  Edward continued to gaze at his companion. As in the Abbey, Marion had the powerful impression of complete and utter devotion. “Wallis is just the most extraordinary person I’ve ever met. The only woman who’s ever been interested in my job.”