The Royal Governess

by Wendy Holden

  Understanding passed through Marion like a sword blade. So sharp was it that it made her gasp. She was being dismissed, just like that. It made sense, of course. The palace would be full of staff to look after the little girls.

  All the same, it was rather sudden. She had expected more . . . what was the word? Gratitude?

  She gathered herself. This was what she had wanted. On and off, anyway. It was probably a good thing. It was not too late to start life behind the glass wall. She would go home, look after her mother.

  “Yes, ma’am.” Her throat felt hard and blocked. “And may I wish you the very best of luck.”

  The queen sat bolt upright, her voice high and shrill. “You surely are not saying that you are going to leave us?”

  Marion almost wept with relief. So they still wanted her! Then she thought of her mother. The life outside. She hesitated.

  The blue stare drilled into hers. “Because, as you must surely see, Crawfie, that would not be at all convenient just now.” The queen’s voice became soft, persuasive. “We need you. Margaret and Lilibet need you.”

  That did it. She was needed by the king and queen. And the heir to the throne. The thought blazed in her mind, brilliant, shining, wildly flattering. Her mother would understand. And life outside could wait. “Yes, Your Majesty,” she heard herself saying.

  “Oh, and Crawfie,” came the voice from the bed. “Tell the girls, would you?”

  Marion gasped. “Tell them? That you are king and queen?”

  She was used to being a parent substitute, of course. But surely news this tremendous should not come from a governess. Informing two small children that their mother and father now headed the world’s most famous royal dynasty?

  The queen blinked wide blue eyes at her. “Is that a problem, Crawfie?”

  “Of course not, ma’am. Your Majesty.”

  Marion curtseyed and walked to the door. With her shock now mixed a sense of awe. The other people who needed her, the other plans that she might have had, faded into the background as a glorious sense of being part of history came to the fore. Up until now, she had only been in the wings. But now she had a walk-on part in the greatest show on earth.

  Later, Marion took the girls into the boudoir and closed the door. Excitement plunged and reared within her. She had been given a great responsibility. The girls, especially Lilibet, would always remember this moment. She would be framed in it forever and was determined to play her part well. She had thought carefully about what to say.

  The girls stood before her in their matching jerseys and kilts. They looked vaguely indignant. “But we’ve already done our lessons,” Margaret pointed out.

  “This isn’t about lessons,” Marion said gently. “This is about moving.” She had decided to approach it from that angle.

  Margaret’s violet eyes widened. “Moving? What sort of moving?”

  “Well, house.”

  Margaret frowned. “I don’t want to leave our nice house!”

  “Not even if it’s for an even nicer one? A bigger one?”

  The littlest princess brightened. “Oh, a bigger one. That’s all right, then.”

  Marion glanced at Lilibet. She had said nothing so far and her expression was hard to read. Her ability to conceal her feelings had become more marked of late. Margaret, on the other hand, wore her heart on her sleeve and her thoughts on her face.

  “You’re going to change your names,” Marion went on. “You won’t be Princess Elizabeth and Princess Margaret of York from now on.”

  Margaret gasped. “We won’t be princesses anymore?”

  “Not of York.” Marion took a deep breath. This was not going as planned. She had meant to handle it sensitively, but the littlest girl was clearly devastated. The violet eyes were brimming with tears.

  “But I’ve only just learned to write ‘York’!” Margaret howled.

  She was going to have to come straight out with it. All her careful phrasing would have to be abandoned. “You are moving to Buckingham Palace,” Marion blurted.

  Finally, Lilibet reacted. “What?” she said sharply. “You mean forever?”

  “Yes. You are the daughters of the king and queen of England now.”

  Margaret’s brimming eyes immediately blazed with joy. “Papa is the king! I’m the king’s daughter!” She began to caper around the gilded room. “Hooray!”

  Lilibet remained still, her impression inscrutable. She was processing the news in her own way, Marion guessed. Perhaps some of its possible consequences were occurring to her.

  Margaret now stopped capering and turned to her sister, her round face full of awe. “Does that mean you’ll be queen next, Lilibet?”

  “Yes,” Lilibet said, matter-of-factly. “It does.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  But you’re writing the wrong name, Papa,” pointed out Margaret. “Your name is Albert, not George.”

  They were with their father in his study. Marion had taken the girls to say good night and found the king—as she must now think of him—sitting solemnly at his desk. He had been practicing his new signature on a sheet of writing paper.

  “My n-name is still Albert in private. But G-G-George in public.”

  “King George,” Lilibet said. “Like Grandpapa.”

  “Precisely.”

  And as if normal service had now been resumed after an unfortunate aberration. The ex-king had not been mentioned by anyone.

  Abovestairs, that was. Belowstairs, gossip bubbled and seethed. The abdication scene at Fort Belvedere sounded extraordinary. “There’s no ink in the damn pot!” Edward VIII had exclaimed, waving the royal quill in the air over the fateful document. Someone had handed him a fountain pen.

  The ex-king would soon be leaving the country, sailing from Portsmouth in a Navy destroyer, ultimately to join his mistress, date of return unknown. Not one of his personal servants had agreed to go with him. He, who had abandoned the throne, was being abandoned in his turn.

  “What’s the matter, Lilibet?” the new king asked. She was staring at the desktop in awe.

  Lilibet pointed at an envelope. It was addressed to Her Majesty the Queen. “That’s Mummy now, isn’t it?”

  The former Edward VIII had, however, one public act still to perform. He was to broadcast a farewell speech to the nation, and this had precipitated the first crisis of the new reign.

  The director-general of the BBC, John Reith, had planned to introduce the ex-king as plain Mr. Edward Windsor. The new king had stepped in and, in his first monarchical act, had created his brother His Royal Highness the Duke of Windsor.

  “Would you like to come and listen to it with me, Miss Crawford?” Alah asked, gruffly. Such shows of friendliness, while rare, were not unknown these days.

  And so, later, with the girls safely in bed, Marion sat with the nanny in the nursery sitting room. They, who Edward VIII’s actions had affected more than most, would listen to his final address together.

  Alah sat by the big wood-encased wireless, in charge of the operation. Despite the cheerful firelight, the room seemed somber. The outside fog pressed against the windows; the books huddled in the cupboards. Even the teddies on the shelves had a serious air.

  There was a click as Alah joined the Piccadilly nursery to the rest of the Empire. Marion imagined the vast world beyond the royal walls. People were listening from India to Islington, from the wilds of Canada to villages in the Cotswolds. All would be wondering about the drama that she had been at the center of. The players in it were just photographs to them. But to her, they were people. She was part of their company. An important part. We need you. Lilibet and Margaret need you.

  She wondered if Alah felt the same. Nothing about her suggested it. She had taken up her knitting and was clicking her needles calmly. “So,” she said in her soft Hertfordshire voice. “Let’s see what he ha
s to say, then.”

  The voice from Windsor Castle came floating out of the radio. “A few hours ago, I discharged my last duty as king and emperor . . .”

  To her surprise, Marion felt tears prick at the corners of her eyes. It had all been an illusion, of course. He had never wanted the job and was almost entirely unsuited to it. But in other ways it was a tragedy and a loss. He had, as no one else in the family had, true star quality. He had been one of the most popular figures on earth. That it had come to this was unbelievable.

  The weary, wistful voice went on. “I have found it impossible to carry the heavy burden of responsibility without the help and support of the woman I love . . .”

  Marion thought of Wallis, listening in her villa in Cannes. Her worst fears had been realized.

  The ex-king was now talking about his brother. “He has one matchless blessing, enjoyed by so many of you and not bestowed on me, a happy home with his wife and children . . .”

  Alah’s needles were silent. She groped in her pocket for a handkerchief.

  “And now we all have a new king. I wish him and you, his people, happiness and prosperity with all my heart. God save the king.”

  Marion pictured the lonely figure leaving the ancient fortress and heading through the fog to Portsmouth and an uncertain future. Edward VIII’s reign had lasted less than a year—just 325 days.

  There was a creak, a rustle, a suppressed grunt. Alah was getting to her feet. Her eyes were glistening, Marion saw as she scrambled up too. The young woman and the old stood together. “God save the king,” they said.

  Next day, the king appeared midmorning, his pale, haggard face offset by the splendid blue, white and gold of his naval uniform.

  “I know that one—it’s Admiral of the Feet,” Margaret proclaimed proudly.

  “Fleet,” corrected Lilibet.

  A wintry smile briefly irradiated the new monarch’s wasted features. He turned to Marion. He was going to St. James’s Palace to meet the Accession Council. The queen was still in bed.

  “That means,” Marion told the girls after the door had closed, “that when Papa comes home for lunch, he will be properly king of England. You will have to curtsey to him.”

  Margaret looked astonished. “Curtsey to Papa?”

  “And Mummy too. I know, it does seem odd, doesn’t it? Let’s get some practice in, shall we, before he comes back. We can’t have you toppling over.”

  They spent the rest of the morning sweeping a series of ever-more-unlikely obeisances. Margaret’s were particularly theatrical and exaggerated. There was much laughter.

  The king arrived back to find two perfect curtseys awaiting him in the hallway. He stood stock-still, his face blank with shock.

  “What’s the matter, Papa?” Lilibet asked after a few uneasy moments. “Are we doing them wrong?”

  George VI shook his head. His throat was working; he was having far more than the usual difficulty speaking.

  Marion guessed that for him too, the moment of revelation had come. Here was the proof that the impossible had really happened. He really was the king of England.

  He stared at his daughters, the glassy blue eyes brimming, the thin hands twisting his gold-braided admiral’s hat. Then he stooped, drew them to him and hugged them hard.

  PART THREE

  Buckingham Palace

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  It was a mouse. It was sitting on the towel in her bathroom, staring boldly back. It didn’t seem scared in the least. On the contrary, it seemed to think it owned the place.

  Beyond the gilded public rooms, Buckingham Palace was riddled with vermin and generally falling apart. That very morning, the curtains in her room had collapsed. The entire edifice—pelmet, curtains and heavy brass pole—had smashed to the floor only inches from where she stood.

  And it was cold, so cold. The fire in the small fireplace did nothing to address the bone-piercing chill. The wind had moaned in the chimney like a thousand tragic ghosts. Given the parlous state of the monarchy, it was difficult not to see it all as a metaphor.

  The drama of the abdication might be over, but the extent of the damage to the monarchy was becoming clear. The new occupant of the throne was not popular. George VI’s stammer and shyness fueled rumors that he was frail and weak. According to malicious gossip, he would not even survive the coronation in May, let alone the burden of monarchy.

  But he had Debo’s support, at least. Marion had bumped into her near the palace, soon after moving in. She wore a fur coat against the freezing February chill. “How are you?” Marion had asked.

  Debo rolled her wide green eyes. “As well as can be expected. Considering all I have to put up with.”

  That morning’s front pages had been full of the fighting in Spain. Madrid, held by the government, was under heavy attack from Franco’s forces. Hundreds of international volunteers had been killed. Did Debo have any news?

  “Esmond’s back. He got dysentery. He works in advertising now.”

  “And Valentine?”

  “Don’t know, sorry.” An elegant eyebrow raised. “Didn’t realize you still cared. It was years ago, wasn’t it? You and him?”

  Marion looked down. She realized how she must look to this rich and beautiful child: old, worn, subordinate. Pitiable, really.

  Debo changed the subject. “You’ve heard about Unity? In Germany with the Führer. They have lunch every day—they’re like that.” Debo crossed her first and second fingers and held them up.

  “How horrible.”

  “It gets worse. My sister Diana has fallen in love with Oswald Mosley. She’s left her husband and he’s left his wife. Frankly,” Debo added, “my only hope now is your lot.”

  “My lot?”

  “The king and queen. They’re bringing back debutantes. I’ll be spotted by the dear old Duke of Right and live happily ever after in some vast pile in the country.” She looked at her watch. “Cripes, I’ll be late for the hairdresser.”

  Standing in her bathroom, Marion looked at the mouse. It looked back with wide, wicked black eyes. A Communist rodent, she had no doubt.

  She went outside. Her bathroom was across a wide corridor, floored with the inevitable lino. Something moved at the passage’s far end. She recognized the palace postman, an individual whose existence had amazed her at first. That the palace was actually a village, and its corridors effectively streets, had taken some getting used to. The vastness was beyond anything she had expected. Her visits before had not scratched the surface of the size of it.

  The postman ambled steadily toward her, whistling, a rasping, tuneless whistle. “There’s a mouse on my bath towel,” she told him.

  The postman was plump, with a round pink face. He put a finger to his lips and leaned conspiratorially forward. “Not so loud. Or they’ll all want one.”

  “Ha ha.” Marion folded her arms. “But I want to get rid of it.”

  “You’ll need to send for the vermin man. Does all the rats and mice. You’ll find him in the green book. Cheerio, dear.” With that, the postman went whistling off.

  She returned to her room and stepped over the shattered corpse of the collapsed curtains. The holes in the wall above gaped like wounds. On her plain desk was the volume the postman had recommended. It was an inch thick, stamped with the crown and entitled: Offices and Addresses of Their Majesties’ Households and Officers of State and Other Royal Households.

  On her first night in the palace, Marion had read it in disbelief. The rotting palace had more than four hundred staff, mostly with bizarre and arcane titles. There were Yeomen not only of Gold and Silver Pantries but Glass and China ones as well. There were a Hereditary Grand Falconer and a Raven Master, a Barge Master, a Keeper of the Swans, a Historiographer Royal and a Silver Stick in Waiting. There were Aides de Camp, First Flag and Principal Naval, and literally hundreds of Equerries, Ext
ra Equerries and Gentleman Ushers.

  Turning the pages, she had shaken her head. Was this extraordinary list romantic or ridiculous? She knew what she would have thought once. But now she was here and part of this household, it was becoming increasingly difficult to tell.

  There were other things to get used to as well, like the vast distances that getting to different parts of the building involved. From her bedroom in Piccadilly to the boudoir took two minutes. From her palace room to the schoolroom was ten.

  It was large, light and overlooked the garden. The first choice of schoolroom had been on the top floor, where the king himself had been schooled as a boy. But showing her the cramped, dark space with the bars over the windows, he had closed the door hurriedly. “No. That won’t do at all.”

  Lunch with the family was also a thing of the past. Now she ate with the Household. This was a more confusing journey even than to the schoolroom, down endless corridors and round corners that all looked the same. She had arrived late and flustered for her first few lunches. The Household Dining Room was as grand as a state dining room; a big table full of people with silver cutlery spreading like wings on either side of crested plates. There were flowers in silver vases, silver cruet sets, huge napkins. There were clusters of crystal glasses and footmen in red and gold braid. Servants to wait on servants.

  Not that the Household members were especially servant-like. The Ladies of the Bedchamber all had thick, shiny hair and rangy racehorse figures. The equerries had the sorts of noble features associated with ancient lineages and coats of arms. Marion had felt like the new girl at a very exclusive school. One she was not at all certain she was going to like.

  However, she had quickly gotten used to it, and now recognized most of the regulars. Her neighbor today was new, however. Dark and lean with chiseled features, he had a craggy brow and his hair was thick and black. She felt a leap of recognition. “Mr. Lascelles!”