by Rhys Bowen
Let me say that I am not in the habit of visiting the palace from choice. One does not drop in for afternoon tea and a chat, even if they are relatives. I had been summoned, two days after my arrival in London. My esteemed relative the queen possessed one of the best underground intelligence networks in the country. I didn’t think that Fig would have contacted her, but she had found out somehow. A letter had arrived, on palace writing paper, from Her Majesty’s private secretary, Sir Giles Ponsonby-Smythe, indicating that Her Majesty would be delighted if I would take tea with her. Which was why I was slinking up the Buckingham Palace Road on a Friday afternoon. One does not refuse HM.
Of course I was more than a little curious to know why I was being summoned. In fact it crossed my mind that HM might sit me down to tea and then produce Prince Siegfried and a convenient Archbishop of Canterbury to perform the wedding ceremony on the spot. In truth I felt as Anne Boleyn must have done when Henry VIII asked her to drop in for a flagon of ale, and not to wear anything with a high neckline.
I didn’t remember seeing my exalted relatives since my presentation as a debutante—an occasion I won’t forget in a hurry, and I’m sure they haven’t either. I am one of those people whose limbs don’t always obey them in times of crisis. My gown with its long train, not to mention three ridiculously tall ostrich feathers bobbing in a hair ornament, was a recipe for disaster. I had entered the throne room on cue, heard the booming announcement—“Lady Victoria Georgiana Charlotte Eugenie of Glen Garry and Rannoch!”—and executed the perfect curtsy, as practiced a million times at deb school. However, when I tried to stand up, it seems that my high heel had somehow caught itself in the train. I tried to move, but was tethered by my own heel spike. I tugged, gracefully, conscious of those royal eyes on me. Nothing happened. I felt perspiration trickling down my bare back. (Yes, I know ladies don’t sweat, but something was trickling down my back.) I tugged harder. The heel came free and I was catapulted farther into the throne room as if I had been shot from a cannon at the very moment I should have been backing out of the royal presence. Even Her Majesty had looked mildly astonished, but nothing was said, on the occasion or subsequently. I wondered if it would come up over crumpets.
I made a successful entry along a narrow hallway that skirted the palace kitchens, and was making my way along the lower corridor, past various household offices, startling maids and footmen along the way, until in turn I was startled by a horrified voice exclaiming, “You, girl. Where do you think you are going?”
I turned to see an austere old gentleman bearing down on me.
“I don’t know you,” he said accusingly.
“I am Lady Georgiana, His Majesty’s cousin,” I said. “I am here to take tea with Her Majesty. I am expected.”
There are some advantages to being a minor royal. The old man turned beetroot red.
“My lady, I do apologize. I can’t think why I wasn’t informed of your arrival. Her Majesty is awaiting you in the yellow sitting room. This way, please.”
He led me up a side staircase to the piano nobile, which has nothing to do with the musical instrument but is the floor on which most of the royal life of the palace takes place. The yellow sitting room is in the southeast corner, with windows looking down the Mall to Admiralty Arch and also out over the start of Buckingham Palace Road. A great vantage point, in fact. As a room, however, it has never appealed to me. It is furnished largely with objects brought from the Royal Pavilion at Brighton, collected by King George IV at a time when chinoiserie was the height of fashion. Lots of dragons, chrysanthemums, and bright painted porcelain. I found it a little too flowery and garish for my taste.
“Lady Georgiana, ma’am,” my stuffy friend said in a low voice.
Her Majesty wasn’t at the table in the window, but standing, peering into one of the glass cases that adorned the walls. She looked up briefly as I came in.
“Ah, Georgiana. I didn’t see you arrive. Did you take a cab?”
“I walked, ma’am.” I should explain that royals are always ma’ams and sirs, even to their closest relatives. I went over to plant the dutiful kiss on the cheek, plus execute a curtsy. The order of these two actions requires the most delicate timing. In spite of a lifetime of practice I always managed to bump my nose on the royal cheek as I stood up from the curtsy.
Her Majesty straightened up. “Thank you, Soames. Tea in fifteen minutes.”
The elderly man backed out, closing the double doors. Her Majesty had gone back to peering into the glass case. “Tell me, Georgiana,” she said, “am I right in thinking that your late father had a fine collection of Ming? I’m sure I remember discussing it with him.”
“He collected lots of things, ma’am, but I’m afraid I wouldn’t know one pot from another.”
“That’s too bad. You must come to the palace more often and let me educate you. One finds such solace in collecting beautiful objects.”
I didn’t point out that one needs money to collect beautiful objects and I was currently a pauper.
The queen still didn’t look up from the glass case. “Your brother, the current duke, I suppose has little interest in objets d’art and antiques?” she asked casually. “He was raised to be like his grandfather—huntin’, shootin’, fishin’—the typical country squire.”
“That’s certainly true, ma’am.”
“So it’s possible that any number of Ming vases might still be lying around Castle Rannoch—unappreciated?”
There was the slightest of quivers in her voice and I suddenly understood where this conversation was going. She wanted to get her hands on items she lacked in her own collection. She confirmed this by saying, oh so casually, “I wondered if, next time you were home, you could take a look around. There is a smaller vase just like this one that would fit so well in this display. And if your brother isn’t really interested . . .”
You want me to pinch it for you, I was dying to say. Her Majesty had an absolute passion for antiques and if she had not been Queen of England and Empress of India, she might have been one of the most skillful hagglers in the history of the antiques trade. Of course she possessed a trump card nobody else held. If she expressed admiration for any object, protocol demanded that it be presented to her. Most noble families hid the good stuff when a royal visit was imminent.
“I won’t be going back to Castle Rannoch often anymore, ma’am,” I said tactfully. “Now that the house has passed to Hamish and he is married, it isn’t really my home.”
“A great pity,” she said. “But surely you’ll pay a visit when you come to stay with us at Balmoral this summer. You will be coming to Balmoral, I take it?”
“Thank you, ma’am. I’ll be delighted.”
How could one refuse? When one was invited to Balmoral, one went. And the dreaded invitation fell on one or another of us relations every summer. Every summer we tried to come up with suitable excuses as to why we couldn’t be there. These ranged from yachting on the Med to making a visit to the colonies. It is rumored that one female relative actually managed to have a baby during the Balmoral season each year, although I think this was being a little excessive. It really wasn’t that bad for one brought up at Castle Rannoch. The tartan wallpaper, tartan carpets, the bagpipes at dawn, and the chill wind blasting in through open windows only reminded me of home. Others found it hard to endure, however.
“Then we may go over to Glenrannoch together. Such a pretty drive, I always think.” She ushered me away from the glass cases and over to a small tea table. I must remind myself to write to Binky to warn him to lock up the best china and silver this summer I decided. “In fact, I rather suspect that my son David might have it in mind to persuade your brother to invite a certain woman to stay at Castle Rannoch this summer. David knows perfectly well that she would not be welcome at Balmoral, and Castle Rannoch is conveniently close by.” She touched my arm as I pulled out a chair for her to sit down. “And I use the word ‘woman’ advisedly, because she certainly is no lady,” sh
e whispered. “An American adventuress, twice married already.” She sighed as she took a seat. “Why he can’t find someone suitable and settle down I simply can’t understand. He’s not getting younger and I would like to see him settled before he has to take the throne. Why can’t he marry someone like you, for example? You’d do very well.”
“I’d have no objection,” I said. “But I’m afraid he sees me as a little girl still. He likes sophisticated older women.”
“He likes tarts,” Her Majesty said coldly. She glanced up as the doors opened and an array of tea trays was carried in. “Ah, tarts,” she repeated, just in case her comment should have reached the ears of the servants.
One by one the dishes were placed on the table. Tiny finger sandwiches with cress poking out of them, cake stands dotted with miniature éclairs and strawberry tarts. It was enough to bring tears to the eyes of one who had been living under Fig’s austerity all winter and for the past two days on toast and baked beans. The tears were not of joy, however. I had been to enough royal functions in my life to know the protocol. The guest only eats what Her Majesty eats. And Her Majesty was not likely to take more than a slice or two of brown bread. I sighed, waited for her to take brown bread, then took a slice myself.
“I thought I might employ you as my spy,” she said, as tea was poured.
“This summer at Castle Rannoch, you mean?”
“I must find out the truth before that, Georgiana,” she said. “I only hear rumors. I want a firsthand account from somebody I can trust. I understand that David has persuaded Lord and Lady Mountjoy to give a house party and May ball and to include this woman and her husband—”
“Her husband?” I knew one should never interrupt the queen. It just slipped out.
She nodded with understanding. “Such behavior may well be considered acceptable in America. She is apparently still living with her husband. He, poor creature, is dragged around to provide respectability and to dispel rumors. Of course one can never dispel rumors. It has been all we can do to keep the press mute on the subject and if David becomes more brazen in his pursuit of her, then I don’t think we’ll be able to suppress the rumors much longer. I say his pursuit of her, but frankly I believe it to be the other way around. I suspect that this woman is relentlessly pursuing him. You know what he’s like, Georgiana. An innocent at heart, easily flattered, easily seduced.” She put down the slice of brown bread and leaned a little closer to me. “I need to know the truth, Georgiana. I need to know whether this is a mere flirtation for this woman, or whether she has serious designs on my son. My worst fear is that, like all Americans, she is fascinated with royalty and dreams of being Queen of England.”
“Surely not, ma’am. A divorced woman? That’s impossible.”
“Let us hope it is impossible. The only solution is for the king to go on living until David becomes too old to be desirable as a catch. But I fear my husband’s health is failing. Never the same after the Great War. The strain was too much for him.”
I nodded with sympathy. “You said you wanted me to be your spy?”
“I do indeed. The house party at the Mountjoys’ should give you ample opportunity to observe this woman and David together.”
“Unfortunately I haven’t been invited,” I said.
“But you came out with the Mountjoys’ daughter, didn’t you?”
“I did, ma’am.”
“There you are, then. I’ll let it be known that you are currently in London and would like to renew your acquaintanceship with the Mountjoy girl.” (She pronounced it “gell.”) “People don’t usually turn down my suggestions. And you need to be out in society if you’re ever going to find yourself a husband.” She looked up at me sharply. “So tell me, what are you planning to do with yourself in London?”
“I’ve only just arrived, ma’am. I haven’t yet decided what I’ll be doing.”
“That’s not good at all. With whom will you be staying?”
“At the moment I’m at Rannoch House,” I said.
The royal eyebrow went up. “Alone in the London house? Unchaperoned?”
“I am over twenty-one, ma’am. I have come out.”
She shook her head. “In my day a young woman was chaperoned until the day she was married. Otherwise a future husband could not be sure whether or not he was getting—umm—soiled goods, so to speak. No proposals on the horizon?”
“No proposals, ma’am.”
“Dear me. I wonder why.” She eyed me critically, as if I were one of her art objects. “You’re not unattractive and at least half your pedigree is impeccable. I can think of several young men who would be suitable. King Alexander of Yugoslavia has a son, hasn’t he? No, maybe that part of the world is a little too brutal and Slavic. What about the Greek royal family? That delightful little blond boy? But I’m afraid he’s too young, even for you. Of course, there’s always young Siegfried, one of the Hohenzollern-Sigmaringens of Romania. He’s a relative of mine. Good stock.”
Ah, yes, Siegfried. She couldn’t resist bringing him into the conversation. I had to squash this idea once and for all.
“I’ve met Prince Siegfried several times, ma’am. He didn’t seem much interested in me.”
She sighed. “This was all so much simpler in my day. A marriage was arranged and we got on with it. I was originally intended to marry His Majesty’s brother, the Duke of Clarence, but he died suddenly. When it was suggested that I marry His Majesty instead, I acquiesced without a fuss. We have certainly been happy enough, and your great-grandmother adored Prince Albert, as we all know. Perhaps I’ll see what I can do.”
“This is the 1930s, ma’am,” I ventured. “I’m sure I’ll meet someone eventually, now that I’m living in London.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of, Georgiana. Your father was not known for making the most sensible of choices, was he? However, I don’t doubt you’ll be married one day; one hopes to somebody suitable. You’ll need to learn how to run a great house and act as ambassador for your country, and heaven knows you’ve had no mother to show you the ropes. How is your mother these days? Do you ever see her?”
“When she flits through London sometimes,” I said.
“And who is her latest beau, may one ask?” She nodded to the maid who was offering slices of lemon for the china tea.
“A German industrialist, the last time I heard,” I said, “but that was a couple of months ago.”
I caught the briefest of twinkles in the royal eye. My austere relative might look starchy and forbidding, but deep down she did have a sense of humor.
“I shall take the matter in hand myself, Georgiana,” Her Majesty said. “It’s not good for young girls to be idle and unchaperoned. Too many temptations in the big city. I’d take you on as one of my own ladies-in-waiting, but I already have a full complement at the moment. Let me think. It’s possible that Princess Beatrice could use another lady-in-waiting, although she doesn’t go out as much as she used to. Yes, that might do splendidly. I shall speak to her about it.”
“Princess Beatrice, ma’am?” My voice quivered a little.
“You must have met her. The old queen’s only surviving daughter. The king’s aunt. Your great-aunt, Georgiana. She has a charming house in the country, and a place in London too, I believe, although she rarely comes to town anymore.”
Tea came to an end. I was dismissed. And doomed. If I couldn’t come up with some brilliant form of employment in the near future, I was about to be lady-in-waiting to Queen Victoria’s only surviving daughter, who didn’t get out and about much anymore.
Chapter 4
Rannoch House
Friday, April 22, 1932
I came out of Buckingham Palace in deep gloom. Actually the gloom had been deepening ever since my season ended and I realized that I was facing life ahead with no funds and no prospects. Now it seemed that I was to be locked in the country estate of an elderly princess while my royal kin found a suitable husband for me. The only spark of excitement in
my dreary future would be the challenge to spy on my cousin David and his latest “woman.”
I was in distinct need of cheering up, so I boarded the district line train to visit my favorite person. Gradually city sprawl gave way to Essex countryside. I disembarked at Upminster Bridge and soon I was walking along a row of modest semidetached homes on Glanville Drive, their pocket handkerchief-sized gardens decorated liberally with gnomes and birdbaths. I knocked at the door of Number 22, heard a muffled grunt, “I’m coming, I’m coming,” and then a Cockney face peered around the half-open door. The face was perky, beaky, and wrinkled like an old prune. It took a second to register who I was and then lit up in a huge grin.