Queen of Hearts

by Rhys Bowen

  “Bloody ’ell,” she said, observing the large pile of clothing on the bed. “What the devil’s going on ’ere?”

  “We’re leaving,” I said. “I need my trunk retrieved and my clothes packed.”

  “Leavin’? What do you want to go and leave for?” she demanded, hands on very ample hips. “First decent food we’ve had in months.”

  “And I see you’ve taken full advantage of it,” I replied, noticing that her uniform was now bursting at the seams. “Where were you? I rang twice.”

  “Well, I had three pieces of seedy cake at tea today and I felt a bit sleepy afterward so I just went up to my room to have a bit of a kip, and before you know it I was out like a light,” she said. “So where are we going, then? Not back to that god-awful castle in Scotland.”

  “Queenie, I’ve pointed out to you before that you should not criticize your employer or your employer’s family. You should be glad you have a job in these hard times.”

  “Oh, I ain’t got nothing against you, miss,” she said. “It’s her what lives at the castle in Scotland. The ruddy duchess. She don’t like me, does she? She thinks I’m too common.”

  “Well, you are. You’ve seen how other lady’s maids behave, haven’t you? You haven’t even learned to call me by my proper title yet.”

  She sighed. “I know you should be ‘my lady’ but that sounds awful toffee-nosed, if you ask me. And you’re so nice and normal and friendly that you’re more like an ordinary miss.”

  “Nevertheless, Queenie, society demands that an aristocrat should be addressed in the correct manner. My cousin Elizabeth is a friendly little girl but one still has to address her as ‘Your Royal Highness.’ Now please get a move on. My mother is waiting.”

  “Your mum? We’re going off with your mum? Oh, that’s all right then. She’ll make sure we eat properly. Where are we going? Back to London?”

  “No, we’re going to America.”

  “Bloody ’ell,” she said.

  Chapter 2

  AT BROWN’S HOTEL, LONDON

  JULY 9

  An hour later Mummy and I were speeding through the Kentish lanes on our way to London. Queenie and my trunk had been crammed into the estate car with much grumbling from her. What if she fell asleep and missed the station? What if a strange man got into her compartment and accosted her? And how would she manage all that luggage? I pointed out that the train terminated at Victoria and she should select a Ladies Only carriage. When she arrived all she had to do was summon a porter who would take her to a taxi. When last seen she was heading to the nearest station and one hoped that she would eventually wind up at Brown’s Hotel.

  “So what on earth were you doing with those awful dreary old women?” Mummy asked as we drove through the impressive gateway and out onto a country lane.

  “Keeping the dowager duchess company. She’s had an upsetting time, you know. You probably didn’t hear about it in Germany.”

  “Oh, I think I did hear something about it, now that you mention it. Something to do with the heir, wasn’t it?”

  “It was. All rather horrible, actually.”

  “Well, in that case I’m glad I’m whisking you away. We’ll have much more fun where we’re going.”

  “Where are we going, exactly? And why are you taking me along?”

  “That’s obvious, darling. I didn’t want to travel alone. A woman feels so vulnerable and those Americans can be wild and dangerous.”

  Nobody in the world could take care of herself better than my mother. She might look frail and diminutive but she came from good Cockney stock and was as tough as old boots. She had been a leading lady on the stage when she had met and married my father, who was Queen Victoria’s grandson, but she chose to forget those humble beginnings. She had actually enjoyed being a duchess and probably would have remained one longer if living at Castle Rannoch had not been part of the bargain. I looked at her face. She was now playing the part of a weak and helpless female—playing it really convincingly, as always. I had to laugh. “There aren’t any cowboys and Indians any longer, you know.”

  “But plenty of gangsters,” she said. “Al Capone, you know. I thought you’d be pleased and want to spend time with your mother.”

  “I am. I do,” I said. “It’s just that it’s rather sudden. When last seen you abandoned me to that awful woman’s cooking in London and went off with Max to Lake Lugano. Have you finally broken up with him?”

  “Au contraire, darling,” she said. “Max is insisting that he wants to do the right thing and get married. He’s quite a puritan at heart.”

  “But don’t I remember correctly that you are still married to someone else?”

  I should also add that my mother was a serial bolter, much married, and had worked her way through many men on all continents but Antarctica.

  “Isn’t he a Texan oilman?” I went on, “And didn’t he refuse to give you a divorce?”

  “How was I to know he had a strange religious streak?” she said irritably. “When I met him in Paris in the twenties he seemed quite gay and debonair, refreshingly naïve and ridiculously rich. It was only after I’d married him that I found that he didn’t drink and he actually wanted me to live on a ranch in Texas.” She turned to me with a horrified face. “A ranch, darling. In Texas. Moi? Can you imagine it. All those cows and oil wells. Castle Rannoch was bad enough but at least they could send up hampers from Fortnum’s on a regular basis.”

  “Is that why we’re going to America? You’re going to plead with him to set you free?” I asked. “Or has he conveniently died?”

  “Neither of the above,” she said. “But I think I’ve found a way to circumvent him. I have been told that one can obtain a quickie divorce in Reno, Nevada, where anything goes.”

  “But if he wouldn’t divorce you in Texas, why would he agree to it in Nevada?” I heard myself almost shouting over the roar of the motor as we had now reached the London Road and Mummy had put her foot down.

  “He doesn’t have to agree to it. Given the right circumstances the other party doesn’t have to show up.”

  “Golly. Is it legal?”

  “Perfectly, in Nevada, according to my authority. So I thought we’d have a nice little trip to Reno together. You’ll enjoy the crossing on the Berengaria, won’t you? And a train trip across America?”

  “Oh golly, yes,” I said.

  She turned to frown at me. “You must learn to stop saying such schoolgirlish expressions if you ever want to be a woman of the world.”

  “Sorry,” I said. “They just slip out in moments of stress.” I cleared my throat. “Thank you for your kind invitation. It sounds heavenly.”

  “Jolly good.” She gave me a rare encouraging grin. A grin of coconspirators. “Now we only have two days to get you kitted out. You simply can’t be seen on the Berengaria in a cotton frock like the one you are wearing. You look like an orphan in a reform school.”

  “That’s because I’ve owned this since I was a schoolgirl,” I said. “One doesn’t buy clothes if one has no money.”

  “You really must find yourself a rich man, darling. I know that Darcy is quite delectable and I’m sure he’s wonderful in bed, but he’s not suitable husband material, is he? He’ll never be able to provide for you properly.”

  “I’d rather live in poverty with Darcy than with a rich man I didn’t love,” I said hotly.

  She smiled. “So young. So romantic. You’ll learn. And if you’re smart you’ll snag yourself an American millionaire on the ship.”

  “Are there any millionaires in America these days?” I said, smiling at the absurdity of her suggestion.

  “Of course there are. Live with him for a year, divorce him again and you’ll be set up for life.”

  “Like you did, you mean? And then have all the trouble of trying to divorce him again? That’s not for me, tha
nk you,” I said.

  “You’re just like my father,” Mummy said, frowning. “Too damned proud and honorable.”

  “You’ve been to see Granddad?” My heart leaped at the mention of the man I loved almost as much as Darcy. My mother’s father was a retired London bobby who now lived in a semidetached in Essex, bought for him when Mummy was in the first flush of fame.

  “I have, and he won’t take a penny from me. Claims it’s German money and he’ll never forgive the Germans for the Great War.” I had heard him say the same kind of thing.

  “How is he?” I asked, feeling a wave of longing for my grandfather.

  “Not too well, actually. I offered to take him with us to America. I thought a sea voyage would do him good, but he refused.”

  “I must go and see him before we sail,” I said. “How long do you think we’ll be away?”

  “Not too long, I hope. A few days in New York—at least they’ve started drinking legally again. Those speakeasies were such a bore. And then a train ride across the country to Reno. Let’s hope we have it all sewn up and back within a month. Max pines if I leave him too long.”

  I turned to look at her. “Do you really want to marry Max and live in Germany?”

  “Darling, he’s richer than God and the sex is divine. He’s like a rampant stud bull and he wants it several times a night.”

  I felt my face turning bright red at the mention of such things, having led a sheltered life so far.

  “But you don’t speak German and you don’t like German food.”

  She shrugged. “I can stand a week or two in Berlin when necessary. It’s really quite civilized if that nasty little Hitler man doesn’t last long. Besides, when Max saw that I loved the villa in Lugano that we were renting, he bought it for me. So I now have a bolt-hole in Switzerland. He’s so generous. I may even learn to converse with him some day. I’ve promised to take German lessons.”

  “Granddad won’t like that,” I said.

  “Then he’ll have to lump it,” she said with true Cockney candor.

  BROWN’S HOTEL GAVE Mummy the sort of welcome she expected.

  “Welcome back, Your Grace,” the doorman said.

  “Welcome back, Your Grace,” the snooty young man at the reception desk cooed, bowing to her. “We have champagne on ice, waiting for you.”

  I followed Mummy up the stairs, feeling horribly self-conscious about my now-crumpled cotton dress. She had a lovely room on the first floor with French windows looking onto Albemarle Street. I had wondered why she always chose Brown’s instead of the Ritz or Claridge’s, but now I understood why she stayed here. They conveniently forgot that she was no longer “Your Grace” but Mrs. Homer Clegg, if my memory served me correctly. And soon she’d be Frau von Strohheim. I wondered how Brown’s would take to that?

  I had been given a small but charming room facing away from the street. I was just realizing that I had nothing to wear for dinner when Queenie arrived, red-faced and panting.

  “Some bloke’s bringing up your trunk,” she said. “I had a bleeding awful time getting the bloody thing off the train by myself. Do you think I could find a ruddy porter? No, I blinking well couldn’t. I had to leave the guard with the luggage and go looking for one. ‘Now don’t you let anyone nick that,’ I told him and the ruddy man wanted a tip when I came back. The cheek of it. ‘I’ll have you know that these here bags belong to someone what’s a cousin of the king,’ I told him. ‘You should consider it an honor to look after them.’”

  “Queenie, please hurry up and unpack,” I interrupted this flow. “I have to go down to dinner soon and I’ve nothing to wear.”

  “Where am I supposed to have me dinner, then?” she asked, opening the trunk and flinging garments onto the bed. “I ain’t half hungry after all that traipsing around.”

  “I’ll ask Mummy’s maid where the servants dine,” I said. “I think I’ll wear the red one. We’ve been in mourning too long at Kingsdowne. I need cheering up.”

  And as I said this I realized I was cheering up. A shopping spree with Mummy tomorrow and then a luxury liner across the Atlantic. What more could a girl want?

  Chapter 3

  AT BROWN’S HOTEL

  STILL JULY 9

  Things are certainly looking up for G. Rannoch these days. Brown’s and a spending spree with Mummy and then a transatlantic crossing. Golly.

  The red evening dress was rather the worse for Queenie’s packing and I saw Mummy’s face when I went into her room to go down to dinner. “Whoever told you that red was your color, darling?” she demanded. “Don’t you possess any decent clothing?”

  “I have the outfit that Coco Chanel bought for me at the Galeries Lafayette,” I said, “but that’s up in Scotland. There wouldn’t be time to telephone Fig and have it sent down to London, would there?”

  “Knowing your sister-in-law she’d probably flush it down the nearest loo and then claim she couldn’t find it,” Mummy said. “Let’s just hope there are a few decent-looking outfits to be found in London tomorrow. Although God knows where we will find them.” She was prowling around me, examining me as if she were a tiger sizing up her next meal. “It’s a pity you are so impossibly large,” she said, “or you could wear some of my things. Max loves me to buy new clothes and I never know what to do with the old ones. But I fear I have nothing you’d fit into.”

  “You make me sound like a giant,” I said. “I’m only five foot six. You’re the one who is small.”

  “Petite, darling. I’m petite. Too bad you inherited the robust physique of those Scottish ancestors. The royal side were small enough, just those wretched hearty Scots must be to blame.”

  “Darcy seems to like me the way I am,” I said.

  “I’ve found that men are often blinded by love,” she said. “Never mind, we’ll have you looking respectable, if not fashionable, by the time we leave.”

  THE NEXT MORNING we set off right after breakfast. “Might as well try Fenwick’s first since they are just around the corner on Bond Street,” she said. But half an hour later she had declared them too impossibly frumpy. “You’ll be dining on the Berengaria with me, darling. They can’t get the impression that I let my only child run around in rags.”

  “You have until now,” I wanted to say. My mother had only popped into my life on rare occasions and it had never crossed her mind that I had no money and had been surviving on baked beans on toast.

  She hailed a taxicab. “Harrods might just have something,” she said.

  “Selfridges is closer,” I pointed out.

  She looked at me in horror. “Selfridges is where typists and lower-middle-class housewives shop,” she said, conveniently forgetting again that she had been born in the back streets of the East End.

  So we went to Harrods where doormen leaped and bowed, murmuring, “Welcome back, Your Grace. It’s been too long.”

  Mummy swept in, ordering a jar of her favorite face cream as she passed the cosmetics counter, a pair of red leather gloves and matching beret, suitable for a sea cruise, before she took the lift to ladies’ dresses. A formidable woman bore down on us. “And how can I assist madame?” she asked.

  “You can find me an assistant young enough to have a feel for what is fashionable this season,” Mummy said. “I’m taking my daughter on a sea cruise.”

  “That young lady is never madame’s daughter,” the woman said in her silky voice and gave a false titter. “Your sister, surely.”

  Since she had been one of the few people in the civilized world who had failed to recognize my mother and give her the appropriately groveling greeting, Mummy had taken an instant dislike to her. “I should point out that ‘that young lady’ is Lady Georgiana Rannoch,” she said. “Cousin to His Majesty. She will be seen as an ambassador of her country when we visit America. We want to do Britain proud, don’t we?”

 
The woman’s face was now rather red. “Oh, we do. We do. Forgive me for not recognizing you immediately. I will summon our Mademoiselle Dubois. She has recently joined us from Paris where she worked at the great couture houses. Allow me to escort you to a fitting room.”

  “That told her,” Mummy muttered as the woman disappeared to find the fashionable Frenchwoman. “Sorry, but that remark about you being my sister got my goat. And fancy not recognizing me.”

  There was a tap on the fitting room door and the woman, still red-faced, put her head around it. “Here is our young French assistant, madame,” she said. “Mademoiselle Dubois, I’m sure you’ll be able to find the perfect wardrobe for Lady Georgiana, won’t you?” And she stood aside to usher in a svelte, dark-haired young woman.

  “Bonjour, and ’ow may I assist madame today,” she started to say, then a look of horror wiped the smile from her face. I swallowed back a gasp. I think Mummy did too. I waited until the senior saleswoman had closed the door behind her before the young Frenchwoman let out a sigh of relief.

  “Crikey,” she said. “I thought you’d blow it for me.”

  “Belinda!” I exclaimed. “What on earth are you doing here?”

  My best friend, Belinda Warburton-Stoke, put her finger to her lips. “Shhhh,” she said. “I’m supposed to be Mademoiselle Dubois.”

  “But why?”

  “Money, darling—why else? I’m rather broke at the moment and I saw this advertisement for a fashion assistant with knowledge of haute couture, preferably French.”

  “Belinda, you’re terrible.” I started to laugh.

  “Not at all. I fit the bill perfectly. After all, I did work with Chanel and I designed my own line of clothing.”

  “No, I’m sure you’re perfectly qualified. Just not French.”

  “Well, I had to claim to be French to beat out the other candidates. Also I wouldn’t want word to get back to the family. Granny might cut me out of her will if she heard I’d gone into trade.”