‘It’s more than that.’ Juliet looked directly at her grandmother. ‘You handle me so much better than Mummy. I sometimes think that some of the things I do are just done to annoy her.’ Her wicked smile had returned.
‘How honest of you to admit it.’
Juliet looked thoughtful. ‘Mummy and Rosie are so … so …’ She paused, searching for the right description.
‘Anxious to do the right thing?’ Lady Anne suggested.
‘Yes. We always seem to have to go to the right place to meet the right people, wearing the right clothes and saying the right thing; it really does make me want to kick over the traces, you know.’
They looked at each other, Juliet as much startled by her admission as her grandmother.
Then they both started laughing, laughing so much that Lady Anne had to sit down on the nearest bench, throwing her head back like a young woman. Juliet sank down beside her, wiping the tears of mirth that were gathering in her eyes. The sheer relief of admitting, even to herself, why she behaved as she did was cathartic.
‘My darling girl, you are a scream,’ Lady Anne said, when she could speak, ‘but try not to hurt your mother. She has your best interests at heart. She just wants you to be happy.’
‘Yes,’ Juliet said, serious again, wondering how she was ever going to be happy without Daniel, who still filled her thoughts all the time. ‘I know I wanted to come out at the same time as Rosie, because I didn’t want to be left behind, but it was Rosie who made such an issue of it. Like she was scared I’d take something away from her. Of course that made me all the more determined, and that’s when we started competing with each other. She takes everything so seriously.’
‘Some girls don’t have your confidence, Juliet. I hope you’re not being unkind to Rosie, sweetheart?’ she added gently.
Juliet sat in silence for a few moments, deep in thought, her brow furrowed. ‘Some women make me want to be unkind to them, including Rosie. She’s so – so perfect.’
‘No one’s perfect.’
‘I know, but she’s so damned immaculate.’
Lady Anne looked up sharply. ‘That’s an odd word to use, isn’t it?’ she observed lightly.
Juliet shrugged. ‘Rosie’s always been immaculate. Pure as the driven snow; Mummy’s favourite.’
‘Your mother loves every one of you equally. I’ve never seen any sign of favouritism. Are you sure, darling, that it isn’t because you don’t regard yourself very highly, that you want to hit out at other women? Including Rosie? And the way you know best is by being more attractive to men than they are?’
‘I don’t know.’ Juliet sounded despondent again, thinking how she hated the very existence of Daniel’s wife. ‘Granny, I think I’ll go and have a rest for a while.’
‘You do that, sweetheart. And I’ll see you later.’ Lady Anne watched as Juliet wandered slowly towards the house.
What raw nerve had she touched that accounted for that remark of Juliet’s? And why had she chosen a word that meant ‘without sin’ to describe Rosie?
‘Darling, how thrilling! I’m so excited for you!’ Liza clapped her hands in delight, while a very pale and sickly looking Rosie sat in a heap in the drawing room of Green Street.
‘No one told me I’d be sick every morning,’ Rosie complained. ‘How long will it last?’
‘It varies, sweetheart,’ her mother replied, blithely.
‘Oh, God!’ Rosie slumped deeper into the chair, her arms folded across her front. ‘I hope it’s a boy then, because I don’t want to go through all this again.’
‘Is Charles pleased?’
‘A bit shocked, actually.’ She didn’t tell her mother that Charles’ first reaction had been: ‘I say, old girl, that’s a bit of a disaster, isn’t it?’
‘Are you going to buy a bigger house now?’
‘No, we can manage where we are, with just one baby.’
Liza looked fussed. ‘So you’ll turn the top floor into a nursery suite, will you? It’ll mean the nanny will have to sleep with the baby, if there’s to be a day nursery. Oh! But you don’t have a bathroom up there, do you?’ she added, aghast.
‘I’m not going to have a nanny.’
‘No nanny!’ Liza’s mouth opened; she looked like a stunned fish.
Rosie reflected they’d be lucky if they were still solvent by the time the baby was born. Her first shock had been when she’d accidentally opened a letter addressed to Charles. It was a final demand for the rent. Fifty pounds a quarter was owing, the letter said. Those were the terms of the agreement. Would Lord Padmore kindly forward his cheque for that amount, immediately.
‘I don’t understand,’ she told Charles when he returned from Lloyd’s that evening. ‘I thought the house was ours. I thought you’d bought it.’
Charles turned bright red. ‘I was going to … but the owners decided at the very last moment they wanted to rent it out, not sell, and by then it was too late for us to find somewhere else.’
Rosie knew him well enough by now to know he was lying.
‘Then why don’t we buy somewhere else now?’ she suggested craftily. ‘This place is too small for a baby and a nanny.’
He looked sullen. ‘I don’t want our children brought up by nannies. It’s a mother’s job.’
She eyed him with suspicion. ‘Did your mother look after you and Henrietta?’
‘Things were different in those days,’ he blustered. ‘We’ve got a daily as it is. We can ask her to come a bit more often, perhaps.’
Rosie couldn’t believe this was happening. Charles had never warned her they’d be living like a working-class couple, in a tiny rented house, with no proper staff.
‘You’d better pay this before we get evicted,’ she remarked coldly, handing him the rent demand.
He shook his head. ‘I can’t.’
‘What do you mean, you can’t?’
‘Stop going on at me, will you? I haven’t got the money. You know Lloyd’s don’t pay me until the end of the month.’
‘But the rent was due on September twenty-fifth. That’s four weeks ago. Why didn’t you pay it with your September cheque?’
‘Oh, for God’s sake …! What is this? You’re turning into a bloody nag. The trouble is you’re so extravagant, Rosie. The food bills are enormous. Then there’s the daily: six pence an hour, I ask you! And you keep inviting people to drinks. We’re not rich like your parents, you know.’
‘But I didn’t think we were destitute.’ She twisted her second-hand engagement ring – for that was how she now thought of it – round and round on her finger. ‘Does this mean that we can’t buy a house of our own?’
He raised his chin arrogantly. ‘I never promised to buy a house. I said we’d get a house, I’d provide a house. I never said I’d buy one.’
Something cold and hard moved in her chest, gripping her heart, cutting off her supply of love, as if an artery had been severed. Did he hope her father would buy one for them? She dismissed the thought instantly; it was too terrible to think he’d married her for her money.
‘Give me that bill.’ Her manner was imperious. ‘I’ll pay the rent out of my dress allowance. We can’t risk being thrown into the street, especially now I’m going to have a baby.’
Charles groaned theatrically. ‘For Christ’s sake …! Now you’re playing the martyr. Look, I work jolly hard at Lloyd’s, in spite of the fact I hate the bloody place …’
‘I’m not being a martyr. I just wish …’ Rosie felt like saying that she wished he’d told her he had no money before they got married; but what would she have done if he had? Broken off their engagement? How would that have made her look?
‘I just wish,’ she repeated, ‘that you’d told me the rent needed paying. If it helps, I’ll pay it in future. And I’ll try and cut the food and drink bills as well.’
Charles didn’t look as pleased as she’d expected. ‘Now you’re trying to make me feel I’ve let you down. I hope you’re not going to tell any
one we can’t manage on my salary.’
He needn’t worry, Rosie reflected angrily. Pride would prevent her from telling anyone for as long as she lived.
Even her family, especially Juliet, must remain unaware that, after all her mother’s efforts, she’d ended up with a penniless peer.
‘But you’ll never be able to go out in the evenings if you don’t have a nanny,’ Liza was saying in shocked tones.
‘Charles doesn’t like going out much, now that we’re married,’ Rosie said casually. ‘Anyway, I don’t feel up to it at the moment.’
Liza’s eyes narrowed. ‘Is everything all right, darling?’
‘Fine, Mummy. Fine.’ What was her mother going to say when she found out that she probably wasn’t ever going to be able to socialize on a grand scale again? No Royal Ascot. No Eton and Harrow match at Lord’s? No racing at Goodwood. No cocktail parties, dinner parties, or dances? And no money to buy clothes, because she’d promised Charles she’d pay the rent for the horrid little house in future.
Whirlpools of laughter kept coming from the table in a corner of the Café de Paris. People craned their necks to see who was among the glamorous diners, and saw Juliet Granville, in the white halter-neck dress.
It was December 3rd, 1936 and she was celebrating her nineteenth birthday. Old friends, like Colin Armstrong and Edward Courtney, had come back into her life again, unable to resist being in her company. Andrew Stevens sat next to her, and someone she’d met the previous week, called Luke Harmon, was on her other side. Three girls, of no importance to Juliet, but who were necessary to make up the numbers, had also been invited.
‘Here’s to the Birthday Girl!’ Andrew said, holding his glass of champagne aloft.
‘The Birthday Girl!’ everyone chorused.
‘I think I’ll stay nineteen for the next ten years,’ Juliet announced, waving her cigarette about in its long holder. Her slender arms, bronzed from the long summer at Hartley, moved with the grace of a ballet dancer. ‘Then when I’m twenty-nine, I’ll start going backwards!’
‘And your derrière will still enchant us all!’ cried her new friend, Luke.
‘Here’s to Juliet’s derrière!’ Edward chortled, raising his glass.
The group drank another toast, and fell about laughing.
‘Here’s to …’ Colin began, a wicked twinkle in his eyes.
‘That’s enough,’ Juliet commanded, thoroughly enjoying herself. The other girls in the party looked at her enviously, mesmerized by her wit and confidence, and the way the men were obviously fascinated by her.
In between courses, she danced with each of the young men, teasing them, flirting with them, making them feel so good about themselves that they became half in love with her. The champagne flowed. It was the first time she’d had a party that wasn’t shared with Rosie, and she revelled in it.
Shortly after midnight, for no apparent reason, the atmosphere in the restaurant changed. It became charged with tension, as if something extraordinary had happened. The younger groups started chattering excitedly, the older ones looked grave and shocked.
‘What’s going on?’ Juliet asked. ‘What’s happening?’
A man came running down the stairs from the balcony, brandishing the first edition of the Daily Mail. He rushed over to the rest of his party, and they all made a grab for it. A middle-aged woman burst into tears. A man swore loudly, his face purple with rage.
‘Colin, quickly! Go and buy a newspaper,’ Juliet urged him nervously. She’d begun to fear the gossip columns, in case she was mentioned again. These days journalists who dealt in the depravity of the rich upper classes watched her closely. She’d managed to rise above two scandals, but her name was already tarnished; she couldn’t afford another debacle.
The band played quietly, almost drowned out by the cacophony of voices raised in a mixture of shocked titillation and absolute horror, as more newspapers appeared and were snatched up and devoured.
Juliet heard a man exclaim, ‘This is a tragedy!’
‘That dreadful woman,’ an elderly lady sobbed.
Colin came hurrying back, breathless. ‘I got the last copy. It’s mayhem in Leicester Square.’
The headlines were black and heavy.
THE KING TO MARRY WALLIS SIMPSON. A photograph of her in evening dress was on the centre of the front page.
‘So at last the press has broken the story,’ Juliet observed.
‘Did you know about it?’ asked one of the girls, looking impressed.
Juliet gave her a quick smile. ‘It’s been going on for years, but the British press, out of respect for the monarchy, have kept quiet. Until now.’
‘Good God!’ Edward exclaimed. ‘Are we to have Queen Wallis on the throne? What is this country coming to?’
Juliet shrugged calmly. ‘By the sound of her, she’ll make a good job of being the King’s wife,’ she remarked. ‘She’s a very modern woman. No doubt she’ll regard her marriage as a career. And one thing is certain; they’ll have to stick together for ever.’
A man at the next table, who had been intrigued by Juliet throughout the evening, heard what she’d said. He watched her now with renewed interest, as she scanned the news-sheet. Of course, he’d immediately recognized her from photographs in the glossy magazines. His interest quickened.
She could be just the woman he’d been looking for.
The man was a Scottish lawyer called Hector Mackenzie. Small, thin and with sparse grey hair, he had the manner of an inquisitive little bird. His wire-framed glasses were always perched on his beaky nose. He had a habit of tilting his head to the side, when pontificating with a slight Scottish accent.
The day after he’d spotted Juliet at the Café de Paris, where he’d been dining with clients, he took the train up to Inverness, where he was met by a car which drove him to Glenmally Castle.
His most important client lived here, and his duties to Cameron Kincardine stretched far beyond the usual brief of a lawyer. He was also his financial advisor, mentor, and had originally been a close friend of Cameron’s father.
On arrival, a manservant showed him into the study, where Cameron was writing letters. After the usual exchange of greetings, Hector described Juliet, and repeated what he’d overheard her say about Wallis Simpson.
‘The girl’s got her head screwed on, Cameron,’ he said. ‘She’s not the usual type of shallow débutante. She’s also very beautiful.’
‘You think she’d be interested?’ Cameron asked.
‘I tell you, if the new King had only been fifteen years younger, she’d have made a perfect royal bride for him. Instead of the shameless hussy he’s gone after,’ he added heatedly. ‘The Granvilles are a good family. They have wealth and breeding. I’ve read that Juliet’s been a bit of a naughty wee girl … but mightn’t that be a good thing, in the circumstances? I could tell she liked the good things in life, too. I think …’ He paused, small head cocked to one side. ‘I think she’d understand the meaning of quid pro quo … which, let’s face it, most society girls wouldn’t.’
Cameron’s piercing brown eyes skewered Hector’s. ‘To begin with, we let her think …?’
‘Of course. Of course,’ Hector tutted gently.
Cameron rose from the desk, and went to the window, gazing at the rugged wildness of the surrounding mountains. Tall, thickly built, and with a thatch of dark hair, he remained standing there, deep in thought. There was something wild about him too, this son of the Scottish soil; this man who hated towns, was distrustful of foreigners, and preferred to have a very private existence.
Eventually, and with a certain reluctance, he turned round to face Hector. ‘So how do I get to meet this girl?’
‘On her own territory,’ Hector replied instantly.
‘You mean …?’
‘You should give a cocktail party at a smart London hotel, and invite her and her parents. I’ll make up a guest list for you, and it must include people she knows. You should also invite some of your la
te father’s more distinguished friends, to set the right tone.’
Cameron sank wearily into the chair behind his desk again. His bland but kindly face was puckered anxiously. ‘I suppose I have to go through with this?’
‘Absolutely. It’s essential.’
In due course, invitations arrived at 48 Green Street for Henry and Liza, and one for Juliet. A few streets away, another arrived for Rosie and Charles.
Juliet looked blankly at the stiff white engraved card. ‘Why have we been invited? I’ve never heard of him, have you?’ she asked her mother.
Liza was flushed with pleasure. ‘Yes, of course I’ve heard of him, but I don’t know why we’ve been asked; we’ve never met.’
Juliet read again. ‘The Duke of Kincardine, At Home. Tuesday, twenty-eighth January, 1937. At Claridge’s. Cocktails: six thirty – eight thirty p.m. RSVP Glenmally Castle. The Highlands. Scotland.’
Liza had already reached for Debrett’s Peerage. Her expression was serious, as if she was researching a grave matter of state. Finally she spoke.
‘He’s the fifth Duke, Juliet. He’s thirty-three, and unmarried. The title will become extinct if he doesn’t produce an heir. I’ve heard he owns nearly as much land as the Duke of Buccleuch.’ She looked into Juliet’s face, while her mind spun in circles. ‘I wonder if he’s invited any other young women to this party.’
‘I don’t know who the hell he is, and I’ve no intention of going, looking like this,’ Rosie grumbled, throwing the invitation down on the breakfast table.
Charles picked it up and studied it. ‘It might be a good party,’ he pointed out.
‘Then you go.’
‘But you’d enjoy it. I thought you loved socializing.’
‘Not any more.’ She knew she’d become a slattern, using the discomfort of her pregnancy as an excuse for lounging around the house in her dressing gown all day, nursing her unhappiness as if it was a tangible presence. She was tired, disillusioned and longed to be back in the luxurious surroundings of Green Street, yet was too proud to admit it.
‘I’m suffering from terrible sickness,’ she’d say, if even her mother invited her to lunch. ‘My back’s killing me,’ or, ‘I keep getting dizzy spells,’ were her other reasons for avoiding seeing other people.
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