Royal Sisters

by Anne Edwards

  The unveiling on April 12 of a memorial to President Roosevelt in Grosvenor Square, with Mrs. Roosevelt as the honored guest (she would pull the cord that released the flags shrouding Sir William Reid Dick’s twelve-foot bronze statue of her husband), proved to be one of the most moving ceremonies of the year. Londoners had watched for months the miraculous sprucing up of the square, which had been transformed from its wartime mess of mud, roots, U.S. Army trucks and huts into gardens designed to surround the statue of the late President. The day was bright and clear, crowds lined rooftops, clung to railings and jammed the sidewalks.

  “The King seemed oddly protective of Mrs. Roosevelt as they walked up the path together to unveil the statue,” one bystander reported. Winston Churchill sat in the second row of seats behind the Royal Family, but the crowds gave him a huge cheer when he arrived “and it was obvious that he was in the front of everyone’s thoughts [on this occasion].”

  Mrs. Roosevelt, who had stayed at Windsor Castle for the weekend, was unamused when the Queen, in a moment of relaxed silliness, donned a false beard during a game of charades.

  A public announcement that Lilibet was pregnant was never actually made. But on June 4 the Palace released a bulletin stating, “Her Royal Highness the Princess Elizabeth, Duchess of Edinburgh, will undertake no public engagements after the end of June.” The word “pregnant” was one that Buckingham Palace officials avoided. But the nation got the idea. Confirmation came when the King issued a statement that: “The attendance of a Minister of the Crown at a birth in the Royal Family ...” would no longer be a legal requirement.

  A month later, the British people celebrated a historic day—July 5, when the great “womb-to-tomb” social security charter delivered “strapping quadruplets”—National Insurance, National Assistance, Industrial Injury and National Health, ending, they hoped, what Dickens had called “the cold parish-charity smell.” The summer also brought an unprecedented heat wave. “Old ladies dying like flies in all directions and the government warning us of drought and water shortage,” Noël Coward complained. Yet despite the heat the Royal garden party at the Palace was a resounding success. “Queen Mary was in a cloth-of-gold coat and looked magnificent,” Chips Channon rhapsodized. “Drino Carisbrooke ... whispered to me, ‘My cousin May [Queen Mary] is rather over-dressed.’ A curious way to describe Queen Mary.

  “Winston was in grey morning coat, grey top hat and carrying a cigar. I saw him go up to the Queen and the Duchess of Kent, and bow to them. They appeared none too gracious, but Queen Mary rose slightly when he spoke to her. The Churchills ... soon left the Royal Pavilion, unfortunately, perhaps, for thousands of guests suddenly began to cheer them. There was a stampede and they were soon surrounded while the Royal Pavilion was deserted—except for the Royals.... [It] almost amounted to a demonstration and was quite extraordinary.” The Churchills had been spending a good deal of time in Monte Carlo near the Windsors in St. Croë and the Queen had been displeased to hear that they had entertained them numerous times and that they had even spent New Year’s Eve together. Now, more than ever before, she felt bitter against the ex-King, whom she blamed for her husband’s early physical decline.

  The family gathered at Balmoral in August, but it was not an easy time. Lilibet was six months pregnant and much too heavy to be comfortable in the heat, and her condition was far too advanced for her to go stalking with her father. The King, although in “discomfort most of the time,” had still not consulted his doctors. At the beginning of his holiday at Balmoral the King experienced some improvement in his condition, and he was confident that whatever was wrong with his legs was now healing. Exercise, he professed, “did him good.”

  Townsend had accompanied the Royal Family to Balmoral and on the King’s customary visit in Scotland to the Palace of Holyroodhouse, Edinburgh—“that somewhat sinister landmark in Scottish history, where, from a small upper room, David Rizzio, the private and rather too personal secretary of Mary Queen of Scots, was dragged shrieking, from the Queen’s presence to be stabbed to death.” Lilibet had remained in Balmoral but Margaret—“ghoulishly enjoying” the morbid history of the Palace—gave Townsend the full tour with running commentary and a dramatic re-creation of the grisly event, leading him down the narrow stone staircase to the fatal spot where the foul deed was committed.

  “What’s the matter with my blasted legs; they won’t work properly,” the King complained to Townsend at Holyroodhouse when he found he could not mount a nearby site without excruciating pain. He finally agreed he would see his doctors on their return. Townsend remained a confidant, but the King was unaware of his Equerry’s growing private problems.

  Townsend was now fully cognizant that his differences with Rosemary were irreconcilable. South Africa had triggered in him a “longing for horizons beyond the narrow life at home.” Rosemary preferred “to remain ensconced in the world of the ‘system’ and its social ramifications.” He felt trapped and wanted desperately to find a way to escape. But, of course, there were now his two sons to consider. He could not just run off, and so he bided his time, waiting for the proper solution. Meanwhile, he channeled all his energy into his job. Extremely agile as a liaison man, he could also organize and instrument a scheduled event with a group captain’s necessary discipline and precision, qualities that made his services invaluable to the King, who attempted in every way to play his role as he believed was expected of him, insisting his daughters do the same.

  In September, Townsend and Jennifer Bevan accompanied Margaret to Amsterdam where, as the King’s representative, she attended the inauguration of Queen Juliana. This was the first time that Townsend was to travel abroad with Margaret without any other member of her family. The occasion was festive and Margaret looked lovely, a glittering tiara (borrowed from Lilibet) atop her head, her cream-colored, pearl-beaded gown one of Hartnell’s most flattering creations.

  Townsend says, “Without realizing it I was being carried a little further from home, a little nearer to the Princess.” He was now aware of Margaret not just as his charge, but as a woman who had a strong effect upon his senses. And Margaret was drawn even closer to him as he handled the visit and all of the protocol for her, advising her on what should be done and writing whatever few words she was to say in public. Nothing was said by either about their feelings, and their relationship to each other was entirely chaste. Yet something had happened between them. Not long after this Townsend discovered that Rosemary was involved in an extramarital affair.

  By the time the King returned from Balmoral to London in early October, his right leg “was numb all day and the pain kept him awake at night.” Still, he did not summon Sir Morton Smart, who had been his doctor since 1937, until a fortnight later on October 20. Smart was alarmed and called in several colleagues who had treated the King through the years. Their decision was to consult Professor James Learmonth of Edinburgh, an authority on vascular complaints. The Professor made his diagnosis on November 12: The King was suffering from arteriosclerosis; “there was a danger of gangrene developing and grave fear that his right leg might have to be amputated.”

  The King received this news with equanimity and insisted that Lilibet, due to deliver her baby momentarily, not be told. And, indeed, Lilibet went into labor only a few hours later. Queen Mary had converted a room overlooking the Mall on the first floor of Buckingham Palace into a surgery when King George V had been ill, and it was now transformed into “a lavishly equipped surgical theatre.” Late on Sunday evening, November 14, at 9:14, a chilling rain slicking the pavements outside the Palace, the gynecologist, Sir William Gilliatt, with the help of forceps, delivered a seven-pound six-ounce son to Lilibet. Philip was playing squash on the indoor Palace court with Michael Parker, now his Private Secretary, when the King’s Secretary, Sir Alan Lascelles, breathlessly ran in to give him the news.

  “Philip took the stairs three at a time ... rushed into the Buhl Room [the surgery] to find his wife still under anaesthetic.” When Li
libet awoke an hour later in her own bed, Philip was at her side with a bouquet of white carnations and red roses and champagne was being served to the medical and Household staff.

  The crowd outside the Palace had become boisterous with their own celebration, and even with the window tightly sealed the shouts and cheers filtered inside. Michael Parker was dispatched to see if he could quiet the throng so that the new mother could get some sleep. Parker approached the man pressed nearest to the gate without recognizing that he was the actor David Niven, whose current film release was, ironically, Bonnie Prince Charlie.

  “I was pinned against the railings,” Niven confessed, “and, being unable to move, I was the recipient of the message hissed in my ear by [Michael Parker]. I had my coat collar turned up and was huddled inside the garment, hoping not to be recognized and asked for autographs on that particular location. However, I turned round and did my best to shush those nearest to me, which did little good as everyone was far too excited and happy. Police loud-speaker vans [were] called in to disperse the crowd.” But when Queen Mary arrived at 11:00 P.M. to see her first great-grandchild, the reveling was still out of control.

  The public celebration lasted a week, during which the fountains at Trafalgar Square were lit with blue lights (pink had been ready in the event a princess had been born), slight compensation for the shop windows “which after dusk [were] still not permitted to have so much as a gleam of illumination on their Christmas displays.”

  The christening was not held until December 15, an unusual delay caused by the King’s ill health, which was still being kept secret from the public. Confined to his bed since Learmonth’s diagnosis, he wrote to Queen Mary on December 1, “I am getting tired and bored with bed.” A fortnight later, all danger of amputation had disappeared and though he remained in considerable pain, he managed to walk unaided to the lavish white and gold Music Room with its spectacular twin crystal chandeliers. There the christening took place, the King photographed standing by his daughter’s side as she held HRH Prince Charles Philip Arthur George in her arms. (Traditionally, Royal christenings were conducted at Windsor, but Learmonth had felt the distance too far for the King to travel.)

  The choice of the name Charles raised some eyebrows. The reigns of the two English Kings who had borne the name (the beheaded Charles 1 [1600–1649], and Charles II [1630–1685] who “never said a foolish thing and never did a wise one”) had been quite disastrous. The third Charles in English history, the Bonnie Prince, was notorious for his insurrection against the House of Hanover, the current Royal Family’s forebears. The baby’s godfather, however, was King Haakon of Norway, the former Prince Charles of Denmark, who had shown great concern for Philip’s family during their most trying times.

  Margaret was also a godparent and held the infant as he was being baptized in the christening robes she and Lilibet had once worn at the same font with water brought from the Jordan. Even at such a solemn moment, Margaret could not contain her natural wit. “I suppose,” she said, “I’ll now be known as Charlie’s Aunt,” nine words that made their way into almost every leading newspaper and periodical in the Western world.

  The King’s leg had not fully responded to treatment; and a trip to Australia and New Zealand that he, the Queen and Margaret had planned to make the following February was canceled. Christmas was celebrated at Buck House instead of at Sandringham to avoid travel and to be near a fully equipped surgery. The family knew the King’s illness was life-threatening and that he might well be forced to spend what time he had left as a semi-invalid. On Saturday morning, March 12, 1949, after the King had suffered a second thrombosis (blood clot), Professor Learmonth successfully performed a right lumbar sympathectomy (the removal of the clot in his right loin) in the same surgical theater, the Buhl Room, where Prince Charles had been born. The suggestion was made that the operation be performed in a hospital. “I’ve never heard of a King going to hospital before,” the King responded, ending the discussion.

  His recovery was slow but with Professor Learmonth’s constant vigilance he was able, onJune 9, to ride in an open carriage to watch his Brigade of Guards Troop the Colour, as Lilibet, in full regimental regalia and mounted on a magnificent steed, led the parade. With her father’s ill health, she had taken on many more official duties, as had Margaret, whose successful trip to the Netherlands had drawn much attention to her ability as a representative of the Crown. Seldom did she attend an official function, from the launching of a ship to a Royal command performance, without Townsend accompanying her.

  “One could not help but notice how Princess Margaret preened when Peter was present,” one member of Margaret’s staff confided. “She was always funny; but her humor had a witty sheen that seemed to have been polished just for him. Poor, dear Peter, if ever there was an inculpable man, it was him. I don’t believe he ever knew that Princess Margaret requested he come along on so many of her out-of-town appearances. But, of course, one always knew if Peter was handling things they would go like clockwork. And the King was ill—terribly feeble really—we were all aware of it—and he did not need Peter as much as before because he made so few outings.

  “That was the beginning of it, I suspect,” the observer added. “Perhaps Peter was not aware of what was happening. But, certainly, Princess Margaret was flirtatious toward him. That is—she had a way of becoming exaggeratedly feminine, or she would pointedly say something provocative. Someone said, or wrote, that once while she was dancing with a young man she stopped and looked up unblinking at him and repeating something she had read about herself in an article, asked in a husky, rather sexy voice, ‘Do you know you are dancing with the owner of the most beautiful, seductive eyes in the world?’ Well, she is a Princess and men did not know quite how to react to remarks like that. Peter would laugh and tell her they better get on with the dancing or leave the floor.

  “[Members of the Household] also felt that her emergence in 1948 as the Royal Family’s leading party-goer, was—in part at least and however unconscious—to telegraph the message to Peter that she was now a grown, sophisticated woman and that other men found her terribly attractive—which, indeed, they did!

  “I don’t know what she thought about Rosemary—or if she ever did. His wife was never a part of the Palace world. None of the wives of the men in the court really were—except, of course, Margaret Egerton who was married to Jock (John Colville) and was also a member of the Household.

  “But Palace connections open society’S doors. I only met Rosemary a few times, but I came away with the impression that she was socially aggressive. I don’t suggest that is a bad thing, only that it was at odds with Peter’s personality.”

  Margaret’s social life had taken an exhilarating turn with the arrival in 1947 of the new American Ambassador, Lewis W. Douglas (“with his slight Southern drawl [and] a black patch over the eye he lost in a fishing accident”), his vivacious wife, Peggy (“gay, simple and yet very much with the grand manner”), and their attractive young daughter, Sharman, known as “Sass” to her close friends. Two years older than Margaret, Sharman was tall, blond and full of American high spirits. She was a freshman at Vassar College when President Truman appointed her father to his current post. The Douglases quickly won over English society, and the Embassy became the scene of many festive parties hosted by Ambassador and Mrs. Douglas with much élan. The American Embassy provided a privacy at parties that enabled even the King and Queen to relax. Sharman and Margaret met at an official Embassy affair and soon after became close friends.

  Sharman’s guileless American charm and her insouciant audacity had made her the center of a group of lively young people who frequently gathered at the Embassy. Margaret was immediately accepted as a member of their set, attending the many London and country weekend parties and balls (she was particularly adept at the rhumba). Several times a week taxis and private cars drew into the great courtyard of Buck House, past the policemen and the red-suited Guardsmen with their black bearskin hats,
and stopped to let out Margaret’s new girlfriends: Sharman, Lady Rosemary Spencer-Churchill, Judy Montagu (the oldest and most sophisticated of the group and the one, other than Margaret, who had a natural talent for performing), Rachel Brand (Viscount Hampden’s daughter) or Laura and Katherine Smith (Lord Hambleden’s ebullient daughters). A footman dressed in scarlet tailcoat and black trousers saw them into the lift to the first floor and then escorted them to the big mahogany door of Margaret’s newly decorated apartments.

  No matter how well her friends knew her, the obligatory “Ma’am” was tagged on to their first greeting; then they would settle down into relaxed girl-to-girl talk—mostly about the young men in their group: Sonny Blandford (Duke of Marlborough, Marquess of Blandford) who, though rather loud and brash and having slightly bulbous eyes and a receding chin, was an exceptionally good dancer; Billy Wallace (“tall and slightly stooping with the languor of a P. G. Wodehouse hero”), who was kind and much liked but in perpetual ill health; Johnny Dalkeith (the Earl of Dalkeith, the Duke of Buccleuch’s heir), fabulously rich, attractive and the brother of Lady Caroline Montagu-Douglas-Scott, one of Lilibet’s bridesmaids and a good friend of Margaret’s as well; Simon Phipps, who was really quite a character, amusing, elegant and fun and the author of several reviews produced while he was at Cambridge; “Porchy,” Lord Henry Porchester, a “good, sensible chap” with a great knowledge of horses—and a host of other scions of families who were part of the English social scene.

  The activities of these young people, and Margaret’s participation, filled the newspapers. She had quite suddenly become Britain’s “hottest property,” her picture on a magazine cover causing the publication’s circulation to rise considerably. And “Margaret fever” had spread to the United States. In Britain, her photograph appeared almost daily—escorted by one of the young men in their group to a private club like the 400, her curvaceous figure displayed in stylish clothes, a cigarette in her hand. (She was the first Royal figure to ever smoke in public, although Queen Mary privately enjoyed the habit and the King was a chain smoker.) When she attended several parties in one week, the London Sunday Pictorial bannered: “Princess Margaret’s Week of Late Nights.” After an Embassy party of three hundred guests, where the can-can was performed by a line which included Sharman, Judy Montagu and several of their other friends as well as Margaret, a London tabloid’s headline read “Princess Margaret High-Kicks It!”