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by Anne Edwards


  Sir Winston Churchill, “beaming like a moon from out of his Garter finery,” arrived in the carriage procession of the Commonwealth Prime Ministers, each with his own mounted escort—Pakistani lancers in gauzy black and silver turbans, scarlet-uniformed Royal Canadian Mounties, Singhalese soldiers in white tunics trailing banners from their lances.

  The Abbey was beginning to fill. The Princess Royal, the Duchess of Gloucester and her sons, the Duchess of Kent and Princess Alexandra and Prince Michael, Princess Alice, Countess of Athlone, and the Earl of Athlone, Lady Pamela Ramsay, and Princess Marie Louise filed into their seats in the Royal Gallery. They were followed by the procession of the Queen Mother.

  “In she came,” wrote one reporter, “glittering from top to toe, diamonds everywhere, a two-foot hem of solid gold on her open dress—the Queen Mother playing a second lead as beautifully as she had played the first. On she came up the aisle with a bow here to Prince Bernhard, a bow there to a row of ambassadors, and up those tricky steps with no looking down like the Duke of Gloucester—no half turn to check on her train like the Duchess of Kent, no hesitation at the top like Princess Margaret.”

  Norman Hartnell recalled that “a shaft of [momentary] silvery sunlight suddenly pierced the lofty stained glass windows and splashed a pool of light” as Margaret appeared wearing a white satin gown beaded with pearls and crystals and surrounded by six multicolored medieval Heralds: “her gaze steadily fixed upon the High Altar, she moved in white beauty....”

  She sat in the front row of the Royal Gallery with the seat between her and the Queen Mother reserved for Prince Charles, who was to be slipped into his seat nearer the time his mother was to be crowned.

  “Suddenly,” Brigadier Stanley Clark recalled, the Queen entered, “a lovely picture in a diamond diadem and in a robe of crimson velvet trimmed with ermine and bordered with gold lace ... [and] wearing the collar of the Garter. With firm and measured step—as she had practised so often in her own home—she moved to the faldstool before her Chair of Estate and prayed.” The first stage of the Queen’s Coronation had begun.

  The Queen went through the long service “pale and composed and not a quiver showed in her hands ...[and] While blood-stirring Hallelujahs lifted in a crescendo, the Queen was disrobed for the most solemn act of her Coronation,” Clark continued. “Her Majesty herself took the diamond diadem from her head, as if unwilling to trust her hair-do to another, and handed it to the Mistress of the Robes. The great train was detached from the Queen’s shoulders and folded backward by each pair of Maids of Honour, until it was a rich crimson pile overflowing the extended arms of the Groom of Robes.”

  Next she removed her jewelry “piece by piece, divesting herself of every symbol of wealth and distinction, and at last dressed only in a simple white garment [slipped over her Coronation dress] she took her seat in St. Edward’s Chair.”

  Prince Charles, his fair hair slicked down with brilliantine, was ushered in now, a Coronation medal pinned to his white satin shirt, and was led down the steps to the Royal Gallery where his grandmother grabbed his hand and his Aunt Margaret settled him into the seat between them. For “a fraction of a second ... the Queen’s eyes flickered sideways for one swift glance at her son,” noted an observer.

  He was not still for very long. “In a moment,” Clark adds, “he was hanging over the edge of the Royal Gallery, inspecting it. The Queen Mother hauled him back. A little later he disappeared from sight altogether, and I saw his grandmother and his aunt bending their heads, talking cogently to him. Still he did not reappear, and I could see that the Queen Mother was scraping one foot sideways and saying something with some urgency to her grandson. And presently, like a rocket, Prince Charles shot into view again, the Queen Mother’s handbag triumphantly clasped in one small hand. After that he was still again on his seat and watched the service closely, asking questions of his grandmother and Princess Margaret and vigorously nodding his head at their answers.”

  The Queen was next garbed in the gold Robe Royal and one by one was given the symbols of authority. The Sceptre was placed in her right hand and the Rod in her left. “Be so merciful that you be not too remiss,” prayed the Archbishop, “so execute justice that you forget not mercy. Punish the wicked, protect and cherish the just, and lead your people in the way wherein they should go.”

  The large audience in the Abbey sensed that the great moment had come. “The Queen Mother ... raised her hand for one brief moment to her forehead. Princess Margaret seemed tense with emotion. There was a hush throughout the Abbey,” Clark continues. “The silence was absolute as the Dean carried the Crown from the altar.... I saw Her Majesty’s eyes lift as the Archbishop held the Crown high above her head.” Slowly, solemnly, the Archbishop brought the Crown down on to the Queen’s head.

  A great gust of sound raised up through the Abbey, “God Save the Queen.” Trumpets sounded, drums rolled, and then the great guns of the Tower and in Hyde Park were shot off. The Queen now ascended her Throne to receive the homage of the peers. Prince Philip, the uniform of Admiral of the Fleet beneath his velvet and ermine robe, removed his coronet, placing it on a cushion held by the Earl Marshal and came forward to the Throne and knelt at the Queen’s feet, swearing to become her “liege man of life and limb, and of earthly worship, and faith and trust I will bear unto you, to live and die, against all manner of folks. So help me God.” Rising, he kissed the Queen’s left cheek; his head touched the Crown as he did so, and it slipped slightly to one side. The Queen immediately straightened it.

  “I could have watched forever,” Chips Channon recorded, “the red, the gold, the sparkle, the solemnity ... finally a fanfare, people began walking about, and Winston was very recognisable in his Garter robes as he smiled and strutted.... As we came out, under cover of course, it was pelting, but the royal cortege was just leaving the Abbey [and] as the Gold Coach turned into Parliament Square the sun smiled for a second and I saw the Queen’s white gloved hand and her great Crown.”

  The parade returned to the Palace in relentless rain. Uniforms clung to soldiers’ backs, the Foot Guards’ bearskins looked gray; the stout white-stockinged calves of the footmen on the Royal carriages were streaked with dye from their crimson velvet pantaloons. But the soggy weather did not dampen anyone’s enthusiasm. Outside the emptying Abbey the crowds remained undispersed as they huddled beneath umbrellas and slickers and sent up their cheers.

  Those still gathered in the Great Hall of the Abbey to wait for their vehicles were telling each other what a perfect Coronation it had been, all the effort well worthwhile. The Coronation Committee, the Duke of Norfolk, the Press Officers were ecstatic.

  Peter Townsend, tall, slim, his hair just touched with gray to add a distinguished note to his appearance, and dressed in his sky-blue RAF uniform, stood to one side as Margaret, “looking superb, sparkling, ravishing,” came up to him. They spoke for a moment and then she familiarly, almost tenderly, brushed a bit of fluff off his uniform. Cameras clicked. The next morning several of the foreign press carried the picture on their front pages (suggesting the gesture betrayed their intimacy) side by side with a photograph of the Queen being crowned. Abroad, romance had upstaged pageantry, but in Britain the press remained silent, a discretion they would soon disregard.

  Footnote

  * Queen Elizabeth II did wear the lighter and less baroque Imperial Crown of State during her Coronation procession and as she stood on the balcony of Buckingham Palace afterward. But she was actually crowned with the St. Edward’s Crown.

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  The Royal Party, unaware of any incident at the Abbey, returned through the downpour to Buckingham Palace in a state of euphoria. Alice, Countess of Athlone, who had witnessed four Coronations in her lifetime, claimed Queen Elizabeth II’s had been the most glorious and moving. The press ranked it “among the century’s greatest-full-colour spectaculars.” The Archbishop of Canterbury was quoted as saying that on this day the “country and Commonwealth were not far
from the Kingdom of Heaven.”

  The cost of the Coronation was also greater than any previous one and in the dawn of the next day would have to be dealt with. Six distinguished British composers had been commissioned to write special music for the service; seventy of the nation’s best musicians executed it while a “400-voice choir shook the Abbey rafters.” There was the overhead of the many rehearsals, the need to have 29,000 troops and 15,000 policemen on duty during the ceremony; and although peers and peeresses each paid £245 out of their own pockets for their robes (made of cotton velveteen and trimmed in rabbit instead of the velvet and ermine of past Coronations), the expense of the extravagant jeweled gowns worn by the Queen, the Royal ladies and the Maids of Honor was to be met by the Government.

  But jubilation, not money, was the theme of Coronation night. Despite a bitterly cold evening and more rain, there were the numerous appearances on the balcony by the Queen and her family, Princess Anne now joining them and wearing a white dress and the same strand of pearls her mother had worn at King George VI’s Coronation. In between the long balcony appearances were the photographic sessions for the taking of the Coronation portraits. Like her father before her, the Queen then retired to a room in the Palace set up for her to broadcast a message to her subjects at home and overseas.*

  The speech, well-delivered, sentimental and somewhat longer than previous Coronation speeches, was heard over loudspeakers by the throngs of people standing in the cold drizzling rain in front of the Palace and in the Mall. When it ended, thousands of voices joined in to sing the National Anthem.

  At 9:40 P.M. the Queen and the Duke of Edinburgh stepped onto the balcony again. After waving to the crowds for about two minutes, Elizabeth moved slightly forward and pressed a switch which caused the first group of illuminations in London to be turned on. And while masses of people, apparently undaunted by the freezing weather, gathered along the Victoria Embankment to watch the fireworks display, the Royal couple came out again on the balcony of Buckingham Palace (heaters unobtrusively concealed in its rear corners). The floodlights were not switched off until 11:30 P.M., signaling an end to their appearances.

  “It was incredible,” one peeress remarked. “Most of us had been able to go to our homes and rest after the Coronation and were still exhausted by the ordeal—the crowds, the emotions. All of the day had been overwhelming. But the Queen and the Duke of Edinburgh had been given little time, if any, for themselves. Yet, they looked splendid and the Queen was more radiant than I believe I had ever seen her.”

  The next day proved just as strenuous. At 10:30 A.M. the Queen presented Coronation medals to the 2,400 members of contingents from the Commonwealth. In the afternoon, the sky dull but the day more moderate, the Royal couple drove in an open car through the sections of London they had not toured on Coronation Day; and at 8:30 that evening, the State Banquet was held in the Dining Room of the Palace, after which the Queen and Philip again appeared on the floodlighted balcony to wave to a cheering crowd estimated at 60,000.

  At seven o’clock that morning, before her tedious engagements began, the Queen had gone out on the grounds of Buckingham Palace to ride her favorite horse, Winston, sidesaddle, in training for the Trooping of the Colors, eight days hence. Riding in the open air helped her to relax and was one of the few ways she could enjoy some private time. At this moment, in the eyes of the world, she appeared to be gloriously happy, a most content, fulfilled young woman. But, in fact, she was facing the most serious problem she had ever had to deal with. How could she, who now had everything, deny her sister her chance for happiness?

  She and Margaret had gone through more together than most sisters. They had lived isolated, unique lives, had grown up often having only each other and when time permitted, their parents. As her father had always said “Us four must stay together.” He understood that no outsider could ever comprehend how very similar and yet how different they were from other families. Now “us four” meant the Queen, Philip, Charles and Anne. Margaret was suddenly “one of them,” not “one of us.”

  Lilibet had grown up with mounting anxiety over the task she would one day have to face. At an incredibly young age she had known she could not do what was expected of her alone. As example she had the close attachment of her parents and her own awareness that it was her mother’s strength and support that had pulled her father through so many difficult times. Her own early fear was having to marry for reasons apart from love.

  Once Philip had entered her life, she had been determined that he would husband and care for her. There had been many times when she had shared with Margaret, her only confidante, her terror that Philip might not love her enough to withstand her father’s, the Court’s and the Government’s disapproval. And Margaret, especially on their South Africa tour, had eased her doubts, stood squarely behind her decisions, and whenever the opportunity arose, had said what she could in praise of Philip to her parents.

  Through their youths, the sisters had dealt with each other one on one, with unquestioned mutual trust. But the Queen could no longer indulge in such a relationship. She had just gone through the hallowed rites of her Coronation, and her duty was shining clear to her. She had not yet learned of the published picture of Margaret and Townsend; but when she did, its tender aspect would not surprise her. Not for one minute did she question Margaret’s love for Townsend, nor his for her. Only a few weeks earlier, Margaret had come to her to ask permission to marry Townsend. The confrontation had not been easy. Even the Queen felt uncomfortable about her sister having to ask her for permission to marry. Perhaps she was still too new in her position, but she had appeared awkward, almost embarrassed to Margaret.

  Although she sidestepped the issue, the Queen was compassionate, asking her sister to be patient and to wait until after the Coronation. She seemed to Margaret understanding. She explained what Margaret already knew—that under the provisions of the Marriage Act of 1772 she could not give her consent for her sister to marry a divorced man, even if, as had been the case, he was the innocent party. But she did, in effect, promise that she would see how this could be worked out to the lovers’ advantage. Margaret had left this audience with her sister feeling hopeful, and conveyed this to Townsend. She was now twenty-three. According to the Marriage Act, she needed the Queen’s approval to marry until the age of twenty-five. After that, she believed, she could marry whom she pleased. As time was to prove, this was not to be the case.

  She had known Townsend for years, their love was mature. Townsend had come from a different background, but he had become part of the Royal circle of insiders when she was just a youngster. They shared many memories. He was familiar with everyone in her family, their foibles and their attributes. He understood Royal protocol and could contribute to the ease with which she had to carry out her job. And her parents had always thought highly of him. Both lovers realized they might have to wait two more years, but with Peter so close—living, in fact, right in Clarence House where he currently occupied a comfortable apartment—that did not seem too great a price to pay.

  No sooner had Margaret left her sister’s presence than the Queen discussed the situation with her husband, who felt she should not wait until after the Coronation but should seek immediate advice from her Private Secretary, Sir Alan Lascelles. Had Lascelles not been the Queen’s adviser, it is entirely possible Margaret and Townsend’s affair would have had, if not a happier, at least a gentler, denouement.

  With bitter recollections of the happenings in 1936 still remaining with him, Lascelles, a staunch and iron-rod royalist, saw a replay of those treacherous days when the very Monarchy had seemed undermined. The years had only hardened his steel. He had now spent thirty-three years as a courtier and Private Secretary to the Sovereign; he had served three Kings and now a young Queen, and no one is closer to the Monarch than his or her Private Secretary. The Queen had “inherited” Lascelles upon her accession, a move that all concerned felt would assure a smooth transition from one reign to th
e next. As well, Lascelles’s familiarity with what was in the despatch boxes, his knowledge of constitutional law and his longstanding friendships with the meaningful men in the Government would be invaluable to the new Queen.

  And so she consulted Lascelles before the Coronation and he advised her that under no circumstances could such a marriage be contemplated, that she could not afford a scandal so close to her Coronation and that Townsend should leave the Court and be given an appointment abroad, preferably someplace distant like Singapore. The Queen ended this audience in much distress. But she did not tell Margaret or Townsend what she had been advised. They therefore remained oblivious to any coming storm.

  On Saturday, June 13, Lascelles took the initiative and drove to Chartwell to consult Prime Minister Churchill, giving him his bleakest and most direct feelings. The Prime Minister’s first reaction was that nothing should stand in the way of true love. However, Lady Churchill, who, with Jock Colville, was present at this meeting, said that if he followed this line, he would be making the same mistake that he had made with Edward VIII. (Mention of the abdication prompted Churchill to admit that in the end he had tried to “frighten Mrs. Simpson away from England.... Bricks were thrown through her windows and letters written threatening her with vitriol.”) Both these men had been through the terrible days of the abdication.

  To compare the current situation with the abdication, however, was ridiculous. Margaret was only a sister to a Sovereign who had two heirs, and remained a good distance from the Throne. Townsend, although divorced, a commoner, from an obscure family and not monied, was English, a trusted courtier who had been a confidant of “good” King George VI and was a former war hero. Also, times were changing. Three top men in the Government were divorced (the Foreign Secretary, Anthony Eden, the Minister of Labour, Walter Monckton, and the President of the Board of Trade, Peter Thorneycroft) and it had not hurt their careers.

 

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