The Shadow Sister

by Lucinda Riley

  ‘Miss MacNichol?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I am Sir Arthur Davidson, equerry to the King, and I will escort you up to his rooms.’

  Flora was led swiftly through the palatial entrance hall and upstairs in a lift. They stepped out into a wide, sumptuously carpeted corridor and walked towards a uniformed butler who was standing outside a set of double doors.

  ‘Please tell Mrs Keppel that Miss MacNichol is here,’ said her escort.

  The butler nodded and disappeared inside. Flora waited silently, not sure how one should converse with an equerry of the King.

  ‘Flora, my dear!’ Mrs Keppel appeared through the double doors and gave her a spontaneous hug. ‘Come in, come in,’ she said, closing the door on the equerry and leading Flora into an exquisitely furnished sitting room with long windows that gave a wonderful view of the ocean. ‘The King is sleeping at the moment, but will be up in time for dinner. He wishes to eat here in our private dining room. I must warn you that he is not at all well. I . . .’

  At that Mrs Keppel’s words were drowned out by a dreadful, deep coughing sound from the next room.

  ‘Come and sit down and we shall take a glass of sherry each. I, for one, would certainly enjoy it.’

  Mrs Keppel went to the array of decanters arranged on the sideboard and poured them both a glass. As she handed Flora hers, Mrs Keppel’s hands shook and Flora noticed there were dark rings under her eyes.

  ‘How sick is the King?’ Flora ventured nervously.

  ‘He took a chill in Paris and for the last two days has had a terrible attack of bronchitis. Dr Reid, his physician, and I have been nursing him but, thank goodness, Nurse Fletcher has now arrived from England; she has cared for him before.’ Mrs Keppel swiftly drained her glass.

  ‘Is he getting better?’

  ‘He is at least getting no worse, though, of course, the silly man refuses to help himself. He still insists on continuing with his routine rather than staying in bed, but at least we have managed to confine him to these rooms.’ Another bone-wracking cough emanated from next door and Flora too took a large gulp of her sherry.

  ‘Are you sure it’s appropriate for me to be here if he is so sick?’

  ‘My dear, as I said, the King refuses to surrender to his illness and I doubt he has dined alone a single night of his life. The Marquis de Soveral, the Portuguese ambassador, is also joining us, but, of course, the King would hardly be content with just the two of us and his doctor present at table. When I said you had arrived here earlier today, he was most eager that you join us.’

  ‘Then I am honoured.’

  ‘At least he has not been smoking those confounded cigars; Dr Reid is convinced they are the cause of his bronchial problems. No doubt the moment he is recovered, he will begin again. But what can one do? He is the King after all.’

  Flora wanted to ask why, if the King was so sick, the Queen was not in attendance on her husband, but felt it was inappropriate to do so.

  ‘You must be weary if you have not slept for the past two nights,’ Flora said.

  ‘Indeed I am; I sat with him throughout the night, sponging him down as his fever was so high. To be honest, Flora, there were moments when I feared for his life. But now that Nurse Fletcher has arrived, he is in safe hands.’ There was yet another attack of coughing from next door. ‘Excuse me, Flora, I must go to him.’

  For the following fifteen minutes, the doors to the suite opened and closed as steaming bowls and strange-smelling poultices made their way through to the King. Flora secreted herself in the farthest corner by the drawing room window, trying to make herself invisible.

  Eventually, as the light was fading across the sea and the sun illuminated the clouds in a splendour of reds and oranges, Mrs Keppel and Dr Reid appeared, deep in conversation.

  ‘The question is, should we alert the Queen?’ Dr Reid asked.

  ‘The King has already stated that he does not want to alarm his wife,’ snapped Mrs Keppel. ‘Besides, she abhors Biarritz.’

  ‘That may be, but it would be most tragic if . . .’ Dr Reid wrung his hands in agitation. ‘Of course, he should be in a hospital, but he will not hear of it.’

  ‘I should think not. Can you imagine the furore if the newspapers hear of this?’

  ‘Madam, there are already a number of reporters downstairs, asking why the King is not taking his usual walks along the promenade and leaving the hotel to dine. I doubt we can keep them at bay for much longer.’

  ‘Then what are we to do?’

  ‘I will sit up with him tonight and monitor him hour by hour, but if his breathing does not seem easier by morning . . . whether the King wishes his wife and the rest of the world to know of his indisposition or not, we must contact the Palace.’

  A knock at the door made them both turn around. Flora stood up to answer it.

  ‘Flora, my dear, I had forgotten you were here.’ A faint blush rose to Mrs Keppel’s cheeks as she realised their conversation had been overheard.

  The equerry stepped into the suite. ‘The maids are here to lay the King’s table for dinner.’

  ‘Yes, yes, let them in,’ Mrs Keppel sighed, throwing a despairing glance at Flora. ‘He still insists that he rises to dine with us in here tonight.’

  Mrs Keppel left for her own room to ready herself for dinner and Dr Reid disappeared into the King’s bedroom. Flora watched the dining table being laid by the three maids, the gold-rimmed china plates and the heavy silver cutlery carefully nudged into place at precise angles to the crystal wine glasses, before the maids removed themselves as quietly as they had arrived.

  Flora was only thankful that the coughing from next door seemed to have abated; perhaps the King was finally sleeping. As the door to the bedroom opened, Flora turned anxiously, expecting Dr Reid. Instead, the King himself appeared in the room, fully dressed and breathing heavily.

  ‘Your Majesty.’ Flora hastily drew herself to standing and swept a deep and embarrassed curtsey. She felt the King’s eyes upon her, squinting across the vast drawing room.

  ‘Well, bless my soul! If it isn’t little Miss Flora Mac-Nichol,’ he panted.

  ‘Yes, Your Majesty.’

  ‘Come and help me to a chair, will you? I’ve escaped while my jailors are busy in the bathroom, no doubt preparing some ghastly, foul-smelling poultice or injection.’

  Flora walked towards him, listening to his irregular breathing and praying that he didn’t breathe his last with her. He held out his elbow to her and she took it shyly.

  ‘Where would you like to sit?’ she asked as they progressed slowly and painfully across the room, the effort of walking rendering him speechless and only able to point to his preferred chair. It took all of Flora’s strength to support him as he sat down heavily, and she watched him fight a further coughing fit. His eyes watered and his breathing increased apace.

  ‘Shall I call for Dr Reid, Your Majesty?’

  ‘No!’ he hissed. ‘Just pour me some brandy!’

  Flora walked to the tray of decanters, only wishing the King would have a coughing fit and alert the doctor to his escape from the bedroom. Following the fat pointed finger with a nod, she picked up one of the decanters, poured a small glass and turned towards him.

  ‘More!’

  Doing as instructed and filling it to the brim, Flora took the brandy back to him and watched as he took it and downed it in one.

  ‘Another,’ he whispered, and Flora had no choice but to repeat the exercise.

  ‘Now,’ the King said, passing the empty glass to her, ‘that’s what I call medicine. Shh.’ He put a shaking finger to his lips as Flora replaced the glass on the tray. ‘Sit.’ He pointed to the chair closest to him and she did so.

  ‘So, Miss MacNichol, Flora . . . I approve of that name. Scottish, you know.’

  ‘Yes, Your Majesty.’

  ‘It is odd, is it not?’

  ‘What is, Your Majesty?’

  There was a long pause before the King was
able to continue speaking.

  ‘That you and I find ourselves alone together. On an occasion where I might not see the sun tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Please, Your Majesty, do not say such a thing!’

  ‘I . . .’

  Flora watched the vast man struggle for air and saw tears filling his eyes.

  ‘I have made many mistakes.’

  ‘I am sure you have not.’

  ‘I have . . . I have . . .’

  Another lengthy pause ensued.

  ‘I am only human, you see. And I have loved . . .’

  Flora decided the best thing to do was to avert her eyes as the King’s staccato soliloquy continued.

  ‘. . . women,’ he managed finally. ‘You are to be married soon?’

  ‘Yes, I am.’

  ‘A viscount, I hear?’ He smiled suddenly.

  ‘Yes, Your Majesty, Freddie Soames.’

  ‘And . . . you love him?’

  ‘I believe I will grow to do so, yes.’

  At this, the King began to chuckle, then realising it was not possible given his condition, he brought his mirth under control.

  ‘You have spirit, like me. Come here.’

  Flora went towards him, and took his outstretched hand, hearing the deathly rattle in his chest.

  ‘Wasn’t sure, you see.’

  ‘About what, Your Majesty?’

  ‘When Mrs George suggested it. Clever woman, Mrs George . . . always right.’

  At that moment, the bedroom door opened and Dr Reid walked in, followed by a nurse.

  ‘We thought we had left you to sleep, Your Majesty.’ Dr Reid’s eyes fell accusingly on Flora. ‘You know it is by far the best medicine.’

  ‘So you tell me,’ rasped the King. ‘But so is . . . good company.’ The King then winked at Flora before the attack of coughing he had been suppressing could no longer be prevented.

  Water and more steam were brought to him and Mrs Keppel appeared, looking refreshed and calm in a blue velvet evening gown.

  ‘Mrs George, where on earth have you been?’

  ‘Really, Bertie, you should be in bed,’ she chided.

  ‘Where is Soveral? He’s late to dine. And I am . . . starving.’

  Flora left the hotel suite two hours later to take the short journey back to the Villa Eugénie. The dinner she had just endured – and endured was the only word for it – had been one of agonising tension. The King’s guests had listened to his increasingly laboured breathing, pretending all was normal, yet fearing he was about to collapse as his convulsive cough overtook him. The King had eaten what Flora would label a substantial dinner for at least two people, and also – despite the disapproving looks of some of his guests – drunk a considerable amount of red wine.

  ‘I will stay here with him,’ Mrs Keppel had told Flora. ‘Send my love to the girls and tell them I will see them when Kingy is better.’

  They had said their goodbyes, then Flora was escorted downstairs to the waiting Rolls-Royce. Leaning her head back on the plump leather seat, she felt completely mentally and physically drained by the events of the day.

  28

  Flora didn’t see Mrs Keppel for the following three days, so she and the children amused themselves by going out for bracing walks along the promenade, then returning to the Villa Eugénie for lunch. When the sun came out, they spent time sketching and painting the unusual plants that grew in the Villa’s gardens.

  Having shown little interest in her painting up to now, Violet had attached herself to Flora. And indeed, her delicate watercolours showed genuine ability. But both sisters were unsettled, wondering why their familiar Biarritz routine had been disturbed. Flora could not enlighten them, having been told point-blank by Mrs Keppel to mention nothing about the severity of the King’s condition.

  ‘Why aren’t we going out for picnics with Mama and Kingy? It’s so dull just staying here at the Villa, and I haven’t even worn any of my new dresses yet,’ Sonia complained.

  ‘Because the weather has been so wet and Kingy doesn’t wish to catch a cold.’

  ‘But it’s sunny today, Flora, and we haven’t seen Mama for days now. She must be bored too.’

  ‘I am sure we will see her very soon, and Kingy too,’ Flora replied with a certainty she didn’t feel.

  That evening after an early supper, Nannie took Sonia upstairs for a bath and Violet sat with Flora, scribbling away in the notebook she always carried with her.

  ‘Flora?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Kingy is very ill, isn’t he? Will he die?’

  ‘Goodness, no, he just has a bad cold. Everyone is simply being cautious because he is the king.’

  ‘I know you’re lying. But it doesn’t matter.’ Violet turned to her notebook, chewing the end of her pencil.

  ‘What are you writing?’

  ‘Poetry, although I am quite dreadful compared to Vita. I believe she will be a writer one day. She seems to be having such a wonderful time in London preparing for the Season, I daresay she doesn’t even think of me at all.’

  ‘I’m sure that’s not true,’ Flora reassured Violet, seeing the darkness in her eyes which always pre-empted her black moods.

  ‘It is. She is so beautiful, like an untamed thoroughbred . . . wild and unfettered. But, of course, life – and men – will tame her.’

  ‘Perhaps life tames us all, Violet. Perhaps it has to.’

  ‘Why? Why must we women marry someone who is chosen for us by others? Things are changing, Flora! Just look at what the suffragettes are doing for women’s rights! Surely it could be different? And marriage itself . . .’ Violet shuddered. ‘I cannot understand how two people who hardly know each other are meant to spend the rest of their lives together. And do . . . that unspeakable thing, despite being complete strangers.’

  ‘I’m sure you will understand all that when you get older, Violet.’

  ‘No, I won’t,’ she said simply. ‘People keep saying that, but I don’t like men. It’s like asking a cat and a dog to live and sleep together. We share nothing in common. Look at Mama and Papa.’

  ‘Come now! From what I have seen, your parents are quite happy together. And great friends.’

  ‘Then tell me why, at this moment, my father stays in London at the office, while Mama is here nursing a sick king?’

  ‘Perhaps it’s too much to ask your spouse to provide everything you need.’

  ‘I disagree. Vita fulfils me on every level. I would never become bored with her.’

  ‘Then you are lucky to have found such a friend.’

  ‘She is far more than my friend. She is my . . . everything. I don’t expect you to understand, or anyone for that matter.’ Violet stood up abruptly. ‘I’m going to bed. Goodnight, Flora.’

  Mrs Keppel appeared at the Villa Eugénie early the following morning. They crossed each other on the stairs as Flora was on her way down to breakfast.

  ‘How is the King?’ Flora whispered.

  ‘Thank God, he has turned the corner. His fever is down, and for the first time, he slept peacefully last night.’

  ‘That is wonderful news.’

  ‘It is indeed. And this morning, he insists on joining friends for luncheon, so I must prepare myself. It has been a long few days and, to be blunt, I feel quite exhausted. Are the girls upstairs in their room?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then I will go and reassure them. No doubt Bertie will wish life to resume as normal now he believes he is well again. And for the world to know that he is too. He even lit up one of his hateful cigars this morning.’

  After that, life did return to normal. Flora helped dress the girls for outings with their mother and the King every day.

  ‘It’s awfully strange, Flora, as there are so many nice places we could sit and eat, yet Kingy insists we take our picnic on the side of the road!’ said Sonia, as she returned from one such outing and ripped her straw hat from her head.

  ‘It’s because he likes everyone in Fran
ce to see him and bow and scrape in front of him,’ replied Violet cynically. ‘Perhaps he thinks it upsets the French king.’

  ‘Well, I don’t know about that,’ said Sonia, ‘but really, he does look awfully old. And really quite ill.’

  ‘You could say the same thing about Caesar. That dog stinks to high heaven,’ complained Violet, brushing dog hair off her skirts.

  The following day, Flora was presented with a letter, handed to her by the butler.

  High Weald

  Ashford, Kent

  England

  14th March 1910

  Dearest Flora,

  I know that you are currently with Mrs Keppel, and Mr Rolfe at Portman Square kindly gave me your address in Biarritz. For, dearest sister, I wish you to be the first to know that you will be an aunt before the year is out! Yes, I am expecting a child! I confess, I am terrified, and feeling quite dreadful, which my physician tells me is usual for the early stages of pregnancy.

  Darling Flora, I long to see you and I ask if it might be possible for you to come and stay here for a while, when you return to England? Mama is unable to travel down from the Highlands to be with me, as Papa has taken a fall on his bad leg and broken his ankle. Much of my day here is spent alone, as I currently feel too unwell to go out. I am lonely, dear sister. I know your wedding comes soon, so I would not keep you from the arrangements, but perhaps you could spare at least a few days? Please write as soon as you can, and tell me when I can look forward to your visit.

  Your loving sister,

  Aurelia

  Flora, reading it over breakfast, felt as sick as her sister professed to be. The material proof of Aurelia and Archie’s coupling was enough to make her rise from the table and take herself off to her room.

  The very thought of staying at High Weald was anathema.

  ‘Stop being so selfish!’ she reprimanded herself as she paced back and forth. ‘Aurelia needs you, and you must go to her.’

  Sitting down at the desk, Flora drew out her writing paper and ink pen.