‘Are you saying you wish never to set eyes on me again?’
‘Never. You are no longer my sister,’ Aurelia answered tightly.
There was another silence as Flora stood up. ‘Is there nothing I can say or do to make penance?’
‘No. Now, please leave. Goodbye, Flora.’
‘I will think of you every day for the rest of my life, and never forgive myself for how I have hurt you. Goodbye, darling Aurelia.’
Flora, her eyes welling with tears she felt too guilty to shed, took one last glance at her sister to store it in her memory forever, and left the room.
30
‘Goodness! I didn’t expect you back so soon, Miss Flora,’ commented Nannie as Flora entered the day nursery at Portman Square.
‘I have fittings to attend for my dress and my trousseau,’ she lied in reply.
‘I reckon you’re missing the bright lights of London, aren’t you? And there was you always waxing lyrical about the countryside. A right city girl you’ve become,’ Nannie laughed.
‘Are Mrs Keppel and the girls here?’
‘No, they haven’t returned from France yet. They’re due back next week.’ She paused and scrutinised Flora’s demeanour. ‘Are you all right, miss? You look a bit out of sorts.’
‘Yes, I am quite well, thank you,’ she said, and left the nursery feeling she would never be ‘all right’ again.
In the next few days, Flora was relieved that the house was quiet so she could endure her wretchedness alone. She took herself off for long walks in the fast burgeoning parks of London, hoping that nature would comfort her. But all it did was remind her of Archie, and then, by immediate default, of Aurelia. As she walked determinedly, desperate to exhaust herself so she might fall into a mind-numbing sleep, the pain of losing the person she loved most in the world tore into her. She could not rest, neither could she eat. Her guilt knew no bounds, and as she prepared herself for a wedding to a man who repulsed her, Flora saw a life sentence of misery as a just punishment.
Almost three weeks before the wedding, Mrs Keppel and the girls returned from France.
‘My dear, you have grown so thin!’ Mrs Keppel exclaimed as they took tea together in the parlour. ‘It must be the stress of your forthcoming marriage. I remember losing two inches off my waistline before I married George.’
‘How is the King?’ Flora changed the subject.
‘He is much recovered since you saw him, but under the most dreadful pressure from his government, who are determined to embroil him – no, to blackmail him – into agreeing to constitutional changes he does not agree with. I am glad he has been abroad and at least distanced from it all. There is no doubt the pressure has affected his health, let alone his state of mind. He is not strong, as you saw in Biarritz. I feel desperately sorry for him, poor thing. He is a far better king – and man – than he has been given credit for.’
Flora walked from the parlour later, thinking that Mrs Keppel did not look herself either. And wondered what secrets she held.
In the next two weeks, as the dreaded day grew closer, Flora was thankful to be kept busy. She had attended the last fitting at Worth, along with the seven bridesmaids, having explained to Daphne that Aurelia felt unable to attend on her, due to her pregnant state. Violet had overheard this conversation and sought her out at home later.
‘Flora, I am so sorry to hear that votre sœur is unable to be your maid of honour.’
Violet’s new habit of peppering her speech with snippets of French irritated the entire household and Flora gave a wry smile.
‘Thank you.’
‘I’d just like to say that, as I am now the eldest of your attendants, if you would like me to take the role of your maid of honour, I would be honoured to do so.’
‘That really is kind of you, Violet, and I am sure I will be in need of your help. I tried on the tiara I will wear at the wedding, and goodness knows how I will stand its weight,’ Flora said, touched by her offer.
Violet sat down on Flora’s bed and surveyed her as she prepared for dinner downstairs.
‘Flora?’
‘Yes, Violet?’
‘Can I be truthful with you?’
‘That depends.’
‘Well, don’t think I’m being rude, but you look perfectly misérable at present. Are you not looking forward to being married?’
‘Of course I am, but like any girl, I am nervous.’
‘Do you love Freddie?’
Something about Violet’s bluntness deserved an honest reply. ‘I . . . don’t know him well enough to love him. But I am sure I will in time.’
‘I think I shall simply refuse to get married. I would far prefer to remain a spinster than have to marry someone I don’t love. Everyone says to me that I’ll change, but I know I won’t. Not like Vita . . .’ Violet’s expression darkened. ‘She is such a turncoat.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘She makes her debut this summer and all she can talk of is her new gowns and the young men who are already calling on her at Knole. And after all she said to me . . .’
‘People do change, Violet. Sometimes the world just can’t be as we wish it to.’
‘When I was younger, I believed in fairy tales, did you?’
‘Every child does.’
‘Maybe it’s been different for me: I grew up with a mother who wears a tiara and spends her holidays with the King of England. I have always been treated like a princess. Why should I grow up and believe differently? I just . . .’ – Violet sighed and stretched dramatically – ‘want to be with the one I love. Is that wrong?’
‘No.’ Flora swallowed hard. ‘Or at least, it’s not wrong to want it. Whether it actually happens is a different story.’
‘And not a fairy tale.’ Violet sat up and swung her legs off the bed.
‘Maybe not everyone deserves a happy ending,’ Flora replied, mostly to herself.
‘Well.’ Violet stood up and walked across to the door. ‘I do.’
With that, she left the room, and Flora thought back to the girl she had once been at Esthwaite, who had believed in fairy tales too.
On a rainy day at the beginning of May, Flora was called to Mrs Keppel’s parlour.
‘Please leave us,’ Mrs Keppel snapped at the parlour maid. ‘We do not wish to be disturbed.’
A startled Mabel scurried from the room and Flora wondered what had happened. She had never seen Mrs Keppel be anything other than polite to her staff.
‘Please, sit down.’
Flora did so and Mrs Keppel walked to the fire, took the poker from its stand and attacked the burning embers viciously. ‘It is cold in here, even though it is already May, don’t you think? And the King, so I am told, has caught another chill. Yet, guess where he dines tonight? At the Keyser woman’s home! He goes to play bridge with her when he is newly returned to London. What he sees in her, God only knows. Forgive me, Flora,’ Mrs Keppel said, sitting down. ‘Perhaps it is inappropriate to talk to you of my concerns, but who else can it be?’
Flora had no idea who the ‘Keyser woman’ was, but guessed that perhaps Mrs Keppel was not the only one of the King’s female ‘companions’. ‘Can I pour you a sherry?’ she offered lamely.
‘Perhaps a brandy will be better. Like the King, I am quite chilled. Normally, of course, he leaves straight from France for his Mediterranean cruise. But given the current political crisis, he has had to return home sooner, or those who are eager to will criticise his absence. And where is his wife? She has left him behind and is cruising the Greek isles! Is there no woman who truly cares for the poor man?’
Flora handed her the requested brandy and Mrs Keppel put a shaking hand around it. ‘Thank you, my dear. Forgive me for not being myself.’
‘I hardly think your concern for the King’s well-being is in need of forgiveness.’
‘So many in this town have had an axe to grind against me for my relationship with Bertie, but none of it was out of selfishness. It’s simp
ly because I love the man. Is that a crime?’
‘I don’t believe so, no.’
‘Yes, he has made mistakes,’ Mrs Keppel continued, setting down the glass, ‘but when one is told by one’s mother that one is not fit to walk on the very earth that his father trod, and then his rightful place as king is denied him because she simply did not trust him to take her place, what kind of legacy does that give any child, let alone the Prince of Wales? What was he to do for all these years as he sat idle, waiting to take up his natural role? And all because of her blind love for his “perfect” father. Let me tell you, Flora, no human being is perfect. Bertie has suffered so much from her constant disdain of him.’
Flora was shocked at Mrs Keppel’s diatribe. She had been born under the reign of Queen Victoria, the most powerful sovereign in Christendom, the very essence of motherhood, with her enormous family and her loving husband. What Mrs Keppel was saying was in such contrast to Flora’s own Madonna-like image of the old Queen, she could not take it in.
‘And now, having spent every ounce of himself proving to the world that he could be a good king, he is simply exhausted, and his health is failing fast. Flora’ – Mrs Keppel grabbed her hand, the cold fingers squeezing her own – ‘I fear for his life. I really do.’
‘Surely there are many who watch over him and care for him at the Palace?’
‘You would be surprised. Bertie is surrounded by weak men and women who will only do his bidding, who live to please him or whoever holds the seat of power. To be close to a sovereign is to learn that, despite the numerous people who seem to care, it is truly the loneliest position on earth.’
Flora only caught a glimpse of Mrs Keppel through the nursery window the following evening as she left the house, the feathers on her large velvet hat positively shuddering with each agitated step. Violet joined her at the window, Panther in her arms.
‘Mama has been very odd lately. Is Kingy unwell again?’
Flora kept her tone light. ‘I am sure everything is quite all right.’
Flora did not see Mrs Keppel at all the following day; she was either out, or keeping to her private rooms. She could only hope that the King was not suffering another attack of the bronchitis he had endured in Biarritz.
The next morning, as she was walking downstairs with Sonia to enjoy the glorious May sunshine and sketch the burgeoning delphiniums in the park opposite, she met Mrs Keppel in the entrance hall.
‘How is he?’ she whispered as they went together to the front door.
‘Dr Reid says he is extremely unwell. He is being administered oxygen and has requested I go to him. The Queen is still not home.’ She stepped into the brougham and Sonia and Flora continued on their way across to the park.
At five thirty, Flora saw the brougham draw up to the house and Mrs Keppel emerge. Later, she walked downstairs to dinner, but found only Mr George at the table. He greeted her with a weary smile as she sat down.
‘I’m afraid Mrs Keppel is indisposed tonight, and is eating in her room,’ he said. ‘I presume you have heard that the King is unwell?’
‘I have, yes.’
‘They have posted an announcement outside Buckingham Palace, saying that “His Majesty’s condition causes some anxiety”. My wife was with him there today, and confirms the King is seriously ill. Thank God, the Queen is returned from her cruise and is at the Palace now.’
‘All we can do is pray,’ she said eventually.
‘Yes.’ Mr George nodded sadly. ‘That is exactly what my wife said to me earlier tonight.’
‘Miss Flora, are you awake?’
Flora jumped into consciousness, having no idea what time it was. ‘What is it?’ she asked as she saw Barny standing in the half-light at her door.
‘It’s Mrs Keppel, she’s hysterical. If you could go to see her . . .’
‘Of course. Where is she?’
‘In her boudoir. See if you can calm her.’
In fact, Flora hadn’t needed to be told where Mrs Keppel was, for the pitiful sobbing emanating from behind the door would have led her there anyway. Feeling it was rather pointless to knock, she did so a couple of times for the sake of politeness, then opened it.
Mrs Keppel was pacing the room in her nightgown and silken robe. Her thick auburn hair fell wildly about her shoulders, mirroring her current state of mind.
‘What is it? Is it the King?’
‘No.’ Mrs Keppel paused to see who was asking, registered Flora and continued as she closed the door behind her. ‘It’s the Queen! Last night, she arrived home, having been away from Bertie all these weeks when he has been so ill, and she had me banished from the Palace! Now I am not allowed to see him in his dying hour! How can this be? How can it be?’
Mrs Keppel sank into a silken huddle on the rug and sobbed. Flora walked towards her and knelt down beside her. Eventually, Mrs Keppel calmed herself enough to speak again.
‘Flora, I love him. And he loves me! And needs me! I know he wants me there!’ Mrs Keppel fumbled in her robe pocket, drew out a letter and unfolded it. ‘See,’ she said, stabbing at it with her index finger, ‘you read it.’
Duly, Flora took the sheet of paper from her trembling hands.
My dear Mrs George,
Should I be taken very seriously ill I hope you will come and cheer me up but should there be no chance of my recovery you will I hope still come and see me – so that I may say farewell and thank you for all your kindness and friendship since it has been my good fortune to know you. I feel convinced that all those who have any affection for me will carry out the wishes which I have expressed in these lines.
‘I see,’ said Flora quietly.
‘What should I do?’
‘Well,’ she said slowly. ‘I think that he is the king, and you are his subject. And . . . this letter decrees that he wishes you to go to him.’
‘But can I show it to the Queen? His wife? Would it be an unseemly thing to do, to use this to beg to be in the presence of a man who has only a few hours left on earth, so that I may say goodbye? I just . . . want to say . . . goodbye.’
If ever Flora had felt the weight of the world on her shoulders, she felt it now. It wasn’t her place to tell the King’s mistress whether she should run to him on his deathbed, ignoring the displeasure of the Queen. She could only put herself in the position of a woman who loved a man and wanted to see him before he died.
‘I think,’ Flora said, taking a deep breath, ‘that I would go to the Palace. Yes, I would,’ she reiterated. ‘Merely because, even if you cannot gain entry to see the King, you will always know that you tried to do as your sovereign requested. Yes.’ Flora looked Mrs Keppel in the eyes. ‘That is what I would do.’
‘My dissenters inside the Palace will hate me all the more for it.’
‘Perhaps. But he will not.’
‘God knows what will become of me when he is gone . . . I dare not think.’
‘He is not gone yet.’
‘My dearest Flora.’ Mrs Keppel lifted her shaking arms towards her. ‘You are a joy to me. And to the King.’ She took Flora into her arms and held her. ‘I will send him your love.’
‘Please do. I am extremely fond of him.’
‘As he is of you.’ Mrs Keppel wiped her tears away and picked herself up off the floor. ‘I will go to the Palace, and if they do not let me see my love, then so be it. But at least I have tried. Thank you, Flora. Can you send in Barny to me to help me dress? I must not wear black’ – she shuddered – ‘but some gay colour that will cheer him.’
‘Of course. Good luck.’ Flora left the room.
For the rest of the day, the residents of 30 Portman Square held vigil, waiting for Mrs Keppel to return home. Nannie arrived with regular bulletins as to the King’s health, passed on from Mrs Stacey, who took the gossip on the street from the tradespeople who called at the kitchen door with the household deliveries.
Sonia came to sit by Flora in the day nursery.
‘Do you think Kingy
’s off to heaven today? All the servants are saying he’s going to die.’
‘If he does, I am sure he will go to heaven,’ said Flora. ‘He is a very good man.’
‘I know some people are scared of him, but he always played games with me. He used to race bits of toast down his trouser leg for me, getting butter everywhere. And he is kind, even though I don’t much like his dog, so I think that Kingy will grow wings and go and live on a cloud with God. After all, He is a king too.’
‘Yes, He is,’ said Flora, as Sonia nestled into her and sucked her thumb.
Dusk was descending when Flora finally heard the brougham return to the front of the house beneath the window, then saw a figure being half carried out of it. She raced to the top of the stairs and leant over the banister, straining her ears to hear Mrs Keppel’s voice. All she heard was silence.
‘Mr and Mrs Keppel are taking supper in their rooms, Miss Flora. I’ll bring you up a tray to yours,’ said Mrs Stacey, who Flora saw was wearing black. Or maybe she always has and I never noticed, Flora thought.
At midnight, she still lay awake and listened to the nearby church bells chime midnight, sounding like a death knell. Shortly towards one o’clock, she heard bells tolling mournfully from all over London.
‘He’s gone, God bless him, God bless the King,’ said Nannie, greeting Flora as she arrived on the nursery floor the following morning. ‘The girls are inconsolable. Perhaps you’d come and see them?’
‘Of course.’ Flora walked in and found them huddled together in an armchair with Panther sprawled across their laps.
‘Oh Flora, Kingy has died in the night! Isn’t it awful?’ cried Sonia.
‘Yes, it’s terribly sad.’
‘What will Mama do now? We will never go to Biarritz again, and she will never be a queen,’ said Violet.
‘Kingy will always be a king, and your mother will always be a queen,’ Flora said gently as she gathered them to her and they leant into her embrace.
The Shadow Sister Page 33