‘I don’t like the children being involved in this,’ said Daniel stiffly.
‘If this is worth doing, then I am doing it for Rose’s and Danny’s futures too,’ said Sophie wearily. ‘Besides, he is the king. If he wishes to play sailboats in Hyde Park with Danny and Rose he can —’
‘What? Get parliament to pass a law saying they have to play with him? Kings no longer have that sort of power,’ said Daniel.
‘I’m sorry. Actually, I agree,’ said Sophie, gazing absently at her hands to see if they were steady again. ‘I wish I hadn’t mentioned the children, but it worked. And I don’t think there is any harm in it for them, and I promise to send them to Shillings at once if you think there is. But David is at his most genuine and charming when he’s with children.’ She shrugged. ‘If we had come to England for a normal visit, the chances are that they might still have been invited to meet the princesses and even played there with David. They’ll have fun tomorrow. It’s not a matter of a king having the power to order them to be there.’
‘Just the power to make a mess of things,’ agreed Ethel. ‘All right if I stay here a few days, old girl?’
‘I would love you to,’ said Sophie with feeling. Everyone else was emotionally bound up in this. But not Ethel. Wonderful, solid Ethel.
‘And there won’t be any dilly-dallying with you tomorrow night neither if he gets an urge to,’ said Ethel. ‘Let him come back and have more of his bedtime story after dinner, if he wants it. But then he’s going to get a phone call from his mum. An urgent one. Even kings have to obey urgent phone calls from their mums.’
‘What about?’
‘No idea yet,’ said Ethel cheerily. ‘But the old girl will do anything to get Simpson’s hooks out of her son. James will have a little word with her. She’ll make that call.’
‘You are a wonder,’ said Sophie. ‘If we had a hundred Ethel Carrymans we’d . . . I’m too tired to know what we’d have but it would be an infinitely better world than our present one. Certainly not one flinging itself towards another war.’
‘Might need a few thousand of me for that one.’ Ethel grinned. ‘Meanwhile, let’s get you to bed. Alone,’ she added firmly. ‘I’ve told them to run you a good hot bath with lavender bath salts and to put a hot water bottle in your bed. And I’ll come and sit with you and hold your hand while you read that story. Happens I’ve never heard it either. And you’re having breakfast in bed too.’ She gave Lily and Daniel a look. ‘And no interrupting her, neither, till she’s had her second cup of coffee. Our Sophie knows what she’s doing.’
I do, don’t I, thought Sophie wearily. Because now she was succeeding she would have to go on succeeding until David found a mistress who was not a German agent or until she weaned him from fascism, and neither was going to happen in forty-eight hours, which was about as long as she thought she could stand play acting.
But she had Ethel. Ethel who knew what women put up with in the East End, which was tragically all too often not so different, morally, from what she had done tonight. You did what you had to, for as long as you had to. There was no ‘as long as she could stand it’ about it.
And tomorrow Rose and Danny would play sailboats with the king. Totally innocent, she thought wearily, just as when he plays with Lilibet and Margaret.
And some time tonight, perhaps, she could sleep.
Chapter 27
A sustaining eggnog, for shock or to promote jollity at an awkward party, as supplied by Mrs Goodenough to Miss Lily’s girls of 1906.
Ingredients
12 eggs, separated
1 cup caster sugar
2 cups rum or brandy, or 1 cup of each
6 cups cream
6 cups milk, fresh
grated nutmeg
Method
Beat the sugar with the egg yolks until the sugar grains are dissolved. Add the rum and brandy and beat well. Then add the cream. Beat until well mixed. Whip the egg whites and fold them very carefully into the other ingredients. Sprinkle on nutmeg. Serve chilled or warm, but if warm, heat the other ingredients and take off the heat before adding the egg whites.
LONDON
Instinct, as well as Miss Lily and Green (admitted under the supervision of Ethel, whose duty was obviously TO NOT LET ANYONE UPSET SOPHIE) told Sophie to look maternal the next morning. A deep blue wool jacket, once again trimmed with gold, a matching calf-length narrow wool skirt, sensible heels . . .
The three am story reading had gone well. Sophie had even enjoyed it, watching Ethel silently chuckle over the antics of Bunyip Bluegum and the ever stroppy ‘Pudding’. She had been able to forget the king on the other end of the line, which meant that what he heard was genuine warmth and fun. And when she said, ‘And that is quite enough for tonight’ and he said, ‘Just one more chapter. Please!’ she was able to laugh at Ethel nodding fervently, and read that ‘one more chapter’ then said nothing more than, ‘Goodnight, darling.’ There was no need for more.
Sophie Higgs-Vaile, bedtime story reader to a king and Ethel Carryman. Thank God — literally, in her prayers — for Ethel.
Rose and Danny chattered on the way to the park, Danny holding Sophie’s hand and Rose Miss Letitia’s. And there was the king, already with five enormous toy sailboats, his equerries and bodyguards looking uncomfortable and as discreet as possible under trying circumstances. One was trying to set a sailboat upright and another’s flannel trousers were extremely wet about the cuffs.
The newspaper photographers were there as well, even one with a cinema camera. Of course some would have been waiting at the gates to follow the king, but so many! Had someone given them the tip? Did David know it and not care? There was no way Wallis Simpson would not know about this ‘play date’ now.
‘Uncle David!’ Rose ran to him, arms upraised. How had she remembered him, when she had been just a toddler the last time they had met?
Lily, thought Sophie bitterly. Lily has been telling them stories of their Uncle David — who was, after all, their godfather — for just such a possible meeting as this.
‘My Lady Rose.’ His Majesty King Edward VIII bowed, as the little girl curtseyed, then heaved her up and swung her in the air till she yelled with joy. He stopped, panting with the exertion, and put her down, to shake Danny’s hand.
‘An honour to meet you, Your Majesty,’ said Danny, which was perfect too.
‘I am your Uncle David and always will be,’ said King Edward VIII. ‘Your father was one of my oldest friends, and your mother is my best friend in the world.’ He looked up at Sophie, and his smile was innocent, so innocent that she felt her heart wrench for him, this poor simple man who should never have been a king. And yet this simple man also thought World War One could have been ended by murdering all Jewish bankers, who called his own brother less than an animal because of his epilepsy, who cared so little for his country that he would let Germany conquer it and as long as he was given his royal prerogatives and adulation, think the act was good.
‘Yes, I am your friend,’ she said, because despite all of that, she found she was sincere. King Edward VIII was a silly man, a weak man, a man taught only the worst habits of power, the worst kind of king it was possible to have. But if he had been brought up to be, say, a baker, with parents who showed they were proud of him, and his bread, he might well have been content to work hard at a job that fulfilled him, happily part of the local cricket club or the Parish Fair Committee. A small life, and a good one, a man who everyone liked and respected.
He grinned at her, boy-like again. Sophie gave an apologetic look at Miss Letitia. David had acted as if she were one of the trees, useful but no acknowledgement needed.
‘I say,’ said His Majesty. ‘Is it too cold for ices?’
‘No!’ yelled Danny in delight, as Rose hugged her godfather.
The cameras flashed.
She came down to breakfast the next morning, as the tray did, and a thankfully short bagpipe serenade — not appear, nor Ethel. She’d had an im
promptu nursery tea the afternoon before, with Rose, Danny, the king and the Yorks. The meeting with Mr Baldwin, it seemed, had been cut short. The princesses were delightful, as were their parents, wonderfully welcoming to a colonial who was, after all, not ‘one of us’ even if her children were. David had escorted them back to Vaile House, was charmed by Lily, and insisted she join them for tea. Daniel and Ethel were discreetly absent.
His Majesty consumed his crumpets and honey — Sophie and Lily made sure he ate at least two, despite his aversion to food — laughed at a dozen stories of sheep-farm life in Australia, yet again pronounced it an appalling place and a miracle that it had produced Sophie, and certainly not somewhere his godchildren should ever return to.
The phone call had come exactly half an hour before dinnertime and also before Sophie could imitate the action of a sheep dog and bite his leg, or otherwise forget why she was doing this. His Majesty had left, just as Ethel had promised, before they could spend any time alone, or Mrs Goodenough have the joy of feeding dinner to the king. But what of today?
James was at the breakfast table already, next to Ethel — a real closeness and comfort between them that, one day when she had spare brain cells, she must think about — with Lily and Daniel and Green, and a pile of newspapers being passed around, as well as coffee.
Sophie sat, accepted coffee. ‘Thank you, Hereward.’
‘A most beautiful photograph of you, His Majesty and the children, if I may say so, your ladyship,’ said Hereward. ‘Mrs Goodenough is having copies framed for all the servants.’
‘How lovely,’ said Sophie vaguely. ‘Thank you, Hereward.’
‘Fresh toast, your ladyship, or would you prefer hot rolls?’
‘More toast, please. It’s all I feel like this morning.’
‘You need more than that, lass. How about a nice bowl of porridge?’ tempted Ethel. Sophie nodded vaguely. ‘Porridge for her ladyship, thank you, Hereward.’
Sophie looked at the first newspaper. The photograph took up nearly a third of the front page, David being enthusiastically hugged by Rose, a sailboat in his hands, as he grinned down at Danny almost paternally and certainly with love, and behind him a most flattering shot of herself, looking elegant, motherly and English — or at least British Empire and not American. Newly returned to England, the Countess of Shillings, widow of the late Nigel Vaile, Earl of Shillings, and mother to the present earl, the former Miss Sophie Higgs, an Australian heiress, is an old friend of the royal family. Miss Higgs served with distinction in the Great War, earning the Croix de Guerre as well as . . .
She could not bear to read the rest. Because she knew, looking at that photograph, she had captured David for as long as she could bear it — which would be as long as James deemed it necessary for the Empire.
Sophie could give King Edward VIII what Wallis Simpson never could: not just a wife the public and parents and church would find acceptable, even if a little unconventional. No, that was not what had put that look of joy on David’s face. Wallis Simpson could not give the king a ready-made family, or any children of his own. But with Sophie the boy who’d never grown up had children to play with. He wanted to sail those boats at the park, and now he had playmates. Lilibet was his heir, but no matter how much he adored them she and Margaret would always belong to their parents. What he really longed for were children and then grandchildren to call his own. This way, he could keep being a little boy and the man he doubted he could be . . .
‘Wallis can’t stand children,’ he had remarked absent-mindedly as, hatless, he had plunged knee deep into the pond to retrieve a capsized miniature destroyer, then belatedly realised that even a king should not speak of one mistress to another.
David didn’t really care about politics. That first enquiry into Herr Hitler had been prompted by Hannelore; his present interest was pure Simpson. David would be happy with his sailboats.
And he would want a wife . . .
I cannot do it, she thought. Even for England and the Empire, I cannot marry that man. Even if, now, she felt compassion for the man he never could be, the man he must always pretend to be; even if now, seeing him so openly happy with her children she had once again found the friend who still lingered under the prince and king she had despised. Even with that, she could not, would not marry him.
Surely neither James nor Lily would expect it. Nor, probably, would David move decisively. He might even accept a longterm friendship and not insist on marriage at all. But it would mean staying in London long enough for Wallis Simpson to realise she had been irrevocably supplanted, or at the very least, decisively engaged to someone else, preferably extremely wealthy, possessive and whom she actually liked. Leaving England now, even for a short time, would give Simpson a chance to once more take command.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Lily quietly.
‘You knew this would happen if I succeeded.’
‘Yes. But surely you did too.’
Lily glanced at James. Once again, his expression was hard to read. He should be delighted, Sophie thought. Instead he looked like . . . like an accountant who expected to tally up one set of figures, and instead has found an entirely new column which he did not yet know what to do with.
‘I . . . I didn’t think I could do it,’ admitted Sophie. ‘Not really. So I never thought . . .’
‘Of what it would mean for us?’ asked Daniel across the table.
She nodded.
‘We’ll get you through it, Sophie lass. It won’t be forever. A year or so, and James will find a way to get Simpson out of England permanent-like, even if he has to marry her to a Canadian,’ added Ethel.
Daniel blinked. ‘A Canadian?’
‘Someone nice and far away and with icebergs between here and England,’ asked Sophie.
‘And you can bet your boots that Lily here will be looking for someone more than willing to take His Majesty off your hands. And other places,’ said Ethel, wiggling her eyebrows and looking proud of her double entendre.
England must have many suitable royal mistresses, or even wives, thought Sophie a little desperately. But how many had a family to give him? And surely, she thought with a mother’s pride, no other children would be as irresistible as Rose and Danny. But after all, it was Wallis Simpson who was the problem. Once free of her and her fascist associates, no one really cared if the king was happy, as long as he could be nudged to do the minimum of duty. And that was the tragedy.
‘A note from the palace, my lady,’ said a far too cheerful Hereward, who possibly now saw himself as a butler at Windsor Castle. ‘Your porridge too.’ It was already adorned with a little milk, stewed rhubarb and a sprinkle of brown sugar and cinnamon, exactly as she liked it.
‘Thank you, Hereward.’ Sophie opened the envelope. Cannot bear not seeing you. This afternoon, Vaile House, and you alone. Please. Your David.
‘His Majesty will be here for tea, Hereward,’ she said, keeping her voice steady. ‘We will take it in the library. Please inform Mrs Goodenough.’ Who, if her veins weren’t playing up, would dance a jig in the kitchen at the news that she would be preparing afternoon tea once more for the King of the United Kingdom and the Dominions of the Empire, the Emperor of India.
Sophie could not say ‘Crumpets and honey again!’ to Miss Lily. She could not look at Daniel, either. But she ate her porridge and was grateful for it.
She could keep going. For a while.
Chapter 28
How many funerals are for a man or woman who never shirked their duty? Many of the ones I attend, for I am lucky to have had friends who have done good things, and been good people. But I am sure every one of them, over and over, wished the duty need not be done.
Miss Lily to James Lorrimer, 1936
David arrived with his inevitable equerries — two of whom carried bulky parcels — guards and other human necessities, who were quietly shown to one of the smaller studies by Hereward, to be revived with coffee, cherry cake and thick rare beef and pickle sandwiches. Da
vid had never seen to the needs of his staff when he was Prince of Wales and Sophie doubted he had changed since becoming king. Only one retainer remained, holding the two vast packages, one in each arm.
She greeted him from the stairway, once more corseted, her body’s slimness exaggerated in a mauve silk dress with small gold buttons from her neck to below the knee and not even a hint of a waistline. Green had pulled her hair back simply so that it hung informally to one side — she had never been able to bring herself to have it shingled, for that style reminded her too much of the necessities of war, of lice and fleas and the continuous battle to stop their tiny bites becoming infected.
She curtseyed deeply but made it her own with a mischievous grin. ‘Welcome, Your Majesty. David, what on earth are these things? I warn you,’ she added, rising from the curtsey, ‘if you have bought the children ferrets, rabbits, white rats or other livestock I shall be seriously annoyed.’
He grinned. He looks happy, she thought. He had not looked happy two nights earlier, but harried and depressed, at least until their interlude in the writing room. He had also enjoyed yesterday. But today his face was pure joy.
A little of her guilt slid away. Every person deserved a ration of happiness, even a fascist king.
‘Guess,’ he said.
‘Two pounds of potatoes and a giant squash.’
‘Close. Try again. You were almost right about the livestock.’
‘A wigwam for a goose’s bridle and six white horses.’
‘Even closer. But shall we let Rose and Danny decide for us?’
‘David, you are too naughty. You will spoil the children terribly.’
‘I would like to spoil them,’ he said seriously. ‘Two children with no father. I had a father, but not one who loved or liked me. I want your children to have someone they know loves them truly, cares for them. I am their godfather, after all.’
Who had never thought to send them a card with his signature, though one of his secretaries selected birthday and Christmas gifts for all the king’s godchildren. Sophie’s children had in fact had two fathers, almost continuously present throughout their lives, even if one of them they knew as their aunt, and the other as, for now, just a dear friend. They were and had been deeply and securely loved. But Sophie still felt tears pricking at the open honesty of the king’s face.
Lilies, Lies and Love Page 15