‘David darling, you will make me cry. And I am wearing kohl to be irresistible for you and it will run down my face and I will look like a zebra, so it will be all your fault. Do you think we will ever forget that zebra?’
‘One never does forget a zebra, especially at a country house party,’ he said with feeling. ‘I still have the scar.’
‘I hope that has taught you never to play with zebras,’ she said severely. She had reached the bottom of the stairs now and leaned so he could kiss her cheek. But instead he pressed his lips to hers. Cold lips, and tentative. She stroked his cheek and his momentary uncertainty vanished.
She pulled the bell. ‘Hereward, would you mind fetching Lady Rose and his lordship?’
Hereward gave another short bow to the King. ‘Of course, your ladyship.’
‘Shall we go into the drawing room?’ Sophie led the way, David followed, his retainer still encumbered by the ludicrous packages in their brown paper and string.
She gestured to a sofa. Kings sat where they liked, but a mistress could direct that preference. David sat, which allowed her to sit next to him. The king gestured to his man to put the packages on the floor and leave.
‘Your Majesty.’ Rose curtseyed in the doorway. She wore her best pink dress, embroidered with rosebuds, and brown shoes each fastened with a single button.
The King of England held out his arms to her. ‘Rose, my darling! I told you to call me Uncle David!’
‘But I curtsey very well! Can I call you Your Majesty and curtsey and then call you Uncle David?’
‘An excellent idea. Now give me my hug. Good afternoon, young man.’
‘Good afternoon, Your Majesty, I mean Uncle David. Sir, what are those?’
David affected not to notice the bundles on the floor.
‘What are what?’
‘Those things?’
‘Your mother says they are wigwams for a goose’s bridle. And she is always wise.’
Danny gave his mother the look that sons have given their mothers through all of human history, and politely made no comment. ‘May we open them, Uncle David? Please?’
The king pretended to consider. ‘Whoever races me to the top of the stairs and gets back here before me may open one of them. But if I get back first we will have to race again till one of you wins. Sophie, will you race too?’
Sophie laughed. ‘I’ll be time-keeper. On your marks, get ready, set . . . go!’
The king was out the door first, running like a greyhound along the corridor and up the stairs, Rose at his heels, Danny not far behind.
Maids peered from doorways, footmen from corridors. Hereward tried to look like a butler waiting for orders. Even Mrs Goodenough stood quite openly at the baize doors that separated family from the servants’ quarters.
Halfway down the stairs the king seemed to falter. Rose rushed past him, almost neck and neck with Danny. They reached the table while the king limped, heaving theatrical breaths like a racehorse, into the drawing room. ‘That awful Australian sunlight has made you two hellions far too fast! Sophie, I will never recover!’ He collapsed back onto the sofa.
‘Poor David! Hereward, a whisky for his majesty!’
Hereward bowed, obviously glad that there had, indeed, been need for a butler to witness the royal race.
‘Can we open them?’ demanded Rose. ‘I mean, may we please open them, Uncle David?’
‘You may. I must warn you, each is different and the one you choose will be yours.’ He smiled at Danny. ‘Ladies first, old chap.’
Danny straightened, still puffing slightly, at being called ‘old chap’ by an adult, and the king at that.
‘This one,’ decided Rose. She chose the nearest, as good manners indicated she should, though one never knew with Rose. She began to tear the paper, glanced at her mother, sighed with just the correct amount of drama and instead undid the string.
Danny had already undone his. He put the brown paper down neatly before staring at the largest tin emu Sophie had seen. Though, come to think of it, she had never seen a tin emu — painted in colours that were just slightly too bright but also those of Australia’s coat of arms — at all. Next to him Rose stared at a tin kangaroo that stood almost as tall as she did.
‘They are clockwork animals!’ announced His Majesty King Edward VIII with the same sense of triumph as one of his ancestors might have used to say ‘We have conquered a third of the globe!’ ‘I had this brilliant idea last night. There’s a chap over in Whitechapel who makes them . . .’
Who must have been awake all night, thought Sophie, with at least a dozen assistants too, to paint the outsides so they dried while the clockwork was engineered. But possibly the glory — and the price — had made up for the lack of sleep.
‘See? You wind this.’ David demonstrated with the small key on the emu’s back then set the creature on the floor. As soon as he removed the key the creature began to march across the room in a strange parody of a goosestep, jerking up and down as if it pecked seed from the ground. Emu-stepping, thought Sophie. Oh, you silly king, prepared to see all of Europe step like emus . . .
Rose was already winding her kangaroo. She stepped back as it hopped vigorously across the floor. At last both animals reached the far wall, still attempting to jump, peck and walk. Hereward appeared from the magical universe where good butlers hover and turned them round. This time both kangaroo and emu stopped within a yard of the king, as if obeying an inbuilt royal reverence.
‘David, you . . . you are wonderful . . . and terrible . . . and I don’t know what else,’ spluttered Sophie. ‘I have never seen anything like them!’
The king grinned smugly. ‘And now another race.’ He sat cross-legged on the rug and lined them up. ‘Each of you, to your keys! First clockwork to the corridor wins. When your mother says “Go”, begin!’
It was not the afternoon Sophie had expected nor, possibly, what the king had envisaged either. Three races later — none entirely successful as each animal might at any time decide to change direction — Hereward brought in the crumpets and honey, as well as tea, more cherry cake, egg and cress sandwiches, lamb and chutney sandwiches, thin bread and butter, and small brown sugar meringues with cream.
Somehow the children — and David — had taken the crumpets and toasting forks over to the fire before anything remotely seductive could be expressed or obliquely referred to. Sophie suspected David had forgotten he had planned any such thing, if indeed he had.
The four of them sat, growing stickier, exchanging stories of campfire picnics in Australia for damper ones in Scottish drizzle, comparing the sizes of the biggest deer in the world versus the biggest kangaroo, as well as agreeing on the superiority of the bagpipes over every other musical instrument, and how it was sheer neglect on Sophie’s part not to have had both children taught to play.
‘I will see to it,’ said Sophie, laughing. ‘Maybe.’
She looked up as Miss Letitia stood in the door. One did not, of course, interrupt the King of Great Britain and Ireland and all the colonies lightly. On the other hand, it was time for the children to bathe and have supper — rice pudding, perhaps, after all that honey and laughter.
A subtle hint, which the king accepted. He also accepted two enthusiastic and extremely sticky hugs, then the damp napkins Hereward handed him to remove at least some of the stickiness.
He dropped back into an armchair, laughing. ‘That was the most fun I have had in ages. Or perhaps my life.’
‘It was glorious. Oh, David, only you could have thought up something as outrageous and wonderful as that.’
David’s smile vanished. He waited till Hereward had tactfully shut the door, then said, ‘Sophie, there is something I must tell you. It’s why I had to see you alone.’
She leaned forward, once more on duty, eyes down and then trustfully up at him, but letting the intelligence and ability to command show in her face as well.
‘You can tell me anything, David. Always.’
&nbs
p; ‘There is a woman who . . . who has reason to think I might make her my wife. Her name is Wallis Simpson.’
Sophie placed her fingertips lightly on his wrist, an action more intimate, Miss Lily had taught them, than anything erogenous. ‘I know. I . . . I have been worried about her. David, do you love her?’
David looked puzzled, a small man who had swum out of his depth. ‘I . . . I don’t know. I thought I did. I needed her so badly. No one understands . . .’ He broke off, and shook his head. ‘No one but you. I love you, Sophie. I cannot tell you how much.’
She could not say ‘I love you too’, even for the Empire. Instead she said, ‘David,’ and stroked one hand lovingly down the side of his face. He took her fingers and kissed them.
‘They won’t let me marry Wallis.’
‘They?’
‘Parliament. Do you realise I have to go to them, cap in hand, to get permission to marry? And the church too. Parliament doesn’t like her simply because she has been divorced. But this is 1936, Sophie. What do things like divorce matter?’
Sophie trod carefully. Had David even realised he was asking advice about marrying someone else when he had just declared his love for her? ‘How can I help you, David? Isn’t there a kind of marriage where she won’t be queen? What’s it called?’
‘Morganatic marriage. That too is forbidden me,’ he said bitterly.
‘David.’ She stroked his wrist, lightly, and then his cheek again, then kissed him, a butterfly on the lips. ‘You are the king. You have a right to marry who you want.’
‘Exactly! I told Wallis that if parliament has the temerity to refuse my choice of wife then I would abdicate. But she is insistent that I should not, could not abdicate for her.’ He shook his head. ‘She doesn’t understand that I never would abdicate. The people would never stand for it. The mere threat of it will be enough to bring parliament into line.’
Sophie turned away, her shoulders slightly slumped. ‘If you want to marry Mrs Simpson, of course I understand. I would never want to stand in the way of your being with the woman you love —’
‘Sophie, no!’ He sounded truly horrified. ‘I didn’t mean . . . I mean I don’t know. I think . . . Could we ever . . . ?’
She turned, allowing hope into her eyes. ‘Would you ever want to marry me instead?’ This had never been the plan — nor could she ever marry David. But a promise now was the only way to break his commitment to Wallis Simpson.
‘Yes,’ said His Majesty, King Edward VIII. He blinked, as if changing one reality for another. ‘Surely Wallis will understand. She has been so insistent that I do not throw away the throne to marry her. But you and I . . .’
‘I think we shouldn’t talk of marriage yet,’ said Sophie slowly, trying not to let triumph show. ‘Not for a long time, if we ever do. Except I feel as if . . .’
‘Yes. Me too.’ He did not notice that no particular emotion had been expressed. ‘They would accept me marrying you, you know? My mother, parliament . . . oh, possibly before Wallis they’d have raised objections to you too, found an apple-cheeked English idiot or a simpering Protestant foreigner princess for me to marry. But now . . .’
Now it was possible. And David knew it, even wanted it. Marriage to Sophie would be rebellion enough, to show that he could marry even a colonial if he chose to, a widow not a virgin, a woman with two children who, fortunately, both held English titles.
He has to tell her, thought Sophie.
‘I have to tell her, Sophie. She is divorcing her husband for me, uprooting her whole life. She has to know that . . . that I have found comfort elsewhere. Someone I can trust.’
And that was it, thought Sophie. That was what David had felt he had found in Wallis Simpson. Not the sexual wiles, though the wiles had been a necessary beginning to convince him he had found a true partner. He had finally felt he had someone who was totally on his side, who loved him even though he could never marry her. And Simpson had persuaded him that he could marry her, even while denying she wanted him to face such scandal.
Suddenly she remembered Miss Lily’s early, most important lesson: to charm someone you must understand them, feel empathy, feel compassion. Wallis Simpson’s charm was the serpent’s, snaring a rabbit. She would not be that. ‘David, no matter what happens, you can always trust me. Always. I will be on your side, no matter what or who you choose.’
‘Sophie, I can’t tell you what that means. I feel . . . comfortable . . . with you.’
‘Like old slippers?’
‘No.’
Someone coughed at the door. ‘Excuse me, Your Majesty, but the prime minister is expecting you.’
David did not even look at the man. ‘The prime minister can wait on his sovereign. Sophie, I would like to give you a gift too.’
‘A mechanical wombat?’
He smiled. ‘I was thinking more of diamonds.’
What had been the absurd figure he had demanded from parliament for Wallis Simpson’s last gift of diamonds? Nearly two hundred thousand pounds? ‘David, I will treasure anything you give me. But please — something like that glorious emu or kangaroo. Or a rose you pick just for me. I don’t need diamonds. I already have far more jewels than I need, or want, but must keep in case Danny’s wife wants them. I am ludicrously, extraordinarily rich, and every time I try to help the world with more jobs or the products it needs I just become richer.’
She could see the moment he realised that, married to her — or even with her as his friend and hostess — he need not humiliate himself by asking parliament for money.
He stood. ‘I had better go. Teatime tomorrow?’
‘Should I send my brats away so we can have time to ourselves?’
‘No. I insist on teatime with the brats. And how dare you call my goddaughter a brat?’
‘David! Behave yourself!’ she scolded, and he grinned.
He kissed her lightly on the cheek, with love and confidence, and what was unmistakably relief, as if he had come home at last, or could at least see its candle shining in the window. Even, possibly, sharing a time of happiness with a woman who displayed no need for the sexual relations assumed necessary for closeness between a man and a woman.
King Edward VIII, a man who had never had a loving, laughing family, finally felt he had found one.
Sophie saw him to the door, gave him her hand to kiss — the waiting cameras on either side of the steps and across the road caught that, as well — waved, then went to the main drawing room.
They were all there: Daniel, smiling at her with such perfect confidence and understanding that she knew that at least part of his performance was contrived; Lily, graceful, warm, loving — and, yes, part of that came from practice too. Green, James, Ethel.
She stood in the doorway, unable to enter the room. Daniel stood, kissed her cheek and took her hand. What must it be like for him to see his fiancée publicly paraded as the king’s new paramour? And yet he led her to the sofa. Ethel pressed a mug of cocoa and a Bath bun into her hands, and it was suddenly so like war-time that she lost the confusion of betrayal — and betrayal of herself — and drank her cocoa and ate her bun.
And they watched her, silently, waiting.
‘He is going to tell Mrs Simpson that their affair can no longer continue,’ she said flatly. ‘That he has found someone else he loves and that it is unfair to ask that she continue with her divorce on the expectation of a life with him.’
‘I doubt divorces can so easily be interrupted,’ murmured Miss Lily.
‘And I doubt David knows nor cares,’ said James. He added casually, ‘Did he say anything about abdication?’
‘Yes. He said he had told Mrs Simpson he would threaten to abdicate if he was not allowed to marry her. She refused utterly to let him, but he said she didn’t understand that it was only a threat, to blackmail parliament, though he didn’t use those words. He has no intention of abdicating.’
‘Kings can’t go around abdicating to get their way,’ said Ethel, indignant.
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‘This one isn’t planning to,’ said Sophie. ‘It’s just like a child threatening to hold their breath till they get the toy they want.’
‘What we need is a proper king,’ said Ethel. ‘A king who cares about his country. I’m sorry, lass — it was brilliant, you getting him playing with that kangaroo and emu. But there’re Welsh miners and their families starving and legless veterans dying of cold on the streets and Germany choosing guns over butter to conquer the world, and we have a king playing races with clockwork animals.’
Sophie looked at her fingers, her perfectly manicured fingers, their shell-coloured lacquer chosen by Green and Lily as a finishing touch for their lovely lady. ‘He could have been a good man,’ she said sadly. ‘Yes, he is a silly man, a lost man, a vicious racist, an impossible king. But if he had been taught compassion, shown a truer version of the world, given a chance to have a normal life, it could have been a good one. I . . . I am so terribly sorry for him.’
Lily moved over and embraced her, while Daniel continued to hold her hand.
‘Did he mention Herr Hitler?’ asked James urgently.
‘Hold hard, mate,’ said Ethel. ‘Sophie’s got him hooked, got rid of Wallis Simpson and von Ribbentrop with her. You can’t go asking our girl for more than three miracles a week.’
‘Of course he can,’ said Lily wearily. ‘He has been doing so for decades, and expecting them from himself as well.’
‘No, we didn’t talk of Hitler, nor Germany, nor fascism. James, I don’t think he is even very interested. He wants to be happy. He wants to be king. Without Mrs Simpson urging him towards a German alliance I don’t think he’ll bother about fascism, not if there are more interesting things to do.’ Like design clockwork emus and kangaroos, she thought, or, at least, order that they be designed. What would he bring tomorrow? For he would surely try to impress her and delight her children even more.
Lilies, Lies and Love Page 16