by Karen Harper
“Indeed. How very open and honest of you. We women, the ones bombed out of their homes, those of us cast in lofty positions, have so much in common. And besides,” she added with her toothy, rare smile, “we all fight our own domestic and private battles too, beyond our public ones. You know, I’d best change the subject and just share with you that I have admired the way the leadership here gets on, for I tire of the way our Congress must always pick fights with my dear president and husband. You and I are sisters under the skin—under the pearls and fur pieces—are we not?”
We smiled and nodded at each other. Both wearing our fox stoles and large hats, we headed back to the palace together.
* * *
I finally had time to tuck my daughters in the second night of Eleanor’s visit. A bit earlier I had felt we had become close enough that I could share with her what Bertie had said about our in common “E.R.” names. She had laughed heartily.
But I was not laughing now when I saw the in-Navy-uniform, handsome photograph of Philip on Lilibet’s bedside table, turned toward her.
Since the palace was so draughty, she wore a flannel nightgown, which actually seemed to deflate with her heavy sigh.
“Isn’t he the most handsome ever?” she asked me, smiling at the photograph. “Though, of course, Daddy was that for you. When you first saw and met him,” she said, looking at me, “was he the only one for you too?”
I clenched my teeth, though I managed a smile. “Well, there were other young men about before he and I became . . . serious. And, of course, we were much older than you. It takes time and several beaus to know who is the best, my dear.”
“Not for me. But is it true that Uncle David was your beau first?”
My heartbeat kicked up. “Your uncle David was quite a lady’s man, and I was one of his friends before I really knew your father well.”
“Uncle David—talk about handsome!”
“Yes. But people say beauty is only skin deep, and that’s true of handsome faces too,” I said with a tilt of my head toward the photograph. God forgive me, I was so tempted to toss it in the dustbin, but that was unthinkable. I had to keep telling myself that, despite their similar looks, Philip was not David. Still, I had no doubt the young officer was angling for her and could be a big problem.
“Do you mean Uncle David wasn’t a nice person?” she went on. “I think Daddy still misses and thinks of him. Like with Philip, I’m hoping that absence makes the heart grow fonder.”
“For some people,” I said, trying not to sound cold or bitter, “it is ‘out of sight, out of mind.’”
She sighed again. “Perhaps not, for I am out of my mind, over the moon for Philip, and he is sadly out of sight except for this so wonderful photo his uncle brought for me.”
Of course, I thought as I kissed her good night and turned out her bedside light, I must keep calm, not overreact but go at this carefully. What was that Eleanor had said about little domestic battles that could be as frightening as the big war ones?
Chapter Twenty-Four
Queen In Deed
The good news—the Allies were finally making progress in some theatres of war. The bad news—Hitler began bombing us again, quite randomly but quite terribly.
Horribly too, it became common knowledge that Hitler had clear intentions to wipe out European Jews, something I had told Bertie and others in power since I had talked extensively about that to the former prime minister of France Léon Blum before the war, but few had believed me.
Perhaps now they would. Once we defeated the Germans, they could stop such insanity and hold men and that nation accountable. And one state secret I cherished: We had broken the German secret code, called the Enigma system, so we knew more of their evil plans—and what our cryptologists read there was dreadful too.
But, despite the terrors of reality, once a month in the new year of 1943, I brought the girls into London for whatever cultural concerts or programs were available to broaden their horizons and lend the royal family’s support to the arts.
“Mummy,” Margot said as we entered the Aeolian Hall on New Bond Street for a poetry reading by some of our finest writers, “I’ve written some poems too, but nothing I’d read for six minutes and nothing I’d share with really smart people.”
As mild applause greeted us, Lilibet put in from my other side, “Margaret Rose! At least act like you are smart. You are a princess, after all.”
“Let’s keep our remarks focused on the people here today, learning from them, greeting them,” I said. Besides the honored poets, I was pleased to see a decent-sized crowd, no doubt of local literati. I nodded and smiled at the kind greetings. I waved a bit too, and the girls followed my lead.
Our host Osbert Sitwell introduced us to the poets present, several of whom I had met, all of whom bobbed us a bow or a curtsy. I thanked each one for helping to keep the arts alive in such trying times. I had borrowed Rowena from her usual duties at the Ministry of Information today, so she began to take photographs from the back of the room. And then I saw who else waited in the distance: Sir Kenneth was here and not a piece of art in sight.
He smiled and nodded when his gaze snagged mine. I was glad he stood at a distance, for I felt myself blush. I admit I had been putting off another day trip or even meeting with him at the palace lately. Of course, I had the excuse of wartime duties. He seemed to lurk here, biding his time, looking as handsome and determined as ever. Ah, so different these days to be pursued royalty instead of being the pursuer of royalty as I had been years ago.
I pulled my stare from his. I knew that my daughters recognized none of the people to whom they were being introduced, so I made a mental note to have their governess pay a bit more attention to modern British literature. The poets who would each read for six minutes were Vita Sackville-West; Walter de la Mare; Osbert’s eccentric sister, Edith Sitwell; and T. S. Eliot.
During the program, I thought the readings or recitations went rather well, as they had each been informed the girls would be here today to avoid what Bertie sometimes called “adult material.”
And Kenneth had dared to sit in the second row directly behind us, so, of course, I had introduced him to the girls. Neither of them recalled meeting him before, so perhaps that settled him down. But I felt his sharp eyes burning my back. I tried to listen to the poets, but I kept wondering if he would have favored some “adult material.” He seemed suddenly overconfident, rather like Dickie Mountbatten or worse, like the man I tried to forget forever who was rightfully stuck on a tropical island right now.
Things went smoothly until Tom Eliot went far over his allotted time, reading from his rather challenging poem The Waste Land. Every ten or so lines he repeated in an almost frenzied voice the key phrase, “Hurry up, please. It’s time.”
Kenneth behind me more than once cleared his throat as if that were a message for me. People began to shift in their seats at Tom’s carrying on. When he repeated the line a fifth time, Margot asked in a stage whisper, “Time for what, Mummy?”
I put my finger to my lips as the reading ended with “Good night, ladies, good night, sweet ladies, good night, good night.”
Lilibet was trying to stifle the giggles. Margot was muttering that it wasn’t even night. And when everyone sighed, applauded, and stood to leave, Kenneth said to me, “I was glad to hear, Your Majesty, that you and the king convinced the Duke of Wellington to store his art. I’ve examined it and would love you to see where we have secured it, if I could escort you there.”
I knew that was in a deserted area of a rural castle. “Thank you, Kenneth,” I told him, trying to keep my voice from wavering, for in another time—another lifetime—I might have agreed on that and more. “But I know you understand how things are now. Actually, I’m preparing another speech to our nation’s hardworking women who are dedicated to taking over jobs for their men and staying true to them too in these tough times.”
“If Papa goes to the front lines, Mummy will be Counsellor of Sta
te,” Margot piped up. “Almost like a queen on her own.”
“Well,” Kenneth said, “she is a queen on her own, always. Your Majesty, I will look forward to our next meeting with pleasure.” He bowed his way out of the aisle.
* * *
I worked hard on my second address to the nation’s women. I didn’t mind giving speeches into microphones, even at the BBC, but I did mind writing them. Both Bertie’s private secretary Alan Lascelles and Winston helped me with it. But I put my heart into the delivery of the words, not worrying about a six-minute time limit or other queens listening in the way the poets had their own ilk critiquing them.
“I assure you the time will come when our men return to their hearth and home from war and take their jobs” was one line I wrote myself.
But I wondered, had times and people changed so much that women would not simply go back to their homes and want careers of their own? They knew they could do so much more now than manage a house and children.
“I tell you,” I went on in the speech, “what is called ‘women’s work’ is just as valuable, just as much ‘war work’ as that done by the bravest soldier, sailor, or airman who actually meets the enemy in battle. The king and I and our daughters thank all of you for your prayers. And we also pray that God will bless and guide our people in this country and throughout the Empire, and will lead us forward, united and strong, into the paths of victory and peace.”
* * *
In March, Bertie fulfilled his steadfast wish to see our troops in the field with a visit to Tripoli, then on to Malta, where he mixed with our men and was fervently received. He sent me frequent wireless messages, for he knew I was concerned not only for his safety, but for his health. He had lost weight lately and developed a cough, but he was—as I overheard him tell Winston—hell-bent to do his bit in the field.
While he was away, I fulfilled ceremonial duties under the title Counsellor of State, rather than Queen Regent, as some of my predecessors had done. I lunched with Winston to hear the latest news on all fronts and gave him my opinion—what I reckoned Bertie would say, and Winston agreed.
I signed ER, not GR, on papers requiring the king’s signature. My hand trembled at first when I did that. I do not suppose many of our citizens knew I was standing in his stead, but the magnitude of it suddenly shook me. Little Elizabeth from Scotland, once on the outside looking in at the royals, wanting to be a part, but then—then the mistake of my life to fall in love with one of them and be burned by that. At least Bertie had been the salve, so I signed the next document with a much more steady hand.
I also presided over an investiture at the palace, with several hundred people present, to award military honors. As I presented the nation’s highest award for gallantry facing the enemy, the Victoria Cross, to some of our heroes, I thought of those who served in quieter ways, yet deserved such accolades too. For example, Rowena Fitzgerald behind the flash of her camera and my staff members, such as Bessie, clear on up to those who served our generals, even served the king.
My Bertie was coming home tonight, so I would lay aside such burdens and honors. I did not realize I had made the service go too long, because I had spent so much time talking to each honoree and their families. Well, I always talked more than Bertie anyway.
* * *
When the king came home that night, he looked ill—was ill. The doctor examined him, and I put him to bed. I let him sleep for six hours, then tiptoed in and sat in the chair nearby. Shortly, he yawned, rolled over, saw me, and stretched out his hand, so I went to sit on the side of his bed.
“Don’t worry, my darling,” he whispered. “I may have dropped a stone in weight, but my heart is lighter than when I went. You understand. You always do.”
“I do indeed. More so now that I have taken your burdens and duties for a while. But you must get better now.”
I bent to kiss his cheek, but he held hard to my hand when I tried to move away, so I sat again on the bed.
“And do not coddle me,” he said, his voice more like his own, not so wan and quiet now.
“Just a bit perhaps, but you will snap back fast. Remember we are giving Lilibet a party. You remember, one she asked for. We’ve both been so busy with war work, but I have it all set at Windsor in a fortnight, and the guest list is going out tomorrow.”
He nodded, and his eyes teared up. “Dangerous too how old she is. Just think how we felt when we were her age or even a bit older. We thought we knew everything.” He sighed. “I can’t say I made the best of decisions then.”
“I neither,” I admitted. “I didn’t have much judgment then sometimes, but I pray Lilibet will.”
“Levelheaded, that’s our girl and our heiress.”
“Then perhaps it’s time for her to also serve as Counsellor of State when you are away or buried in work.”
“Ha, my love. Do not bury me yet! And I could tell you were fretting over inviting Philip for her dinner and dance, but she’s determined. I say, give it a go, or she might resent us. Besides, who knows that she might not change her mind if she’s actually around him more, sees him mix with other people, sees him dance with other girls. It will give us time to take a good look at him ourselves.”
“Has she put you up to this plea?”
“She has not. I truly do not think she has much of the manipulator in her—yet. She wears her heart on her sleeve, when she must learn to be more guarded and wily.”
He looked steadily at me, and I wondered if he meant something beneath his words. Did he imply I was those things? Could he have guessed or been told some of the secrets I carried? Coward that I was, I changed the subject and circled back.
“But you do agree she could serve as Counsellor with me, especially if we go together to our duties?”
“A smashing idea. And now, I’d best get some more sleep so I can be all dewy-eyed and eagle-eyed for that party you’ve been planning for her,” he said with a huge yawn.
I kissed his cheek and hurried out. I would keep Philip on the guest list during his short leave from the Navy but keep an eagle eye on him myself. I’d seen a young, naïve girl make a fool of herself and hurt her heart over a man, and I refused to let my Lilibet make the same mistake.
Chapter Twenty-Five
A Wing and a Prayer
At Lilibet’s belated birthday party, everyone, of course, called her Elizabeth. That we shared a name made me see myself in her even more.
As during the Great War when I was young, this was a beastly time to be a young woman. I hoped this all went well. How many times had I thought of the young, wounded soldiers whom my parents had sheltered and entertained at Glamis. How many soldiers had my Elizabeth met and spoken to who were now dead or maimed? But at least she had some young friends here for a party at Windsor this evening, some, of course, briefly home from service.
“A penny for your thoughts,” Bertie said. “Darling, this is quite a turnout.”
As his words brought me back to the present, I turned to him and smiled. Philip was not here yet, and I could tell Lilibet was watching for him. Yes, she reminded me of myself, watching the door to see if the idol of the civilized world of my day, the dashing, playboy Prince of Wales, had entered a room yet. That still galled me, but I was angry at myself more than at my girl. Yet I wanted to protect her too.
“Sad to say, Bertie, but I preferred her reciting poems or putting on pantomimes. She and Margot did a beautiful job with the characters of Aladdin last Christmas holiday for us, even if their costumes were old curtains and blackout drapes. But tonight, those remade gowns from Queen Mary’s closet came out beautifully.”
I hated to admit that I had gowns that were much too large in the bust, waist, and hips to cut down, but these did not look old-fashioned, not on them. Margot still seemed a bit out of place, but then she was only twelve going on twenty-two, as we liked to joke. She had, however, matured enough to mention whether a boy was good-looking or not.
“Oh, Mummy, isn’t it lovely?” Lilib
et said, popping over to the corner where we sat. “The decorations, I mean. And the musicians are going to do several line dances, so don’t worry that it will be all waltzes in hold, as my dancing instructor says. I just hope Margot doesn’t spill more punch, but they covered it up with napkins. Oh, excuse me, please. There he—there he is! I must greet him. I’ll bring him over.”
I had told myself more than once that just because she called Philip “him” or “he” and didn’t need a name, so what? It was to please Bertie, let alone Elizabeth, that I had agreed to have “him” here. After all, I had lectured myself, “he” was the nephew of King Constantine of Greece and somewhat related to the Windsors.
Our blushing “she” was bringing “him” over.
My covert detective work all came back to me in a flash and made me feel rather—was it silly or guilty? I had contacted several people in a judicious way to make inquiries about Philip’s past and character. From a friend of his family we had entertained before the war, I had learned that his mother had psychological problems but then so did two of my cousins. From the headmaster of Philip’s strict school, Gordonstoun in northeastern Scotland, I had gleaned that Philip was adventurous and athletic and had set high standards for himself. He had been called “a born leader” with strong opinions for whom only the best of everything would do.
So was that why he evidently had his sights set on our heiress, someday in the far future, the next queen of England and the Empire, however beleaguered it was now?
He bowed most properly and shook Bertie’s hand when it was extended. “I am so grateful to have been invited to Princess Elizabeth’s belated birthday celebration,” he told us with a charming smile. “Since my family is rather broken now, I greatly appreciate being included amongst family and friends of Your Highnesses. It means more to me than I can express, and I’m afraid I’m incapable of showing you the gratitude I feel.”
He spoke a bit more, answered a few questions, then they capered off to dance a waltz—in hold, as she had said, twirling about, both looking breathlessly rapt. At least it then devolved into some line dance called the Lindy Hop to a rather jazzy melody I barely recognized as “In the Mood.” At first I was relieved to see that Lilibet and Philip sat that dance out with its kicks and gyrations—whoever gave the musicians permission for that?—but it was only because they huddled off in a corner, talking.