by Mary Mackie
* * *
Father had doubts about the propriety of the invitation; the prince’s reputation with ladies was already the subject of disquiet, though most people, including Mama, thought it was malicious gossip about a lively young man who couldn’t answer back. If Uncle Henry was to be my escort, I should come to no harm.
Grace was certainly envious but, as she said with a sigh, ‘William wouldn’t be pleased if I attended such a party without him. Anyway,’ she assured herself, ‘we shall no doubt be invited to one of the Birthday Balls this year. They won’t miss them two years running.’ Cheered by the thought, she agreed to advise me on my toilette on the understanding that I should tell all to her on my return.
In the event, few details of the house, the women’s gowns, the food or the conversation remained to me. I was too mesmerised by nerves to be observant. That, at least, is what I told Grace.
Mrs Todd, the dressmaker, made over an old lilac silk gown of Mama’s for me. She made the fullness all in the back, lengthened the skirt with flounces and lace trimmings, kept the bodice low-cut and off the shoulder. It probably made me look like the gauche country girl I was, but at the time I thought it wonderful. Ellen did my hair, sweeping it up and back, using curling tongs to tame its wiry exuberance. She fixed white roses among a cascade of ringlets caught up at my crown, matching the flowers at the décolletage, and Mama lent me her diamond necklet. Seeing the elegant creature who stared back at me from the mirror, all creamy shoulders and floating silk, I felt like Cinderella on her way to the ball. A pity my Prince Charming had to be my uncle.
The whole family gathered on the doorstep to see us off, Father issuing instructions to his younger brother to take good care of me.
‘I don’t wonder you run wild,’ Henry said with sympathy as we settled together into the carriage and the coachman cracked his whip. ‘So should I, hemmed in so tightly by anxious parents.’
‘They mean well,’ I said.
‘Quite so. But tonight, little niece, forget them. You’re about to have an experience for which many women would do murder. So enjoy it.’
I was amazed to find him so understanding. But of course he was more of my generation than Father’s – he was only a little older than Basil Pooley – and he moved in wider, more sophisticated circles.
Excitement rode with me, making my pulse beat faster as we drove through the darkening lanes and came at last to the wrought-iron gates which had been presented to the prince and princess as a wedding gift from loyal residents of Norfolk. Beyond the gates and the police guard, the drive swept round under trees, dark giants humped against a pale sky where the evening star hung bright, and in the distance I saw the oblong shape that was the house. Tall Tudor chimneys lifted over stuccoed walls, with light gleaming a welcome from many windows.
Liveried footmen waited by the ornate red and white porch that looked so odd against the severe white ugliness of the rest of the house, and inside was a confusion of light and colour, polished wood and silk brocade, oil paintings with gilt frames, Chinese porcelain… I was overwhelmed with nervous awe.
My memory of the early part of that evening is a jumble of impressions – a maze of rooms, a maelstrom of strangers. I recall a drawing-room full of laughing, chattering people in evening dress, where the prince kissed my hand, told me I looked charming, and left my uncle to introduce me to other guests. The ‘small’ party consisted of about forty people. Among them were persons whom later I came to know as identifiable names and faces, some destined to hold high office. There were actors, a poet, a Bavarian baron, and one Colonel Valentine Baker, later cashiered for indecent assault on a governess in a railway carriage. With them were as many ladies, some married and some single, though whether the married ones all belonged with the gentlemen present I wasn’t sure. Half a dozen of the young women were actresses of one kind or another, and I was astonished to recognise one girl as Kitty Hambledown, younger daughter of the local miller. She winked at me across the room, as if we shared a merry secret.
Among the company I felt swamped, tongue-tied and self-conscious.
When dinner was announced, Uncle Henry had the job of dividing the party into pairs. The prince took in Lady Filmer, I remember. Other gentlemen claimed their smiling partners.
‘Rose, you’re with…’ Henry consulted his list. ‘Ah, yes. You do know Mr Devlin, don’t you? Devlin, you take my niece in. Now, Betsy dear, I’ve put you with…’
I could feel shock trickling from my scalp, cold rivulets down my neck, across my face, like ants rushing to cover every inch of my skin. Geoffrey looked equally startled. Turning from conversation with a dark-haired girl with pearls in her hair, he stopped dead, the smile freezing on his face as his glance swept me, as if he could scarcely believe his eyes. The sight of him, tall and lithely elegant in evening dress, made me feel as if I were choking.
After one frozen instant he regained his composure and strolled forward, offering me his arm.
‘Miss Hamilton. Good evening. I hadn’t realised you were here.’
‘Nor I you,’ I managed.
‘I’ve only just arrived.’ Then, under his breath, he muttered, ‘Well, do we go in, or do we set the entire company wondering?’
Because there simply was nothing else to do, I laid my hand in the curve of his arm and we turned to follow the procession.
Under cover of the noise of voices and shouted laughter, Geoffrey muttered, ‘What the d-devil are you doing here?’
‘His Royal Highness invited me. Personally.’ I didn’t dare look at him. ‘And my uncle Henry brought me. It’s all quite proper.’
‘Proper? You think so?’
‘And what about you?’ I countered. ‘Where’s Miss de Crecy?’
‘She had to go up to town,’ he said stiffly. ‘With my mother.’
‘How very convenient!’ I shot him a look that told my contempt of a man who could attend a party of this nature without his fiancée, and Geoffrey returned with a sparking glare. We walked on, not speaking, not looking at each other.
The evening progressed in a haze of unreality. My consciousness seemed to be splintered. My outer self was a mannerly party guest, replying when spoken to, laughing when jokes were made, eating and drinking in moderation… My inner self was self-conscious and ill at ease, cruelly aware of Geoffrey Devlin beside me, and of the chasms between us.
Around us voices grew louder as courses progressed and wine flowed. Geoffrey spoke to me only in monosyllables when politeness obliged him to it. It was like sitting too near a fire, being scorched but unable to move. I could hardly eat; my stomach was too taut to welcome food. But a growing thirst made me glad of the wines that kept being poured into the array of glasses before me. The wine made me aware of how unhappy I was; it also made me wonder if it mattered what people thought.
About me, people kept up a flow of talk to which I had no need to add much, except, ‘Really?’ and, ‘How strange!’ or, ‘Good gracious!’ The man on my left, called ‘Dickie’, was heir to a dukedom. At the end of the table, the prince laughed uproariously, flanked by Lady Filmer and one of the actresses, and elsewhere Uncle Henry was giving most of his attention to Kitty Hambledown.
The prince was on his feet, moving down the table to exchange a few words with each guest. He bent over me, his gaze on my shoulders and bosom as he made some joking remark and moved on. As he spoke to Geoffrey and those beyond him, I fingered Mama’s necklet, trying to conceal the fact that the prince’s straying glance had made me feel naked. Most of the other women didn’t appear to mind being leered at, or even fondled – down the table, across from us, one of the gentlemen had his hand on a lady’s bare shoulder.
‘You should never have come here!’ Geoffrey said.
Momentarily, I met glimmering dark eyes that sparked anger at me.
‘Why not?’ I demanded. ‘You’re here!’
‘That’s different.’
‘Why is it?’
As he sought for a reply, I thoug
ht how fine he looked in formal evening dress, his dark hair falling softly either side of his brow, his face enhanced by the growth of hair on his upper lip, and by the tiny mole on his chin. I had never forgotten that mole, or the slight crookedness of one front tooth. Chills of awareness ran through me as I remembered our intimacy and caught myself imagining how it would feel to kiss him now that he had grown a moustache.
‘Enough of that, Freddie!’ The prince’s amused roar was aimed at the gentleman with straying hands, over whose head he tipped a glass of wine. The red liquid ran down the man’s face, on to his white shirt and tie. Shouts of approving laughter encouraged the prince to enlarge the jest and, enjoying himself, he reached for a dish of ice-cream. ‘Maybe this’ll cool your ardour.’
‘Damn it!’ the butt of the joke cried. ‘You drunken buffoon, Bertie!’ and he charged out of his chair with such force that he sent the prince lurching backwards. The dish of ice upended itself in a lady’s lap. As she screamed in dismay the gathering’s hilarity crescendoed: the heir to the throne had tripped, landing flat on his well-cushioned backside.
Servants rushed to help him up, and as he got to his feet the noise subsided; the prince was furious. Hilarity choked into spreading silence, leaving the atmosphere tense, watchful. I saw people glance apprehensively at one another as every sound ceased. We held our breath, waiting for the storm.
Glowering blackly, the prince jerked at his jacket to straighten it, then shot out his arm to point at the offender. ‘I said you need cooling off, sir.’ A jerk of his head summoned all the men present. ‘Toss him in the lake!’
A whoop of glee greeted this order, followed by a rush to leave the table and swoop on the wine-stained victim. He protested and struggled, but was lifted head high. French windows opened before him.
I found myself on my feet, not knowing what to do. No use relying on Uncle Henry to help – he had been one of the first to grab the unfortunate Freddie. Maybe Geoffrey…
‘Lend a hand, Devlin!’ the prince cried.
Beside me, Geoffrey hesitated, then strode to join the rowdy rabble crowding to get out of the French doors and on to the terrace.
I followed, finding myself in the middle of an excited group of stragglers. They pushed and jostled, eager not to miss the fun, then the crush eased as the main party got through the doors. Beyond them I glimpsed the darkness outside, the lake in its hollow cloaked by trees, with moonlight shimmering on its dark surface.
Among the last to leave the dining-room, I felt the night air cool on my shoulders. My head swam a little from the wine.
‘Miss Hamilton?’ One of the footmen stopped me. ‘His Royal Highness would like a word with you, miss. If you’ll come with me…’
I don’t believe I even thought about it. I simply went with him.
Beyond a maze of passages lay a cosy sitting-room. A single lamp burned there, shedding its soft glow on armchairs and low tables, on exotic wood carvings grotesque in the shadows, and on Prince Albert Edward, standing with his back to an embroidered firescreen. The footman closed the door behind me, leaving me alone with the prince. I stood there, feeling a little unsteady on my feet.
‘I hope the behaviour of one ill-mannered gentleman has not spoiled your first evening among us, Miss Hamilton,’ he said with an apologetic smile. ‘It will do them good to get some air, anyway. They were all getting over-heated. Meanwhile, I thought you and I should have a talk. Get to know each other better, what?’
Grace, I thought blearily, would not believe this. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘Excellent!’ He beamed at me. ‘Then come and sit down.’
Since his gesture indicated a velvet-covered chaise-longue to one side of the hearth, I moved across to it, walking carefully erect so as not to set off the whirling in my head. Wide skirts whispering about me, I sat down demurely, saying, ‘I’ve been wanting an opportunity to speak with you, sir.’
‘Have you indeed?’ he murmured with a smile.
‘About the hares.’
The smile faltered. ‘Oh, come now, Miss Hamilton,’ he chided, and before I knew what he intended he had seated himself close beside me. ‘Not boring business talk. Not now.’ He leaned his arm on the back of the chaise, his gaze on the swell of my breasts. His face was flushed, his breathing quickened. I saw him moisten his lips. ‘You interested me very much the other day. When you spoke of kicking over the traces. Being a bit of a rebel. I like that in a woman. I’ve always been a bit of a rebel myself.’
I wished I could think straight. My head seemed to be cloudy. It didn’t seem right that I should be here alone with the prince – a married man – and yet it all seemed to be quite routine to him, and to the servant who had brought me.
Without warning, he lunged for me. His hand plunged down my dress and his mouth fastened on my neck. A cry escaped me as I was pressed backward and a hot, wet mouth came searching for mine. ‘Sir!’
‘Damn it, hold still!’
Panicking, I wriggled, turned over, slid to the floor on my knees, squirmed out from under him and scrambled free, adjusting my gown as I backed away. ‘Sir, please!’
‘Blast you!’ he raged, and would have flown at me, but some thought stopped him. He turned abruptly away, his hands on the back of the chaise, his face hidden. In the dim light I saw a fist clench, and feared his anger. Then, as I glanced at the door, wondering if I could escape, he made a sound. His shoulders were shaking. After a moment I realised he was laughing. Or pretending to.
‘Ah… ha, ha, ha, ha, hah! Ah… ha, ha, hah!’ Turning to look at me, he crowed, ‘You thought I was serious! Hee, hee, Miss Hamilton! Did you really think I was about to seduce you? What a silly goose you are.’ He eased himself to his feet and, smiling, advanced on me. ‘It was my little joke. I only wanted to see your face. I’m a naughty boy, aren’t I?’ Head on one side cajolingly, he reached for my chin and tutted when I flinched away. ‘Oh, come. Don’t look like that. Don’t be angry with me. It was my joke. I didn’t mean to upset you.’
‘I’m sorry, sir,’ I muttered. ‘I’m just not used to—’
‘Not used to horseplay, I suppose. Not used to enjoying yourself.’ Playfully stern, he wagged a finger at me. ‘It’s time you were married, Miss Hamilton. Yes, that’s the answer. We shall have to find you a husband.’ His gleaming glance was roaming again as he murmured, ‘Married ladies have more freedom to enjoy themselves, you know.’
An involuntary shiver ran through me and, seeing it, he stepped away, his eyes narrowed. His expression said he was tired of the game, and of me. ‘You may as well go home. Good night, Miss Hamilton.’
The door slammed behind him. I was alone in the private sitting-room at Sandringham Hall.
Thinking that I could easily walk – run! – home, if I could find my way out of the house, I went out into the dim-lit passageway and turned towards what I believed to be the rear of the house. Nowhere could I find, as I had hoped, an outer door that would lead to cool night air and safety. Nor did I meet any servant who might have helped. That part of the house seemed deserted. Perhaps the prince had arranged it so.
Then I heard a squeal. At the far side of a hallway one of the ladies who had been at the party appeared – the girl in blue, with pearls in her dark hair. She was laughingly evading the clutches of the gentleman who pursued her. With her skirts lifted to reveal a flutter of many-coloured petticoats and a pair of red-stockinged ankles, she dodged away, starting up a flight of stairs, while he, growling like a bear, went after her. Neither of them noticed me.
I blundered back the way I had come and found myself back at the door of the small sitting-room. It was set in an angle of the passageway and, from around the corner, in some distant area of the house, I could hear laughter and music. There was nothing for it but to venture in that direction and hope I might find a way out.
But as I stepped around the corner I collided with a man in evening dress. I cried out in alarm. The man took hold of me and pressed me back behind the wall, sayin
g anxiously, ‘Rose! Where have you been? My dear… what’s wrong?’
It was Geoffrey. Relief surged through me, then as I realised what it all meant I was consumed by rage.
‘“What’s wrong?”’ I repeated. ‘Don’t you know what’s wrong? Oh…’ I shuddered away from him, ‘Don’t touch me! Don’t ever touch me again. I hate you. I hate you all!’
‘Who was with you?’ Geoffrey said sharply. ‘Who brought you here? Tell me and I’ll—’
‘You know who it was,’ I cried. ‘You know! Didn’t you tell him all about me? You’re such good friends. Didn’t you tell him how easily you had seduced me? Isn’t that why he invited me here – and got my own uncle to… Oh, God! Oh, God! Uncle Henry was in it, too.’ Tears burst from my eyes and I flung my hands to contain them, my face turned to the wall.
‘I think,’ Geoffrey said, ‘that I had better take you home.’
With his arm about me he led me through passageways and darkened rooms to a side entrance where he said, ‘I shan’t be long. Wait here,’ and vanished.
In the shadows of that little porch I leaned on the wall and wept, certain that I was ruined for ever. I knew now what sort of party it was, why I had been invited, and why Uncle Henry had told me to enjoy myself. No wonder Lucinda de Crecy wasn’t there; a lady such as she would hardly be included in a night of debauchery. But Geoffrey was here. Geoffrey, who was obviously on familiar terms with both the prince and this house. How often did these orgies take place?
Picking up my skirts, I started to run along the gravelled path but had not gone far when wheels crunched and a light, one-horse vehicle bowled up behind me, its lamps agleam.
‘Rose!’ Geoffrey’s voice shouted. ‘Rose, don’t be foolish.’
I veered away on to a lawn, heading for the shadow of trees not far away, aware that he was coming after me on foot. As I reached the trees, he caught me, spinning me round. For a moment we struggled together, I trying to fight him off and he trying to gain a hold; then all at once I found myself in his arms.