Her Royal Spyness (3 page)

“He loves her, Binky,” I said, defending my fictitious heroine. “Some people do marry for love, you know.”

“Yes, but not in our class,” Binky said easily. “We do our duty. We marry someone suitable.”

“I like to think that love may come into it a little, Binky,” Fig said in a frosty tone.

“If one strikes it lucky, Fig. Like you and I.”

He wasn’t as stupid as he seemed, I decided. He was without guile, a man of simple needs, simple pleasures, but definitely not stupid.

Fig actually managed a smile. “Will you need to have your tiara brought up from the vault?” she asked, going back to practical matters now.

“I don’t think it’s a tiara sort of wedding,” I said.

“Not St. Margaret’s then?”

“No, it’s to be a small affair. I told you the bride was delicate.”

“Then I wonder she needs help in preparing for it. Anyone can arrange a simple wedding.” Fig took another large bite of toast and jam.

“Fig, she has asked for help and I am responding,” I said. “I’m just in the way up here and who knows, I may even meet somebody in London.”

“Yes, but what will you do for servants?”

“I’ll hire a local girl to look after me.”

“Make sure you check her references thoroughly,” Fig said. “Those London girls can’t be trusted. And keep the silver locked away.”

“I’m not likely to need the silver,” I said. “I’m only going to use it as a place to sleep for a few nights.”

“Well, I suppose if you must go, you must. But we’ll miss you dreadfully, won’t we, Binky?”

Binky went to say something, then thought better of it. “I’ll miss you, old thing,” he said. It was quite the nicest thing he had ever said to me.

I sat looking out of the train window as we sped southward, watching winter melting into glorious spring. There were new white lambs in fields, the first primroses on the embankments. My excitement grew as we neared London. I was on my own, truly on my own, for the first time in my life. For the first time I’d be making my own decisions, planning my own future—doing something. At this point I had no idea what I should be doing, but I reminded myself that it was the 1930s. Young ladies were allowed to do more than embroider, play piano, and paint watercolors. And London was a big city, teeming with opportunities for a bright young person like myself.

The bubble of enthusiasm had burst by the time I reached Rannoch House. It had started to rain just outside London and by the time we came into King’s Cross Station it was coming down in buckets. There were sorry-looking men lining up for a soup kitchen along Euston Road and beggars at every corner. I stepped out of the cab and let myself into a house as cold and dreary as Castle Rannoch had been. Rannoch House is on the north side of Belgrave Square. I remembered it as a place of bustle and laughter, always people coming and going to theaters, dinner parties, or on shopping expeditions. Now it lay shrouded in dust sheets, colder than the grave, and empty. The realization crept over me that this was the first time in my entire life that I had been all alone in a house. I looked back at the front door, half afraid and half excited. Was I stupid to have come alone to London? How was I going to cope on my own?

I’ll feel better after a nice bath and a cup of tea
, I thought. I went up to my bedroom. The fireplace was empty, the fire unlaid. What I needed was a fire to cheer me up, but I had no idea how one set about laying a fire. In truth I had never seen a fire laid, or lit. One awoke to a merrily crackling fire, never having seen the maid who slipped into the room at six o’clock to light it. Fig expected me to hire a maid of all work, but I had no money to do so. So I was going to have to learn to do things for myself. But I really didn’t think I could face learning how to light a fire at this moment. I was tired, travel weary, and cold. I went through to the bathroom and started to run a bath. There was a good six inches of water in it before I realized that both taps were running cold water. The boiler had obviously been turned off and I had no idea what a boiler looked like or how I might get it going. I began to seriously question the folly of my rapid departure. Had I waited and planned better, I could surely have secured an invitation from someone who lived in a warm and comfortable house with servants to run my bath and make my tea.

Now in the depths of gloom, I went downstairs again and braved the door that led below stairs, to the servants’ part of the house. I remembered going down there as a small child, sitting on a stool while Mrs. McPherson, our cook, let me scrape out the cake bowl or cut out gingerbread men. The big, half-underground kitchen was spotless, cold, and empty. I found a kettle and I even found a tinderbox and a spill to light the gas. Feeling very proud of myself I boiled some water. I even located a tea caddy. Of course that was when I realized that there was no milk, nor was there likely to be unless I contacted the milkman. Milk arrived on doorsteps. That much I knew. I rooted around in the larder and discovered a jar of Bovril. I made myself a cup of hot Bovril instead with some Jacob’s cream crackers and went to bed.
Things are bound to be brighter in the morning
, I wrote in my diary.
I have taken the first steps in a new and exciting adventure. At least I am free of my family for the first time in my life
.

Chapter 3

Rannoch House
Belgrave Square
London
Friday, April 22, 1932

Even the most minor member of the royal family is not supposed to arrive at Buckingham Palace on foot. The proper mode of entry is at the very least a Rolls-Royce motor or, in the case of reduced circumstances, a Bentley or Daimler. Ideally a state coach drawn by a team of perfectly matched horses, although not many of us run to coaches these days. The sight of one female person slinking across the forecourt on foot would definitely have my esteemed relative-by-marriage, Her Royal Majesty and Empress of India, Queen Mary, raise an eyebrow. Well, probably not actually raise the eyebrow, because personages of royal blood are trained not to react, even to the greatest of improprieties. Were a native in some dark corner of the colonies to strip off his loincloth and dance, waggling his you-know-what with gay abandon, not so much as an eyebrow twitch would be permitted. The only appropriate reaction would be polite clapping when the dance was over.

This sort of control is drummed into us at an early age, very much as one trains a gun dog not to react to the sound of a shot fired at close range or a police horse to a rapid movement in the crowd. Miss MacAlister, the governess who preceded my finishing school in Switzerland, used to chant to me, like a litany: A lady is always in control of herself. A lady is always in control of her emotions. A lady is always in control of her expression. A lady is always in control of her body. And indeed it is rumored that some royal personages can dispense with visiting strange water closets for days on end. I wouldn’t be crass enough to betray which royal personages can achieve this feat.

Fortunately there are other ways into Buckingham Palace, preferable to facing those formidable gilt-tipped gates and then crossing that vast expanse of forecourt under the watchful eye of those impossibly tall, bear-skinned guards and possibly Her Majesty herself. If you go around to the left, heading in the direction of Victoria Station, you can enter through the Ambassador’s Court and the visitors’ entrance. Even more desirable, if you follow the high brick wall along that road, you will come across a discreet black door in the wall. I gather it was used by my father’s uncle Bertie, who had a short but happy reign as King Edward VII, when he wished to visit the more shady of his lady friends. I expect my cousin David, the current Prince of Wales, has used it from time to time when staying with his parents. I was certainly making use of it today.

Let me say that I am not in the habit of visiting the palace from choice. One does not drop in for afternoon tea and a chat, even if they are relatives. I had been summoned, two days after my arrival in London. My esteemed relative the queen possessed one of the best underground intelligence networks in the country. I didn’t think that Fig would have contacted her, but she had found out somehow. A letter had arrived, on palace writing paper, from Her Majesty’s private secretary, Sir Giles Ponsonby-Smythe, indicating that Her Majesty would be delighted if I would take tea with her. Which was why I was slinking up the Buckingham Palace Road on a Friday afternoon. One does not refuse HM.

Of course I was more than a little curious to know why I was being summoned. In fact it crossed my mind that HM might sit me down to tea and then produce Prince Siegfried and a convenient Archbishop of Canterbury to perform the wedding ceremony on the spot. In truth I felt as Anne Boleyn must have done when Henry VIII asked her to drop in for a flagon of ale, and not to wear anything with a high neckline.

I didn’t remember seeing my exalted relatives since my presentation as a debutante—an occasion I won’t forget in a hurry, and I’m sure they haven’t either. I am one of those people whose limbs don’t always obey them in times of crisis. My gown with its long train, not to mention three ridiculously tall ostrich feathers bobbing in a hair ornament, was a recipe for disaster. I had entered the throne room on cue, heard the booming announcement—“Lady Victoria Georgiana Charlotte Eugenie of Glen Garry and Rannoch!”—and executed the perfect curtsy, as practiced a million times at deb school. However, when I tried to stand up, it seems that my high heel had somehow caught itself in the train. I tried to move, but was tethered by my own heel spike. I tugged, gracefully, conscious of those royal eyes on me. Nothing happened. I felt perspiration trickling down my bare back. (Yes, I know ladies don’t sweat, but something was trickling down my back.) I tugged harder. The heel came free and I was catapulted farther into the throne room as if I had been shot from a cannon at the very moment I should have been backing out of the royal presence. Even Her Majesty had looked mildly astonished, but nothing was said, on the occasion or subsequently. I wondered if it would come up over crumpets.

I made a successful entry along a narrow hallway that skirted the palace kitchens, and was making my way along the lower corridor, past various household offices, startling maids and footmen along the way, until in turn I was startled by a horrified voice exclaiming, “You, girl. Where do you think you are going?”

I turned to see an austere old gentleman bearing down on me.

“I don’t know you,” he said accusingly.

“I am Lady Georgiana, His Majesty’s cousin,” I said. “I am here to take tea with Her Majesty. I am expected.”

There are some advantages to being a minor royal. The old man turned beetroot red.

“My lady, I do apologize. I can’t think why I wasn’t informed of your arrival. Her Majesty is awaiting you in the yellow sitting room. This way, please.”

He led me up a side staircase to the
piano nobile
, which has nothing to do with the musical instrument but is the floor on which most of the royal life of the palace takes place. The yellow sitting room is in the southeast corner, with windows looking down the Mall to Admiralty Arch and also out over the start of Buckingham Palace Road. A great vantage point, in fact. As a room, however, it has never appealed to me. It is furnished largely with objects brought from the Royal Pavilion at Brighton, collected by King George IV at a time when chinoiserie was the height of fashion. Lots of dragons, chrysanthemums, and bright painted porcelain. I found it a little too flowery and garish for my taste.

“Lady Georgiana, ma’am,” my stuffy friend said in a low voice.

Her Majesty wasn’t at the table in the window, but standing, peering into one of the glass cases that adorned the walls. She looked up briefly as I came in.

“Ah, Georgiana. I didn’t see you arrive. Did you take a cab?”

“I walked, ma’am.” I should explain that royals are always ma’ams and sirs, even to their closest relatives. I went over to plant the dutiful kiss on the cheek, plus execute a curtsy. The order of these two actions requires the most delicate timing. In spite of a lifetime of practice I always managed to bump my nose on the royal cheek as I stood up from the curtsy.

Her Majesty straightened up. “Thank you, Soames. Tea in fifteen minutes.”

The elderly man backed out, closing the double doors. Her Majesty had gone back to peering into the glass case. “Tell me, Georgiana,” she said, “am I right in thinking that your late father had a fine collection of Ming? I’m sure I remember discussing it with him.”

“He collected lots of things, ma’am, but I’m afraid I wouldn’t know one pot from another.”

“That’s too bad. You must come to the palace more often and let me educate you. One finds such solace in collecting beautiful objects.”

I didn’t point out that one needs money to collect beautiful objects and I was currently a pauper.

The queen still didn’t look up from the glass case. “Your brother, the current duke, I suppose has little interest in objets d’art and antiques?” she asked casually. “He was raised to be like his grandfather—huntin’, shootin’, fishin’—the typical country squire.”