The Royal Nanny (13 page)

“Chad,” I cried, “look there! That bright light in the window. Is it just a light?”

“Dear God, it looks like a fire! I think in the queen's chambers where Millie takes flowers!” he shouted and was off on a run toward the Big House with me right behind him.

Already out of breath from arguing with and kissing Chad, I was panting like a dog when we reached the side door of San
dringham House. It was a fire for certain, for we saw not only flames one floor above us but smelled smoke.

Mabel had said there had been a terrible fire in the Big House years before I came, but only the tapestries and treasures had needed saving then. All I could think of now was,
G
od save the queen!

Chad pounded on the door while I yanked the bell cord. It was Mabel who answered, still in her day clothes. If the king were not in London, more rooms would have been lighted this time of night, more people on duty.

“Fire upstairs!” Chad shouted and pushed past her.

“The queen's rooms!” I cried and followed him in. “Get help!”

I could hear Mabel setting up a hue and cry for the servants, who never went to sleep as early as their betters. Soon we heard others, pounding up the stairs behind us, coughing in the acrid, spreading smoke.

As Chad and I reached the hall outside the private rooms, we saw that the queen's lady-of-the-bedchamber, Charlotte Knollys, had Her Majesty out in the hall, coughing, crying, with a robe wrapped around her nightgown.

“Oh, my picture,” the queen cried. “My only picture of poor Eddie on my bedside table.”

Eddie, her firstborn, I thought. The one who would have been Prince of Wales had he not died here at Sandringham. Once betrothed to Princess May, he had been the roué son no one but his mother ever mentioned.

Chad took off his coat, wrapped it around his right arm, pressed it to his face and plunged into the room through belching smoke. “Chad, no!” I shouted, but my words went unheeded in the growing hubbub.

“Don't go in,” Lady Knollys shouted, as if Chad had not done so already. The smoke was thickening, and perhaps she had not seen him. “My room was just above, and the ceiling could fall in! I think it started in the chimneys.”

My eyes streaming tears, I went to the bedroom doorway and peered into the gray cloud of blinding smoke. “Chad, come out!” I shrieked. “The ceiling might fall!”

That was all I could manage before I fell to coughing. The house butler and housekeeper tried to shoo us all down the hall and the stairs. “The volunteer firemen from the village have been called,” the butler announced calmly as if he were just summoning us to dinner. “They're bringing the hand pumps. Everyone downstairs, if you please!”

I was ready to run in after Chad but I kept seeing the children's faces. I lagged behind the exiting crowd, led by the intrepid queen who had evidently slept through the first of the smoke, heat, and flames. With her deafness, perhaps she had not heard the crackling fire or first shouts from Lady Knollys.

Thank God, Chad came bursting out of the bedroom, though soot- and smoke-blackened and holding his breath. His hair looked singed, his eyebrows too, but he held in his hands a large, ornately framed photograph of a royal I had never seen but had heard scuttlebutt about for years, whispers that he had been a homosexual. That gossips had even suggested he might be Jack the Ripper, but that was utter nonsense, Mrs. Wentworth had said.

I rushed to Chad and put an arm around his waist to support him. The metal picture frame was hot to the touch. Chad held tight to me, an arm thrown over my shoulder, hacking, gasping for air before I tugged him away after the others.

Downstairs, when he gave Queen Alexandra the photograph,
her tears matched those streaming gray soot from his eyes. “You,” she told him, choking on her words, “are a dear, dear man for this, and shall be rewarded.”

“My reward is that you are safe, Your Majesty,” he barely got out before we heard a rumble from upstairs as the ceiling of her bedroom evidently collapsed.

“Outside,” the butler's polite tones resounded again. “Outside until the firemen arrive and declare the rest of the house safe.”

As we straggled onto the lawn, Prince George came running up out of the darkness, looking quite dazed and, for once, unkempt, for someone must have roused him and he'd dressed hastily. “Mrs. Lala,” he said in passing, “you beat me here.”

“It was the queen's bedroom, but she is fine,” I called after him, not planning to tell him I'd been mistook for a poacher.

Chad and I stood aside, leaning against the sturdy tree trunk as the firemen's long wagon rushed in, pulled by six horses, loaded with two large hand pumps and a bell clanging. To draw water from the lake, the eight men tugged the hose like a long snake, putting one end in the water, and rushed inside.

In the dark, Chad put his arm around my waist, pulled me to him and kissed my cheek. He smelled like an ashy fireplace. He wasn't coughing quite as badly, but his voice was rough. I supposed my clothes and cheeks were soot-smeared too.

“So, we both have had thanks from the rulers of the realm, and offers of rewards, eh?” he said.

“Shall we ask them for the moon?” I tried to keep my voice light.

He ignored that and, with a huge sigh as we gazed back at the Big House, he said, “So those flames will soon be out, but I don't know about ours. Good night, sweetheart. And despite my mis
taking you for a poacher and this near tragedy, some things did make this a good night.”

He squeezed my waist and walked off into the darkness toward the village. And I—so relieved we had made some sort of peace with each other, but knowing it made things just as hard—pressed my shaking legs back against the tree so I would not fall down.

T
he next summer we were all invited to the Big House for the celebration the king hosted for David's tenth birthday. Bicycles and ponies were in the offing for the three oldest children. Even Harry and little George were allowed to attend, so the king and queen could show off all their grandchildren to their friends. On the day of the great party, I could be found sitting against a wall in the Grand Saloon of Sandringham House, tending the youngest boys until they were summoned.

Although I had been in the Grand Saloon before, most recently when I was trying to find David and Bertie during a game of hide-and-seek with their grandfather, I had never seen it ablaze with lights and filled with gorgeously attired people.

Tears blurred my vision of the dancers rotating past. The entire room seemed to glitter. The jewels, silks, even feathers in the ladies' hair, were like nothing I'd ever seen before. The chatter, the background music of Gottlieb's German
orchestra—brought in from London for the dancing—was overwhelming.

When I'd first entered the room with Princess Mary, we'd both gasped in awe. I'd handed Mary over to her grandmother, Queen Alexandra, who was not in the swirl of dancing with her bad knee and limp. But she presided over the glittering head table.

I'd promised to describe as many gowns to Rose as I could. The queen wore a rose-hued, gossamer chiffon gown with a flowing back and streaming gold ribbons. Then a mint green satin gown with a beaded bodice and gold cords from a gold lamé waistband swept by. I think those long ones were called bugle beads, but my head spun with trying to remember so much.

At the other end of the room from the orchestra, square, four-person, linen-draped bridge tables awaited players for after the meal, as this massive, high-ceilinged room served many purposes when King Edward entertained. I kept to a padded bench where I held George and put Harry right next to me. After their grandparents or parents showed them off, I would take both back to the York Cottage nursery, where Martha would watch them while I returned to wait for Mary, who, unlike her older brothers, was destined for an early bedtime.

Finch hovered too, though Hansell was on holiday. That, in a way, was another birthday gift to David, because their tutor drilled both boys mercilessly on things they hated such as historical dates and battles and places. But he had helped David write a speech of thanks to memorize for this evening. I'd heard it four times and found it sounded quite stiff—even pompous, hopefully just a reflection of Hansell and not David, for the boy was still insufferably selfish and willful, still resenting my attentions to the younger children at times.

David came over with Bertie in tow. “Lala,” David said, “I think I shall have to shout to be heard when I give my thank-you speech.”

“Everyone will be quiet to hear you. Do not shout, or you will sound angry. You will do just fine. And do not hang around your wrapped presents, ogling them.”

“You were a good present to me once,” he said flippantly and darted off.

I had to admit David's comment was one of the dearest, most clever things the boy had ever said to me. Perhaps he would someday be suave with the ladies. His compliment almost—but not quite—made up for the fact that I was sometimes as lonely as the children. I lived among the adults but was not part of them, just as I felt suspended between the upstairs and most of the downstairs staff.

Despite the noise in the Grand Saloon, my mind went back to my adventures of the day before. Chad had driven myself, the children, and Finch clear out to the fens near the bogs and the shore of the Wash, where he had shown us a sand plover nest with its speckled, grayish eggs, then pointed out the nesting pair themselves sitting in the grass nearby.

“Take a look at their short bills,” he'd told the children. “That's how you can tell them from longer-billed waders like snipes.”

“Why aren't they sitting on this nest with the eggs?” Mary had asked.

Chad had explained, “You see, here's something interesting about plovers. They are very clever birds and sometime sit on places not their nests so other birds—people too, I suppose—can't find where their eggs are. But I knew where to look, that's all.”

David said, “Good idea, since some ladies like to take eggs,
blow them out, and put them under glass domes just as if they were the real thing. I think that's as bad as if we blew babies out of mother's stomachs before they hatch and come out. Mama says she doesn't want any more in hers to worry about.”

“Righto, my boy, but we won't go into all that right now,” Chad said with a stern look at me. “Just remember, if you want to hide something precious, you have to stay away from it sometimes, so others won't know.”

While Finch was staring off toward the distant sea, Chad had looked only at me, tipped his head a bit and narrowed his eyes. Sometimes it was like that between us—unspoken things that screamed so loud.

My mind was pulled back to the present as Little George fidgeted and started singing “Baa, Baa, Black Sheep” over the tune the orchestra was playing. I shushed him but I could not quiet my unsettling memories.

D
AVID'S CELEBRATION HAD
been a great success, and that summer my life was so busy that I could shut out memories of Chad for a few hours when things got chaotic—like right now on this hot, humid night, the twelfth of July 1905, soon to be a momentous date to me.

Princess May become pregnant with her sixth child, but she was having a hard time “hatching it,” at David liked to say. Now she had gone into labor, here at York Cottage, where she'd borne her other children—except David—and this time it seemed prolonged and difficult. The doctor had been upstairs with her for hours, while the prince smoked cigar after cigar and paced up and down the hall. Eva Dugdale, who was usually with her friend for her lying in and labor, had a sick child she could not leave, so was not here.

My voice wavered when I sang to little Harry and George to get them to sleep. The entire house seemed tense, waiting for a new infant's cry, when the entire staff felt like wailing.

I tried to tell myself that this baby's birth would assure that I could stay here longer, at least as long as it took this sixth child to leave the nursery. The princess had vowed that each of the last two pregnancies would be her final one. And this one surely had to be, for Rose had whispered to me that her monthly courses were quite erratic now.

I'd tried to buck myself up with the knowledge that I'd have another little one to tend, because Chad had told Finch and me that his wife was expecting again, and he'd seemed happy about that, so I tried to be too. I reckoned Chad thought Millie's losing their first child—and a second he'd mentioned the night of the fire—were far enough in the past that they could try again and all would be well.

I lay down in just a petticoat and chemise because my high-necked nightgown was too warm. As the hours of the night dragged on, I tossed and turned on my narrow bed, thinking of what must be going on down the hall. A feeling of darkest dread overtook me. I heard Prince George's feet pass by in the hall again, pacing—at least I thought I did. I remembered the tales of poor Scottish Kittie Rankie, the ghost of the witch who walked the Abergeldie tower stairs. I had told no one of the gray, swirling mist I'd seen when I'd peeked through the keyhole that day we were trapped there. David and Bertie were convinced she'd slammed the door on us, but I'd pooh-poohed it all and kept the vision to myself. But now, I even smelled the prince's cigar smoke through the door, so that was not my imagination, surely not a half-waking memory of the fire at Sandringham.

Annoyed at my disjointed thoughts, I tried to pray myself to
sleep, then sat up and fanned my face just as Mrs. Wentworth's distinctive rap sounded on the door. It must be over—a new child to see, to help the doctor care for. I'd have to get dressed, but at least I'd left my hair pinned up.

I tiptoed to the door and opened it a crack. Then, when I saw it was indeed Mrs. Wentworth holding a partly shuttered lantern, I motioned her in and held my finger to my lips to remind her the little boys were asleep.

“Her Royal Highness is calling for you,” she whispered. She had tears in her eyes, and her face was creased in concern. “You are sent for straightaway.”

“The baby's born?”

She shook her head, and the lantern wavered. “I fear there's some concern. I am sent to fetch you. She wants you now.”

My insides cartwheeled. Surely after five children nothing could go really wrong. Perhaps in her delirium—for I know they gave her ether each time—she'd thought the child was born and ready for my care. Or without Lady Dugdale to hold her hand . . . or worse . . .

“I'll be right there,” I told her and let her out.

I dressed in the dark as I had many times when I had a sick child. But now, it might be worse than that.

A
S
I
HURRIED
toward the princess's bedroom door, I nearly ran into Prince George, indeed walking the hall. His hair was slick with sweat, his face glazed with it. Yet he was formally attired.

“Oh, good, Mrs. Lala.” To my amazement, he took my hand in both of his. He was trembling. “She's insisting she has something to say to you—that she's afraid it's . . . it's . . . it's”—he went on, almost stuttering like Bertie—“going badly. But she'll come through, always has. Comfort her, if you can.”

“Yes, Your Royal Highness. Of course, I will, and I'm sure it will soon be over with a good outcome.”

“Pray God,” he said and opened the princess's bedroom door, then closed it behind me.

It was deathly silent inside when I'd expected bustle and much ado. The doctor came over to me, blocking my view of the bed. I knew Sir John Williams was much respected and trusted. He'd been here for most of the previous births.

“Mrs. Lala, Her Royal Highness has insisted you be summoned before the administration of the ether so we can deliver the child.” His voice was a mere whisper. “It's a large baby with a big head, and that is causing complications. Can you speak with her and hold her hand as Lady Dugdale always did? Can you keep calm during a dangerous delivery? She's raving a bit, so I hope you can stay steady . . . be a comfort to her no matter what she says. Of course, I want to save the child but the mother's life . . . especially in this case . . . who she is . . .”

His voice trailed off. Imagine—a doctor, one dubbed “sir,” and he was as terrified as I was. I wanted to burst into tears but fought for calm. “Yes, of course. I will do all I can to help her.”

“Steady, then, my girl,” he said and led me over to the big bed.

Princess May's skin glistened with sweat, her hair stringy and wild across her pillow. A woman I hadn't seen before, even when Harry and George were born—a medical nurse?—was wiping her face, neck, and arms with a wet cloth. Princess May wore a thin nightgown, ruffled up to under her breasts. A sheet covered her distended belly and spread legs. I saw a chair, which the nurse indicated with a nod was mine, but I remained standing, leaning over the princess to take her hand. I am not certain we had ever deliberately touched before. Just a moment ago, the prince had taken my hand—and now this.

“Your Royal Highness, it's Mrs. Lala,” I said.

“Who?” she asked, then stared up at me through unfocused eyes. Her face was crushed in a frown that made her look like someone else. “Oh, Lala, yes, thank God. If I should die . . .”

“No. No, you will be fine.”

She barely squeezed my hand and repeated, “If I should die, swear to me you will stay with the children until they are grown. I made the prince—ah, ah—” she cried, gasping for air as a wave of pain contorted her face even more. “You—promise—too.”

My heart thudded so hard it shook me. “Yes. Yes, of course, I will.”

“You love them. Protect them—ah, for—me.”

“Yes, I swear it, but you will be there. We will have picnics in Scotland, and you will teach them more songs and—”

She screamed, gritted her teeth and reared up off the damp, wrinkled sheet, then collapsed again.

On the other side of the bed, leaning over his patient while the nurse stepped away, Dr. Williams said, “All right, then, Princess May. Mrs. Lala has promised so we must bring this baby.”

The nurse came back with a little wire mask and draped a small cloth over it, ready to cover the princess's mouth and nose. Ether, I thought. Not really newfangled since Queen Victoria had used it in childbirth.

The princess gritted out, “And if this baby lives and I . . . I don't . . . you will care for him or her too. Please, Lala!”

“Yes, I vow to you I will care for and protect this child with my own life.”

She seemed to rest a moment from her agony as the nurse placed the mask over her nose and mouth and dripped liquid from a bottle on it.

“Sit back away from the fumes,” the doctor told me. “Keep hold of her hand. This ether will help.”

I did as he said, sinking into the chair, wishing Eva Dugdale were here but grateful I could help. The princess's grip on my hand and then her entire body went lax. The nurse kept the mask over her nose and mouth but dropped no more of the ether from the little bottle.

I jolted even more alert, more terrified when the doctor drew back the sheet and lifted what looked to be metal tongs, large ones, in his hands.

I realized he was going to push those up inside her to grasp the baby's head and try to pull him or her into the world. My heart went out to our brave Princess May. And to this child who might not live and could kill our queen, its own mother; an infant I'd sworn, above all the others, to cherish and protect.

“This has to end quickly,” Dr. Williams whispered to the nurse and moved the tongs closer. “With these forceps, God help us, it is now or never for them both.”