by Karen Harper
I tried to thrust him from my thoughts and watch the movie I had almost memorized. I laughed again when wide-eyed Dorothy told her little dog, Toto—and I reached out to pet my corgi cuddled next to my hip—that “I’ve a feeling we’re not in Kansas anymore.”
Indeed, my life had been like that. I would have told my pet dog, “This isn’t St. Paul’s Walden Bury or even not Glamis Castle anymore.” Sometimes, despite it all, I could not believe that I was queen of England, queen of the Empire. Mother of two princesses, one of whom would someday—far off, I prayed—take the throne. And, once again, we were at war with Germany, and I still foolishly clung to little wars in my heart about choices I had made.
“Your Majesty, sorry to pop in again, but Sir Kenneth has rung a second time,” Gladys said, coming back in, “though I don’t think the phone cord will stretch to your bed.”
“I shall get up, of course, and take it at my desk. Ask him to wait a moment,” I said and arose quickly, disturbing my little corgi friend.
I saw the quick look that passed between the two as Bessie turned off the projector and Gladys turned on the lamp and snatched my warm robe and slippers from the chair to help me don them, since my dresser had been given the day off. I blew my nose hard, so I would not sound as if I were inside of a barrel.
“Hello, dear friend Kenneth,” I said when I sat at my desk and lifted the receiver. “I hope there is no problem.”
“Your Majesty, nothing we can’t handle together in this era of problems. So sorry to hear you are under the weather, and my deepest condolences on the loss of the Duke of Kent.”
We chatted about the funeral. He told me we had an amiable American soldier invasion in London, and that a few officers and soldiers had taken advantage of the free concerts at the gallery, though most Yanks were keeping the shops, restaurants, and bars around Grosvenor Square hopping instead of attending free orchestral presentations.
“How kind and generous of you to extend that offer,” I told him. “I had a wonderful time at the one we attended together.”
I had to stifle a sigh. It had been a lovely day and event, and the publicity had helped to promote the concerts, available to all to keep spirits up, even though the entire gallery was stripped of its artwork. Brendan Bracken’s up-and-coming protégé Rowena Fitzgerald had taken a lovely photograph of Kenneth and me sitting together, and Brendan Bracken had used the picture for what he called “the best sort of propaganda.”
It didn’t take much time for Kenneth to convince me that the art from Hampton Court should also be secreted, even though it was in the countryside. “A target, a magnet for bombs or invasion,” he said, his rich voice strong. “As you know, that vandal Hitler and his hordes are known to steal art, my dear Q.E.”
I smiled at his little nickname for me. He had first used it when he had shown me one of his favorite portraits of the first Queen Elizabeth, the famous Ditchley portrait of her with her three long strands of pearls. He said he had noticed how often I wore three graceful strands, and somehow, that intimate compliment, observation, and the private nickname had so endeared him. Once, he had even dared to reach out to straighten my signature pearls when they became tangled.
“I will bow, sir, so to speak,” I told him, “to your expertise on this. Shall we store the Hampton Court art in the same place as the others?”
We had decided not to mention on the phone where we had stashed the nation’s priceless valuables, even if we thought it a secure line. Very few knew that, though I had suggested sending art as far as Canada, Kenneth had won the day to use the basements of Windsor Castle. Also, just this year, priceless collections of art, miniatures, and manuscripts from the Royal Library had gone to an old, unused mine in North Wales. Both of us were dedicated to protecting our secrets, I thought with another unbidden thrill.
“One more thing,” he told me. “My dear Q.E., I have it on the best authority that the Duke of Wellington is, shall we say, very hesitant to let his important art collection out of Apsley House to be stored. Of course, he’s lately busy in North Africa, but he is briefly home on leave. I was hoping you might have a way to suggest to him that a mansion on Hyde Park Corner is hardly the place to guard such treasures in his care. I thought if you and I took a trip there, we might convince him before he heads back to service.”
“I see. I— Yes, I know him, a fine young man, one I would consider for Princess Elizabeth if he were nearer her age.”
I tried to get hold of myself. I was stalling for time. If Kenneth and I went together, surely we could convince the duke. I knew there was room to store the extensive Wellington collection at Frogmore. Surely such a royal venue would please the duke. Then there would be time alone with Kenneth again, a common cause, a little day trip, perhaps lunch or tea before or after. We had an affair that was not a real affair at all, perhaps only the possibility in my head and heart.
But then I thought of Bertie without me now, how he had insisted I get away so that I could have a bit of rest, even though I know he was exhausted and missed me desperately. Surely, he had more important things to do besides convincing a young duke to allow us to store his collection in case the city was bombed further or even—God forbid—invaded. Kenneth was right that Hitler was a thief as well as a mass murderer and destroyer.
I bit my lower lip hard, then said, “I will be returning to London soon. My days of reading Damon Runyon here are over, and Alan Lascelles lent me Epitaph for a Spy. I shall snag Bertie, however busy and distracted he is, and visit the duke straightaway whilst he is home. And I will let you know how that goes.”
He sounded surprised. I half-regretted my decision, but there would be other times, hopefully, times of peace and not the big war overriding the little ones inside me. Oh, I knew Bertie had enjoyed an amour after I had requested a separate bed. But he had put up with that and loved and championed me. And didn’t all that count for something?
After we rang off, I curled up in bed again, half wanting to call Kenneth back and set up a date. But no, and so I watched Dorothy with her Scarecrow and Tin Man friends, missing a brain and a heart, skip off toward the Emerald City, singing. Ah, but she had no idea there were some shocks and terrible times to come.
* * *
Despite my sour mood, I had to smile with pride when Bertie called that evening to tell me he needed my help to plan a banquet for General Eisenhower and some of his top brass staff.
“Dearest,” he said, “as you know, we’ll need your skills for the planning. If General Eisenhower is ill at ease because of his country upbringing, once we move that toast earlier so he—and I—can smoke, I could read him the statistics I have recently received about our citizens’ London homes in ruins. Talk about difficult living conditions.”
“I know. The numbers must be staggering.”
“Listen to this list from my recent red box papers. Over seven hundred British homes destroyed since 1940, one in eight here in London. Water lines smashed. Six million of our citizens with no operating sewage systems. We have sunk so low that the basements of ruined buildings are being converted to rainwater catch basins—after the bodies are removed, that is.”
I shuddered. “It is terrifying. We need all our strength and resolve—and we need the Americans. We must invite General Eisenhower as soon as we can. Then we can also invite him when we entertain Eleanor Roosevelt. And we could ask him to go with us to greet her at the train station when she arrives from her countryside stays with Queen Mary and the Churchills.”
“I know you will smooth everything out, my darling, with the president’s wife and the president’s general. Both are essential to our cause, and Eisenhower is all for good old American teamwork with us, thank God. By the way, I hear he tells anyone who will listen that he’s from someplace I’ve never heard of—Abilene, Kansas, a rough-and-tumble cow town, one of my aides said.”
“Then, I dare say, set-in-her-class-conscious-ways, bombed-out London is a bit of a jolt after Washington and his early days.
I promise you, dear Bertie, I shall greet him warmly and convince him that this just isn’t Kansas anymore—and how to cope with us anyway.”
Chapter Twenty-One
If You Ask Me
Despite these dire days and food rationing even at noble and royal tables, life turned to a whirl of dinners and receptions. I cannot say a whirl of parties, for the war events were much too dire for that. Even Winston, who always liked a good time with conversation, was quite in the dumps, fearing we would lose in North Africa and on the Continent. He had not really recovered his aplomb after escaping a Parliamentary no-confidence vote this summer, although he had weathered it with a tally of 475 for to 25 against.
So here we were, greeting guests at the palace, which had been spiffed up as much as could be in these tough times. In a way, I was proud and defiant about our grand old lady, for, like all of us, she was still standing despite the ravages of war.
General Eisenhower arrived with John Gilbert Winant, called Gil, the American ambassador to the Court of St. James’s. Our information was that they worked well together, although Winant was a bit of a loner, whereas the general had a very public persona, at least with his troops, though he was not one who enjoyed high-society persons. Oh, dear, for we were loaded with them here to meet the man of the hour—of the year!
The general wore a sharp, dark brown uniform with medals and three gold stars on his epaulets. He carried his billed hat under his arm. Yes, the newspapers had been right that he was tall and stood so erect, though he nodded his head slightly when he greeted the king, before he turned his blue eyes on me.
“So very pleased to meet you, Your Majesty,” he said with the mere hint of a bow but a big smile as I offered my hand and we shook in that American way. “Very kind of you to invite us here in these trying times. My wife, Mamie, would give her eyeteeth to see all this.”
“Oh—yes. Perhaps when these terrible days are over.”
“And they will be, ma’am. There are big-deal difficulties ahead, but we will win in the end.”
He did not sugarcoat the situation, but I believed him, and I was sure our people and his troops must too.
* * *
I rather thought the dinner was a success. Early toasts to the king allowed the men to smoke, though I could see some of the twelve ladies present were surprised at that. After the rousing, traditional “To the king!” toasts, the king himself led one to President Roosevelt. I saw General Eisenhower and his several aides snap to stiff attention for that. The next formal dinner we had planned here, the following week, was for their First Lady, Eleanor Roosevelt. Should I invite the military elites to that too?
My dear protégé Rowena and her camera—well, she wasn’t really under my tutelage, but I had more or less discovered her—were everywhere snapping photographs, though the pop of her flashbulb was distracting. I motioned for her and the hovering Brendan to leave the room for now. Rowena had said one thing she “adored” about General Eisenhower was that he always looked into the camera when he was talking, though she liked to catch him off guard too. And she had noted that every time he mentioned Hitler or the Nazis, he went red in the face and clenched his fists.
“I warrant,” I had told her, “it’s very hard to catch that man off guard at all. And I hope Mussolini and Hitler learn that far too late.”
Everyone had been talking to the general, but he sat now between Bertie and me at the head of the table, so I had his ear at last. “I believe you and I are of an age, General.”
“Actually, ma’am, I’m fifty-one to your forty-one. I try to do my homework. I must tell you how key your amazing country is to our endeavor here that we—all of us—must become a team, a trusting and trustworthy team.”
Bertie leaned toward us from his side and said, “I hear you even handled our General Montgomery, our vaunted commander of the Eighth Army, when he scolded you, General.”
Eisenhower grimaced then grinned. “I believe we have come to an understanding, sir. He was appalled I smoked and drank.”
“He’s lectured Churchill on that too, but not me yet.”
I could tell that Eisenhower, who seemed to smile broadly and easily, wasn’t certain if he should laugh at that comment or not.
“But your ‘Monty’ is a strong leader, sir. It reminds me of the story when someone scolded Abraham Lincoln for trusting his very successful General Grant, who used to drink more than he should. Lincoln told the newspaper reporter, ‘Actually, I’m going to find out what he drinks and buy it for all my generals.’”
We all shared a laugh. “But,” Bertie told him, picking up his goblet with the same hand that held his cigarette as though he would toast Eisenhower, “in Montgomery’s case, we would all have to become teetotalers and ban tobacco.”
I finally managed to steer the conversation back to what I had intended. “General, would you join us for dinner when Mrs. Roosevelt is here next week? I know how busy you are, and we are so grateful you could be with us this evening.”
“Oh, sure. I’d be honored. After all, the president is our mutual friend, and Mrs. Roosevelt is an important part of his life. She reaches out to all classes of people and speaks up. Quite the activist, as some call her. Her strong temperament would have fit right in for the old days in my home state of Kansas.
“Why, she even writes several newspaper columns which really reach our people,” he went on. “Her ‘My Day’ articles touch on race relations, women’s rights, and key events. She also writes a weekly newspaper column called ‘If You Ask Me,’ answering all sorts of off-the-wall to major political questions, not domestic namby-pamby at all. Some say that’s as impressive as the president’s Fireside Chats to our country. For sure, Mrs. Roosevelt will arrive with the say-so of the president and be able to speak for him too. If you ask me, to use her words, I think the two of you must have a lot in common.”
I appreciated the comment and took that all in. Of course, if I went solo to the States, I would seem to have more authority too. When I had met her there, she had been more hostess than political spokesperson. It seemed to me that I had some of her attributes—at least, being in on the top political decisions in this war—yet my smiling visits to our citizens in war and peace, my bucking Bertie up and sometimes even guiding his decisions—still the so-called First Lady of the United States was evidently more important and powerful than that.
Suddenly, I was very worried about having her here at the palace, our official home that was, at least for now, shabby and, in some places, in shambles. I decided, for once, especially since the bombings had stopped for now, to bring Lilibet and Margot here for her visit, a family affair. If I could not match her in influence, lest she thought I was all smiles and nods and royal fluff, I would show her that was not true. Somehow.
My mind snapped back to Bertie’s conversation with Eisenhower that had left me out for a moment. I heard the general tell Bertie, “I am willing to attend important functions like this and certainly any one you would choose when Eleanor Roosevelt is here. But I’ll tell you man to man, Your Majesty, I have instigated a seven-day workweek for our staff and troops, and I don’t intend to fight this war over fancy tables and teacups.”
“Not only understood but agreed and applauded, General,” Bertie said with a nod and a rap of his knuckles on the tablecloth.
They both lit another cigarette before the main course came. I scolded myself for feeling left out. And for fretting that Eleanor Roosevelt would think me all smiles and a provider of teacups, royal or not.
It was wretchedly dark and dreary in this half-ruined palace after the bombs. No way to impress her with the rations we held to here at the palace. Why, Winston had said that when President Roosevelt hosted him aboard the American ship in Newfoundland, they had dined on everything from smoked salmon to chocolate ice cream, cookies and cupcakes topped off with wines and champagne toasts, not just a spot of sherry. And we’d been wined and dined on our U.S. visit, though, of course, it was not wartime.
&n
bsp; I was planning to give Mrs. Roosevelt—she had said to call her Eleanor, but I was beginning to have trouble thinking of her that way—my suite in the palace, but was that enough to impress her and let her know I was making a great welcoming gesture? Why, my bathtub was marked with the five-inches-of-water limit for bathing! So my hands were tied to keep me from being the hostess and equal I would like to be.
But, I vowed, I would keep control of the situation, entertain and inspire her, do as best I could. I had more than once admitted my favorite buck-up-London sign was Keep Calm and Carry On, but I, the first lady of our land, needed to carry my load and carry the day, win over and influence the president’s powerful First Lady. All that, if you asked me.
Chapter Twenty-Two
We Two E.R.s
As you can see,” I told Bertie when we walked from our motorcar toward the platform at Paddington Station, “I ordered a red carpet laid out for her, even though she’s not a head of state.”
“She’ll be in the train’s royal coach too. Besides,” he added, nodding and smiling, but speaking quietly as people began to recognize us, “she is probably the unofficial head of state, just as you are. Winston and I were saying that we now have three days in London with two E.R.s, namely, my dear queen Elizabeth Regina and Eleanor Roosevelt, queen of the United States.”
Ordinarily I would have laughed, but I was too nervous. “Best you not let anyone else hear that joke between the two of you,” I whispered as we saw the locomotive pull the short train into the roofed station.
While waiting, we waved to the growing crowd that was kept back behind the ropes. We greeted General Eisenhower as well as the American ambassador, Gil Winant, and their entourage, whom we’d asked to greet Mrs. Roosevelt too.
