The Queen's Secret: A Novel of England's World War II Queen

by Karen Harper

  Eisenhower told me, “I know she will help to lift spirits here as she does at home. As you always do, Your Majesty.”

  My first thought when Eleanor emerged from the royal car was that she looked every bit as broad-shouldered as the general, for she wore a huge fox stole draped about her shoulders with the head and feet of the beast hanging over her dark suit. It made her look so much larger than she was, though she was not—well, as generously proportioned as I. Perhaps I should give up my big, fashionable fur pieces.

  “So good to have you here,” I greeted her after the king did, with a smile and gloved handshake, “though, under the circumstances, we cannot hope to repay your lovely hospitality from our stay with you and the president.”

  After greetings by the general—I thought they talked a bit long—the ambassador, and others, the American E.R. introduced us to the two women she was traveling with, her secretary, Malvina “Tommy” Thompson, and a female colonel, Oveta Hobby, both of whom would ride to the palace in a separate motorcar.

  In the vehicle, we spoke of her brief visit to see Queen Mary at Badminton. Yes, she had “enjoyed” the torn-down-ivy tour and was looking forward to her stay with the Churchills at the P.M.’s retreat at Chequers, not to mention her tour of our hinterlands: Canterbury, Bristol, Surrey, Liverpool, even Glasgow and Edinburgh.

  “Of course, I am also looking forward,” she told us, “to visiting with your people, especially women’s service organizations, one of my important causes at home. I greatly benefit from talks with Mr. and Mrs. Everyman, as I think of them. I’ve already heard from some American Red Cross workers here that the thin cotton socks they have been issued are giving them blisters since they are on their feet so much, and I just now put a bug in Ike Eisenhower’s ear on that, lest you were thinking I was whispering top secrets to him.”

  Evidently trying to hide his surprise at all that, Bertie told her, “Attention to detail is one thing that will win this war. That and a solid victory at El Alamein, where our General Montgomery’s forces are in a fierce, pitched battle today. It’s obsessing Prime Minister Churchill, as indeed it should.”

  “I can understand. You are greatly fighting that front on your own—Operation Torch, I believe it is called. But we hope to stand shoulder to shoulder, ship to ship, and airplane to airplane with you from here on.”

  Bertie and I both expressed gratitude and hope. The rest of the way back to the palace, the king concentrated on pointing out famous spots in London and the destruction of some of them. I concentrated on keeping calm with the plans I’d made for this three-day visit: time with our daughters this afternoon and a dinner tonight with some guests, sadly all in a vast, draughty, barely-hanging-together palace. Barely hanging on, just as I.

  * * *

  I quickly saw I had been right to have Lilibet and Margot here for the afternoon, if not the formal dinner, and it was so wonderful to have them “home.” Rowena was the only photographer we allowed in to take formal photographs of us with the First Lady in the beautiful Bow Room with its circular array of full-length windows and marble columns. I had asked that the fireplace be lit in the vast, chilly room, and the flames from the hearth helped to warm us somewhat.

  After posing, we had tea and time to talk. Margot was a bit fidgety, but Lilibet certainly rose to the occasion.

  “Would you mind, Mrs. Roosevelt, telling me a bit about Americans of my age?” Lilibet asked. “You see, I hope not only to visit them someday, but to make friends with them too. You know, my uncle David married an American, though I really do not know her at all. She was from Baltimore, and I saw on a map that it is not too far from the capital where you live.”

  A moment of silence. There it was, I thought. Lilibet asking a perfectly normal question but bringing up my past archrival and eternal bugaboo.

  “No, I do not know her, my dear, but I hope your uncle David and she are enjoying their relatively peaceful time governing Nassau. You have heard, I suppose, that pirates used to come from there.”

  She and Lilibet talked about ships and pirates from the old days—and Margot actually listened too—but I had a feeling the American E.R. had just smoothly guided the conversation away from what would have been a sticky wicket.

  I might know, David and his wife would intrude here where Bertie was king, despite how we tried to keep them at arm’s—that is, at ocean’s—length. David had tried to ruin me too, for in the old days, it would have been said he had ruined me. Damn David.

  * * *

  At our dinner for twenty that evening—I did not think our wartime budget and food rationing could handle more—I was put out at Winston for not being his usual charming and conversational self. Clementine knew it too. I’d seen her elbow him to get in the conversation, and she glared at him when he popped up more than once to go call Downing Street to see if there was any war news. Bertie explained to the table guests that they were at sixes and sevens waiting for word on the raging battle our troops were fighting in North Africa.

  Winston had also mentioned privately that on his most recent visit to Washington, Eleanor had taken him to task for supporting the dictator Franco and she had urged him to integrate white and Negro troops, one of her big causes at home, not that the U.S. had done that yet. In short, when we needed Winston’s charm right now, he was being a grump, though, I supposed, understandably so. After German general Erwin Rommel had taken Tobruk in April of last year, our troops and citizens desperately needed a victory of some sort.

  At least “Dickie” Mountbatten and his wife, Edwina, were making an effort to be ingratiating and conversational, but then, that was Dickie. Who else could have survived with laud and even advancements but the charmer who had overseen the bloody fiasco of an attempt to take the French port of Dieppe only two months ago? That was a disaster after he had already lost his ship and many men under German air attack earlier in the war. Bertie said at least the huge loss of our men and many Canadians at Dieppe showed we were not yet ready for a beach invasion of France.

  If I were Winston, I would have tossed Mountbatten in the rubbish bin, but they were fast friends yet, and I’d heard Dickie worked well with the Americans, which was the name of the game right now. As with the persnickety General “Monty” Montgomery, Winston had his favorites. I must admit that Dickie did remind me of David with his slippery charm, good looks, and air of noblesse oblige.

  But what annoyed me too about Dickie was that he was Philip’s uncle and now mentor. Worse, Dickie was also second cousin to Lilibet, which made it harder for me to cut ties. At least Philip was currently at sea, but I was chagrined that “Uncle Dickie” had brought a letter and photograph from Philip to Lilibet, and I had not caught that in time. Edwina had told me in the reception line that our eldest was quite over the moon with the picture, as they had requested to see her when they came in. So what could I do but smile and nod, at least for now?

  “I must tell you,” I said to Eleanor where she sat at the table between Bertie and me, “if you and the president visit us sometime after these terrible trials are over, the dinner fare will be quite different. We thought it important to greatly conform to the rationing imposed on our people, though we have bent a few rules this evening.”

  “I do understand,” she told me. “As many hardships as have fallen on Americans for this war, we are still in the land of plenty, and I hope my countrymen realize that.”

  We chatted about other things. She was much impressed with Lilibet and thought Margot was a dear. I did not tell her that our younger girl was more like a “deer,” darting here and there, easily startled however darling she was.

  But I did so want to get back to the topic of how strict our rules for food were. Perhaps, with Eleanor’s influence and connections, it could lead to more shipments of American vegetables or even meat. And sugar—why I’d be glad to import sugar beets, not even the fine cane sugar we were used to. Our poor people stood for hours in line for gumdrops, the only affordable sweet widely available latel
y.

  “We try to make do,” I told her, “but no fresh salmon or cod for two years.” I felt a bit silly since we were eating off of gold-edged china and drinking our meager sherry from Baccarat crystal goblets. “Ordinarily, we would not have plain chicken with such an important guest as you, but meat rationing came in during March of 1940, and it has been downhill from then. Actually, even here, we serve food on a par with our war canteens. Very few eggs, little bacon, butter, milk, but for nursing mothers, even cheese. Why, there were signs here and there of Cheese, Not Churchill! until we had them taken down. Not good for morale, I dare say.”

  “I can imagine,” she said, cutting her piece of chicken. She had eaten her salad and seemed to like even the crude “war bread,” perhaps because of the strawberry preserves we’d brought in from Scotland. At least, I thought, I had told the chef not to fix potatoes two different ways, as the War Office was touting and Brendan Bracken was urging through his Ministry of Information, which was just a name for Ministry of Propaganda.

  “And I do understand,” Eleanor added, “that war rationing or not, what an honor it is to be here with you and the king at the palace. Oh, dear, there goes Winston out again. Tell me, do you know that ‘Farmer in the Dell’ song and game? Perhaps your girls used to play and sing that, ending with ‘The cheese stands alone.’ I was just thinking of that sign you mentioned, Cheese, Not Churchill.” She speared a small piece of cheese on her plate. “Whatever mood he is in, Franklin says we all need Winston and must stand with him and the king.”

  We smiled and clinked our sherry glasses together, even as the king joined us, reaching out with his glass. And here came Winston so quickly back into the room but not glowering this time, rather with a smile on his ruddy face. On his way in, he clapped General Eisenhower on the back, then broke loudly into the rollicking song—and the man could not sing one whit—“Roll Out the Barrel.”

  “What in the name of heaven?” I heard Bertie mutter. “Has Winston lost his mind?”

  “A victory for Monty and for our forces at El Alamein!” Winston cried, flourishing his cigar and lifting his empty sherry glass off the table while everyone gaped at him. “Our first British victory of many, I vow! We will handle the rest of North Africa, then on to Sicily, Italy, France, and rotten Germany. And with the help of our comrade Americans! Many more victories to come, right, General?” he asked, turning to Eisenhower, who was on his feet too, with a huge grin. Others stood hastily, scraping back their chairs.

  “And what an honor,” Winston went on with a half bow toward Eleanor, “to have America’s First Lady with us at this momentous time. To the king! To General Montgomery and our fighting men! To Mrs. Roosevelt and our dear friend and ally, President Roosevelt! To arms! And down with that damned devil Hitler!”

  “Here, here!” resounded in the room. Some tapped silver utensils on their goblets. Someone shouted, “Tally-ho!” Mrs. Roosevelt’s secretary, down the table, called out, “Yea! Give it to them!”

  We two E.R.s clinked our glasses and smiled at each other like excited young girls. For one moment, it was almost like having a new best friend at a happy party.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The Big Picture

  Everyone finally calmed down after dinner, so the men decided they would still like to see the film we had scheduled for entertainment, especially since it had a patriotic theme. We sat in comfortable furniture in the library to watch the well-regarded movie In Which We Serve.

  I was chagrined, for Bertie had switched the choice at the last minute, evidently at Churchill’s request. Worse, the film was actually about the tragic loss of a ship Dickie had commanded, the destroyer HMS Kelly, which was sunk during the Battle of Crete.

  “A film recommended by our Ministry of Information,” Bertie told Eleanor, who sat between us on a long sofa. “It was a favorite in the States too, I hear, co-directed by David Lean and Noël Coward. Much lauded for its imagery of national unity. That and international unity is what we need now going forward.”

  What could I say? How was it that some commanders would have been drummed out of service and court-martialed for two military disasters, but Louis “Dickie” Mountbatten had landed on his feet again after the losses at Dieppe? Never, never was Lilibet going to become more involved with Philip!

  In the film the name of the ship the Germans had sunk had been changed to the HMS Torrin, the captain’s name changed also, but it was clearly Mountbatten’s story. When the ship went down, some sailors had jumped off and clung together on floating wreckage as the German planes returned to try to strafe them in the water. The main characters flashed back to stories of their loved ones. Some survivors of the attack died, some lived. I admit the portrayals were heartrending and the music rousing.

  But I kept thinking that In Which We Serve could be the story of my struggles and battles too. I was working hard to serve the king, the British people, and the Empire, even the leaders of ally countries like Eleanor. And I would fight to keep Philip Mountbatten away from our heir.

  * * *

  After Bessie put my face cream on, then wiped it off that night, I told her of the important victory at El Alamein.

  “Oh,” she said, clearing things from my dressing table, “that will cheer Mrs. Roosevelt. Her maid Nancy said she was a bit down in the dumps when she arrived.”

  “I did not notice that. Perhaps just tired. Or,” I said, turning toward Bessie, “do you know more?”

  She rolled her eyes and gave a little shrug. “Nancy thinks she was a bit embarrassed.”

  “Why ever?” I asked. “Tell me if you know.”

  “Ma’am, Nancy says she thinks Mrs. Roosevelt felt a bit taken aback to be in a huge dressing room with closets all round when she had one suitcase. Because she flew the ocean in tight quarters, she said. Nancy only unpacked one evening dress, one afternoon dress, several extra blouses, and one skirt. Two pairs of shoes.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry for her,” I said, thinking perhaps I should not have given her the entire queen’s suite. I recalled being told that General Eisenhower had felt embarrassed at grand homes because he traveled light. And I knew he’d been so uncomfortable in his original posh quarters at Claridge’s that he had quickly moved to the Dorchester.

  I said, “You know, Bessie, I can tell you were very sad today, even when I told you about the toasts at dinner and our wonderful victory at El Alamein.”

  “A little sad.”

  “Still missing your poor sister, of course, and—”

  Bessie took the tray, curtsied, backed away, then burst into tears. As I leapt up from the dressing table, she started away, then stopped and stood, shoulders shaking. From behind I put my hands on them, but the items on the tray were rattling, so I took that from her, put it down, and went back to pull her over to the divan where I had comforted her once before.

  There, despite her age, I put my arms around her and held her as I would Lilibet or Margot after a nightmare.

  Finally, she quieted, hiccoughing a bit. “Sorry, ma’am,” she managed. “Got a few tears on your silk robe, I did.”

  “We’ve been through this before, my dear. It’s all right. You are missing your sister, and that’s quite all right. I understand about missing loved ones, really I do.”

  “Two things,” she choked out, sitting back and swiping at her wet cheeks with her hands until I handed her my handkerchief. She patted her cheeks with it, then shrugged and blew her nose. “One,” she said, sounding as if she were in a barrel, “the last time I saw her we had a bit of a tiff. Didn’t know I’d never see her again, that she’d—jump into the river like that. I partly blame myself.”

  “Of course that would trouble you, but it surely isn’t why she . . . she took her life. And I’m certain she knew how much you looked up to her and loved her.”

  “She lost her unborn baby too. Wasn’t his—or her—fault—the baby’s, that is. But the thing is, the man she trusted and loved, well, she wanted to wait till he came hom
e to make love, if you know what I mean.”

  “Yes, I know what you mean. So she said no to him, then he went off and was killed—but if she felt regretful she had turned him down that last night they had been together . . .”

  “She told me she loved him but told him not to do it. But he did—to her. Pushed her into it. Got rough, a bit crazy. He was—well, drinking. He was born higher than her, better off, so she owed him, he said, spending time and money on her before he was shipped out. Oh, ma’am, so sorry to spill all this and you not a part of it and forgive me for sharing that he—he forced her—even if she did love and want him when he came back home, then said no to his wishes for a . . . an intimate farewell, and then she caught the baby that one time. . . .”

  She rushed on with more details I did not want to hear. But I knew now what she meant and how tragically her poor sister had handled it. Violated, even if it was by someone she had loved and wanted and trusted. And was that not worse than being forced by a stranger? Yes, even with no baby involved, I knew well that terrible, tragic truth of being shamed, forced, though not exactly like that. And most certainly I would never jump off a bridge. Not yet.

  * * *

  The next two days, I felt as if I were Eleanor’s lady-in-waiting, not that the places we visited did not cheer me too. But she had an unrestrained—yes, authentic—way of plunging right into a crowd and shaking hands, urging stories and almost confessions. She had a talent for, as she put it, “bucking people up.” I thought I did too, but, in her American way, she went at it more robustly. Perhaps the aura of royalty kept people formal and back a bit, but not with an American First Lady.

  “I have found,” she told me at our stops between crowds at St. Paul’s and a canteen in the East End, “that work is the best antidote for depression. And the war—such tragedy and loss—can lead to depression.”

  “I agree with you wholeheartedly. There have been times in my life—even not wartime—when I have thought it would all get me down and keep me down, but we women fight on, do we not?”