by Karen Harper
“Or sins.”
“Have you turned fanatically religious?”
“When one sees people whose lives are suddenly shattered—and ended—from these new, hellish V-2s the Nazis are sending from the Netherlands, one does think of death. David, nearly three thousand more people are dead or are burying their loved ones because of those deadly, pilotless rockets.”
“All right. Sorry. I suppose it seems a bit distant, sitting it out here and dealing with FDR, as they call the president, where bombs are not dropping. But as I said, everyone has their secrets.”
I had never told David about my attack by the Prince of Wales, and I wasn’t about to now. I would not have, even if Bertie had not come into his office, smiled and nodded at me, whispered, “Give him my best,” and gone back out.
Of course, nor had David ever told me outright that he preferred men romantically to women.
“Would you believe,” he went on, “that most of the U.S. citizens don’t even know their president had polio and is a cripple in a wheelchair? Their press keeps that under wraps, makes sure he’s seated or circumspectly hanging on to someone in photographs. And no one says one word in public or the press about the mistress he’s had for years.”
I gasped and nearly dropped the phone receiver. A public man in a wheelchair had a mistress—had for years? “But you obviously know of it,” I told David.
“Just as Winston wanted, I work closely with FDR.”
“Does the First Lady know?”
“I take it she’s known for years and gave him the chance for a divorce, which he did not take. See, secrets in the closet, even great big, public ones.”
I thought of stoic, capable, and brave Eleanor. I knew she had been a soldier for her causes, but to bear all that too . . . And I thought of my own secrets in my royal closet.
“Elizabeth, are you there?”
“Yes. I wanted to say I will telephone you if Papa takes a turn for the worse.”
“I will telegraph him immediately, but will he realize I’m not just away at school? I don’t mean to joke, but we need to keep our chins up now, just as we did in the past—when we two first realized we were different from the others, and look at you now. I’m glad the king knows and took it well. He loves you, and I do too. Kiss the girls for me and keep your royal chin up despite the past or the present.”
* * *
Dear Papa died in his sleep, two months later on 7 November 1944. Since we needed to return to London, we buried him rather quickly. David did not come for the funeral, and I missed him—with the lost members of my family—all over again. I spent three difficult days at Glamis, preparing for and attending Papa’s funeral. Of course, the king came and my girls too, but it was still difficult for me to say goodbye.
People were so kind. The local farmers and tenants turned out to stand in a bitter wind as the coffin, covered with the Union Jack, was pulled on a wooden cart by two of Papa’s favorite horses while male members of the family—the king of England too—walked behind to the nearby cemetery where he was buried next to Mama.
Winston sent a lovely, heartfelt note. We were inundated with bereavement messages from far and wide. I even took bags of them back to London and eventually went through each one.
And so, nearly a fortnight later, I came to one postmarked from France, as mail had finally begun to sift through, since the Allies had pushed the Germans back toward the north.
The note was in French and signed only, A Friend and Well-Wisher to the Queen and David. The handwriting was a bit unsteady, and a single silver hair had snagged in the envelope with no return address. It was postmarked CALAIS.
The message translated to read, The Earl of Strathmore was kind and generous, his Countess too. God rest their souls.
That was all. I stared at it, sniffed the plain, white stationery and wondered: Was I looking at my birth mother’s handwriting? After all, the anonymous signature referenced only me and David.
I told no one, not even Bertie, and put the note and the single silver hair for safekeeping in the bottom of my jewelry box under my signature strands of pearls.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Fairy Tale
I could not believe I was being honored in this way. Of course, as queen, I was used to being the center of attention, often looked up to, appreciated, yes, even honored. That was because of my position, not for myself. Somehow, this felt different, felt like more, for they could have selected the king instead. This gave my spirits a tremendous boost. And though, unlike Bertie and Lilibet, I had not worn a uniform, this robe, identical to the ones the members here wore, made me feel a part of it all.
“We are proud to be breaking with centuries of tradition,” the bewigged governor of the Middle Temple Inn of Law announced to the assembled guest and journalists. “For the first time since the Inns of Court were established in the heart of London to train barristers and lawyers during the age of the first Queen Elizabeth, we have unanimously elected a woman to join us as a bencher. This appointment is for life, and we pray our new fellow—that is, lady—will have a long and fruitful one!”
Much nodding and here-here-ing followed. A few applauded. Flashbulbs popped. Bewigged heads turned my way. Standing erect along the back wall as if to hold it up, young students applauded. They were no doubt happy to be away from their grueling schedule of classes for this ceremony.
And Bertie beamed.
I gave a short speech of acceptance and gratitude: “I consider this day, 12 December 1944, a special and historic day. Though I am the first of my sex to become a bencher of this Inn, I like to feel that I am continuing a tradition rather than creating a precedent, for it is, after all, but a few paces from here that another Queen Elizabeth visited this society in the hall that was built with her permission centuries ago.”
Nods all around. Public speaking was not yet my forte as it was for Winston, and, increasingly, for Bertie. He was looking at me with glowing eyes, so proud—so dear. I cleared my throat and went on.
“However, in this most challenging and difficult time for our beloved nation, we must remember that one woman stepping forward into a new realm is something many British women have also done in their own lives and their own ways, especially during these long and grueling years of war. They have become office workers, factory workers, security workers—even military officers and code breakers.
“Although the sanctity of family must always be first on the minds of women, all of us must step forward, queen to mechanic. Our daughter Elizabeth has become the latter, by helping our noble cause through repairing and driving ambulances and lorries. We women and men too must accept, welcome, and walk boldly through new doors to the future, a future, I pray, that will bring us peace.
“I am honored today and thank you for standing steady amidst terrible times. Traditions shall always be important to us English, but so shall striding out on new paths. Again, I thank you for this honor.”
Applause. More here-heres. Some stamping on the floor with feet or wooden staffs of office. Of all my honorary titles, somehow this one, in such a man’s world of hidebound, historic precedent, meant a great deal.
* * *
“We now present for your enjoyment and entertainment,” our dear Margot announced to the audience, “our annual Christmas pantomime, this year Old Mother Red Riding Boots.”
Gentle, somewhat muted laughter rustled through the crowd. Pantomimes were more like music hall fare or farce, a pastiche of jokes with a touch of slapstick, fairy-tale scenes, and music, not silent pantomimes.
Looking much older than her years with her formal gown and cosmetics, Margot, who loved being the center of attention, went on, “We welcome all four hundred of our honored guests and want you to know that the cost of your tickets will support the Royal Household Friend Fund to provide special comfort for our brave fighting troops. We are very happy and excited to be joined by the orchestra of the Royal Horse Guards this year for our three performances.”
&nb
sp; After the applause, she went offstage. During the musical prelude, Bertie reached over and squeezed my hand. We were so proud of our girls, who had taken lead roles in the traditional pageant. They had done Cinderella and Aladdin in the past. They seemed not children anymore, but young ladies. It was the first time Lilibet would appear as a woman instead of as a prince in these productions, since she was taller than Margot, who had snagged the princess roles before.
But that reminded me of the argument Lilibet and I had recently had. I hated that, felt a bit guilty, yet I was only trying to protect her from being overly emotional about Philip again.
Just two weeks ago, I had learned that his father, Prince Andrea of Greece, had died in exile in Monte Carlo on the third of December. She yearned so for Philip that I did not want to add to her volatile emotions over a man she did not know, one who had hardly acted as a father to his son for years. But I should have known one of Philip’s often-delayed letters to her would mention the death.
“Mummy,” she had said, nearly assaulting me when I had visited here last weekend. She waved an envelope at me. “Did you know Philip’s father had died, and quite young, in his early sixties? Poor man, to not have his wife and son there, his daughters to comfort him at the end.”
I thought of bluffing it through, saying the war kept a lid on information about other royals from other countries, but I was trying very hard to buck myself up for truth telling lately—even planning to share my shocking, personal secret with Bertie soon.
“I didn’t want to distress you with all that was going on,” I told her. “I thought it best Philip tell you in his own words and own time, because I wasn’t certain of his relationship to his father—emotionally, I mean.”
“Well!” she declared, sounding a bit more like petulant Margot and not steady-as-she-goes Lilibet. “If you had told me, I could have written him in timely fashion—sent him my condolences. Surely you can grasp his feelings! After all, you just lost your father, and I know it pained you sorely. I thought you had changed your mind about Philip, his suitability or whatever we must call it. I thought he was winning you over.”
“My dearest,” I had said, taking her wrist and tugging her into the chair next to me where I was eating solo at the breakfast table, “I know he has already won you over. And yes, me too, but I just don’t want you to fall for the first man who shows you interest and—”
“It is entirely mutual, Mum!”
I startled. Never had she called me the more formal, mature Mum rather than Mummy.
She scooted to the edge of the chair as if she would flee. “Here I am, starting to assemble my household now,” she went on. “At your behest, I have my first lady-in-waiting, one from a list you approved. I have been here and there as Counsellor of State with you. I am taking on more duties for the crown. Surely, I can be permitted to think—and love—for myself!”
“It is just that I cannot bear for you to set your heart on one man when you have given mere passing nods to others. I want you to be very sure, not live with later regrets.”
“So,” she said, leaning closer and gently tugging her wrist from my hand, “did you make some sort of dreadful mistake? Surely not with Papa. Before Papa? He loved you from the first, he says, and that’s the way for me with Philip. I am going now to write him a condolence letter and hope the last, cheery one I posted to him won’t make him think I do not care one bit about his father. I know you had the most wonderful, trusting relationship with your parents and I want that too, so please tell me straightaway if you hear anything else about his family or even about him. Even if it is . . . is bad news in this horrid, blasted war!”
Her words echoed in my head even now amidst the silly plot of the play and sporadic laughter. I had let her down. I had tried to make it up to her, even attending two rehearsals for this pantomime, letting her show me the makeshift scenery she and Margot had mostly scared up from storerooms here in the castle.
I forced my mind back to the here and now in this draughty Waterloo chamber, where people laughed and applauded. I did appreciate how the place was decked out with an elaborate set, curtains, and furniture. The orchestra, men in their traditional blue uniforms, sat on the floor level with the stage just above, so it really was reminiscent of the West End theatres. I would tell Lilibet that, tell her how well she did in this and her many endeavors.
Other young people took minor parts, including Lilibet’s first appointed lady-in-waiting, Mary Palmer, and yes, I had screened her well. In the pantomime, Lilibet was called Lady Christina Sherwood and Margot the Honorable Lucinda Fairfax.
Margot sneezed more than once at the powder in her curled wig. People had laughed nervously, not certain if that was part of the pantomime or not.
For this first of three performances, things went quite well, despite the silly plot, an amalgam of well-known fairy tales, all jammed together to make a laugh-out-loud, sometimes-slapstick story interspersed with songs and jokes. Margot acquitted herself well with her vocal solo, and both girls danced gracefully—that is, until they pretended to slip or bump into each other, then scramble back in place.
Lilibet ended the performance with the words, “We hope, in these challenging times, you have had your heart lifted a bit tonight. Our lives have been anything but a fairy tale lately, so now back to business, and we hope and pray you will all have a Happy Christmas and—from all of us—a peaceful New Year of 1945.”
Yes, I yearned for peace. Even peace with my daughters. For easing my conscience with Bertie. And most of all, as that weak Neville Chamberlain had once claimed, I longed for peace for our time. He had been so wrong in what lay beyond the horizon. I prayed I was not wrong too.
More applause startled me, and I joined in. That, at least, reminded me of my proud investiture as a Middle Temple bencher. And a fairy tale—had my life been that but for the initial shocking setbacks of knowing my beloved mother was not truly my mother and then the shame with that damned David, Prince of . . . of deceit.
It annoyed me greatly that I overheard Bertie’s private secretary, our friend Alan Lascelles, behind us, tell his wife, “That was a bit long and not very funny, but maybe it’s just my mood in this drawn-out war, war, war.”
I shot him a narrow-eyed look, which they did not see. How dare he throw a damper on things when we all needed to keep our chins up, no matter what secrets and sadness we held inside, whether it was past pain or current regrets that would not let go.
* * *
It seemed my time for making speeches. I had agreed to broadcast a radio talk in January of the new year, 1945, the year we hoped and prayed that victory would be complete with the taking of Berlin. That had been Winston’s fervent prayer, before he traveled here and there, sometimes abroad to meet with Franklin Roosevelt, even Stalin of Russia. But today, I was going to broadcast in French to thank the children of Belgium for toys they had sent to Britain after their liberation by the Allies.
Again my voice quavered as I rehearsed. What if my French mother were listening? Would she be hanging on my spoken words, as I did her written ones hidden beneath my pearl necklace in my jewelry box? I was strangely certain that her hand had written those few words, words of encouragement to and pride in me. Oh, how much I read into that short note, how I skimmed my finger across the paper where her hand must have been. In a way, I had never been hers, and yet I was. What sort of a sad fairy tale was that?
“Blood, thicker than water,” I must have said aloud, for Bertie looked up from frowning over the lines on a map showing the Allied advances.
“What’s that, my love? I thought you were practicing in French. You must get the girls to listen to you practice, though they are hardly girls anymore, young women for certain.”
“The war has made them grow up even faster.”
“As the last war did us.”
He sighed heavily but smiled at me across his desk. I had just popped in for a moment, but it felt good to be with him, alone, during his busy day. He looked p
eaked and wan, too thin. An unruly bit of hair fell beguilingly over his furrowed forehead. Once we got through this war, I would feed him Scottish food, drag him up to Glamis, and sleep all night with him again, make him stay in bed late and—
“Winston called,” he interrupted my thoughts. “He is planning for the Yalta conference in the Crimea next month, anxious to see FDR as he calls him now—not to his face, I surmise. Winston was so joyous to see the Americans come into the war after Pearl Harbor but he has a fit now when the two of them don’t see eye to eye. And then there is Stalin,” he added with another sigh.
“But Winston’s dealt with Stalin at a conference before.”
“If anyone can really ‘deal’ with him. The man is a necessary evil. I say, just let the bad as well as the good speak their piece, get it all out, so at least there are no secrets. By the way, when Winston comes for lunch with us tomorrow, I shall tell him that. Let the dogmatic, modern czar of Russia speak his peace! Get it out, then deal with it, and go on!”
I nodded. Not today, but after sitting in on that volatile luncheon, I was certain would be the time to tell Bertie about the huge mistake I—and his horrid brother—had made. I vowed silently that I would get it out, then deal with it, and go on.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Battle Plans
Winston,” I said after he steamed into the room and bowed through his greetings to us, “please help yourself to the food as usual.”
I indicated the sideboard with the cold and covered dishes I knew he liked. I had ordered rather mildly seasoned food, for he’d come back from the February Yalta Conference in the Crimea with worsening stomach problems that were being treated.
I had recognized immediately and nudged Bertie that our P.M. was in some sort of a foul mood. Surely, the fact that the horrible V-2 rockets based in the Netherlands had finally been halted by the Allies taking over their launching sites would put him in a better mood, yet he looked livid. But with Winston, it was always best to let him explain things in his own way and time.
