On Her Majesty's Frightfully Secret Service

by Rhys Bowen

  “Much too cold,” Mummy said. “If you crave water, I suggest we all go out on the lake tomorrow. Why don’t we ask Camilla to arrange a picnic to one of the islands? I’m dying to explore Isola Bella, aren’t you?”

  “Tomorrow?” A worried look crossed his face.

  “What else would we be doing tomorrow?” she asked. “We are here to enjoy ourselves, after all.”

  “You are right.” He nodded. “There is no reason we should not take a picnic on the lake. No reason at all.”

  I thought it was a rather strange thing to say.

  When we returned to the terrace we found it was now deserted. No sign of Rudi, nor Camilla. Even the lemonade had been cleared away.

  “Everyone has gone inside,” Mummy said. “I suppose it is getting chilly. There is quite a breeze from the lake now and one forgets it’s only April.”

  “What time do they dine here?” I asked. “Should we be changing for dinner soon?”

  “No rush, darling. They eat quite late. At least they did last night when we arrived. After eight, anyway.”

  My heart sank. Another three hours before I would have food. I just prayed my stomach didn’t growl. I followed Mummy and Max into the villa.

  “I think I’ll go up and get a cardigan,” I said. “It’s becoming quite chilly and the maid insisted that I put on a summer frock.”

  “The maid insisted?” Mummy raised an eyebrow. “Darling, you have to learn to control servants. Maids can only suggest.”

  I shook my head. “Not this one. She’s quite formidable. She belongs to Camilla, actually. I’m glad she’s not mine.”

  “Oh yes, Camilla’s maid. I’ve encountered her. What a dragon. Yours is hopeless, I seem to remember,” Mummy said.

  “True, but I think I’d choose hopeless over formidable,” I said as I left them heading to one of the sitting rooms and went up the stairs alone.

  I sat at my dressing table brushing my windswept hair while I tried to calm my racing thoughts. It was hard to digest what my mother had just told me, even harder to realize that I had actually promised to help her!

  As I came out of my room I heard voices coming from the half-open door of the next room along the hall.

  “You will think carefully about my little proposal, won’t you?” said a male voice softly.

  “Don’t rush me. One day you’ll go too far.”

  He chuckled. “But I enjoy going too far, as you very well know.”

  I crept past and made my way hurriedly down the stairs, not wanting anyone to think I was eavesdropping. I heard the sound of my mother’s voice and found her with Max now in a sitting room whose tall windows looked onto the lake. The view was spectacular with the snow-capped peaks in the distance lit by slanting afternoon sunlight as a steamer cut through the choppy water.

  Paolo stood up as I came in. “Ah, there you are. Too cold to stay outside, don’t you think? Come and meet my mother and uncle, Georgiana.”

  I saw then that two more people were sitting in high-backed chairs on either side of an ornate marble fireplace in which a fire now glowed. Paolo led me over to them. “Mother, may I present Lady Georgiana Rannoch?” he said formally. “She is a cousin to the Prince of Wales.”

  I looked into the haughtiest face I had ever seen (and I’ve seen haughty faces in my time). The face was long and thin with a hooked nose. Her eyebrows seemed to be perpetually raised in a surprised look. And her lips were pursed. They did not unpurse when she saw me. Instead she held out one bony hand. I wasn’t sure whether I was to shake it or kiss it. I also wasn’t sure how to address her. I opted for the safe English “How do you do?” and shook her hand. “I’m afraid I don’t speak Italian.”

  “My mother speaks a little English,” Paolo said. “And of course very good French.”

  “You speak French, naturally?” she asked me in French, raising a lorgnette to examine me more closely.

  “Naturally,” I replied in French. “I was at school in Switzerland with your daughter-in-law. We had to converse in French most of the time.”

  “Your accent is just as bad as hers,” the old woman said, glancing across at Camilla, who was now sitting on the window seat. “I think the English are incapable of learning foreign languages. We Italians, on the other hand, have great facility.”

  “Maybe because we are an island and haven’t been invaded for a thousand years,” I replied. “We have less need to learn them.”

  I saw the eyebrows jerk a little higher.

  “I hope your behavior is more correct than that of His Highness,” she said, reverting to passable English. “He brings a married woman with him. I do not approve. But he is a prince. He ranks higher so I must say nothing.”

  I couldn’t think of a suitable answer to this, but it did seem to indicate that Mrs. Simpson was still considered a married woman. That must mean there had been no mention of a swift and secret wedding between her and the Prince of Wales. I think I felt a small sigh of relief.

  I turned back to Paolo. “And this is your uncle?”

  “Yes,” he said. “My uncle Count Cosimo di Marola. Uncle Cosimo is right-hand man to King Victor Emmanuel and adviser to our beloved leader, Il Duce—Mussolini. A very important man these days, so be nice to him.”

  Uncle Cosimo’s face was very different from that of Paolo’s mother. He had those handsome good looks one sees in older Italian men, strong chin, iron gray hair, much like the Caesars on Roman coins. He examined me with bright, alert eyes, studying me appraisingly the way only an Italian man does. Then he nodded. “I like. She can sit beside me.”

  “Uncle, behave yourself,” Paolo said. “She is related to English royalty, remember.”

  “I do not wish to ravish her,” Uncle Cosimo said. “I only wish to enjoy admiring her fresh youthful face and body.”

  Paolo’s mother snorted in disgust.

  “You’re embarrassing her, Uncle Cosimo,” Camilla said primly. “Come and sit over here with me, Georgie.”

  I accepted, gratefully. There was no way I wished to find myself between the lecherous uncle and the disapproving mother. I felt a stab of pity for Camilla and wondered if these two were always part of their lives. As I crossed the room I glanced into the farthest corner and almost tripped over a low table. Someone was sitting there—someone dressed all in black with a skull-like face, staring out with unseeing eyes while his lips mumbled. I wasn’t sure whether I was seeing a ghost for a second.

  I grabbed Camilla’s arm. “Who is that?” I whispered.

  “That? Oh, that’s Father Francesco. He’s our priest,” she said. “Strange for a Protestant to understand but the Martini family has its own resident priest to say masses for us. We even have a chapel at one end of the villa. I should give you a tour.”

  “I’d like that,” I said.

  “You can hold the fort, Paolo,” she said, turning to her husband. “I’m going to show Georgie the lay of the land.”

  “What must I hold? Which fort? Which land?” he asked, frowning.

  “Honestly, you’re hopeless,” she said. “I merely meant that I’ll give her a tour of the villa.”

  “Is it my fault if your English language has so many ridiculous expressions? In Italian we say what we mean and mean what we say.”

  Camilla just laughed and led me from the room. We went through other sitting rooms, each decorated with antique furniture, classical sculpture, fine paintings, Persian rugs. Then the long gallery, followed by a dining room with a table long enough to seat fifty. A magnificent chandelier hung over it and tall silver candlesticks were placed along it at intervals. After that came a ballroom, looking mysterious in half darkness with the heavy drapes drawn over the windows. Then she led me into a library of leather-bound volumes, complete with gallery above and a spiral staircase to reach it, a music room with piano and harp, Paolo’s study and at the
far end of the hallway she paused, looking back at me expectantly. “And this is the jewel in our crown, so to speak.”

  Camilla turned into a narrow side passage, went down three stone steps and pushed open a heavy studded door. We stepped into a tiny chapel with an ornate gilded baroque altar, the walls adorned with fine religious art. The scent of incense hung heavy in the air and a shaft of sunlight sent a pattern of colors across the floor from the stained glass window. It felt as if I’d stepped into another century or even another world.

  “This feels very old,” I said, my voice echoing from the vaulted ceiling. “How old is your villa here?”

  “Only a hundred years,” she said, “but Paolo’s family had the chapel brought up here and reassembled from a former palace in Turin.”

  I was actually glad when she ushered me out again. “We have mass every morning at eight and you’re always welcome to join us,” she said brightly. “You might want to get used to our strange Catholic ways.”

  I nodded, thinking there would be no way I’d want to find myself in that overwhelming little chapel. As one raised in the Church of Scotland it felt quite unlike my idea of religion. And the thought crossed my mind that maybe Darcy felt at home in churches like this and I’d have to get used to the Catholic way.

  “You have so many beautiful things,” I said, trying to change the subject.

  “Yes, so many,” she said. “I wonder if I shall ever feel comfortable here. Actually I’m glad when we entertain because this place doesn’t feel so like a mausoleum. Paolo and I rattle around in it and the servants are so well trained that they flit invisibly. It’s unnerving, to tell you the truth.”

  I wondered how long they had been married and whether there were any children yet? There was certainly no sign or mention of them and one didn’t quite know how to bring up the subject.

  “So it’s usually just the two of you here?” I asked.

  “Except for Paolo’s mother. She’s always with us when we are in Italy.”

  “Do your own parents ever come out to visit?”

  She shook her head. “My parents echo the words of that famous quote ‘Abroad is utterly bloody,’” she said, laughing. “Daddy was sent to France in the Great War and that has colored his opinion of anywhere outside England. They are terribly county, you know. Horses and dogs and happy at home.”

  I nodded. “But you like it here?”

  “In small doses,” she said. “One certainly misses things about England. The corner sweet shop. The hunts. Nursery tea with crumpets.”

  She gave me a sad sort of smile.

  “I suppose that’s the price for marrying an Italian count,” I said. “Everyone must have thought you’d made a really good match.”

  “It does have its benefits,” she said. “And Paolo is really very sweet. It would be different if . . .” She broke off as one of the invisible servants materialized in the hallway in front of us. He was an ancient and most distinguished-looking butler. In fact, if I’d met him alone, I would have thought that he might have been another uncle, not a servant. He spoke to her in low tones and she nodded. “Sì. Va bene,” she said.

  He disappeared again and she smiled at me. “That is Umberto. He’s been with the family for forty years. He wanted to know whether he should serve aperitifs in the lake room now or wait for the remaining guests. I told him there was no need to wait. When the others return I’m sure they’ll want to bathe and rest and I expect you could do with a drink.”

  I could do with food, but I couldn’t say that. We returned to the group and found Paolo deep in conversation in Italian with his uncle while Mummy and Max sat by the window, looking bored. They cheered up when a silver tray was produced and we were handed glasses of Campari. I sat sipping mine, watching the view from the window and thinking about things. I thought of Camilla, who didn’t seem very happy, and thought how unfair it was that Belinda might have been mistress of this house, had it not been for religion. Then Mummy laughed, and I turned to look at her and remembered . . . in one of those over-the-top ornate rooms Rudi had hidden the incriminating photographs. How on earth could I ever be expected to locate them? Camilla had mentioned the invisible and efficient servants. They’d be bound to notice my every move and report it to her. Oh golly. Why did I ever let myself be talked into things like this? Was it because it was so seldom that my mother wanted or needed me or showed any interest in me? And who doesn’t want to be needed by their mother?

  “Drink up, Georgie,” Paolo said and indicated that the butler should top up my glass. I nodded my thanks but really I wasn’t enjoying the flavor that much and I worried about alcohol on an empty stomach.

  Voices echoing from the marble hallway announced the arrival of newcomers. I braced myself to face Mrs. Simpson. I always found her quite terrifying although I was learning to stick up for myself a little more these days. But it was not the royal couple who came into the room but three men. One of them was Rudi. He was laughing and looked extremely pleased with himself. The other two looked the epitome of German military officers, both in uniform decorated with a lot of braid and medals. The older one, a great bull of a man with large jowls and a monocle in one eye, walked with the air of one who is used to being obeyed. The younger man, slim, light haired, walked two paces behind, but also managed to convey that air of arrogance.

  “The wanderers return,” Paolo said in English, standing to greet them. “Just in time for an evening drink.”

  “Gut!” The older one nodded. “We have great thirst after a long walk. We went halfway up that mountain. We have a fine view of the lake.” His English was rather like Max’s—staccato syllables with a pause between each. He broke off when he noticed me. “Ach. We have a new visitor, I see.”

  “Yes, this is Lady Georgiana, cousin of the Prince of Wales,” Paolo said. “She was staying in the area so naturally we invited her to join the party. Georgie, this is General Spitz-Blitzen from Germany.”

  The big man clicked his heels and jerked his head in an abrupt bow. “Lady Georgiana,” he said.

  “General.” I nodded back. “I’m pleased to meet you.”

  “And this is my adjutant, Lieutenant Klinker.”

  The young man repeated the heel click and head jerk.

  “Klinker unfortunately has no English,” the general said.

  Klinker stared at me through pale blue eyes that I found rather unnerving. Rather like staring at a fish. I was reminded of Prince Siegfried whom I’d once been slated to marry. He had a similar fishy look and a similar expression that indicated he found the world distasteful.

  “And where have you been, Rudi?” Camilla asked as the latter helped himself to a glass of vermouth.

  “Oh, here and there,” he said. “Afternoon stroll along the lake, you know. Admiring the view and reciting poetry.” I noticed that he shot my mother an amused look and I wondered if he had possibly managed to follow us through the grounds and eavesdrop on our conversation. In which case my chances of finding the photographs were nil.

  “You should have climbed the hill with us. So energetic. So healthful,” the general said.

  “The Germans place too much emphasis on physical culture, I think,” Paolo’s mother said. “Always in training. Training for what, I ask myself?”

  “What is the Latin expression?” the general said. “Corpore sano . . . Healthy body, healthy mind? Think what your Roman ancestors accomplished. They were the fittest people ever and they ruled the world.”

  “Until they were overcome by barbarians from the north,” Paolo’s mother said through her pursed lips.

  There was an embarrassed silence.

  “Another drink?” Camilla asked.

  I looked around the assembled company, so mismatched, so little in common. Who had thought it might be a good idea to assemble them for a house party and what had made the Prince of Wales want to join a group of
people so different from his usual fun-loving set?

  Chapter 12

  APRIL 21

  VILLA FIORI

  I wish I had never agreed to come here. Now it’s even worse than I thought. How am I ever going to find those photographs?

  The royal couple had not returned by the time Camilla suggested we go up to change for dinner.

  When I went up to my bedroom I found Gerda was waiting for me. On the bed lay a black dress I had never seen before.

  “That’s not mine,” I pointed out.

  “I know this,” she said. “It belongs to my mistress. I try to make better your velvet dress, but I think it is not possible. Somebody has tried to iron it the wrong way and left marks.” She shook her head in disgust. “I do not think this dress is suitable to wear to a dinner party with distinguished guests. The other ladies will be fashionable. And so I borrow a dress from the contessa for you.”

  “Oh, but I couldn’t, really,” I stammered. “My own dress isn’t too bad if I wear my fur stole with it.”

  “The contessa will not mind if you wear her dress. She has many such gowns. The American lady also buys her frocks in Paris. And the other English lady does too. You should not look inferior to them. You are above them in rank.”

  She wasn’t the sort one could argue with. I was swiftly undressed. She made little disapproving noises at the quality of my underwear. “It is lucky that this dress requires no brassiere,” she said. “Does your family not give you money for clothes?”

  I suppose I should have told her that it wasn’t her place to speak to me like that. But she was such an impressive sort of person that I found myself saying, “Unfortunately my branch of the family is quite poor. I have received no allowance since I came out.”

  “Then you must make a good match like the contessa has done,” she said. “You must ask the count to introduce you to his friends.”

  “I am engaged to be married, you know,” I said. “My fiancé is to inherit a castle in Ireland, and one day I will inherit a large property in England. So I’m not worried. It’s just I’m somewhat short of funds right now.”