by Karen Harper
So much I learned about the reality of royalty that first stay with the queen. I overheard she could not even read the royal dispatches anymore, unless drops of belladonna were put in her eyes to make her pupils huge. Princess Alexandra told the duchess that the queen’s daughter Beatrice—not her heir, the prince—was like a secret secretary to her, reading her important papers when she could not. And it was true that the queen lived in the past with a room in each house she had sealed off and dedicated to her beloved Prince Albert, who had been dead for decades. So in a way, she was a prisoner to her place and her duty, just as were we all, princess to lady’s maid to housemaid to game bird breeder to head nurse.
BUT I WAS to learn even more that December at Christmas celebrations in the Big House. The royals and the rich were indeed different from what I had known and imagined, even from my days at Dr. Lockwood’s house. Prince Albert and Princess Alexandra were not a bit like his stern mother. I, who was used to rather plain Yuletide celebrations with my family, was astounded at the “normal, usual” vast and exuberant display for the holidays. Like a child, I stood agape at it all. My first Christmas at Sandringham House stunned me.
Mabel had said that the princess did up the presents herself—multiple ones for each relative and guest, all wrapped in pretty paper with satin ribbons. And she oversaw the decorations. Well, my parents had done all that too, but usually one gift apiece for us—often an orange or small wooden soldier, doll or top—and the decorations were as sparse as the feast. A roast goose and plum pudding were luxuries when I was a child.
But here, I vow, I was as excited as the children, and all this for just the family and about a dozen of their closest friends. In the very center of the ballroom stood the Christmas tree, a fir cut from the nearby forest that, I swear, was taller than the house I grew up in. It smelled of brisk wind and sharp pine, all mingled with the aroma of food and scented candles. The electric had been turned off so that the tree glowed. I could hardly believe it—swags of tinsel, hanging glass balls, pieces of cotton to imitate snow. Good gracious, it was magic—a fantasy beyond my dreams. I’d fear a fire, but what was there to fear when everything shone brighter than—as Mabel put it—“the star over Bethlehem.”
Round the room, under the watchful eyes of ancient, painted people in gilt frames, were laid trestle tables covered with white linen cloths, laden with gifts and food. Bone china emblazoned with the Prince of Wales’s three ostrich feathers shone, and silver tureens filled with steaming soups gleamed. I saw Mabel was right: the children must sit through dinner and much talk before they were to open their gifts. If that didn’t teach discipline among all this bounty, nothing would.
Besides the roast goose—four of them—there was boiled turkey, oysters in wine sauce, and cod’s shoulders. Jellied eels and molded aspics shimmered in candle glow. The children loved the mashed potatoes and macaroni, as did I. This was the first time I had eaten a meal in the same room with the adults, because I was to watch over the children’s table in the corner. The grown-ups’ laughter sounded over the clink of glassware and china. Now and then, David and Bertie were summoned to the dining tables, so I made sure they went straight there and came back—mostly to be shown off by their grandparents, not their parents.
As far as I could see, we had everything at our little table, including the fabulous desserts—but not, of course, the array of wines. It was a bit of a shock to have house servants waiting on us, and to see the huge array of forks and fingerbowls set before us, but the children must learn their manners—and I too.
“Bertie, do not get those jelly pastries all over,” I told the squirming boy. “Gently wash your fingers in that little bowl of water. No, do not make waves, because—”
“Lala,” David interrupted, but I half forgave him, for they were all on edge, “do you think a pedal motorcar could be hidden over there? One with a steering wheel and real tires? Can I peek under those tablecloths near the tree? I think there’s room.”
“You will find out soon, both of you. Can’t you eat the way Bertie is? You haven’t touched your turkey.”
“I’m too excited.”
When the gift giving began, thank heavens, their grandpapa decided the children should go first and soon both boys were pedaling little motorcars around the ballroom while I kept an eye on them. Baby Mary was with Jane, but when she was brought in to let her mother hold her, she was given a silver rattle to shake and a baby doll nearly as big as she was. I had already been given gifts, a fur muff and a crisp ten-pound note, which would greatly supplement my thirty-five-pound-a-year salary.
But my eyes grew as wide as the children’s when I saw the adults of the so-called Marlborough House set open their gifts to each other: watercolors, gilt or silver cigarette cases, cigar humidors, a jeweled inkstand, collars for the pet dogs, gold picture frames with family photographs, diamond pins and studs, and, of course, for Alexandra, agate animals. It seemed that these glorious people in their silks and satins and jewels glittered as much as the gifts and the tree. And to think, Mabel and Rose had both told me that more gifts would be given to the downstairs staff and estate workers in a week on New Year’s Day, another time for celebration and a party.
But for me, among these glittering people who ruled the realm, a new year—a new life—had already begun.
Chapter 8
Three and a half years later, all seemed in chaos, not just the nursery. The queen had died on January 22, 1901. Since the twenty-third, yesterday morning, when the news had arrived, the entire York Cottage household had dressed in black garb, though the boys were still in their white flannel nightshirts this morning.
“Grandpapa is king, and Grannie is queen,” little Mary said over and over. Her chatter annoyed David, I could tell. But truly, even in the best of times, he seemed to lord it over the other children. I wasn’t certain if it was because he was firstborn or now knew he would be king someday—or because he wanted my attention all for himself.
“Which means,” David interrupted before Mary could recite that again, “Papa will be Prince of Wales and Mama princess.”
Mary asked, “What about me?”
He ignored her, so, as I tied a crepe bow in her hair to match her black dress, I whispered, “You are always special, Mistress Mary, quite contrary. Mama and Papa will explain later, but right now, they are in a rush to go to the Isle of Wight where Gangan died to help plan her funeral. There will be a kind of parade, a sad one, and a church service, things like that, in London.”
“But I want to go too!” she cried. Though usually well behaved, she started to sob while David just rolled his eyes and Bertie became even more jumpy, something I’d worked hard to get out of him. But now I concentrated on comforting and shushing Mary.
York Cottage and the Big House had all the drapes drawn and edged with black. Even the village folk seemed draped in mourning. Earlier today, I’d seen Chad, with both arms black-banded, walk past and look up at the windows. I’d waved to him, but I don’t think he saw me since the late January frost was so thick on the panes. I was in the sickroom where we’d kept David and Bertie while they had the measles, though they were well enough to be back in the nursery today. A crowded nursery it was, and I loved it, but that also was about to change, and I felt like wailing too.
All four children—David, now nearly seven; Bertie, at five; three-year-old Mary; and the new baby, Harry, nine months, formally dubbed Henry William Frederick Albert—were recovering from the German measles. I’d been told their grandfather had joked last week that they might as well have the German kind, since they were all related to more Germans—and Russians, and Danes, etcetera—than to British.
With tears in my eyes, I watched the children wave good-bye at the nursery window while their parents traveled in a closed carriage to the railway station and from there to London. It was bitter cold and snowing. In a few days, David and Bertie would go to Frogmore at Windsor for the queen’s burial service, and we’d all be joining the family
at Buck House, as they called it, after that. The coronation of the new king with all its pomp and planning was months away, scheduled for good weather in the summer. I wondered how much the queen’s death would change the yearly routines of her heirs—and my life too, for I had come to accept the set pattern.
The royal York family I served was always together on the estate for Easter and Christmas, and the hunting season for the month of August—and any other time the prince or duke could bring a hunting party of friends here. During May and June, the social season, they were in London, but I was here with the children before the rest of the royal schedule took us far and wide: Frogmore at Windsor for the ten days of Ascot every year; autumn in Scotland at Abergeldie Castle near Balmoral, or York House at St. James’s Palace in London; several weeks on the royal yacht Victoria and Albert each year, especially during August for the races at Cowes. Each place had suited the duke’s schedule, but that might all be different now, especially if he were to be named Prince of Wales soon.
But there was another big change coming. Finch, the handsome, black-haired, and dark-eyed new footman who would soon take charge of David and Bertie, did his distinctive knock on the nursery door. “Come in, please, Finch,” I called, and he entered.
Already, he had much more power than Cranston, who still fetched bathwater and most meals for the youngest Yorks. I knew Finch—Frederick was his given name—had been hired by their father and was being groomed to be David’s valet. He was good at romping with them as he was strong and muscular, strict but good-humored, so I had no objection there. To top that off, all too soon, a male tutor and a French governess would arrive to teach the lads to whom I’d taught basic sums and writing. How fast these years had flown, but Victoria’s death seemed to me the end of an era for my life as well as for England and the Empire.
“Back in bed, lads,” Finch told them with a clap.
I say again it was difficult to get used to someone else bossing the boys. If they had not come down with the measles, I was sure Finch would have had permission to move them already to the new quarters he’d been preparing for them at the back of the hall.
When the boys lingered at the window, Finch said, “Your parents can’t see you through the snow anyway today, and it’s cold for boys who have been ailing to be standing at the window, eh, Mrs. Lala?”
“That’s right,” I said as I pulled Mary closer and bounced little Harry on my lap. “Back in bed, you two.” At least Finch recognized my place with them, and I hoped that in the future the two of us could work together.
Once the boys were settled and I had tucked them up, Finch gestured me out into the hall, so I put Harry in the crib. The boys whispered to each other about going to London soon, while Mary looked through a picture book. She never had much to do with the lovely, painted, porcelain-faced dolls she had been given but seemed a bit of a tomboy, trying to keep up with her older brothers.
“Is everything all right?” I asked Finch when he closed the door behind us.
“Two things the duke—I mean our soon-to-be new prince—told me before they went. One, he thinks Bertie’s looking knock-kneed and insists he wear iron splints to straighten his legs. He says you should order some sailor suits with wider trouser legs, because the splints will be ready soon. He’ll sleep in them at night too. He won’t have a knock-kneed sailor son someday, His Lordship said. And you’re to sew up all the pockets in both boys’ trousers so they don’t stick their hands in them and slouch about.”
Tears prickled my eyes. “Iron splints? Poor boy. And?”
“And he insists that the new tutor who’s being brought in for the lads—and you since you taught them to read and write their abc’s—must force Bertie to write with his right hand, not his left.”
“But I had a brother born left-handed. He could not do decent penmanship with his right. It fretted him something awful, and Bertie’s delicate anyway. Good gracious, his little system never got over being fed so erratically by that woman, not to mention being locked in cabinets.”
I had confided in Finch about Mrs. Peters, for somehow her ghost still stalked the halls. Neither lad ever spoke of her, but I swear David’s combination of rebelliousness and clinging nature and Bertie’s bad nerves and upset stomach were her dreadful legacy to them and to all of us.
“But the staff says you’ve done wonders with Bertie,” Finch insisted.
“Which I don’t want reversed.”
“Well, his father has spoken, and that’s that. No way to try to get his mother to weigh in, not a bit.”
“No. Thank you for telling me. If you don’t mind, I’ll try to break it to Bertie—unless you feel you must.”
“Let’s try to explain it to him together. I know you have the day off—what’s left of it, so tomorrow?”
“Yes, all right then. But my heart isn’t in his wearing braces or the handwriting change, and he’ll know it. I’ve always tried to tell them true.”
“Time to stop coddling them, their father says, you and their mother and grandmother too.”
Nursemaid Martha approached, so I turned to her as Finch went on his way. She was probably thinking something about our whispering in the hall, for she had a soft spot for a handsome man. I could have told her, though, that Frederick Finch was dedicated to his career and to climbing higher in royal service. In short, an ambitious man, not an amorous one, and I thought the duke had chosen well with him.
“It’s your afternoon free, Mrs. Lala,” Martha reminded me. “Mrs. Wentworth said off you go—or just come down to her room since it’s so cold out. But I see Mr. Chad Reaver’s waiting for someone down by the frozen pond again, standing in the snow, he is.”
“Thank you, Martha. I would never have seen this vast estate at all if it wasn’t for his kindness, and he’s always so busy during shooting and bird breeding seasons. By the way, I hope Mabel won’t be going to London with the new king and queen. We’ve become fast friends, and I would greatly miss her. And, of course, Rose has gone with the duchess.”
“Mabel’s to stay here, keep Sandringham House proper for them, got raised to head housemaid, she did, because hear tell they took the other to Buckingham Palace. The prince—I mean the king—says they’ll be back often as they can. Right now she’s helping sheet the furniture in all the rooms. And guess what else?” she said lowering her voice. “The Big House is to have thirty flush lavatories installed by the Thomas Crapper Company while they’re away. Mabel’s to oversee all that.”
“I tell you, we could use just one of those for the nursery, right, instead of the children doing their business in ceramic pots and you and Jane having to carry the night soil away. Well, maybe someday.”
I talked Mary out of wanting to go with me, grabbed my coat, hat, and gloves, and left Martha in charge of the children. I hurried down the side stairs. Out I went into the cold, squinting into the swirling wind toward the iced-over pond, where Chad waited. The mere sight of him, trudging through the snow to meet me, warmed me. I had to admit to myself, if things had only been different . . . I not in service . . . dedicated to the children . . .
I could tell he wanted to kiss me but he did not. We had been affectionate to each other lately, holding hands, some quick good-bye hugs, but no displays of affection in such a public place as now. Oh, in private we had kissed on the lips, and I had loved that—felt it clear down into the depths of my belly, so that was something amazing and frightening too. After all, marriage or a physical union between us was impossible in our positions, however much I had moments where I wanted to throw caution to the winds. If we petted or kissed, it was in the woods or by the breeding bird pens.
“Thought we’d go to the glasshouse with all the flowers today,” he said. “They have to keep it warm in there.”
“So many important things are happening now the queen is gone,” I told him, letting him take my gloved hand in his as we headed past York Cottage and along the side of the Big House. Through our layers of gloves, I could still f
eel the heat of him. “Just think,” I rattled on, “she’s been in mourning for years since she lost her Albert, and now, far and wide, the mourning is all for her.”
“I’m sure she would have given anything to have him back—given up the whole kit and caboodle. Best not to waste time when one’s in love, eh?”
“But I’m not sure she’d have given up her kingdom to have him back,” I argued. “There’s something to be said for loyalty to duty. I’m sure she felt the nation and empire needed her.”
We stepped into the glasshouse with its warm, moist air. It smelled fresh and heady in here, the soil, things growing and blooming, and how I yearned for spring. I had to admit to myself at least, though it was exciting to visit new places, my favorite was Sandringham, and mostly because of this man. I did care for him deeply—yes, secretly loved him, wanted him as I knew he did me, so I was grateful he’d usually been restrained. I trusted him.
We stopped in an aisle of flowering bushes by two gardenia plants in pretty porcelain pots that looked ready to be moved indoors. The sweet smell was almost overwhelming. Chad seemed nervous, so unlike him.
“I have something for you,” he told me, taking his knitted gloves off and throwing them amidst the pots.
“But you gave me these lovely leather gloves for Christmas.”
“It’s a picture of the fens and the forest all made from bird feathers sewn down on stretched linen,” he told me before he even drew it from behind the pots and showed it to me with a flourish. It was in a narrow oak frame and covered with a piece of glass.
“Oh, it’s beautiful. It shimmers in the light. You . . . you didn’t make it, did you?”
“My gran made it and several others before she died. This one is mine.”
“How kind . . . how special it is, but I can’t take it from you then.”
“I was thinking we could share it, find a place in common to hang it.” He took it back from me, put it down, pulled my gloves off and seized both my hands. My insides twisted in a knot, and I began to flush. “Charlotte, I know we haven’t talked of this . . . couldn’t really ’til now, but now is our time. You said the royal lads will be moving on to that new Mr. Finch. You’ve helped make Lady Mary the fine lass she is, and little Harry’s so young, he’d adapt. You’ve served Their Graces well these last four years, but don’t you want a life of your own, children of your own?”
