A Royal Pain

by Rhys Bowen

  Mrs. Huggins absolutely insisted on cooking a roast for Sunday lunch. “I don’t want them foreigners to think we don’t do things proper in England,” she said. “We always have a joint on a Sunday.” But I did persuade her not to do too many roast potatoes to go with it, but a lot of greens. And for pudding something light. She suggested junket. Perfect.

  The baroness ate her meat rapidly. “Good Fleisch,” she said. “Fleisch is healthy.” But I noticed she didn’t attack the great mound of greens with the same enthusiasm, nor did she like the junket.

  “Yoonkit?” she asked. “What means yoonkit?”

  It had never been a favorite of mine. I always associated it with invalid food but I managed to give an impression of someone eating with gusto. After lunch it was too wet for a walk, so we sat in the cavernous drawing room while the wind whistled down the chimney. The baroness napped in an armchair. Hanni and I played rummy.

  “Does nobody come to call? No visitors?” the baroness demanded, as she stirred during her nap. “Life in England is very dull.”

  “I think the rain is stopping.” Hanni looked out of the window. “We go for walk. You show me London.”

  We left the baroness snoozing in her armchair.

  “Let us walk through the beautiful park,” Hanni suggested. “Very romantic place, no?”

  So we walked through Hyde Park, where drops dripped on us from the horse chestnut trees and Rotten Row was sodden underfoot. The park was almost deserted until we came to Speakers’ Corner. There a small crowd was gathered around a man standing on a packing case.

  “The workers will rise up and take what is rightfully theirs,” he was shouting, while around him other earnest young men were carrying signs saying, Join the Communists. Make the world a better place. Down with monarchy. Equality for all. Up the workers.

  Hanni looked at them with interest. “They can say this and not be arrested?” she asked.

  “This is called Speakers’ Corner. You can say what you like here, however silly it is.”

  “You think communists are silly?” she asked.

  “Don’t you?”

  “I think it would be nice if all people had money and houses and enough food.”

  “And you think the communists could deliver that? Look at the mess in Russia.”

  “I don’t know,” she said, then gave a little squeak as her glove dropped onto the wet ground. Instantly one of the young men lowered his sign and leaped for her glove.

  “There you are, miss,” he said, handing it back to her with a charming bow.

  “Thank you very much.” Hanni blushed prettily. “Your friend speaks very well,” she told him.

  He beamed at her. “Are you interested in coming to one of our meetings? We hold them at St. Mary’s Hall in the East End. You’d be most welcome.”

  “You see. Communists are nice people, no?” Hanni whispered as he retrieved his sign. “He was handsome guy.”

  I had to agree he was handsome, even though he was wearing a threadbare tweed jacket and hand-knitted pullover. The interesting thing was that he spoke like a gentleman.

  At that moment there was the tramp of boots and a group of young men wearing black shirts, adorned with an emblem of a lightning bolt, marched up to the communists.

  “Go back to Russia where you belong,” one of them shouted. “England for the English.”

  “We’re as bloody English as you are, mate, and we’ve a right to speak here,” the man shouted from his platform.

  “You’re a bunch of intellectual pansy boys. You’re no bleedin’ use to anybody,” one of the blackshirts jeered and leaped up to push him from the platform. Suddenly a scuffle broke out around us. Hanni screamed. The young man she had spoken to tried to fight his way through the melee toward her, but he was punched by a large thuggish black-shirt. Suddenly a strong arm grabbed me around the waist and I found myself being propelled out of the skirmish. I looked up to protest and found myself staring at Darcy O’Mara.

  “Over here, before things get ugly,” he muttered and steered Hanni and me away into the park, just as the sound of police whistles could be heard.

  “Those hooligans can’t stop free speech in Britain. We’ll show them the right way,” someone was shouting as the police waded in to break up the fight.

  I looked up at Darcy. “Thank you. You arrived at the right moment.”

  “Ah well, didn’t you know I’m your guardian angel?” he asked with that wicked grin. “What on earth were you doing at a communist rally? Are you about to trade Castle Rannoch for a peasant’s hovel?”

  “We were only there by accident,” I said. “We went for a Sunday afternoon stroll and Hanni wanted to know who was shouting.”

  Darcy’s gaze turned to Hanni. “A friend of yours?” he asked. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

  “Highness, may I present the Honorable Darcy O’Mara, son and heir of Lord Kilhenny of Ireland. Darcy, this is Her Highess Princess Hannelore of Bavaria,” I said. “She’s staying with me at Rannoch House.”

  “Is she, by George.” I saw his eyes light up. “Delighted to make your acquaintance, Your Highness.” He gave a very proper bow, then lifted her outstretched hand to his lips. “I’d volunteer to escort you ladies back to Belgrave Square but unfortunately I’m already late for an appointment. I look forward to seeing you again soon, now that I’m back in London. Your Highness. My lady.” Then he melted into the by-then considerable crowd.

  “Wow, holy cow, hubba hubba, gee whiz. That was some guy,” Hanni said. “Don’t tell me he’s your main squeeze!”

  “My what?”

  “Your honey. Your sugar. Isn’t that right word?”

  “In England we’re a little less colorful with our language,” I said.

  “So you say it?”

  “Boyfriend? Escort?”

  “And is he?”

  “Obviously not anymore,” I said with a sigh.

  Chapter 9

  Rannoch House

  Monday, June 13, 1932

  Monday morning—cold and blustery again. More porridge for breakfast. Mrs. Huggins wasn’t particularly good at porridge and it was like gooey wallpaper paste. I ate mine with expressions of delight. I thought the baroness might be beginning to crack.

  “When will king and queen invite us to palace?” she asked hopefully.

  “I couldn’t say,” I said. “It depends how busy they are.”

  “Is most irregular that princess not received at palace by king,” she said; then she added, “The food at palace is good?”

  “They are also trying to eat simply,” I replied, knowing that they were.

  “And where is your maid?”

  “I’m afraid she hasn’t returned from visiting her mother.”

  “Servants in England have no idea of duty. You must dismiss her instantly and find a good reliable German girl,” the baroness said, waving her stick at me.

  At that moment the post arrived, bringing two letters.

  One was indeed from the palace, inviting us to dinner on Tuesday evening. The other had been forwarded from my post office box and was from a Mrs. Bantry-Bynge, one of my regular customers in the house-cleaning business. Every now and then Mrs. Bantry-Bynge abandoned Colonel Bantry-Bynge and popped up to town, apparently to see her dressmaker but really for a tryst with a frightful slimy man called Boy. I had been called upon to make up the bedroom for her on several occasions now. It was easy work and she paid generously. Buying my silence, Belinda called it.

  But Mrs. Bantry-Bynge needed my services this Wednesday. She would be spending Wednesday night in town, dining with friends. Oh, bugger, I muttered. It is not a word that a lady ever says out loud, but one has been known to mutter it out of earshot in times of severe crisis. How on earth was I going to find an excuse to leave Hanni and the baroness for several hours? Maybe somebody at the palace dinner party might be persuaded to invite Hanni out for a spin in a Rolls, or maybe I could prevail on Belinda, wherever she was.

&
nbsp; I was just showing my guests the dinner invitation to the palace when there was a knock on the front door and in swept Belinda herself, looking startling in a silver mack.

  “My dears, it’s raining cats and dogs out there,” she said as my grandfather-turned-butler helped her off with the coat. “Positively miserable, so I thought I’d better come straight to you and cheer you up with good news.”

  “How kind of you,” I said, “but you haven’t met my guests.”

  I led her into the morning room and presented her.

  “Miss Belinda Warburton-Stoke,” I said. “A great pal of mine from school.”

  “How do you do.” Belinda executed a graceful curtsy.

  “How strange.” The baroness stared at Belinda. “You bear a strong resemblance to somebody.”

  “I have relatives all over the place,” Belinda said breezily. “How are you enjoying London so far?”

  “So far it has been raining and we have sat alone in this house,” the baroness said.

  “Oh, dear. You’ll be taking them out today, won’t you, Georgie?”

  “Yes, I thought maybe the National Gallery, since it’s raining, or the peeresses’ gallery at the House of Lords.”

  “Georgie, how positively gloomy for them. Take them shopping. Take them to Harrods or down Bond Street.”

  “Oh, ja. Let us go shopping.” Hanni’s face lit up. “This I like.”

  “All right,” I said slowly, wondering if royal protocol would force me to buy things for the princess. “We’ll go shopping.”

  Belinda opened her handbag. “Georgie, I came to see you because the invitation arrived this morning.”

  “Invitation?”

  “To Gussie’s party, darling. Here.” She handed it to me. It was impressively large.

  Augustus Gormsley and Edward Fotheringay invite you to an evening of merriment, mayhem and possible debauchery at St. James’s Mansions, Wed., June 15th, 8.30 p.m.

  This was most tiresome. I really wanted to go, but I shouldn’t take a visiting princess to an evening of possible debauchery, and I could hardly go off and leave her.

  “I don’t think I can go,” I said. “I mean, I couldn’t leave Her Highness.”

  “Bring her along,” Belinda said cheerily. “Give her a taste of the London smart set. I understand that a prince or two might be in attendance.”

  “I really don’t think—,” I began, but Hanni peered over my shoulder and gave a squeak of delight.

  “Young men and dancing,” she exclaimed. “Yes, this I should like.”

  “Good, then it’s all settled then. Wednesday at eight,” Belinda said. “I’ll call for you. Must fly, darling. I’m working on a new design.”

  I escorted her out into the hall.

  “You were running an awful risk,” I hissed at her. “The old dragon almost recognized you.”

  “Nonsense, darling. One never recognizes servants. They are invisible.”

  “You were a scream, pretending to be my maid.”

  “I did a jolly good job too, I can tell you. And sorry about yesterday. I fully intended to come, but the truth was that I didn’t get back to my own bed until five (he was divine, darling), and then I simply slept until five in the afternoon, when it was time to wake up for another party. So being a maid simply fell by the wayside.”

  “That’s all right. The princess has a maid with her who has been press-ganged into looking after both of them. And Binky has sent me a little money to engage a new maid for myself and the agency is supposed to be rounding up suitable girls.”

  “Choose one who isn’t talkative,” Belinda said. “Nothing is worse than waking up in the morning to chatter, chatter when they bring in the tea. And then you never know to whom she will spill the beans about certain people who stayed the night. One does have a reputation of sorts, you know.”

  “That wouldn’t apply to me,” I replied. “My maid might die of boredom.”

  “Things will change, you’ll see. You’ve only been here a couple of months. Once you’re in with our set it will be party after party. And this little do of Gussie Gormsley’s is just the thing. Everyone will be there, I can assure you.”

  “Are you sure I should bring the princess to a wild party?”

  “Oh yes.” Belinda grinned. “What better way to introduce her to life outside the convent? So until then”—she kissed my cheek—“toodlepip.”

  And she was gone, running down the front steps and out into the rain.

  Baroness Rottenmeister insisted on coming with us to Harrods. I was rather reluctant to go there, as Harrods had been the site of one of the humiliations of my life. I had served behind the cosmetics counter for all of three hours before being sacked. But today I would be going as myself, accompanied by a princess and a baroness. I didn’t anticipate any problems.

  Hanni was like a small child in a toy shop the moment she entered the store. She danced from counter to counter uttering little squeaks of joy. “Oh, look. Rings. Necklaces. And lovely handbags. Oh, look, lipsticks.” I had to admit that her vocabulary was quite impressive in this area and I wondered how she would have encountered English words like “cosmetics” at the convent. Maybe there were interludes between gang fights in those American movies. Maybe the gangsters’ molls talked about their cosmetic preparations. We passed from accessories to the dress department.

  “Oh, zat is a beautiful dress. I must try it on.” Hanni was almost embracing it and a shop assistant was bearing down with a gleaming look in her eyes. “I have no sexy dress to wear to party. Just boring German dresses.” She glanced at the tag. “ It is only twenty-five pounds.”

  “That is the belt, madam,” the assistant said, appearing miraculously behind her. “The dress is three hundred guineas.”

  “Three hundred. Is that much?” Hanni asked me innocently.

  “Much,” I said.

  “I try anyway.” She beamed at the assistant, while I tried to think of a way to tell her I had no money without general embarrassment. Perhaps the baroness had her checkbook with her.

  “Is the young lady visiting from abroad?” the assistant asked me.

  “She is Princess Hannelore of Bavaria,” I said and noticed the woman’s demeanor change instantly.

  “Your Highness. What an honor. Let me bring you some other dresses to try on.”

  We spent a happy half hour, with Hanni looking more delightful in each successive dress and me feeling more ill at ease about who was expected to pay for them.

  “I believe you’ve seen all our evening gowns now, Your Highness,” the assistant said.

  Hanni waved her arms expansively. “I will take them all,” she said.

  “No, you can’t.” The tension burst forth from me, louder than I had intended.

  “Of course not,” the assistant said, beaming at Hanni. “One would never expect you to have the inconvenience of carrying the dresses with you. We will have them delivered in the van this afternoon.”

  “Does the baroness have money from your father to pay for these dresses?” I asked.

  “I do not.” The baroness almost spat the words.

  “Then I’m afraid you can’t have them,” I said.

  “We will telephone my father.” Hanni was pouting. “He will want me to have fashionable dress for meeting king and queen, not boring German dress.”

  “German dress is not boring,” the baroness said, her face now beetroot red. “You should be proud to wear German dress. Come, Hannelore. We go now.”

  I gave the shop assistant a remorseful smile as Hanni was ushered out. We had almost reached the front entrance of the store when I felt a tap on my arm. It was a man in a frock coat and he was frowning. “Excuse me, madam, but were you intending to pay us now for the princess’s purchase or should we send a bill?”

  “Her purchase?” The dresses were surely still hanging in the fitting room.

  “The handbag, madam.” He indicated Hanni’s arm, which was now tucked through the strap of a delightfu
l white kid purse. “Fifty guineas.”

  “Your Highness?” I grabbed Hanni before she stepped out into the street. “I think you forgot to put back the handbag you were examining.”

  Hanni stared down at her arm in surprise. “Oh yes. So I did.” And she handed it back to the floorwalker with a sweet smile. I sat in the taxi home watching Hanni as she pouted. Had she really forgotten the handbag or was she intending to sneak it out of the store?

  “I must marry a rich man very soon,” Hanni declared. “And so must you, Georgie. Will there be rich men at the party we go to?”

  “Yes, I think there will.”

  “Good. Then we will each choose one.” She paused, thoughtfully. “Will the beautiful man who saved us yesterday be there, do you think?”

  “I don’t think so,” I said, hoping that he wouldn’t. I had seen Darcy’s eyes light up when he saw Hanni. “And men are not described as beautiful. They are handsome.”

  “He was beautiful,” Hanni said wistfully.

  I had to agree that he was. Probably the most beautiful man I was ever going to meet.

  Chapter 10

  That night Mrs. Huggins served toad in the hole and rice pudding. It was nursery food at its plainest and the baroness stared in horror when it was put before her.

  “Toad in ’ole?” she asked, imitating Granddad’s Cockney. “Toad? This is like frog, no? You bake frog in this pooding?”

  “It’s just a name,” I said, although I was so tempted to let her think she was eating a baked toad. “We have a lot of quaint names for our food in English.”

  “I like toad in ’ole,” Hanni said. “It tastes good.”

  And so it did. Like a lot of plain food, toad in the hole is delicious if well cooked, and I’ve always had a weakness for sausages.

  “If is not frog, then what is it?” the baroness demanded of my grandfather.

  “It’s bangers, ducks,” my grandfather said, smiling at Hanni. Those two had set up an immediate bond.

  “You mean ducks that have been shot?” the baroness asked. “It does not taste like duck.”

  “Not ducks. Bangers,” Grandfather said patiently.