by Tessa Arlen
The duchess’s laughing voice. “Good heavens, Margaret Rose, what have you done to your dress? Come and say good afternoon to His Majesty!”
“Uncle David, just in time for tea.” Margaret threw herself toward him, followed by her sedate sister, who curtsied to the king and then, perhaps sensing her father’s unease, went to his side and took his hand.
The king lifted Margaret up and whirled her in a shrieking circle. “Tea? How did yah know I’m starved?” He set his niece on her feet.
Was I mistaken? I glanced at the duchess and then at the duke. Surely His Majesty was playing some sort of joke: his accent was unmistakably transatlantic. “You haven’t seen my noo car yet, have you, Lilibet? It’s from the States; itsa station wagon.”
“Yes, we have.” Lilibet looked up at her father. “It’s green!” She turned her mouth down, and her mother smiled.
“It certainly is.” Cool in the muggy warmth of late summer, Mrs. Simpson bent down, in a waft of Guerlain, for Lilibet’s dutiful peck, and Margaret Rose’s exuberant smack, on her cheek. The duchess’s spine grew taller at pushy Mrs. Simpson’s vulgar demand of kisses from her daughters. Her eye caught mine, her thin brows raised a fraction before her expression turned to one of polite tolerance.
Standing in the shadow of the open door, I had my first good look at the king’s mistress. Having always seen her from a distance— strolling in the grounds or sipping a cocktail surrounded by friends on the terrace—I was surprised that she was neither beautiful nor even conventionally pretty. Her head was too large, her face too square, with a strong jaw and a bony nose. Her figure was fashionable: angular, almost boyish. She had the sort of shape that looked marvelous in clothes. There was no softness, no feminine curves, and her glance from the king to the duchess was assessing and shrewd. This was no hothouse flower from a long line of overprivileged aristocrats or some rich daddy’s girl from America. Impeccably groomed, exquisitely and expensively dressed in a perfectly cut dress of emerald silk, Mrs. Simpson might not be a beauty, but she was languorous and wickedly chic. Her bare toes peeked out from heeled sandals and were lacquered a brilliant red in the same shade as her hard, lipsticked mouth: an impressive blend of Monte Carlo casinos and the shady Virginia verandahs I had read about in the society columns.
Next to this flawless elegance, the duchess, draped in cascades of pastel blue floral georgette with her hatful of roses, looked overdone and fussy in the August heat. As if she had just returned from opening a church fete. But she stood her ground in the center of her hall: legs, clad in silk stockings, planted firmly apart; handbag hanging from the crook of her arm; and two long strands of unimpeachable pearls around her neck. Elizabeth, the Duchess of York, gazed impassively at the American novelty. A glance that took in Mrs. Simpson’s scarlet toes sharpened into a polite but thoughtful stare as if she wasn’t quite sure what they were doing here in her gracious hall.
Mrs. Simpson tilted her chin in greeting to me. “Miss Crawford, isn’t it? Whenever I visit Royal Lodge, you and the girls are always having so much fun!” Her voice was hard, metallic. I understood why the Yorks referred to her as the rusty saw.
“Hide-and-seek,” I explained, feeling guilty about what I had overheard.
She turned to the king, her back to the Yorks and their children. Her jawbone jutted out on either side of her skinny neck like an adder. “Sounds like fun.” She put her hand on the king’s arm, her round, dark eyes fixed on his. “We should try it sometime.” The look she gave him was the most consciously provocative I had ever seen in my life, and his smiling response so nakedly ardent that I had to look away.
This intoxicating blend of sex and brash sophistication was the king’s married mistress! The moment this extraordinary-looking woman had spoken to the king, I could completely understand why he was standing there with that look of foolish yearning on his face.
Having established her ownership of the King of England, Mrs. Simpson returned her attention to the princesses. “And where were you hiding, in a coal cellar?”
“The roof,” said Margaret Rose. “We watched you all from the roof!”
“So, that’s why you are so sooty!” She was even flirtatious with Margaret. I glanced at the Yorks to see how they were taking Mrs. Simpson’s teasing.
The king threw back his head and roared with laughter, but his brother was silent as he pulled his cigarette case out of his jacket pocket and lit up. I didn’t know whether it was my imagination or not, but the look he cast his brother seemed assessing, with little of the puppylike adulation he usually demonstrated when they were together.
The duchess joined her brother-in-law in his laughter: a silvery tinkle of pure merriment, her smiling face affable but her back rigid with dislike.
“I thought it would be fun to have tea on the terrace; it won’t be too chilly for you, will it, Wallis?” A quick glance at Mrs. Simpson’s bare arms. “Now, girls, off you run to Alah to wash and change for tea.” She dropped her voice as I walked toward her and took Margaret Rose by the hand. “Quite informal, Crawfie, no need for you to change; as you see Mrs. Simpson is perfectly dressed for the occasion.”
Margaret caught her mother’s mood. “Flippin’ heck,” she said under her breath.
“Well, quite,” said the duchess.
If push figuratively comes to shove, I thought as we made our exit to the nursery floor, my money is on the Duchess of York for queen. The smiling duchess would make a far more acceptable consort than Wallis Simpson, even if the British people would be reluctant to lose their handsome king to his awkward, stammering brother.
December 9, 1936
Royal Lodge, Windsor Great Park, Berkshire, England
Dear Ma,
Well, it’s over, the waiting and the worrying are finally, and at long last, over. The king came for dinner with the duke last night. He brought his adviser Mr. Monckton (practically rubbing his hands with delight—he must be making a packet out of advising the king through all this upheaval) and the prime minister—I could smell Mr. Baldwin’s old pipe all the way up from my hiding place on the third floor of the stairwell!
The minute I saw the king’s face, my worst suspicions were confirmed. He was bursting with good spirits: all hail-fellow-well-met and wreathed in smiles, especially for his brother. They walked into the rose drawing room and shut the door, and I went to say good night to the girls.
Just before I turned in, I took the dogs out for their evening walk. When I came up the lawn, I saw there were no cars in the drive, and Mr. Ainslie was standing on the terrace, so I wandered over to say good evening.
“He’s done it,” he said as I came up the steps of the terrace. “What sort of a king would leave his people? His country?” And then he told me what had happened at dinner. The king was in top form: telling jokes and drinking glass after glass of wine, Mr. Baldwin was shoveling down his grouse, Monckton was watching the duke, and the duke was sitting there with his eyes on his brother’s face, saying nothing. Mr. A. left them to their port, and when he returned, the duke was pleading with his brother not to do this to him, and Mr. A. realized it was over—the king was going to abandon the monarchy to marry Mrs. S.
It was terrible to see my dear friend so shaken, and the worst of it was I couldn’t think of a thing to say—other than good riddance!
It’s been an awful week: the duke picks at his food, chain-smokes through the day and probably most of the night too, going by how irritable he is. And the girls wander about, looking scared and trying to be good—even Margaret. I can’t imagine how strange and odd it will be for them living in that barn of a palace after this beautiful house.
But all hats off to the duchess! She is coping admirably. I honestly think that without her common sense and quick wits, our new king would simply fold. I wouldn’t say this to anyone but you, but our soon-to-be ex-king is a rubbishy little man, and our new one a decent and dutiful one who wi
ll do his best for his people and his country—once he has recovered from the shock of his brother’s dishonesty.
By the time you get this, you will have heard the news because the day after tomorrow, our ex-king makes his abdication speech on the wireless.
God save King George VI!
All my love,
Marion
PART TWO
1944–1948
Chapter Three
December 1944
Windsor Castle, Windsor Great Park, Berkshire, England
What do you think? Isn’t it gorgeous? I can’t believe how well Bobo copied the photograph!”
The perennial wartime chill of Windsor Castle’s formidable stone walls, where we had taken refuge from London’s Blitz—and stayed for the duration—hardly seemed to touch the brilliant creature in front of me as she turned in a slow circle, her bare arms extended. The smooth, long line of the dress fell to the floor into graceful godets of gold silk. The dress gave her height, it emphasized her tiny waist, flattering her petite, hourglass figure, but my eyes couldn’t help fixing themselves on the long V of the neckline. Is it a wee bit too low? I narrowed my eyes at Lilibet’s white shoulders and bosom; this dress was a far-distant cry from the old blue silk net with its childish lace collar.
“I thought you were going to wear your blue,” was all I could think of to say.
“That old dress? Oh, no, Crawfie, I can’t possibly wear that—it hangs off me.”
She spun faster, and the silk flared in a rippling circle. “I could dance all night in this.” She came to an abrupt stop to look over her shoulder at the pier glass, and the skirt twisted in a voluptuous swirl around her legs. “I saw it in an American magazine. I know it’s probably a bit out of date, but the style works so well with the silk that Bobo found.”
I reassured myself that Bobo MacDonald, Lilibet’s old nursemaid and a pillar of Scots rectitude, would never have made a dress that revealed too much of the heir presumptive’s bosom.
“Has Alah seen you in it?” The royal nanny would have Bobo’s guts for garters if she encouraged immodesty.
“She loves it.” Lilibet opened the illustrated copy of the magazine she had brought with her. “Look, Bobo copied this photo.” She tapped with her finger. “Didn’t she do a splendid job?” An actress who looked like Ginger Rogers, her head thrown back with her eyes half-closed in ecstasy, was caught in the arms of a slender man with a large head and hair that looked as if it had been shellacked into place—his name escaped me for a moment.
If Ginger Rogers is an indication of Lilibet’s present state of mind, the Windsor family’s Christmas celebration is going to be a bit of an eye-opener for everyone.
With the magazine open on my lap, I looked up at her from my chair. She was wearing mascara, and her large, clear blue eyes jumped out of her pretty face. The full-lipped curve of her mouth, emphasized with red lipstick, was a sensuous bow in her flawless satin complexion. “This”—her hands fluttered down the front of her dress—“is the most beautiful thing I have ever owned.”
“It is a sensational dress.”
“Not too sensational?” The smile vanished.
“No, no,” I reassured her. “Not in that way. You look lovely in it.” I didn’t want to take anything away from the joy Lilibet felt about her new dress. “But you’ll certainly die of cold.”
She shrugged off death from exposure. “I know it shows what they call décolleté, but it covers all of me—completely.” She turned to reveal the modest back and short, flounced sleeves.
Why did I feel as if she was the most seductive woman I had seen in years? Was it the makeup? No, even that was discreetly applied, emphasizing only what a beauty she had become. In the last year Lilibet had shed her last ounces of puppy fat and had emerged as the quintessential English rose. But in this dress, she glowed with health and glossy beauty: a bright light in the dimly lit room, a vivid patch of youthful loveliness in this cold, dismal old heap of a castle.
It is not the dress; it’s her. She is feeling feminine and alluring, and so she is. Lilibet: serious, thoughtful Lilibet, who had played with her toy horses, frowned in concentration over her homework on constitutional law, and worried about being a good example to our Girl Guide troop, had grown up. I shook my head and laughed.
“Oh, Crawfie, now what’s wrong? Is it not acceptable?”
“No, no, it is, it is.” It was too easy to make her doubt herself. “You look just right, Lilibet. It’s a gorgeous dress.” And you are utterly captivating without your fawn pleated wool skirt and white Viyella blouse with its Peter Pan collar.
I had no idea why the queen had kept the eighteen-year-old Lilibet frozen in time: dressed in the same schoolgirl clothes that her sister, at fourteen, wore. Is she reluctant to let her grow up? Was she even aware that Lilibet and her younger sister both looked like two nicely-brought-up twelve-year-old girls? I caught my lower lip between my teeth. It was Her Majesty’s apparent need to deny her daughter’s physical maturity that made me anxious about the dress.
“I am glad you like it, Crawfie, really I am. So, now we can concentrate on everything else: our Christmas carols and rehearsing the Boxing Day pantomime.” The serious princess emerged, the one preoccupied with schedules and punctuality.
She put her hand on my arm. “You would tell me if it was all wrong—the dress—wouldn’t you? You know . . . too obvious?”
I nodded and patted her shoulder. “I really would . . .”
The door was thrown open, and in stalked my other charge, eyes flashing with outraged tears. “I won’t . . .” she shouted, and threw down her sister’s old evening gown. Lilibet’s corgi, Susan, wandered over to sniff the heap of silk. Satisfied with the familiar scent, she curled up, cradled in stiff net embroidered with roses, and sank into puppy dreams.
“I don’t care if there is a war on. I even don’t care if shabby clothes are the thing. I won’t wear this old hand-me-down. You have to talk to Nanny, Crawfie; otherwise I will look completely awful.” She caught sight of her sister, and her bottom lip trembled. If she had been two years younger, Margaret Rose would have stamped her foot. “Look at Lilibet! She’s got what she wanted. It’s just not fair. She will be the glamour girl, and I’ll look like an old frump.”
Lilibet moved the puppy off of the dress and picked it up.
“Nanny doesn’t expect you to wear the dress as it is. The only reason I’m not wearing it is because it doesn’t fit me. We are only going to use the fabric from it. Look.” She spread the skirt of the dress wide. “Forget about all the net. Look, the underskirt is such beautiful silk it will look lovely made into a dress for you. And then the lace collar will be used to cover the bodice. The blue is perfect; it’s you. See . . . just like this.” She turned the pages of the much-thumbed magazine to a pretty evening frock with a ruched bodice. “That will look heavenly on you. If you like it, Bobo will start work this afternoon.”
Margaret blinked away tears as she studied the illustration. “Yes . . . but . . .”
“It is perfect, Margaret . . . and so pretty. Everyone will want to dance with you.”
I had to stop myself from applauding Lilibet’s deft tact as I looked over Margaret’s shoulder at the picture. “The color brings out your eyes.” I held the glossy silk up to her cheek. Lilibet, her eyebrows raised in encouragement, nodded agreement. Margaret took the dress and shook out its folds before tossing it over the arm of a chair.
“But I want it to be lower in front and fit me all the way down.” Margaret’s mouth was set. I felt nothing but pity for Bobo MacDonald, sitting in the nursery wing in the Lancaster Tower, threading up her sewing machine, completely oblivious of the tempest that was coming her way.
I caught Lilibet’s eye and saw her falter for a second. At fourteen Margaret was as round-tummied as she had been at six. “Margaret.” Lilibet’s face was serious, deepl
y serious, as she gazed at her frowning sister. “Our Christmas party is not just for family but Mummy’s friends too. You can’t be . . . dressed like . . . well, dressed like that—Alah and Mummy wouldn’t let you anyway. But this . . .” She fanned the pages back to the blue dress. “See how terrific the skirt of the dress will look? Come on—let’s go and find Bobo now and show her this photo.” She started toward the door. “Don’t forget to bring the dress.” She pointed to the heap of silk that Margaret had thrown on the chair. “We need to show her exactly what bits of it to use.”
* * *
• • •
“I hope you’ve finished breakfast, Crawfie, because it snowed at least a foot in the night.” Margaret burst into my sitting room in the Victoria Tower as I was finishing off my toast with a last cup of tea. “A white Christmas!”
Her round cheeks were pink with the exertion of running down long, drafty, unheated corridors from their rooms in the Lancaster Tower. Her restless eyes assessed my readiness for the frozen outdoors. “You will need this and this.” She held out my scarf and my beret. “Come on, Crawfie, leave it. It’s just toast. We’re going to make a snow woman. She will be standing on guard at the entrance to the courtyard when Mummy and Papa arrive.”
Lilibet followed her sister into the room. “Don’t tell Crawfie what to do, Margaret. It’s going to be a busy day, and she likes to take her time over breakfast.” She picked up Susan and sat down to wait on the window seat. But I had already swallowed my tea and was looking round for my gloves. The moment I had opened my bedroom curtains to a white landscape, I had known what to expect.
“Are you sure you will be warm enough?” I asked Lilibet, who was looking out of the window, her chin resting on Susan’s head. She was dressed in a cherry red wool dress: the only concession made to the frozen outdoors was a pair of old riding boots, with heavy socks turned down over their tops.
