In Royal Service to the Queen

by Tessa Arlen

  I had fallen into her trap to drown in syrup. Every word I uttered would sink me deeper. “Her Royal Highness has certainly been rather distracted recently . . . She waits for the post and . . . and is delighted when there is a letter . . .” I stammered and ground to a halt. My hands felt cold, my forehead hot and damp. I saw David Bowes-Lyon, whiskey glass in hand, raising his cigarette to his lips as he had pursued me for gossip last Christmas.

  “A letter from whom?” She waited for my answer. “Come now, Crawfie, are you not aware whom she is corresponding with?”

  Am I supposed to know these details? I asked myself. I’m a governess and not an informant—a spy. Before I could answer, what had become an interrogation continued. “Do you think that Her Royal Highness is roman-ti-cally involved with someone?”

  I gathered my wits. “She . . . Her Royal Highness has all the signs of a young woman who is thinking romantic thoughts.” I shuddered at my ghastly description. Why can’t I just say that Lilibet appears to be in love with someone, but I haven’t a clue who? This wasn’t the Dark Ages. Surely even a royal princess was entitled to enjoy her first love without her family thumbing through the when, the where, and most important of all, the who. I looked for reassurance from someone I had always thought of as a friend, a woman who had always favored informality, little get-togethers, and girlish confidences. She had disappeared, and in her place was my employer. The queen’s vigilant expression sharpened. “So, you haven’t seen her with anyone . . . at all?”

  I shook my head. “No, ma’am, I have not seen her with anyone in the romantic sense,” I said with emphasis, because it was the truth, and evidently Lilibet’s attentive Uncle David had not discovered her secret.

  “So, she was not involved with anyone at Windsor,” she said, more to herself than to me. This seemed to satisfy her, and she was all sociability again. “Oh dear,” she said, almost apologetically. “It’s going to have to be one of those half-finished conversations—the bane of my life these days!” Her quick smile. “So sorry to bother you with all of this, Crawfie. The answer obviously lies with Lilibet.”

  A quick glance at the tiny diamond watch on her wrist. “Where does the time go? I’m so sorry, Crawfie, we must sit down one evening and have a real chat, but now . . . such a rush.” She rang the bell and the doors opened for my escape.

  Chapter Eight

  July 1, 1945

  Buckingham Palace, London

  Hullo, Crawfie.” A sad pair stood in my doorway: Lilibet, and behind her Susan with her head down and her long ears sideways.

  “Come in, come in. I’m finished with my marking.” I looked up at the clock. “Time for a glass of sherry. Will you join me?”

  She closed the door. “Yes, thank you. Why is life so terribly difficult and disagreeable sometimes?”

  I patted the space on the sofa next to me. “Come and sit down here with me, and let’s see if I can help.” I had been waiting for her visit since my little chat with the queen.

  “It’s about last Christmas, when everyone came to Windsor.” She plumped herself down next to me, and Susan leapt into her lap. “Someone was there who I knew years ago when we went to the Royal Naval College—before the war. Do you remember? Papa, Mummy, Margaret, and me, we sailed into Dartmouth on the yacht? You were there with us—we were shown around the college by that tall boy.”

  Dartmouth. I remembered the tall boy, quite clearly. He had spent a muscular half hour demonstrating how easy it was for him to leap over a tennis net. I had forgotten his name, though. “When we left in the yacht, he rowed after us, was that the one?” I asked.

  “Most of them did.” She was right; there had been at least eleven Dartmouth college skiffs escorting us out of the harbor. “But one of them rowed right out to sea with us. Papa had to call out to him to go back.” I could still see the strong back and broad shoulders as the rower had fought to keep pace with a yacht under full sail. At the time I had felt sorry for him; there was something so desperate about his strenuous effort, as if he was calling out to us: “Don’t leave me behind!”

  I smiled. “Yes, I remember him clearly.” Later on, as the figure in the skiff had dwindled to a mere speck, I had felt embarrassment for his evident desire to impress. Surely all that bounding about the tennis court had been enough of a demonstration of his physical abilities. If a girl had been so conspicuous, it would have been called showing off.

  “That was Philip,” she said with pride, as if adolescent exhibitionism was an act to be treasured.

  Philip! Of course, I had seen him recently, at Windsor. He had been sitting in the front row of seats in the Waterloo Room to watch our pantomime, Aladdin. He had appeared to be completely enchanted despite the dreadful puns and the frightful double entendre. Everything fell into place with a neat little click: So, Philip is the reason she spends more time in front of her looking glass and gazing out the window.

  “You are talking about Philip of . . . of . . . ?”

  “Prince Philip of Greece.” She might as well have said “The god Adonis.” Her voice was reverent and her eyes shone with admiration.

  “Did you tell Her Majesty?” The smile when she had said Philip’s name disappeared. “I started to tell her about him the other day . . . and then I lost my nerve. But I did today. We had tea together. I think I put the wind up her a bit.”

  This was the time for me to say absolutely nothing. To question her about what she had told the queen would put me right in the middle of the two women. I sat there with what I hoped was a neutral expression, and not one of monstrous panic, and waited.

  “I asked Mummy when she had fallen in love with Papa. When had he told her he loved her? How had they met? I just wanted to know . . .” Lilibet’s expression was unruffled, but her hands were clasped tightly in her lap. “Mummy said she was much older than me when they married. And then she asked me if there was anyone I cared for . . .” Lilibet looked down at the top of Susan’s head, so I couldn’t see her face. “Before I even had a chance to answer, she rushed in with advice. She told me nineteen was much too young to be serious about things like marriage, that at nineteen we hardly know our minds.” She concentrated on stroking Susan’s ears flat against her neck and watching them spring upright again. I waited patiently, knowing exactly what was to come. “The upshot was that she told me that she certainly didn’t care for anyone until she met Papa. She said she waited for the right man to come along, and when he did, she knew it right away!” She cuddled Susan close, hunched over her protectively. Her brows were down: Lilibet looked almost mutinous.

  “I think your mother is being naturally cautious, and rightfully so. She doesn’t want you to rush into things. The war took a toll on enjoying the lighter side of life, of going to dances, and . . . and enjoying the company of young men. She wants you to have fun!”

  “I did meet young men—all the time. I have known most of them all my life. I was talking about something more serious!”

  “And you are quite sure about your feelings for Prince Philip?” I asked. Wondering if perhaps now that she was back in the fold, the “we four” her father so lovingly called his family, this Philip might disappear into the landscape.

  Her look was derisive. “Of course I am! The same way I’ve always felt, right from the moment I met him at Dartmouth. I love him; it’s as simple as that. I feel right when I am with him. He is straightforward, he is honest, and we connect, if you know what I mean.” She looked away. “I think of him all the time. He is so different from all the other men I know, so himself. I know it’s love. I’m sure it is.” She spoke with conviction, not the kind when you are trying to convince yourself; I could tell that she was far past that phase of infatuation. Lilibet was so completely sure of herself that everyone else could go fish.

  I loved her absolute certainty. Her declaration for Philip had me on the verge of tears; I opened my eyes wide and inhaled. “If only a
ll of us could be so sure that the man we are attracted to is the right one for us,” I said, trying not to sound too entranced by her conviction. “So, why is life so difficult and disagreeable?”

  There was one of those silences of which the queen is so fond, but Lilibet was thinking hard, not waiting for me to go first. “When Papa joined us, I told them it was Philip I loved; they were almost disapproving.” She glared down at Susan’s round head. “They didn’t say a word, either of them. But they gave each other one of those looks. It was awful. I want them to be happy for me, and they are not.”

  It seemed to me that the Windsor family put far too much importance on a state of constant happiness. In my experience, happiness was not the bread and butter of everyday life; after all, how could you revel in the highs if there were no lows, or at least some ordinary everyday disappointments? But I was a stoic Scots girl, grateful when the sun came out a couple of times in July and it didn’t rain on your picnic. “Give them time to adjust to the idea; be patient.”

  She nodded, and after a few minutes of grooming Susan with her fingertips: “Crawfie, have you . . .” Her solemn gaze became apprehensive. “I mean have you ever, you know, been . . .”

  “In love?” I finished for her. “Yes, I thought I was.”

  “If you were in love, really in love, wouldn’t you know, definitely?” She turned her head back to the window to avoid looking at me directly. “What about Dickie Henley, did you care for him?”

  Dickie Henley? It took me a moment to remember who he was. Dickie Henley was a Guards officer at the castle when we first moved to Windsor. All I could remember was his big, red, shiny face as he laughed uproariously at our jokes.

  “Captain Henley?”

  “He was awfully keen on you; at least Margaret and I thought he was. All right, then, what about Malcom Sutteredge?” I frowned as I tried to recollect. Lilibet laughed. “He was awfully keen on you too. So, no one, then, Crawfie, no one you particularly care for?”

  “Yes, there was someone I cared for, perhaps I still do, but the war came, and now he is off somewhere in India. So, all romance in my life is on hold.”

  “You are still in love with him?”

  I shrugged. “I certainly care about him . . .” I let my feelings for George Buthlay tail off; good manners would prevent her from asking more about the elusive George. “Now, about Prince Philip and how you feel about him. I understand that you don’t want to upset your parents, especially since there was no real family life during the war. But it is important for you to be able to tell them how you feel about something that matters to you—don’t you think?”

  She gazed unseeing at the far wall over my shoulder, deep in thought and I realized that talking about one’s feelings was not something the upper classes went in for much.

  “Where is he now . . . Philip?”

  “He’s still in service to the Royal Navy—in the Pacific. But I wanted to tell Mummy and Papa about him now. So that . . . so that they can get used to the idea.”

  “That’s a good plan. I can see you have thought this through carefully.”

  “I think Papa quite likes Philip—I mean, after all, Philip is part of his family. I’m just not terribly sure about Mummy.” I thought this was an astute observation. What I could remember of Philip of Greece when we visited Dartmouth, apart from his overt masculinity, was his confidence and his thoroughly outgoing personality. I can’t imagine the queen appreciating another magnetic individual, especially a very young man—she is the one who waves the magic wand and tells the jokes.

  “Hasn’t he visited Windsor more than once?” Most European royalty were related; they connected back to that prolific breeder, Queen Victoria. “Surely, your parents know him quite well?”

  Lilibet waved her hand at me as if I was being particularly dense. “His uncle is Louis Mountbatten—but the family calls him Dickie.” I frowned. “Crawfie, of course you know who Mountbatten is. Well, perhaps you don’t; he was away all through the war.”

  “Yes, I remember.” I nodded in my enthusiasm at recognizing the name. “He is His Majesty’s cousin. He’s an admiral—an important one. Surely there isn’t a problem, then?”

  Another sigh. “But Uncle Dickie is not one of Mummy’s favorites, which is why I think she has taken against Philip.” She tipped Susan off her lap and stood in thought for a moment, her head bent as she gazed down at her shoes, reminding me of her father. I understood where the queen was coming from. Of course she wants to slow down any runaway feelings of romance—they are dangerous. The future Queen of England must marry someone eminently suitable, someone who would fit in perfectly. A man with a strong sense of tradition, with the utmost respect for the monarchy. No one knew how much that mattered better than Lilibet’s mother. She had rescued the Crown from the public self-indulgence and flagrant unsuitability of her brother-in-law.

  “The queen has worked hard for her country; both of your parents have. It is their duty to be cautious. Lilibet, I know you understand how important your future marriage is, when you will be queen one day.” A brisk nod; she was barely listening. “Why do you think she doesn’t approve?”

  “I have absolutely no idea! He is far more royal than I am, and these things matter very much to Mummy. His mother is Princess Alice.” Seeing my puzzled expression, she burst out laughing. “Wake up, Crawfie—you are the historian here! Princess Alice was born at Windsor Castle, her great—I have no idea how many greats— grandmother was Queen Victoria.”

  And his father was who? I wanted to ask, but she was off again.

  “I can’t imagine why Mummy has taken such a dislike to him.”

  “Did she say she disliked him?”

  “No, not in so many words. But when I told them who I wanted to marry, she nearly choked on her scone and sat there gazing at me as if I was the biggest disappointment in the world. When I left, I was barely through the door before she exploded about Philip being far too old for me, which is ridiculous. He’s only twenty-four; he’s five years older than me—the same age difference as there is between Mummy and Papa.” She shook her head, lips compressed, and her eyes reddened. She knows that to take on her mother will be a fearsome task. I couldn’t bear to see her defeated before she tried.

  “Her Majesty will adjust, Lilibet; she really will. And the king, what did he say?”

  Lilibet scooped up Susan and planted kisses on her furry brow. “I don’t know what’s got into Papa these days. He said absolutely nothing at all—he just left it all to Mummy.”

  I watched her soothing Susan and realized how naive she was underneath all that calm composure and schooled reticence. I wanted to say, “Don’t you know that there is nothing wrong with your father except poor health and exhaustion? He works hard at a job he never wanted in the first place. It is a heavy burden for him to be king.” But why would I tell her what she already knew? She had seen her father walk into his study to spend long hours there, she had watched him chain-smoke his way through the day, and now that she was back in the palace, she must have seen that he drank too much scotch in the evening to relax.

  She needed to brace up. If she was ever to become her own person, she had to learn to speak out—to trust that her parents loved her enough to listen to her.

  “The king is a caring father, Lilibet. He wants you to be happy. I am quite sure he will come around if Philip means so much to you. When you go up to Balmoral this summer, he will be much more open to listening to how you feel and to considering marriage to Prince Philip. But I think it is important to be patient about this. After all, nothing can be accomplished now; even if both the king and queen are agreeable to your wanting to marry, no one knows how long this war in the Pacific will go on for. The Americans aren’t going to back down until they have broken the Japanese for Pearl Harbor.”

  A brisk shake of her head. “It is not about my being too young. If I had announced that
I was in love with Porchey Porchester, Mummy would have called up Norman Hartnell and told him to start work on my trousseau immediately.”

  I clapped my hands briskly together to break the gloom that threatened to eclipse this glorious summer evening. “I honestly don’t see a problem here, Lilibet,” I said to keep morale from collapsing. But in my mind, I could see the queen’s cool gaze, the one she adopted when she was working out the best plan for everyone, and one that did not put her at a disadvantage, as Lilibet happily announced that she was in love. “Remember that you have been feeling this way about Philip for quite some time, and this is news to your parents. Be patient with them and all will be well!”

  “I’m not being selfish, am I, Crawfie?”

  “Why would you think so, when I have never known you to be?”

  * * *

  • • •

  When Lilibet left, I found myself mulling over the queen’s words to her daughter. She didn’t care for anyone until she met the Duke of York? I had tried not to show surprise, or any reaction at all. Lady Elgin had recounted an entirely different story of how the queen had come to marry the king on my last visit home in January.

  “You must be so proud of your girls,” she said, after she had reassured me that her son, Andrew, my first pupil, was on the mend from a war wound and would be home at the end of the week.

  “I can’t believe how fast they have grown up, especially Lilibet,” I said, my pleasure in both my girls clearly evident.

  “She’ll be married before you know it. I remember when her mother was being courted by the king. Poor Bertie, he was potty about her, absolutely potty. But everyone was in love with Elizabeth Bowes-Lyon in those days.” She rolled her eyes at the careless gaiety of the roaring twenties. “She was such a lively young thing.” She leaned forward, her eyes alight with memories of summer flirtations. “But in those days, poor Bertie didn’t stand a chance: her particular passion was for James Stuart and Bertie’s older brother.”