by Rebecca Dean
“That would be smashing, Millie,” she shouted back down in response. “Homer is with me, so will you cut a slice for him, too?”
Millie gave an ungracious reply and despite all her anxieties, Lily’s generous mouth curved in a smile. Millie didn’t, as yet, know of David’s marriage proposal and when the time came to tell her of it, Lily was fiercely hoping Millie’s free and easy attitude toward her would remain unchanged. The prospect of Millie bobbing a curtsy to her was simply too bizarre.
The skylights reached down to the floor and she walked over to the window seat fronting one of them, sitting down on it with her arms circling her knees. Homer, who always sat wherever he wanted, eased himself up on the padded seat and lay facing her, his big brown eyes intently holding hers.
“If David were a younger brother, my life would still change but not so catastrophically,” she said to him, her lovely face grave. “It is the fact that one day he will become King that brings all the problems. Yet David doesn’t want to be King any more than I want to be a queen. He says his sister, Mary, is the one who should be inheriting the throne. He says that Mary is far cleverer than him—and far cleverer than any of his brothers.”
Homer made a noise she took as indicating sympathy, and then Millie entered the studio carrying a tea tray.
“There’s some post as well,” she said, nudging the tray on to Lily’s cluttered work bench.
She handed over a distinctive cream envelope embossed with the Prince of Wales’s cipher. “It’s from Prince Edward,” she said unnecessarily. “That’s the second letter this week.”
“That’s because the Hindustan is in port at the moment.”
“How long will it be until he’s visiting Snowberry again?”
“Not until the end of October, when his tour of duty is over.”
“Well, it will be nice to see him again.” Millie spoke as if she was speaking of Rory, and Lily felt a stab of amusement at how unnecessary her worry had been that Millie’s attitude might change if she became a royal.
When Millie had left the studio and while Homer was demolishing a very generous slice of cake, Lily opened David’s letter.
My own beloved Angel,
We are now in Portsmouth and will soon be en route for Torbay. After that we’ll be heading for Scotland and then to Queenstown, Ireland. After about a month, we will sail to Portland for the final few weeks. I can’t tell you how much I’m counting the days away, knowing that every day I cross off my calendar is a day nearer to being with my darling girl again. I so miss our talks together—being able to tell you anything and everything and the way you always make me feel as if nothing—not even being Prince of Wales—is too difficult. You make me happier than I’ve been in my whole life until now. I love you with all my heart, darling Lily. All I want to do is to be the kind of prince—and when I’m King, the kind of king—that you want me to be. I want you to be proud of me, dearest sweetheart, and I will do anything and everything to make sure that you are.
You’ll be happy to know that the captain is working me really hard! I now keep watch both at sea and when we are in harbor. I’ve learned how to run a picket boat. I serve in a turret during battle practice, and the chief yeoman is teaching me how to read flag signals. So you’ll see that I have very little free time! I must finish quickly as the bell is signaling a change of watch. Millions and millions of thanks for everything, my angel.
Tons and tons of love, your D
She sat for a long time on the window seat, her work forgotten, the letter in her hand. There was something ineffably boyish about his letters to her—a boyishness she was certain he would retain no matter how old he became. And his vulnerability—his need of her—shone through every line. Love for him flooded through her. Other people might let him down, but she would never let him down. Never, ever. She would ensure he became the most popular Prince of Wales the country had ever known—and that one day he would become England’s greatest king.
“And so I think I would like to be Princess Marigold Yurenev—but only if Maxim promises to spend at least six months of the year in England. I think that’s a quite reasonable demand, don’t you?”
Lily and Marigold were alone in the drawing room. Lily was stretched out on a sofa, a cushion behind her head, a book in her hands. Marigold was leaning against the mantelpiece, one foot balanced on the fender, the line of her thigh effortlessly provocative. Since there wasn’t a male within miles, Lily felt the pose just went to show that Marigold was never deliberately sexually alluring. She just was, and that was all there was to it.
“I don’t know, Marigold.” Lily put the book facedown on her lap. “It all depends on how much he loves Russia. What did he say about where you would live when he asked you to marry him?”
“He hasn’t asked me yet—but he will. He’s crazy for me. So crazy I can wind him round my little finger.”
She was smoking in a defensive, noli me tangere way, one arm held loosely against her waist and the other—the one with the hand holding the cigarette—slanted across her breast.
Lily regarded her thoughtfully. It wasn’t like Marigold to be tense, and she wondered what was troubling her.
“What’s the matter, Marigold? If he loves you, and you love him, what is the problem?”
“There isn’t any problem.” Marigold thought of the Persephone painting, and her arm pressed a little harder against her waist. Maxim was a passionate Slav, not a buttoned-up Englishman. Even if the painting were to become public knowledge, it was something he would take in his stride.
Aware that Marigold was protesting just a little too much, Lily frowned, wondering if Marigold was as much in love as she wanted everyone to believe.
“I know that Prince Yurenev’s family is fabulously wealthy,” she said, troubled, “but that isn’t why you are considering marrying him, is it?”
“Well, naturally it’s one of the reasons! I would hardly be considering marrying him if he was an out-of-work docker, would I?” There were times when Marigold could hardly believe Lily’s naïveté. “Don’t come over all goody-goody on me, Lily. Not when you’re living in the hope of marrying David who, as Prince of Wales, will be showering you with a king’s ransom of jewels.”
Lily rarely lost her temper, but her eyes flashed fire. “I’m not marrying David because of who he is, Marigold. Who he is, is a detriment, not an inducement! I’m certainly not marrying him in the hope of being drowned in jewels. I don’t even like costly jewelry. I’m marrying him because he needs me and because I love him. I would still be in love with him if he was a … a …” She was about to say docker, but David didn’t have the build of a docker. “I would still love him if he was a gardener!”
Crossly aware that Lily was speaking the literal truth, Marigold moved away from the fireplace and ground out her cigarette in an onyx ashtray, saying, “Whether you like expensive jewelry or not, you’re going to have to get used to being draped in it.”
Next to the ashtray on the occasional table was a copy of Tatler, and she slewed it around so that Lily could see the picture of Queen Mary on its front cover.
“That is how you will be expected to wear jewels, Lily. No matter what the occasion, day or evening, Queen Mary is always simply drowned in them!”
After Marigold had left the room, Lily walked across to the small table and looked down at the picture of Queen Mary. She was as festooned with jewels as a Christmas tree. A pearl and diamond tiara graced her wheat-colored hair. Long diamond and ruby earrings fell from her ears. Around her neck were several ropes of waist-length pearls. A magnificent ruby and diamond brooch was pinned to her breast, as was the Garter and several other Stars and Orders. A cluster of diamond bracelets circled her wrists. She should have looked ridiculous; instead she looked breathtakingly majestic.
It was how a queen was expected to look. It was how, if she and David were given permission to marry, she would one day be expected to look.
The thought was daunting, so daunting sh
e felt something close to despair.
Even though it was mid-September, the heat that had blistered the country throughout the summer continued with temperatures far higher than normal. Reading the Times Court Circular page beneath the shade of Snowberry’s cedar tree, Lily learned that King George, who had been grouse shooting in Yorkshire on the estate of his friend, Lord Ripon, had now moved his shooting party across the moors to the Duke of Devonshire’s estate at Bolton Abbey; Queen Mary was in residence at Windsor; and the Hindustan, on which the Prince of Wales was currently serving, had left southern coastal waters for Scotland and the Firth of Forth.
Dearest, darling Angel,
We are just about to sail north to join the Home Fleet. Captain Campbell is continuing to work me very hard. I even help coal the ship, which is a filthy, backbreaking job. You wouldn’t think I’d look forward to doing it, but I do, because it’s the only duty on which I’m allowed to smoke! The general rule is that tobacco and alcohol are prohibited for midshipmen until they are eighteen—which is a pretty dud show, don’t you think?
Though I’m enjoying being at sea, I’m missing you terribly, darling Lily, and can’t wait for the end of October when my tour of duty will be over. Nearly every night I dream of Snowberry and all the good times I’ve had there and sometimes the temptation to jump ship and head straight for Hampshire is almost more than I can bear. It’s only six weeks since we parted, but it seems years and years, and there is still another six weeks to go before my tour of duty is over. When it is, there will only be a week, perhaps even less, before my parents leave for India and their great coronation durbar in Delhi. (My father isn’t actually going to be crowned again in Delhi, but he will receive the homage of Indian princes and rulers while seated upon a throne and wearing a new crown made especially for the occasion. His coronation crown, the Crown of State, isn’t allowed to be taken out of the kingdom—not even by him!)
What all this means is that I’m going to have very little time in which to speak to him again about wanting to become officially betrothed to you. I’m not sure, but I don’t think he believed I was serious when I asked him for his consent the first time. I’m hoping the twelve weeks’ gap will have allowed him to get used to the idea and that when I speak to him again he will be more prepared to listen to me and that he will understand what a splendid thing our getting married will be.
I promise you, darling Lily, that it won’t be long before our betrothal will be made public, and when it is, I will be the happiest man in the whole wide world. I’m counting off the days until I see you again.
Tons and tons of love,
your very own, very loving, D
“Will David be accompanying the King and Queen when they go to India for their durbar?” Rose asked Lily a few days later on one of her fleeting visits to Snowberry from London.
“No. I’m not sure where he will be, but wherever it is, Windsor, or Buckingham Palace, or perhaps even Sandringham, he’ll be working hard preparing for his entrance exam to Oxford.”
They were in the studio and Rose regarded the clay sculpture of David’s head thoughtfully.
“Even though he doesn’t want to go there?”
“Yes, even though he doesn’t want to go there.”
Turning away from the sculpture, Rose looked toward her. “And when is it he goes to France?”
Lily, who was still dissatisfied with her tern-in-flight sculpture, took fresh clay from her clay bin.
“I’m not sure of the exact date,” she said, spraying the clay with water, “but the King and Queen return from India on the fifth of February, and he’s to go almost immediately afterward.”
“And while he is there, you are going to be there also—staying with Mama?”
Lily nodded, trying—and failing—to concentrate on what she was doing.
Rose pursed her lips and Lily, sensing how strong Rose’s disapproval was of what she and David intended, put the clay back in the bin.
“This is perhaps the only time we’ll ever be able to spend time together as an ordinary couple in love,” she said defensively. “It is King George’s wish that David travels to France incognito as the Earl of Chester and he’ll be staying in a private home. It is a circumstance that is never likely to happen again. It’s a heaven-sent chance for us to be together and one we can’t possibly not take advantage of it. Surely you can see that, Rose?”
Her eyes pleaded for Rose to be understanding—and Rose was understanding. She was also extremely worried. David had already spoken to the King about his wish to marry Lily—and though neither she nor, she suspected, Lily knew exactly what the King’s response had been, they did know he hadn’t given such a marriage his royal consent. The outcome hadn’t come as a surprise to anyone apart from Lily and David, it seemed; they were still behaving as if it was only a matter of time before King George changed his mind and a public announcement was made. Their distress when they were forced to face reality was, Rose knew, going to be colossal.
Concern for Lily’s future happiness wasn’t Rose’s only worry. She was now spending far more time in London than she was at Snowberry. At first this had been because of her renewed commitment to her suffragette activities. David’s proposal to Lily had meant these had been curtailed to behind-the-scenes activities to avoid the risk of arrest and notoriety, but they still took up a good deal of her time, and now, as well as doing everything she could to further the work of the WSPU at 4 Clement’s Inn, she was also writing regularly for the Daily Despatch.
It was a way of life she was reveling in, but she was only able to enjoy it because Iris had taken over all her responsibilities at Snowberry—which was something she had long wanted Iris to do. What was concerning her was that since Iris’s engagement to Toby, it was Toby who seemed to be taking over the running of Snowberry. It was a situation her grandfather was very happy with, but Rose knew it had only come about because she had begun spending so much time in London—and for that, she couldn’t help feeling a certain amount of guilt.
She was also concerned about Marigold, who, having decided she could overlook the inconvenience of spending part of every year in Russia, was behaving as if Prince Maxim Yurenev had already proposed.
“Let’s hope he does so soon,” Rory had said to Rose the last time he had visited St. James’s Street, “because gossip is that Marigold’s relationship with Maxim has become red-hot.”
She’d blanched, knowing the term “red-hot” meant Marigold’s virginity was in question.
“But how,” she’d asked unsteadily, “would anyone know how intimate their relationship has become? Has Maxim been talking?”
“Not to me,” Rory had said grimly. “But you need to tell her to cool things down, Rose. Remind her that virginity matters and that as yet she isn’t even wearing an engagement ring.”
It was a conversation Rose still had to have with Marigold and, because Marigold was failing in her promise to remain scandal-free, it was a conversation she wasn’t looking forward to.
She said now to Lily, “Even though the King refused to give his consent to a marriage between you and David, I would have thought that now he knows how David feels about you, our entire family would have come under close palace scrutiny. And we haven’t. According to Iris, Grandfather has received no telephone calls from the King’s private secretary, and neither have there been any letters.”
Lily fiddled with the tern’s wire armature. “That’s because King George doesn’t yet know my identity. He questioned Piers, of course, as to who it was David was in love with, but Piers said he didn’t know and was unaware of David having formed a romantic relationship. If he’d admitted he knew of it, he’d have lost his position as David’s equerry. David says it is best his father doesn’t know who I am until he’s agreed in principle to a wellborn nonroyal marrying the heir to the throne.”
Rose, who had believed David’s conversation with his father had been far more explicit, stared at her, deeply shocked. “But that doesn’t
sound as if King George is anywhere near to giving his consent! How can he be, if he doesn’t even know who you are?”
She sat down suddenly on the window seat as if the strength had gone from her legs. “If David has indicated to you that his father is likely to come round to the idea of his marrying you, I think he’s being very naive, Lily. I hate to say this to you, darling, but I don’t think the King is ever going to come round to such an idea. Never ever.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
“Never!” King George stormed to his private secretary, Lord Craybourne. “Never have I been faced with such impertinence! And from my own son! He’s met a girl and wishes to make her Princess of Wales! I’ve never heard such poppycock!” Seizing hold of a book that was on his desk, he threw it against the nearest wall with all his strength.
Lord Craybourne was long familiar with the King’s violent outbursts and with his vitriolic temper. This time, though, he had to admit that the King’s rage was justified. His own rage, though he couldn’t give vent to it, was nearly as intense.
Fifteen minutes earlier, at the King’s request, he had come into the library to discuss with him the arrangements for his durbar. Instead of broaching the subject of the durbar, the King had suddenly revealed that at the end of July the Prince of Wales had proposed marriage to an unknown girl.
It was information so bizarre, so preposterous, that he was still having difficulty assimilating it. One thing he hadn’t had any difficulty assimilating was that since it was now the last week in October, the incident had taken place nearly three months ago. That he, the King’s private secretary, was only now being put in the picture he found almost too incredible to be believable.
“May I ask who else is privy to this information, sir?” he had asked, white-lipped.
“Esher,” the King had snapped in response.
Craybourne’s bloodless lips had tightened. Though King George hadn’t volunteered when he had confided in Lord Esher, he intuited it had been several weeks ago; that on hearing the news from Prince Edward, the King’s immediate response had been to send for the man he regarded as his closest friend.
