by Rhys Bowen
“It’s only for a weekend, Fig.”
“Binky, I do wish these horrid common Americanisms were not creeping into your conversation. Next thing we know you’ll be teaching Podge to say ‘mirror’ instead of ‘looking glass’ and ‘serviette’ instead of ‘napkin.’”
“God forbid, Fig. It’s just that the word ‘weekend’ does seem to sum it up quite nicely, doesn’t it? I mean, what other word do we have for Friday, Saturday, and Sunday?”
“It implies that we are slaves to a week’s labor, which we aren’t. But don’t try to change the subject. I think it’s damned cheek on the part of HM.”
“She’s only trying to help. Something has to be done for Georgie.”
Now I was truly attentive.
“I agree she can’t spend the rest of her life moping around here and doing crossword puzzles.” Fig’s sharp voice echoed alarmingly, making one of the pipes hum. “But then on the other hand, she could prove useful with little Podge. It would mean we wouldn’t have to hire a governess for him before he goes to prep school. I suppose they must have taught her something at that ridiculously expensive establishment in Switzerland.”
“You can’t use my sister as an unpaid governess, Fig.”
“Everybody has to pull their weight these days, Binky, and quite frankly she’s not doing anything else, is she?”
“What do you expect her to do, draw pints behind the local bar?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I want to see your sister happily settled as much as you do. But being told I have to invite a prince here for a house party, in the hopes of foisting him upon Georgiana—really, that is too much, even for HM.”
Now I positively had my ear pressed against the pipes. The only prince that came to mind was my cousin David, the Prince of Wales. He was certainly a good catch, to whom I certainly wouldn’t say no. It’s true he was a good deal older than I, and not quite as tall either, but he was witty and a splendid dancer. And kind too. I’d even be prepared to wear flat-heeled shoes for the rest of my life.
“I would say it was a great deal of expense wasted on a hopeless cause.” Fig’s sharp voice again.
“I wouldn’t call Georgie a hopeless cause. She’s a splendid-looking girl. A little tall for the average chap, maybe, a little gawky still, but healthy, good bones, not stupid. A damned sight brainier than I, if the truth be known. She’ll make a great wife for the right fellow.”
“She’s turned down everyone we’ve found for her so far. What makes you think she’ll be interested in this Siegfried?”
“Because he’s a prince, and heir to the throne.”
“What throne? They murdered their last king.”
“There is talk of reinstatement of the royal family in the near future. Siegfried is next in line.”
“The royal family won’t last long enough for him to succeed. They’ll all be murdered again.”
“Enough of this, Fig. And we don’t need to mention any of this to Georgie either. Her Majesty has requested and one does not turn down a request from HM. A simple little house party, that’s all. For Prince Siegfried and some of his English acquaintances. Enough young men so that Georgie doesn’t get wind of our plans for her right away.”
“That’s an expensive proposition, Binky. You know how much these young men drink. We can’t even offer them a shoot at this time of year. Nor a hunt. What are we going to do with them all day? I don’t suppose this Siegfried will want to climb a mountain.”
“We’ll manage it somehow. After all, I am the head of the family. It is up to me to see my sister settled.”
“She’s your half sister. Let her mother find her somebody. God knows she has enough castoffs of her own, and most of them millionaires.”
“Now you’re being catty, Fig. Please reply to HM telling her we will be delighted to arrange the house party in the near future.”
The speakers drifted out of range. I stood there at the bathroom window, impervious to the snow blowing in on me. Prince Siegfried of Romania, of all people. I had met him while I was a pupil at Les Oiseaux, my finishing school in Switzerland. He had struck me as a cold fish with staring eyes, a limp handshake, and a look that indicated a perpetual bad smell under his nose. When he was introduced to me, he had clicked his heels and murmured, “Enchanté.” The way he said it made me feel that I should be the one having the honor bestowed upon me, not the other way around. I didn’t suspect he’d be any more enchanted to see me again.
“The time has come for action!” I shouted into the storm. I was no longer a minor. I was able to go where I wanted without a chaperon, to make my own decisions and to choose my own life. It wasn’t as if I were either the heir or the spare. I was only thirty-fourth in line to the throne. Being a mere woman, I could never inherit the dukedom or Castle Rannoch even if Binky had not produced a son. I was not going to sit around one minute longer waiting for the future to come to me. I was going out into the world to choose my own destiny.
I slammed the loo door and strode down the corridor to my room, where I surprised my maid, hanging up freshly ironed blouses.
“Can you find my trunk in the attic, please, Maggie?” I said. “And pack clothes suitable for city wear. I’m going to London.”
I waited until Binky and Fig were taking tea in the great hall, then I breezed in. Actually it wasn’t hard to breeze anywhere at Castle Rannoch, since there was usually a howling gale racing along the corridors, making the tapestries flap. Binky was standing with his back to the fire, thus blocking the heat from the one log from reaching the rest of the room. Fig’s nose was blue enough to match her blood and I noticed she was cradling the teapot in her hands, rather than let Ferguson, the parlormaid, do the pouring.
“Ah, Georgie, there you are,” Binky said heartily. “Had a good day? Beastly out. I don’t suppose you went for a ride?”
“I wouldn’t be so cruel to my horse,” I said. I lifted the silver lid over one of the dishes. “Toast,” I said in disappointment. “No crumpets, I see.”
“Economy, Georgiana,” Fig said. “We can’t eat crumpets if the rest of the world can’t afford them. It wouldn’t be right. Heaven knows we can barely afford them ourselves any longer. It would be margarine if we hadn’t a dairy herd.”
I noticed she was spreading a generous amount of Fortnum’s black currant jam onto her toast, but wisely said nothing. Instead I waited until she had taken a mouthful before I said, “I’m popping down to London for a while, if that’s all right with you.”
“To London? When?” Fig asked, her sharp little eyes glowering at me.
“Tomorrow, I thought. If we’re not snowed in.”
“Tomorrow?” Binky asked. “This is a bit sudden, isn’t it?”
“Yes, why haven’t you mentioned it before?” Fig seconded.
“I only found out myself today,” I said, concentrating on spreading butter on toast. “One of my dearest school chums is getting married and she wants me there to help her with the wedding preparations. And since I’m not doing anything useful up here, I thought I should answer her call of distress. Baxter will be able to drive me to the station in the motorcar, won’t he?”
I had invented this story on the way downstairs. I was rather proud of it.
“This is most inconvenient, Georgie,” Binky said.
“Inconvenient? Why?” I turned innocent eyes upon him.
“Well, you see, it’s like this—” He turned to Fig for inspiration, then went on, “We were planning a little house party. Getting some young people up here for you. We realize that it must be boring to be stuck up here with an old married couple like us and no dances or fun.”
I went over to him and gave him a kiss on the cheek. “You are an old dear, Binky, thinking of me like that. But I couldn’t possibly allow you to spend money on me. I’m not a child. I realize how frightfully tight money is these days and I know you had to pay those awful death duties on the estate.”
I could see Binky was in an absolute agony of indec
ision. He knew that Her Majesty would expect her request to be obeyed, and now I was about to bolt. He couldn’t tell me why he wanted me to stay because it was supposed to be a secret. It was quite the most amusing thing that had happened in ages.
“So now you don’t have to worry about me,” I said. “I’ll be mixing with young people in London and helping out a friend and getting on with my life. I may use Rannoch House as my base, may I not?”
I saw a quick glance pass between Fig and Binky.
“Rannoch House?” Fig said. “You want to open up Rannoch House, just for yourself?”
“Not really open it up,” I said. “I’d only be using my bedroom.”
“We can’t spare a servant to go with you,” Fig said. “We’re down to the bare minimum as it is. Binky could scarcely summon up enough beaters for the last shoot. And Maggie would never leave her invalid mother to go to London with you.”
“It’s all right,” I said. “I shan’t want to take a servant with me. I shan’t even turn on the central heating.”
“But if you’re going to help this girl with her wedding, won’t you be staying with her?” Fig asked.
“Eventually, yes. But she hasn’t arrived from the continent yet.”
“A continental, is she, this girl? Not English?” Fig looked horrified.
“We’re not English,” I said. “At least Binky and I aren’t. We’re part Scottish with a good admixture of German.”
“Let me amend that to British then. You were brought up to be British. That’s where the big difference lies. This girl is foreign, is she?”
I was dying to invent a mysterious Russian countess, but it was too cold for the brain to react quickly. “She’s been living abroad,” I said. “For the sake of her health. She’s rather delicate.”
“Then I wonder some poor chap wants to marry her,” Binky said heartily. “Sounds as if she won’t be much good at producing an heir.”
“He loves her, Binky,” I said, defending my fictitious heroine. “Some people do marry for love, you know.”
“Yes, but not in our class,” Binky said easily. “We do our duty. We marry someone suitable.”
“I like to think that love may come into it a little, Binky,” Fig said in a frosty tone.
“If one strikes it lucky, Fig. Like you and I.”
He wasn’t as stupid as he seemed, I decided. He was without guile, a man of simple needs, simple pleasures, but definitely not stupid.
Fig actually managed a smile. “Will you need to have your tiara brought up from the vault?” she asked, going back to practical matters now.
“I don’t think it’s a tiara sort of wedding,” I said.
“Not St. Margaret’s then?”
“No, it’s to be a small affair. I told you the bride was delicate.”
“Then I wonder she needs help in preparing for it. Anyone can arrange a simple wedding.” Fig took another large bite of toast and jam.
“Fig, she has asked for help and I am responding,” I said. “I’m just in the way up here and who knows, I may even meet somebody in London.”
“Yes, but what will you do for servants?”
“I’ll hire a local girl to look after me.”
“Make sure you check her references thoroughly,” Fig said. “Those London girls can’t be trusted. And keep the silver locked away.”
“I’m not likely to need the silver,” I said. “I’m only going to use it as a place to sleep for a few nights.”
“Well, I suppose if you must go, you must. But we’ll miss you dreadfully, won’t we, Binky?”
Binky went to say something, then thought better of it. “I’ll miss you, old thing,” he said. It was quite the nicest thing he had ever said to me.
I sat looking out of the train window as we sped southward, watching winter melting into glorious spring. There were new white lambs in fields, the first primroses on the embankments. My excitement grew as we neared London. I was on my own, truly on my own, for the first time in my life. For the first time I’d be making my own decisions, planning my own future—doing something. At this point I had no idea what I should be doing, but I reminded myself that it was the 1930s. Young ladies were allowed to do more than embroider, play piano, and paint watercolors. And London was a big city, teeming with opportunities for a bright young person like myself.
The bubble of enthusiasm had burst by the time I reached Rannoch House. It had started to rain just outside London and by the time we came into King’s Cross Station it was coming down in buckets. There were sorry-looking men lining up for a soup kitchen along Euston Road and beggars at every corner. I stepped out of the cab and let myself into a house as cold and dreary as Castle Rannoch had been. Rannoch House is on the north side of Belgrave Square. I remembered it as a place of bustle and laughter, always people coming and going to theaters, dinner parties, or on shopping expeditions. Now it lay shrouded in dust sheets, colder than the grave, and empty. The realization crept over me that this was the first time in my entire life that I had been all alone in a house. I looked back at the front door, half afraid and half excited. Was I stupid to have come alone to London? How was I going to cope on my own?
I’ll feel better after a nice bath and a cup of tea, I thought. I went up to my bedroom. The fireplace was empty, the fire unlaid. What I needed was a fire to cheer me up, but I had no idea how one set about laying a fire. In truth I had never seen a fire laid, or lit. One awoke to a merrily crackling fire, never having seen the maid who slipped into the room at six o’clock to light it. Fig expected me to hire a maid of all work, but I had no money to do so. So I was going to have to learn to do things for myself. But I really didn’t think I could face learning how to light a fire at this moment. I was tired, travel weary, and cold. I went through to the bathroom and started to run a bath. There was a good six inches of water in it before I realized that both taps were running cold water. The boiler had obviously been turned off and I had no idea what a boiler looked like or how I might get it going. I began to seriously question the folly of my rapid departure. Had I waited and planned better, I could surely have secured an invitation from someone who lived in a warm and comfortable house with servants to run my bath and make my tea.
Now in the depths of gloom, I went downstairs again and braved the door that led below stairs, to the servants’ part of the house. I remembered going down there as a small child, sitting on a stool while Mrs. McPherson, our cook, let me scrape out the cake bowl or cut out gingerbread men. The big, half-underground kitchen was spotless, cold, and empty. I found a kettle and I even found a tinderbox and a spill to light the gas. Feeling very proud of myself I boiled some water. I even located a tea caddy. Of course that was when I realized that there was no milk, nor was there likely to be unless I contacted the milkman. Milk arrived on doorsteps. That much I knew. I rooted around in the larder and discovered a jar of Bovril. I made myself a cup of hot Bovril instead with some Jacob’s cream crackers and went to bed. Things are bound to be brighter in the morning, I wrote in my diary. I have taken the first steps in a new and exciting adventure. At least I am free of my family for the first time in my life.
Chapter 3
Rannoch House
Belgrave Square
London
Friday, April 22, 1932
Even the most minor member of the royal family is not supposed to arrive at Buckingham Palace on foot. The proper mode of entry is at the very least a Rolls-Royce motor or, in the case of reduced circumstances, a Bentley or Daimler. Ideally a state coach drawn by a team of perfectly matched horses, although not many of us run to coaches these days. The sight of one female person slinking across the forecourt on foot would definitely have my esteemed relative-by-marriage, Her Royal Majesty and Empress of India, Queen Mary, raise an eyebrow. Well, probably not actually raise the eyebrow, because personages of royal blood are trained not to react, even to the greatest of improprieties. Were a native in some dark corner of the colonies to strip off his loinclot
h and dance, waggling his you-know-what with gay abandon, not so much as an eyebrow twitch would be permitted. The only appropriate reaction would be polite clapping when the dance was over.
This sort of control is drummed into us at an early age, very much as one trains a gun dog not to react to the sound of a shot fired at close range or a police horse to a rapid movement in the crowd. Miss MacAlister, the governess who preceded my finishing school in Switzerland, used to chant to me, like a litany: A lady is always in control of herself. A lady is always in control of her emotions. A lady is always in control of her expression. A lady is always in control of her body. And indeed it is rumored that some royal personages can dispense with visiting strange water closets for days on end. I wouldn’t be crass enough to betray which royal personages can achieve this feat.
Fortunately there are other ways into Buckingham Palace, preferable to facing those formidable gilt-tipped gates and then crossing that vast expanse of forecourt under the watchful eye of those impossibly tall, bear-skinned guards and possibly Her Majesty herself. If you go around to the left, heading in the direction of Victoria Station, you can enter through the Ambassador’s Court and the visitors’ entrance. Even more desirable, if you follow the high brick wall along that road, you will come across a discreet black door in the wall. I gather it was used by my father’s uncle Bertie, who had a short but happy reign as King Edward VII, when he wished to visit the more shady of his lady friends. I expect my cousin David, the current Prince of Wales, has used it from time to time when staying with his parents. I was certainly making use of it today.
