by Rhys Bowen
“We are well aware of that,” the queen said, turning to her husband. “Aren’t we, George?”
“You mean the Prince of Wales, don’t you? Confounded boy. Won’t get married,” King George snapped. “Can’t force him. Would if I could.”
“I expect young Otto will turn up eventually,” the queen said. “We must greet the rest of our guests.”
She gave me a knowing sort of nod that I couldn’t quite interpret. My only satisfaction was that the red-faced man beside me had turned distinctly green, realizing he’d been about to seduce the king’s cousin. I smiled at him. “Jolly party, isn’t it?” I said and deliberately trod on his toe as I moved away.
Other people came into the salon. The Duke and Duchess of York came over to greet me and I asked about their little daughters.
“So Prince Otto hasn’t put in an appearance,” the duchess muttered to me. “His father is not well pleased with him. Just as Bertie’s father is not pleased with David. Heaven knows where he is tonight. Or with what type of woman.”
“From what one gathers Otto and David have a lot in common,” the Duke of York said. I noticed that when he chatted with someone he knew, he hardly stuttered at all. “Both of them refusing to grow up and accept responsibility.”
I saw Prince Rupert glancing at the entrance from time to time but Otto did not appear by the time the reception ended, the king and queen retired and the rest of us went home. It wasn’t until I was sitting in the taxicab that it finally struck me. “Oh, crikey,” I muttered out loud. I realized why I had been invited to the reception: they were trying to hitch me up with Prince Otto!
I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised but I was. I was only a very minor royal, only thirty-fourth in line to the throne, but the king had no more daughters to dispose of and it was obviously a good idea to reestablish ties with postwar Germany. So I had been the sacrificial virgin after all. I wondered what Otto was like. I wouldn’t have minded marrying my cousin the Prince of Wales. He was rather dashing, and fun too, even if he was shorter than me. I remembered what Fig had said. Were they trying to foist Otto on me because he was actually mad? I was glad he hadn’t shown up. Who knows, they might have had a priest waiting in the anteroom.
* * *
I felt both scared and excited as I prepared to take the train to Broxley on Saturday. I really hadn’t been out in real grown-up society much and certainly hadn’t had experience in mixing with the smart set with their witty repartee. I hoped that Fig had been right and that the rest of my fellow debs had been invited. I wished I had a maid to accompany me and help me dress, but my own maid stayed in Scotland and Fig wasn’t about to lend me hers. Perhaps people as rich as the Merrimans would have maids to spare.
The train journey seemed to take hours as the sun set in a fiery ball over the bleak October countryside. It was hot in the first-class compartment and I had almost dozed off when I heard a voice shouting “Broxley Halt.” I gathered my bags hastily and alighted. So did several others, including a smartly dressed woman with sleek black hair and a tall dark man with a mustache. She was wearing a gorgeous black mink and he had a fur collar on his overcoat.
“They said they’d send an automobile for us,” the woman said in an American accent, “but I don’t see it. Go see if you can locate it, honey.” Her gaze fell on me, taking in my well-worn overcoat. “Are you bound for Broxley, miss?” she asked. “Coming to help out at the party?”
Before I could answer indignantly that I was going to the party she went on. “They are sending a car for us but I expect we could squeeze you in somewhere. You certainly can’t walk in this weather.”
A chauffeur in livery now approached. “Are you Lady Georgiana, my lady?” he asked. “I was sent to meet you.”
“I am,” I said as he bent to take my bags. “And this lady and gentleman are also for Broxley. I expect we can find room for them, can’t we?” Then I smiled sweetly at the fur-clad American woman. She looked daggers at me. I decided that it was useful to be royal after all.
“So you’re Lady Georgiana,” the woman said as the motorcar took off. “I’ve heard about you. Most eligible deb of the year, aren’t you? Have you landed a husband yet, or is the royal family supposed to hitch you up with a European princeling?”
I thought she was being frightfully informal to someone she didn’t know, so I reverted to formality, as I always do when nervous. “I’m afraid we haven’t been introduced,” I said.
She threw back her head and laughed. “You British are so delightfully stuffy. Wallis Simpson, honey. Newly arrived from Baltimore and friend of Lady Merriman.” She glanced to her left. “And this is my husband.” To him she said, “This young lady is related to the royals, so mind your manners.”
We rode the rest of the way in near silence. Wallis Simpson powdered her nose and applied a red gash of lipstick to her mouth. Then we turned in between gates and I got my first glimpse of Broxley. It was called Broxley Manor but it was nothing like my idea of a manor house. The old manor houses are usually square and low and simple. This was Victorian indulgence at its most opulent, complete with turrets, battlements, towers. I had studied up on it during the week and read that the present viscount’s grandfather had made a lot of money in the India trade, had the old manor pulled down and this monstrosity built instead. They were now one of the richest families in England.
“Well, they’ve certainly done themselves proud. Look, honey,” Mrs. Simpson said to her husband. “I just love the way English aristocrats live. I plan to have a place like this myself someday.”
“I don’t know where you’re going to put it in Baltimore,” Mr. Simpson said, giving me a wink.
“Who said anything about Baltimore,” she replied.
The car came to a stop under a portico, and footmen in smart gold-and-black livery came running to open the door. Mrs. Simpson made sure she got out first. As I climbed out after her a diminutive figure in an exquisitely cut Parisian gown appeared at the top of steps and rushed toward us, arms open.
“Wallis, you came. How lovely.”
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world, honey,” Mrs. Simpson said, kissing her an inch from her cheek. “Tell me, is a certain royal person going to attend as you promised?”
“The Prince of Wales? Of course. He never misses one of my parties. You’ll adore him, Wallis.”
“Will I?” She gave an enigmatic smile.
Our hostess turned her charming smile to me. “And you must be Georgiana. I met your father in Monte Carlo. What a delightful man. We were so sorry when he died. Has your season been fun? No proposals yet, I hear. Or at least none that you’ve accepted. Never mind. There’s always tonight. Come along in out of the cold. Tea is being served in the long drawing room.”
I realized one wasn’t required to speak much when Lady Merriman was around. We were escorted into the house, where servants took our overcoats and luggage. Then Lady Merriman ushered us in through a doorway to our right. It was a large comfortable sitting room with groups of sofas and armchairs and in the middle a roaring fire blazed in a big marble fireplace. The room was amazingly warm for one who has grown up in a Scottish castle and I realized that they must have had central heating installed. No fireplace could heat that well. An elegant company was assembled, many of them standing around the fireplace. I recognized several faces from glossy magazines and at the center of the liveliest group was my cousin, the Prince of Wales.
Lady Merriman stepped into the throng. “Everyone, I want you to meet our latest arrivals, Lady Georgiana Rannoch and Mr. and Mrs. Simpson, old chums from America.”
My cousin David’s face lit up. “What ho, Georgie.” He held out his hand to me.
I took it and bobbed the required curtsy. “Hello, sir.” (One always has to call royals sir and ma’am, even if they are cousins.)
“So you’re out in society, are you?” he said, still beaming at me. “Splendid. Glad to see you all grown up and looking so pretty.”
David
had always been kind. I was sure I didn’t look pretty compared to all those Chanel outfits and cashmeres I could see in that crowd.
Mrs. Simpson gave an annoyed little cough. The Prince of Wales turned his attention to her. “How do you do. Welcome to England.”
Mrs. Simpson dropped a gorgeous curtsy. “I can’t tell you how I’ve been longing to meet you, Your Highness,” she said.
“Have you, by Jove.” And David’s fair skin turned bright pink.
Tea included every scrumptious sandwich, scone, cake and pastry in creation. I observed that the rest of the company seemed to be much older than I and frightfully smart. Worse still, they all seemed to know each other. So I was allowed to eat undisturbed, which was a good thing actually as éclairs are not always easy things to manage and I hate to have to talk with cream on my nose. I heard snatches of conversation around me about people and places that meant nothing to me, and then I heard something that made me pay attention. “So tell me, is the rumor correct? Is Prince Otto really going to grace us with his presence?”
“He’s promised to. He’s driving down and will join us later,” Lady Merriman said.
“My dear, you manage to snag such a glittering company of guests,” another woman said. “How do you do it?”
“Simple. Good food, good wine, beautiful women. Who can resist that combination?” And Lady Merriman laughed. I sat poised with a slice of walnut cake halfway to my lips.
“Oh, golly,” I muttered. So that was why I had been invited—they were determined to get me together with Prince Otto, one way or another.
“It’s all right,” I told myself. “I don’t have to like him. They can’t force me to marry him. It isn’t the Middle Ages.”
“So that’s why there are policemen hiding in the bushes around the house,” another of the women said. “I thought they were to protect the Prince of Wales.”
“I don’t need protecting,” David said. “Who’d want to bump me off? I’m not worth assassinating. Besides, everyone adores me.”
“Of course we do.” Lady Merriman smiled at him fondly.
“I thought they were to keep out your husband, Pauline,” someone said, getting a good laugh.
“We have been warned that we can’t be too careful,” Lady Merriman said. “There are anarchists and communist agitators everywhere these days and Prince Otto is a guest of His Majesty.”
When tea was over and more guests had arrived, Lady Merriman clapped her hands. “Those of you who didn’t bring a costume—now is your chance to take your pick from our selection upstairs. I’ll lead the way. And you need to keep up. It’s easy to get lost in this house. We once found a guest who’d been gone for a week.” She gave a melodic peal of laughter.
As we followed her out of the drawing room I noticed that Mrs. Simpson had moved closer to the Prince of Wales and whispered something into his ear. He blushed again and laughed. The queen wouldn’t be happy to hear about her, I thought. She would definitely not be considered a suitable companion. Thank heavens she was already married.
In a guest bedroom upstairs there were racks of costumes and by the time I arrived women were already fighting over them—in well-bred fashion, of course. I had no idea what I wanted to be. The first dresses I looked at seemed rather provocative with exceedingly low necklines. Certainly not for me. I didn’t fancy being a lady vampire either. I was looking for something innocuous when Lady Merriman grabbed my arm and drew me aside. “I’ve the perfect costume for you, Georgiana—here you are, honey.”
She lifted a long black dress from a hanger. It appeared to have some sort of wings.
“What am I, a harpy?” I asked.
She laughed. “No, honey. You’re a fallen angel. Such a cute little dress that I thought of you immediately.”
I took the outfit, not sure why she thought of me as a fallen angel. Or . . . an uneasy thought crossed my mind . . . was she planning that I was going to lose my virginity tonight? And if so with whom?
“And do go next door to pick out a mask,” she was saying. “We’ve a splendid array of Venetian masks that we brought back from Venice for this ball.” She clapped her hands. “Pay attention, everyone—it’s essential that nobody recognize you so choose wisely. We’ll have the guessing of identities and stripping of the masks at midnight.”
If this was the rule, I wondered why she had let everybody know who I was going to be.
“You’ll find rooms to change in all along this hallway,” she went on. “One thing we haven’t in this house is a shortage of bedrooms. There are a hundred and one to be precise, so take your pick. And anyone who didn’t bring a maid, just ask.”
As I was leaving in search of a room I heard Lady Merriman’s voice saying, “No, Rodney, you can’t be the devil. I’ve been asked to reserve that costume for a rather special person.”
“Who could possibly be more special than I, my love?’ the man called Rodney asked in a peeved voice.
“You’re not a prince, honey.” She patted his cheek.
I felt the color draining from my face. I saw clearly now. It really was a conspiracy. The devil’s costume was for Prince Otto. He and I had been assigned our costumes so that we were a pair and would recognize each other at the ball. We were supposed to meet and fall in love and all would be well. He might not be too bad, I thought. Some members of our family are quite good looking. But I kept hearing Fig’s voice in my head: “Wasn’t Otto the mad one? Didn’t they have to lock him away?”
I found an empty bedroom and almost immediately a maid arrived to help me dress. I had to admit that the costume was rather gorgeous and oh so sophisticated: a long black dress, beautifully draped (and a little revealing at the cleavage), with a low back and the sort of wings one sees on angels in Renaissance paintings—only black instead of white. It was topped with a strange, spiky halo that one wore at an angle and long black gloves. It fit as if it had been made for me. When I put on my golden mask I didn’t look at all like Georgiana Rannoch, naïve country girl fresh from the schoolroom. I looked like a svelte woman, like one of those other women who were the Merrimans’ guests.
That didn’t stop me from feeling so horribly nervous that I wanted to be sick as I went downstairs. Music was spilling out of the ballroom and couples were already dancing to a lively two-step. At the ballroom doorway I stopped short, alarmed. Great spiderwebs were strung from one chandelier to the next. Skeletons and ghosts and hanged men dangled from the ceiling. A strange cauldron bubbled in one corner. Smoke curled across the floor. The whole room was bathed in red light so that the masks on the dancers glowed in an unearthly fashion. It was a strange sight to watch witches and vampires and other creatures dancing and chatting happily and I hesitated at the door, scared to go in.
When Frankenstein’s monster lumbered up to me and grabbed my hand I had to stifle a scream. But he said in a perfectly ordinary voice, “Don’t worry. I’m your host Lord Merriman and I was instructed by my wife to look out for you. Care for a spin around the dance floor?”
And so I started to fox-trot with a monster who chatted to me pleasantly about how my season had gone, whether I’d done much shooting yet this year, while I couldn’t take my eyes off the bolt sticking out of his neck. Such a bizarre feeling. At the end of the dance Lord Merriman escorted me to a seat and had a footman bring a jug of punch to my table. New guests arrived in a noisy group and he went off to greet them, leaving me sitting alone. The ball went on and the ballroom filled with couples. Before this I had only been to debutants’ balls, which were severely chaperoned. I had never seen people behaving with such familiarity in public. There were hands on derrieres, couples dancing so closely together that there was no space between them and even couples slinking off together, heading for the stairs, presumably to find a bedroom. And they all seemed to know one another, even though they were masked. I wondered which one was the Prince of Wales and whether he and Mrs. Simpson were dancing together.
I sat observing from my seat in the shadows,
feeling in one way like a wallflower, but in another relieved that I didn’t have to fight off wandering hands or improper suggestions. Then a Paul Jones was suggested and I was dragged from the safety of my chair to join. For those of you who have no idea what a Paul Jones is, it’s only a method of selecting random partners to dance with. The ladies formed an inner circle, the men an outer. The music started and the men circled to the right, ladies to the left, until the music stopped. I found myself opposite a large troll.
“Jolly party, what?” he said as we stomped off to a quickstep. “The Merrimans certainly know how to go overboard. Of course she’s not British. Doesn’t quite know what’s proper, what?”
Unfortunately he danced like a troll and trod on my toes about every other step. I was glad when the music summoned us back to our circles again. Off we went until the music stopped and I found myself facing a vampire.
“Ah. A young maiden. How delightful. What a lovely white neck,” he said as he drew me to him. I suppose part of me resisted, and, I realized later, the punch I had thought to be harmless was already beginning to take effect. As he pulled at me I staggered backward and bumped into somebody.
“I’m sorry,” I said. I tried to move but for some reason I could not step forward. I heard a woman’s voice behind me saying, “What are you doing? Let go.”
I tried to turn around and saw that one of my wings had hooked itself onto a frill at the back of a green sprite’s costume. As I tried to extricate myself the frill started to unravel to my horror. I was frozen in utter confusion and mortification. I could not reach behind myself to free my wing and I couldn’t turn without unraveling more of the woman’s costume.
“Oh, for God’s sake,” the woman sounded really angry now. “You’re wrecking my costume. You’ll have me naked in a minute.”
“That wouldn’t be so bad, sweetie. In fact I’d rather enjoy it,” said her partner.
Suddenly help arrived. “Here, let me,” said a deep voice. In a second my wing came free and I catapulted into rescuing arms.
