The Royal Governess

by Wendy Holden

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Two enormous, shiny royal limousines were required to make the journey back from Royal Lodge to the Yorks’ London home in Piccadilly. The duke and duchess swept off in the first. Marion and the princesses went in the second, along with Mrs. Knight, who had been largely avoided until now but who took the front-facing seat as if it were her right. Plonked proprietorially on her lap and dressed in more white frills than a rack of lamb was Princess Margaret. Despite being the littlest and youngest of the family, she was clearly both too large and too old for such treatment and squirmed violently.

  Sitting on the jump seat with her back to the driver, Marion battled nausea by asking Elizabeth about her reading. “Have you read Alice in Wonderland?”

  “Yes, and it’s silly.”

  Nanny Knight, who had possibly encouraged this view of Carroll’s masterpiece, snorted.

  “Do you like fairy tales?”

  Two serious blue eyes met hers. “They’re silly as well, Crawfie. They’re all about princesses. I’m a princess and they’re nothing like me.”

  Marion laughed. “It’s hard to argue with that.”

  It was raining when they got to the city. Their big, dry warm car drove past wet Londoners hurrying down the steps into the tube stations. Elizabeth’s face pressed hard against the glass, staring out. It had a longing expression, which gave Marion an idea.

  “Have you ever been on the Underground?” she asked.

  The child looked at her. “No, Crawfie. Have you?”

  “Yes. When I came from Scotland and had to change trains. It was fun.”

  “I shouldn’t think it is,” Mrs. Knight said, immediately.

  Marion wondered what the grim-faced nanny thought fun was, exactly. Or was she jealous? The princess’s lavish use of “Crawfie” seemed to have induced further tightening of the already-tight lips and a harsher glint to the gimlet eyes.

  She opened her handbag. Somewhere in its depths was the new map of the Underground she had picked up at King’s Cross station. It was ingenious, something of a work of art, showing each stop and the various lines in different colors. The lady in the ticket office, handing it over, had been very proud of it.

  “Here,” she said, passing it to the princess. “It’s so clever. This map takes all the Underground stations in London, which are dotted about everywhere, and puts them all on lovely straight lines, at the same distance apart.” Anything more likely to appeal to Elizabeth’s strong sense of order was hard to imagine. “So it’s neat and tidy and easy to use,” she finished.

  Elizabeth took it immediately and stared at it hard. After a few moments there was a gasp of excitement. “I see! If I am at Hyde Park Corner and I want to go to Elephant and Castle—what a funny name that is!” She looked up, grinning her monkey grin.

  It was like being touched by a flame; Marion felt something inside her light up and glow. She smiled back. “Yes, so how would you get there?”

  The golden head bent down again. “I would go to Piccadilly Circus and change to the Bakerloo.”

  “Don’t read in the car; you’ll feel sick,” admonished Mrs. Knight.

  Marion watched the princess move her finger around the map, delightedly pronouncing the unfamiliar names. “Tooting! Like a horn! Barking! Like a dog!” It seemed incredible that she lived in the center of her grandparents’ mighty imperial capital and yet knew next to nothing about it. Marion realized she was looking at her first opportunity to bring the real world to the princess. She leaned forward with a smile.

  “Perhaps we could go on the Underground,” she suggested. She would rather like to explore it herself. Her experience had been brief, just from one major terminus to the other.

  Elizabeth looked up, blue eyes blazing with excitement, but it was Mrs. Knight who spoke first. “A ridiculous suggestion!” she snapped, her eyes glinting angrily beneath her hat brim. “Taking a small and precious child into such a place amid who knows what dangers!”

  “Dangers!” gasped the princess, clearly thrilled. Marion was tempted to say something, but the furious look the nanny now threw her suggested discretion was the better part of valor.

  * * *

  • • •

  ONE FORTY-FIVE PICCADILLY, where they arrived soon afterward, was the center of a graceful classical terrace rising four gray stone floors above wide pavements. Marion had seen from her city map that the house was close to the main museums and galleries, as well as the parks and of course the shops. She felt a stir of excitement. This was more like it.

  The house had double-glazed windows, an electric lift and planters of blue hydrangeas on the front windowsills, a decorative touch Marion had not seen before. At the top was the nursery floor, where, under a large glass dome, a circular gallery ran. All the way round it, tails to the wall, stood a collection of toy horses. There was something familiar and slightly alarming about the absolute precision with which they were arranged, all neatly spaced, saddled and brushed.

  Marion was glad to find her room was at the front, over the street. She would be able to see everything that went on. As she pulled up the window sash and leaned out, a great burst of excitement filled her. London, with all its noise and bustle! However strange the circumstances, and for however short a period, at least she was here at the center of the Empire, in the greatest city in the world. She stared down at the great wide thoroughfare, fascinated.

  It was so full of life. The buses roared by, bells dinging, colorful adverts plastered on the sides, passengers packed in their tops. There were cars, heavy horses and carts, people on bicycles.

  On the opposite side of the road, behind smart black railings, was a park. The rain had stopped now and a late sun emerged, the final flourish of evening. It sparkled on the grass and glimmered on the trees. Blackbirds were singing. Beyond the tree branches Marion could see the gold top of a familiar monument and a long colonnaded facade. She felt a little jump in her chest. Was that Buckingham Palace, so close?

  It was strange to think that she had actually met the king and queen. And even stranger to remember what they had been like. Ordinary people had no idea, but of course, few ordinary people ever met the royal family. Perhaps it was just as well. Valentine’s predicted revolution might be much closer if they had.

  A rumble now reached her ears; it sounded like people singing. It seemed that a procession was coming up Piccadilly. Excited, she leaned farther out.

  It looked big, and was moving quite rapidly, like a dark tide, across the width of the road. Tall red things waved above it—banners. It seemed like a demonstration of some kind. There was an air of excitement, of agitation. Men in dark blue uniforms were hurrying along either side of it; policemen, she realized. Behind them, also hurrying, were ordinary men and women; Londoners, gawping at the marching figures in the road as though they were a curiosity.

  What was going on? The middle of Piccadilly was a sea of caps. There was shouting. Men’s voices, yelling slogans she could not make out. They were singing something; she recognized the tune. Valentine had taught it to her the first time they met; it was “The Internationale,” the socialist anthem.

  “The Internationale

  Unites the human race.”

  Her hand flew to her mouth. This was one of the hunger marches she had read about in the paper. One of the desperate deputations of the jobless from towns where industry had drained away. Then she saw, white against the red, the hammer and sickle on some of the banners.

  LANCASHIRE YOUTH CONTINGENT.

  FIGHTING AGAINST STARVATION.

  MANCHESTER CONTINGENT.

  FIGHT THE STARVERS.

  Her throat was dry. She felt full of a desperate pity. She could see the marchers clearly now; they were men of all ages in shabby clothes. They had bony, hungry faces. The young ones especially moved her; they walked straighter and there was about them a defiant pr
ide. Their eyes switched about, looking at the grand houses with a mixture of derision and awe. A tall, broad-shouldered young man with a camera caught her eye. He did not seem to be of the procession but rather to be recording it as he ran alongside.

  The procession was right underneath her now. She could see how the men in the police line, on either side of the marchers, were jeering and pushing at them. They had sticks and truncheons, with which they were poking their victims. They seemed determined to provoke a reaction, presumably so they could then condemn the marchers as men of violence, bent only on causing trouble.

  It was outrageous, Marion thought. These people had a right to peaceful protest. They and their families were suffering. Why else would they walk hundreds of miles, sleeping under hedges, taking what food was given as they passed through the towns?

  She was looking at the rear of the procession now, the last of the banners and flags, the poor, shabby clothes. They were still singing bravely, their voices still audible above the hoots and honks of the traffic that followed slowly behind. They turned the corner into the park and were gone.

  Marion sat on the bed and put her head in her hands. All her excitement had gone. She felt now only anger, pity and guilt. Her sympathies were entirely with the marchers, but those who had looked up and seen her would have thought they were the opposite. Here she was, in the house of a royal duke. What was she doing here?

  A high, piping voice pulled her from these turbulent thoughts. Princess Elizabeth was outside on the gallery landing. She could also hear the low rumble of Mrs. Knight. Marion padded to her door and eased it open. She felt too agitated to show herself properly.

  In the golden evening light pouring through the glass dome, the princess presented the very picture of perfect childhood. Her well-brushed hair shone and she looked warm and protected in a pink dressing gown and matching slippers.

  She was kneeling before one of her toy horses with a small brush. She seemed to have a particular way of brushing it. Then, with equal ceremony, she combed its mane and tail. The final touch was to slide a small basket over its face. “Your nosebag, Blitzen,” she said, patting it. “Enjoy your feed.”

  She moved to the next, carefully removing its saddle and bridle and brushing and combing in the same way as before. Surely, Marion thought, she wasn’t going to do this to all of them? There were thirty at least. It would take hours.

  The same thought seemed to have occurred to Mrs. Knight. “Now come on, Lilibet,” she chaffed gently. “It’s time to wave to Grandpapa England across the park.”

  “But, Alah, you know I have to groom all my horses.” A note of panic sharpened Elizabeth’s voice.

  “You don’t want to miss His Majesty. You know he always watches for you from the palace with his binoculars.”

  “But have all those men outside gone?” Elizabeth removed the next saddle and bridle. Her movements were faster now, and more agitated.

  “Quite gone,” Mrs. Knight said comfortably. “The nice policemen have taken them all away.”

  “What were they doing, Alah?”

  “Causing trouble.”

  “Why?”

  “Because some very bad people told them to.”

  Marion gasped. The urge to burst out of her room seized her, but deep down she knew ranting on the landing would achieve nothing. She would have to enlighten the princess in other ways.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Lessons began the next morning, in a somewhat hastily arranged venue. No one, it emerged, had thought about a schoolroom. The Piccadilly house had reception rooms, a library and conservatory, storage rooms, kitchens—but that Marion needed a place to teach seemed not to have occurred to anyone, right up until yesterday evening when she first raised the subject.

  “Her Royal Highness says to use her boudoir,” Ainslie had intoned, when Marion, desperate, sent him to ask.

  Marion was in the boudoir some half an hour before her pupil was expected. She looked around with a groan. How could this fussy ground-floor room, full of silk-upholstered furniture, mirrors and clocks, be turned into a sensible place for study? The only remotely desk-like item rioted with gold carving and inlaid marquetry. There was something about its squat, bulging shape and bow legs that reminded Marion of the rear end of a bulldog.

  The lessons were supposed to start at nine, but the scrolled-gold clock on the carved mantelpiece had chimed a silver quarter-past and still no one had appeared.

  She stared at the boudoir’s long windows. Between the looping layers of silk curtains, blue sky was visible. She looked at the heavily gold-framed oils on the walls—landscapes, mostly—and drummed her feet in frustration. When half past tinkled she got up and marched crossly out into the hall.

  This was large and dim and dominated by two enormous elephant tusks hanging on the wall and the statue of an African servant in ornate livery. Neither seemed to Marion especially relevant to the twentieth century. She listened hard. Was that Elizabeth’s laugh?

  She mounted the stairs slowly, her heels sinking into the soft peach carpet. The Yorks’ bedroom was on the first floor, she knew. The sound was louder now: children shrieking with excitement. Marion stopped dead, realizing what it was. The morning romps of Royal Lodge went on here as well. Irrespective of any governess’s timetable.

  * * *

  • • •

  A GOOD HOUR later Elizabeth appeared, resplendent in her usual white lace. “Good morning, Crawfie.”

  Marion bit back the snappy retort that hovered on the tip of her tongue. It was not the princess’s fault she was late. Rather, it was the fault of her parents or, more probably, the large black shadow that had ushered her into the room before retreating and closing the door with a triumphant click. Had Mrs. Knight even given the duke and duchess the timetable?

  Elizabeth was sitting at the makeshift desk, the ornamental pug one. To reach the required height, Marion had piled up several pink silk cushions in the middle of a pink silk sofa. Elizabeth’s feet, in buttoned satin slippers, swung between the carved gold legs. Noticing this, Marion thought that this was all so exactly the opposite of anything she had ever intended doing. How could Miss Golspie possibly be right? If organizing a normal lesson was this difficult, how could her alternative timetable even begin to happen? It was tempting to give up altogether.

  Then she reminded herself that it was only for a few weeks, and that Mrs. Knight clearly wanted her to feel defeated before she had started. Why, though? They were doing different parts of the same job; cooperation would make much more sense.

  Something about Elizabeth’s frock now caught Marion’s eye. The frills looked as if they had all been hand-pressed—goffered, even, with special irons—which must take Mrs. Knight hours. Hundreds of fiddly covered buttons stretched down its back. Buttons only a nanny could manage. Was there an agenda here, to do with longevity of employment?

  “We’ll start with Shakespeare,” she announced brightly. As Elizabeth’s face fell, she imagined the child’s grandmother frowningly waving a vast volume and suspected that any possible love for the national poet had been all but destroyed already. But there was more than one way to teach his works, of course.

  “Just a tiny poem, but very charming,” she said. “Close your eyes and count all the beautiful pictures in it.” She then recited, from memory, the lovely verses from A Winter’s Tale.

  When all around the wind doth blow.

  When she got to the verse about Marian’s nose being red and raw, she stopped and tapped her own. As she had hoped, the princess giggled. Greasy Joan had a similar effect.

  After half an hour, they switched to science. Elizabeth had no idea what this was. “It’s how everything works,” Marion explained.

  There was puzzlement in the blue eyes. “Doesn’t God make everything work?”

  The young teacher hesitated. She was treading on delicate ground here. “He ha
s a bit of help.” She smiled. “Now get out your pencils.” The pencils were her own. Asking Mrs. Knight to supply some was a battle for another day.

  She noticed that the princess was arranging the pencils in precise lines, with exact spaces between them. It was an echo of her behavior with the lunch plate yesterday, and the sugar. Marion, whose training encompassed child psychology, now realized she was looking at obsessive compulsion: the behavior of those trying to control uncontrollable circumstances. This cosseted, regularized environment was the very last place she had expected to find it.

  “Why do you do that?” she asked Elizabeth.

  The princess looked up, staring at her with candid blue eyes. “Because it makes me feel safe.”

  “Safe?” echoed Marion. “Safe from what?”

  Before the child could reply, the door swung open. A pair of merry blue eyes appeared beneath a feathered hat and above a powder-blue fur stole.

  “Ma’am.” Marion rose to her feet and dipped a curtsey. The duchess’s eyes were on her daughter, however. Lilibet sat at a table, frowning as she drew a small plant brought from the garden.

  “An art lesson. How delightful.”

  “Actually, ma’am, we are studying science.”

  “But Lilibet is drawing,” the duchess smilingly pointed out.

  “Quite so, ma’am. But she’s likely to learn the principal facts of plant biology more effectively this way.”

  Almost imperceptibly, the smile wavered. “But . . . science. Don’t you need a blackboard? And facts? That’s certainly the way I was taught.”

  “These days,” Marion explained gently, “it is thought that a child learns better with activity and experience.”

  “How extraordinary . . .” The blue eyes blinked rapidly. “Well, please don’t forget that Lilibet has a dancing lesson at Madame Vacani’s this morning.”