The Royal Governess

by Wendy Holden

  She had exacted this price at least. If she was to go back, it would be with a set of playclothes for Elizabeth. Running up a hard-wearing tartan skirt on the Singer and knitting a warm red jersey in the armchair had been no problem for her nimble-fingered mother. On the contrary; she had set about it with delight.

  And of course, Marion thought, looking out at the sunny fields, there were other advantages too. She would not have to leave the princess, and she would see Tom again.

  And as for Annie McGinty and her teaching course, well, she would return. Just not straightaway. Fate, in the unlikely combined form of Miss Golspie, Ethel McKinley, her mother and the Duchess of York, had decreed otherwise. Fate had also made her task clear, and she planned to put it into action the instant she arrived at Piccadilly.

  * * *

  • • •

  “CRAWFIE!”

  She had barely gotten through the door when Lilibet, who had clearly been waiting for her, hurled herself across the hall and clasped her in a hug. But something had hurled itself after her—something low-slung and ginger-colored. The princess threw herself on the carpet with a scream of rapture. Her absence, Marion saw, had coincided with the arrival of the long-hoped-for dog.

  “His name is Rozavel Golden Eagle!” Lilibet gasped, excitedly. Marion had never seen her so utterly delighted. She was now sitting up, laughing as the rough-haired ginger animal licked her face.

  “That’s a very long name.”

  “The kennels called him Dookie! Because they knew he was going to live with the Duke of York!”

  Not everyone shared the princess’s joy at this arrangement, Marion guessed. Ainslie was edging round the hall walls, a nervous smile on his face. A housemaid hobbled past, face pale with pain and annoyance. She hurled a gaze of hot loathing at the dog, who was now running over the princess’s stomach as she lay on her back, fondling the animal’s large ears and tickling its barrel-like body. It was not a breed Marion recognized.

  “He’s a corgi!” Lilibet cried happily. She stared at Marion’s luggage. “Is that a pirate chest out of a story?”

  “Absolutely.” Marion played along immediately. “A pirate gave it to me.”

  Actually, the little polished curved-lid box had been a farewell gift from her mother. The wood had, in a former life, been the paneling in the wardroom of a German battleship scuttled by her crew in Scapa Flow. It was bound with brass fittings and had an “M” set in lighter wood into the lid.

  She smiled at Lilibet. She looked beautiful with her shining eyes and the huge monkey grin that transformed her serious face. She had grown taller even in the past week, and lost some of her childish plumpness. Marion hoped the playclothes would fit.

  She must go and hand them over immediately. There was no way round it. Mrs. Knight was in charge of clothes and dressing, and the princesses’ wardrobes were her kingdom.

  * * *

  • • •

  THE EXCHANGE WAS done on the nursery threshold, over whose boundary no representative of the schoolroom could cross. Looking unimpressed, Mrs. Knight took the parcel and began to open it. Marion glanced past her into the green-painted nursery, where Margaret, as usual, was standing up in her cot, gripping the wooden bars and staring at the parakeets in the cage by the window. It was possible she shared with them a fellow feeling.

  She really must have a word about this, Marion thought. But that was a battle for another day.

  “And what might these be, Miss Crawford?” The nanny’s thick fingers had reached the tartan skirt and jumper.

  “Playclothes, Mrs. Knight,” Marion said pleasantly. Against the unrelieved black of the nanny’s uniform, the little red outfit struck an optimistic note. “If you could dress, er, Lilibet in them for lessons, that would be lovely.”

  The nanny raised her square chin in challenge. The child’s nickname had been, until now, her prerogative. Marion met the flinty gaze without flinching. Yes, Mrs. Knight. Things are about to change round here.

  Later, having failed to locate the duchess, she approached the duke’s ground-floor study and knocked. Unexpectedly, a gale of laughter greeted this. She twisted the knob and popped her head round the door. “May I come in?”

  The Yorks were both there, sitting on either side of a fireplace with a large oil painting of cows above it. The evening sunshine fell on the duchess’s diamond rings and glowed on a double row of large pearls. “Oh, it’s you, Crawfie.”

  As if, Marion thought, she had simply gone round the corner and not the entire length of Britain in order to rethink her whole future. Not to mention theirs.

  “Yes, it’s me, ma’am. I’m back from Scotland.”

  The duke held a cut-glass tumbler of whisky and the duchess a glass of champagne, almost empty. “And how is my dear homeland?” she asked.

  “It seemed fine, ma’am.”

  Marion wondered how long they had been drinking. The duchess’s eyes were misty. Her glass was now completely empty. “My ain countree!” she declaimed. “How I long to live in some far wee croftie next to the shining river!”

  The door opened and a footman entered with a silver tray, on which stood a full flute of champagne. Glasses were exchanged. “Thank you, Fotheringay.”

  Watching Fotheringay bow and retreat backward out of the room, Marion reminded herself that she had returned with the express purpose of connecting these people with ordinary life. It was clearly going to be an uphill struggle. But she may as well get on with it. “Ma’am?”

  The duchess took a hearty swig of champagne. “Wonderful calves,” she remarked vaguely.

  “Calves?” Marion glanced at the cows above the fireplace.

  “Used to be frightfully important in a footman. In my grandfather’s day the butler actually measured them with a compass to make sure they were all the same size.”

  Marion took a deep breath. “I would like to ask permission to take Princess Elizabeth on the Underground.”

  The Yorks stared at her in amazement. It was as if she had suggested taking their daughter to the moon.

  “I thought it would be good for her to see the . . .” Marion stopped. She had been about to say “normal world,” but that implied that the one Lilibet lived in was abnormal. “Real world,” similarly, seemed to set up unfavorable comparison with “royal.” “The ordinary world,” she said, eventually. “To see how . . .” Marion paused again. “How other people live.”

  She looked from the wide, creamy face to the gray and drawn one and waited for the light to dawn. For them to see that she was trying to help them, not to mention their daughter.

  Eventually, the duke spoke. “It m-m-might be a g-good idea, darling,” he said to his wife.

  “But Bertie! The Underground.” The duchess clenched her champagne flute for support.

  “They don’t have to g-g-go far. They could visit Mama and Papa.”

  Marion felt impatient. To go from the Piccadilly mansion to Buckingham Palace hardly counted as exposure to the real world. But she had anticipated this, and had a plan. “I thought, perhaps, the new central YWCA?”

  Elizabeth of York looked blank.

  “I believe you opened it, ma’am? It’s on Tottenham Court Road?”

  “Oh yes. Vaguely. A new building, by Mr. Lutyens? Rather modern?”

  “Exactly, ma’am.” This was part of the plan too. Lilibet had probably never been in a building more recent than the mid-nineteenth century. “Very modern. It has a cafeteria where you serve yourself.”

  Right on cue, Fotheringay now returned. He took a new glass of champagne from his salver and placed it by the duchess. She sipped, musingly. “Serve yourself? What marvelous fun!”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  On the morning of the Underground outing, Lilibet spent a long time getting ready. Or rather, Mrs. Knight spent a long time getting her ready. Deliberately, Marion gues
sed as she paced round and round the upstairs gallery. The glassy-eyed stares of Lilibet’s horses only added to her agitation. It was a relief when, at long last, the nursery door swung open. But almost as soon it became disappointment.

  “She can’t wear this, Mrs. Knight!”

  Lilibet, hopping from foot to foot in excitement, the Underground map flapping in her hand, was resplendent in satin shoes and lace ruffles. “She’s going on public transport,” Marion went on. “What’s happened to the playclothes?”

  They hadn’t been seen since the moment they were handed over, almost a week ago now. Mrs. Knight always had an excuse, none convincing. Convincing was obviously not the point.

  Now there was an impassive shrug from the broad, black-clad shoulders. “In the laundry, possibly?”

  “But, Mrs. Knight, they’re not dirty.” She forced herself to sound calm. She wouldn’t reveal how hurt she felt on behalf of her mother, who had worked on the clothes so hard and with such good intentions. “Lilibet hasn’t worn them.”

  She had expected anger about the clothes, even a scene. But that Mrs. Knight would simply refuse to dress Lilibet in the little skirt and jersey had never crossed her mind. Now, she could not think why it hadn’t. That this would be the response was obvious. Had she just been too hopeful? Naive?

  But the ghastly woman would not get the better of her. She had a larger goal in mind; it would not be derailed so easily. She tried hard to maintain a pleasant manner. “Perhaps you could look again, Mrs. Knight? Or I could look for you?”

  At this, the gimlet eyes narrowed. That would never be allowed.

  Marion sighed. In order to win the war, she must accept she had lost this battle. “Perhaps a coat and beret then, Mrs. Knight?” Anything to cover up all those frills. And that silly satin ribbon.

  Finally, after much more unnecessary delay, they set off along Piccadilly. Behind them was Cameron.

  Cameron was the Yorks’ detective and just as disobliging as his colleague in the nursery. Perhaps they were even in cahoots. Certainly, as far as being a detective went, Cameron was a liability. A bespectacled, mackintoshed Scot with a thin mustache, Homburg hat and theatrically suspicious manner, he was the visual embodiment of his profession.

  Was he out to undermine the expedition? In Hyde Park Corner Underground, he marched ponderously about, hands behind his back, darting searching glances from under his hat brim into the corners of the station ceiling. He drew attention from all quarters. People stared at him, and it seemed only a matter of time before they noticed Lilibet too.

  Especially as Marion had encouraged her to buy her own ticket, which proved to be a slow business. She now stood at the counter in her coat and beret, fumbling in a little embroidered purse and counting out the unfamiliar coins with frowning concentration. Marion was on tenterhooks, expecting her to exclaim, any moment, “But that looks nothing like Grandpapa!” This had been her reaction to the back of the thrupenny bit.

  The ticket lady was doing her best to help, and so far had not recognized her small customer. Finally, the princess turned away from the kiosk with a small piece of pasteboard and a smile as triumphant as if she had invented the Underground, and wasn’t just riding on it.

  Marion felt her worries fall away and a wave of joy roll through her. For all of the aggravation, it was worth it, it really was.

  She glanced at Cameron. The great detective had his back turned and was currently investigating some posters advertising the south coast. It was tempting to sneak off and leave him there. But then he whirled round, rolled a cartoonishly distrustful eye and marched after them toward the platforms.

  A cut-glass scream from Lilibet. “Crawfie! The stairs are moving!”

  Marion did her best to place herself between her charge and the amused Londoners for whom the new escalators were already old hat. Lilibet gripped the moving handrail and gasped with delicious fear as she sailed down into the depths of the station.

  On the platform, she took a keen interest in the other passengers. “Don’t stare quite so much,” Marion muttered.

  “I’m not staring!” replied the high, clear voice. “What’s that awful smell?”

  Marion moved them down the platform, away from the malodorous tramp. The train now arrived, amid much rushing and noise. “It’s magic!” Lilibet exclaimed, as the doors sprang open by themselves.

  The feeling of delight seized Marion again, just as long as it took to see that Cameron, staring intently in turn at every occupant, his arms belligerently folded, again threatened to ruin everything. She clenched her fists in frustration. Even she, a newcomer to London, knew that on the train you looked at the floor. Or else at your paper.

  Lilibet wasn’t really helping. She was talking to her neighbor, a large, red-faced woman who looked quite spellbound. “Oh, Crawfie,” the princess said happily, “this is Mrs. Simmons. She’s a charlady from Muswell Hill. Isn’t that just too marvelous?”

  The hall at Piccadilly came back to Marion; the duchess’s acting class for the Prince of Wales. It seemed that Lilibet had had the same instruction as her uncle.

  “Do you really use a bucket?” the princess was asking her neighbor. “I love buckets. You can make the most wonderful sandcastles with them.”

  It was a relief when the train slid into the station and the magic words “Tottenham Court Road” appeared on the tiled wall. They had arrived!

  Lilibet loved everything about the YWCA, from the imposing double staircase that led to the redbrick entrance to the big café dining room with its practical chairs and tables.

  Most exciting of all had been the tea: the thick cups and saucers, the bread and butter of doorstep proportions—so different from the wafer-thin slices she was used to—and the thrilling moment when, assuming that everything would be brought to her, the princess left her teapot on the counter. The woman at the till had leaned on her meaty forearms and bawled after her. “This is self-service, you know! If you want it, you must come and fetch it!”

  “Such a loud shout!” Lilibet reminisced, blissfully.

  They had been seated a mere ten minutes. The little girl had positioned her crockery, cut her bread and butter into eight absolutely equal pieces and was beginning to alternate eating them with swigs of sugary tea. But then, suddenly and without warning, they had been bundled by Cameron into the YWCA manager’s office. As they sat on a row of hastily arranged office chairs in front of the excited official’s desk, a call was placed to 145 Piccadilly, requesting a car.

  “What’s going on?” Marion had demanded of the detective. “Just what do you think you are doing?”

  Cameron’s little round glasses flashed as he looked at her. “Miss Crawford. You are underestimating the very real dangers posed by Irish republicanism. There are terrorists everywhere.”

  “Terrorists?” echoed Lilibet, clearly thrilled.

  “But no one knows she’s here!” Marion argued. “It’s a completely secret visit.”

  Cameron looked at her. “Someone knew. There were press photographers outside.”

  Marion glared at him. She didn’t believe this for a moment. If word had gotten out and their cover had been blown, the most likely culprit was Cameron himself. He had, from the moment of arrival, paraded pompously about the café, ostentatiously taking notes and examining the furniture in the most ridiculous fashion.

  Her arguments were in vain, however. The car had arrived soon after and they were rushed out as if the whole place were about to explode. The return trip on the Underground was abandoned.

  She had gotten Lilibet out of the gilded cage only to see her dragged back in and the door swiftly shut. Marion looked out with hot eyes as the shops of Oxford Street passed by. She thought of Mrs. Knight’s enmity, the duchess’s incomprehension, Cameron’s incompetence. Her disappointment gave way to despair. Really, what was the point?

  She felt a strange sens
ation in her fingers. A small hand, its once-white gloves stained with YWCA butter, was pressing hers. She turned her head. An eager little face was looking up at her.

  “Never mind, Crawfie,” Lilibet said reassuringly. “It wasn’t your fault.”

  Something hard rolled up Marion’s throat.

  “It was such fun,” the princess went on, looking wistfully at the little pasteboard tube ticket she held in her other hand. She was clearly wondering when, if ever, she would be allowed back into the ordinary world.

  Watching her, Marion felt galvanized. A new determination spread through her. Soon, she silently promised the princess. Soon. And she’d get those playclothes back as well.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Marion gazed at Tom fondly over the café’s sticky tabletop. It was a frequent evening rendezvous, round the corner from both their places of work. Small, cheap and unglamorous as it was, it had the quality of magic for her. Tom was in it, and that was enough.

  Was she in love? After the trauma of Valentine, she was reluctant to think of it as such. She had been in no hurry to surrender her heart again, even to someone as handsome and interesting as Tom. Fun and companionship were fine, of course. But no more than that.

  But Tom had insinuated himself in her life so quickly. She saw him most evenings now and had almost come to depend on him. He was so supportive, so interested. He encouraged her to unburden herself, and after a day dealing with the caprices of the duchess, or the petty meanness of Mrs. Knight, it was a relief to do so.

  He never seemed bored. Rather, he sympathized and asked questions. He seemed to understand how difficult and strange her work could be, how demanding and wearing all the different personalities. Of course, he knew some of them personally, which helped. No detail seemed too small to interest him. He seemed to find it all—and, by extension, her—fascinating. She loved amusing and amazing him. “Really?” he would say. Or “You are joking?” Complaining had never been so much fun.