by Wendy Holden
He smiled and ran a loving finger down her cheek. “There’s no rush. Take your time.”
But there wasn’t as much time to take as there had been, she thought, as the music swelled again. She was halfway through her thirties now. And while it was not too late to have her own children, to take up her old career, it soon would be.
“Marry me!” she murmured, as they stood in the shadows of Green Park, opposite Buckingham Palace. He had walked her home. As his tongue traced her neck, knowing that her employers were so close gave her pleasure a rebellious edge.
The tongue stopped.
“What?” he said.
She repeated it. “I thought the man did the proposing,” he said, looking amused but puzzled.
“Welcome to the modern world. Why shouldn’t a woman ask a man to marry her?”
He looked at her, then grinned. “You’re right. Why shouldn’t she?”
* * *
• • •
LILIBET, OF COURSE, could not ask Philip to marry her, much as she no doubt would have liked to. He must ask permission from her father, and this seemed, at the moment, unlikely to be granted. Now or ever.
His first visit to Balmoral had gone badly. He had loathed the brown water brought in jugs to the bedrooms and had laughed at kilts, calling them “sissified.” He had turned up to dinner in an ill-fitting jacket and gone shooting in flannels instead of tweeds. None of this endeared him to the king, but it gave Marion great satisfaction. Philip was reaping what he sowed, unpleasant, arrogant creature that he was.
“I’m not allowed to be in love,” the princess stormed, as though this, not Philip’s manners, was the problem.
“Don’t moan,” said Margaret. “We’re going to South Africa, remember.”
They were in the suite of rooms that Lilibet had recently been given in the palace, a bedroom and sitting room of her own. Another hint, were it needed, that the princess had become an adult. The suite lacked charm, even so; the princess had neither her sister’s style nor her mother’s talent for making any place a home. She had accepted whatever the palace storerooms chose to send up, and wherever they chose to leave it.
“I don’t want to go to South Africa!” Lilibet snapped. “Mummy and Papa pretend it’s because of the war, to thank the South Africans. But I know it’s to try and make me forget Philip.” She paused. “But I won’t.”
“Crawfie’s not complaining,” said Margaret, shooting Marion a wicked glance. “And she’s having to leave her boyfriend. Aren’t you, Crawfie?”
As the violet eyes dwelled mockingly on her, Marion found herself, maddeningly, blushing. Margaret’s penetrating gaze and instinct for people’s vulnerabilities had only increased with age.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she snapped, having finally found her voice.
“No, don’t be,” Lilibet agreed. “Crawfie’s our governess. How can she be in love?”
Much as she tried to forget it, the remark stung. She persuaded herself that Lilibet did not mean it. She was upset about Philip, that was all. And the dismissive way she had said it, so unlike the old Lilibet, echoed his rude and unpleasant ways. The sooner she got rid of him the better.
The route would go from city to city. Cape Town, Port Elizabeth, Grahamstown. Ladysmith, Pietermaritzburg. Durban, Pretoria, Johannesburg. She would travel with the family on the White Train. This astonishing conveyance, an up-to-date version of the royal train to Scotland, had fourteen carriages, lavish suites, a dining room and sitting room with huge, comfortable armchairs and, incredibly, telephones. “A miracle of science bent to the service of luxury,” as George had said. He felt the tour was a great opportunity and would not hear of her staying in London with him. She had gradually accepted that perhaps he was right.
Hartnell was creating the wardrobe and was a familiar sight about the corridors again, measuring tape slung over his burly shoulders. He was portlier than once he had been, and silver streaks glinted in his walnut-colored waves. But he loved to complain just as much as ever.
“It’s three times the usual work!” he told Marion. “Especially with Maggie putting her oar in everywhere, wanting teenage styles. No doubt to impress that pretty pilot of hers!”
Marion shook her head. Nothing got past Norman. Up until now, only she had guessed the reasons why the youngest princess and the former fighter ace went on such long rides together at Windsor. Although perhaps Rosemary Townsend had guessed too; there were rumors of difficulties. Where it would end was not clear. Hopefully, like her sister’s dalliance, with the upcoming tour to South Africa.
“Dresses for every occasion and all types of weather,” Norman went on. “Windy reviewing stands are a particular danger, I’ve been told.”
“Windy reviewing stands. Well, I never.”
Norman ignored the irony. “The answer, since you ask, is weights in the hems. And it’s not just wind, let me assure you. No materials that attract fabric-eating insects either. Nor pins that might rust in the humidity.”
“The things you have to think about.”
“Let’s talk about what you have to think about, then. Any news on the engagement?”
She shook her head. “We’ve decided to put it off until I come back from South Africa.”
Norman looked incredulous. “Not yours, dear. I mean Betty and that sex bomb of a sailor of hers. I’m determined to design the wedding gown.”
The year rolled on. Summer gave way to autumn. The days shortened. Soon, late in the afternoon, Marion could go to the schoolroom window and see the yellow glow of cars down on the Mall. That the lights, having gone out all over Europe, were now all back on again was still a source of wonder. But it was wonderful to be in love again, and be loved in return.
“Crawfie! Here you are!” The voice was the queen’s, and full of friendly delight. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere!”
Behind her, in the doorway, Marion caught the retreating flash of a footman’s white-stockinged calf. Someone, certainly, had been looking for her everywhere.
The queen, gracious in chiffon of the eternal misty blue, sat down with a beaming smile. “At one time,” she said brightly, “we had thought of taking you with us to South Africa. But there are very few places for staff, and so we’re taking an extra equerry instead.”
Marion met the wide blue gaze. This situation felt so familiar. She had expected to do one thing, and the queen told her, in the most charming manner possible, that she was doing the exact opposite. It had happened so many times over the years, and usually after these encounters she felt bruised and resentful. But now she felt nothing but relief. Good. She could stay in London after all. More than that, even—perhaps now was the time to make the break.
“Margaret was especially keen that Peter come. There are apparently such marvelous beaches to ride on, and Peter is such a wonderful rider. You’ve never been very interested in riding, have you, Crawfie?” The thin red smile was all kind inquiry.
Marion directed her disbelieving gaze at the schoolroom lino. It was obvious that Margaret had used the riding argument to get her off the tour. The acute younger princess knew she had guessed the nature of her interest in Peter. She was not having a disapproving governess spoiling her fun.
But was this not the chance she had been looking for? Lilibet didn’t want her, and Margaret didn’t either. So what was the point? She raised her head, forcing a smile. “Do you think, ma’am,” she said brightly, “that perhaps the time has come to make a break altogether? Margaret’s growing up. On her return from this trip I’m not sure she would take to the schoolroom very easily again.”
Now the words were out, she felt light and free. It had been easy, really.
But the queen looked horrified. “Crawfie! Don’t suggest such a thing! Of course she must go back to her lessons. You must not think of leaving us. We could not possibly manage without you.”
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br /> “But I’m not staying,” she told George later. He was playing with her hair. His touch on her neck made her shiver. “She is the queen,” he pointed out, humorously. “You don’t want to end up in the Tower.”
She twisted round and glared at him. “George! Anyone would think that you wanted me to stay there! Don’t you want a life of our own?”
He placed a finger on her lips before kissing them. “Don’t worry,” he whispered, slipping a hand inside her blouse. “There’s plenty of time.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
Nineteen forty-seven was promising to be the worst winter in living memory. Everything was frozen. Roads were either impassable with snow or hopelessly ice-bound. Shops emptied as supplies failed to get through. Marion had woken one morning to find her face bleeding, cut on an icicle that had formed on the sheet from her own breath.
The papers carried pictures of sheep frozen stiff in the fields, some near the Balmoral estate. Marion sent copies to South Africa in reply to the regular letters from the girls. Lilibet’s missives were full of distress at what the British people were suffering. She made no mention of her own suffering. But Philip’s photograph had disappeared from her bedroom, presumably taken with her. Lilibet had been white-faced and sad on departure. All the papers had carried the image of the princess at the ship’s rail, face turned wistfully back toward England. They had thought it was the country she would miss.
Margaret’s letters, on the other hand, radiated excitement. South Africa was glorious. The White Train was wonderful. But the real excitement was not referred to. There was no mention of Peter Townsend.
“I could leave now, while they’re away,” Marion told George. It was Sunday morning and they were in his Earl’s Court boardinghouse. This required ingenuity; Marion evaded the eagle eye of Mrs. Batstone, the landlady, by dressing up in one of George’s suits and pretending to be a colleague. “But that might look sneaky,” George pointed out. “You don’t want to leave under a cloud. Not after so many years.”
“Don’t I?” But the weeks were slipping by, and with them her chance. Resigning while her royal masters were out of the country was the obvious thing to do. She felt restless. The old urge to make the most of her opportunities had returned. Once, long ago, she had been a modern girl, in what had been a largely old-fashioned world. Now she was a relic of the feudal past in a brave new Britain.
The postwar wind of change had blown through the nation, sweeping away the old deference, sweeping away even Winston Churchill, whose supporters had failed in their arguments to “Let Him Finish the Job.” He was no longer prime minister; Clement Attlee was, and his Labor government was busy founding a free health service, knocking down slums to build decent houses and establishing a welfare state that would help the very poorest in society. There was no place for governesses in a world such as this. Possibly no place even for royalty.
“No, you don’t,” George said firmly. “You need to leave with your head held high. Garlanded with gongs and with a nice fat pension.”
“Gongs?” She stared at him. She hadn’t even thought about a pension. She would work as a teacher; she had years ahead of her.
“Well, the OBE, a damehood, you know. And there’s bound to be some grace-and-favor house they can give you.”
She laughed. “Don’t be silly.”
“I’m not. I’m just thinking of you.”
The family returned. Philip’s natty sports car soon became an evening fixture at the palace’s little side entrance, and Marion could hear, even from the distance of her bedroom, the uproar in Lilibet’s sitting room, where she, Philip and Margaret would have supper and afterward chase one another about the corridors.
She herself was never asked to the suppers. It wasn’t that Philip disliked her; it was worse than that—he didn’t notice her. To him, she was a servant, of no interest or consequence. Marion did not care what Philip thought. But that Lilibet might, under his influence, start to feel the same way was unbearable.
Marion had no kind feelings toward the prince of Greece. Philip’s sense of humor tended toward the boorish. But Lilibet, previously so sensitive and sensible, clearly found it hilarious. She happily joined in the shooting of balls at the lightbulbs—lightbulbs that represented the rare luxury of electricity and that someone would have to replace. Lilibet would have cared about all this, once.
One night, against a background of crashing metal trays on which Philip and the princesses were sliding down the staircases, Marion decided to go before she was pushed. As soon as she had passed the note to the footman she ducked out of the palace and called George.
“I’ve asked to see her on a very important and urgent matter of a personal nature,” she told him.
There was a pause on the other end. “I see.”
Unease squirmed within Marion. “Don’t you want us to get married?”
“Of course, of course,” he said immediately, soothingly. “It’s a bit awkward, is all. Ulick’s just got me a job. As a bank manager.”
Marion was stunned. “Ulick? Sir Ulick Alexander?” The distant, dignified Keeper of the Privy Purse? She hadn’t realized George had even met him.
“Well, he offered,” George said. “Majors together, you know.” It was rare for him to refer to his war record.
She put the receiver down, confused and suspicious. Was this the queen’s doing? Drawing George into the royal toils as well, to make it harder for her to go? Time really was running out now.
At the appointed hour, she hurried to the queen’s study, churning with panic.
“Crawfie! Do come in!”
She was behind her desk, almost hidden by the clutter of fringed lamps and silver-framed photographs. The room, as ever, was hot and powerfully rose-scented.
As the footman unobtrusively closed the doors behind her, Marion inched forward. She was wearing, to boost her confidence, her newest outfit, a red silk frock that George had urged her to buy. It was flashy and fashionable with a narrow skirt and modishly wide padded shoulders. The spike heels he had also recommended were sinking into the carpet, and maintaining her balance was difficult, especially given that she was carrying a large framed photograph. That too had seemed a good idea at the time, but now she was less sure.
The queen, who was meant to register it immediately, had not even noticed. She had noticed, instead, a bee on one of the roses. “Something simply too amusing happened with bees in the Orange Free State,” she said brightly. “When one of the local worthies took off his hat, it was full of them. His hair pomade, apparently. Too amusing!”
Marion was almost at the desk now. Curtseying deeply with a picture under her arm would be even more of a challenge than walking. Slowly, wobblingly, she descended. The queen went on in her breezy way. “On St. Helena we met a two-hundred-year-old tortoise. It must have known Napoleon intimately.”
Marion’s fingers crept to the picture frame. The moment could no longer be put off. She rose, and thrust the photograph forward. “This, ma’am, is the urgent personal matter I have come to see you about.”
The queen stood up, revealing her usual pastel chiffons, and took the picture. She stared at its plain wooden frame. She did not speak, and the silence, or perhaps the bee, buzzed in Marion’s ears.
“What’s his name?”
“Major George Buthlay. He’s from Aberdeen.” She spoke proudly, and with hope. The Scottishness generally and promixity to Balmoral particularly would surely recommend her choice of husband.
The queen handed back the photograph and sat down again behind her screen of silver frames and lampshades. “You can’t leave us,” she said simply. “A change at this stage for Margaret is not at all desirable.”
Panic swept Marion. “But Your Majesty. I . . .”
The telephone on the royal desk shrilled. The queen picked it up and exclaimed, beaming, “Hello, Fatty!”
* * *
• • •
LATER, STILL STUNNED by her failure, Marion was in her room when someone knocked at the door. The hope rose in her, wild but strong, that the queen had come to give her blessing to her departure after all, and would release her immediately. In her creased red silk and stockinged feet, she rushed to answer.
In the entrance stood Lilibet, radiantly beautiful in a dress of optimistic yellow and blazing with happiness like the sun.
“Crawfie!” She came in, closed the door behind her and held out her left hand. Sparkling on the pale, well-shaped finger was a large square diamond with smaller diamonds either side. “Isn’t it wonderful!” She began excitedly explaining how Philip’s mother had sent her tiara from Athens to be broken up to provide the stones. “Philip was too poor to buy one, you see. Absolutely penniless! So sweet! Don’t you think?”
Marion’s words would not move from under the stone in her throat. This was interpreted as joy. “It’s finally going to happen!” exulted Lilibet. “Philip and I are getting married!”
CHAPTER SIXTY
The glass will be the easiest,” drawled the earl’s daughter. “It only needs a good kick. Getting rid of silver is much more difficult. Walter and I had such luck. All ours was stolen when we were on our honeymoon.”
As the group dissolved into honking laughter, Marion felt a wave of disgust. Most of these people were Philip’s friends; he seemed to run with a fast, smart set. Especially, or so the rumors went, after he had dropped Lilibet back at the palace in the evening.
The princess had always avoided people like this before. But she was showing them the exhibition of her wedding presents with every appearance of enjoyment. It was the preview day; tomorrow it would open to the public, admission one shilling. The queues would stretch for miles. Wedding mania had gripped the nation.
A huge table, draped with white, filled up the entire length of the St. James’s Palace ballroom. Arranged on it, against an already ornate background of huge portraits in thick gold frames, were no less than 2,667 gifts. Sent from not just the furthest corners of the Empire, but from across the entire world, they gave the heavy ballroom the fantastical aspect of Aladdin’s cave. China and glass glittered, silver and gold gleamed. Leatherware, brassware and furniture shone. Pictures and mirrors glowed. There was enough to furnish not one pair of newlyweds’ house, but many, many palaces.
