Miss Lily’s Lovely Ladies

by Jackie French

  ‘Thank you, Miss Lily.’ Hannelore rose in a swan-like sweep. She bent and kissed their mentor on both cheeks.

  Miss Lily was crying. Sophie found she was too.

  I don’t want this to end, she realised. I want the five of us to stay like this, sheltered from the world, forever.

  But even as she thought it, part of her was excited about London, and balls, and new experiences.

  I am a swan, thought Sophie. I radiate the wonder of the world.

  There was a final and private goodbye for each of them in Miss Lily’s small, grey, silk-covered drawing room. Sophie wondered if the room was ever used when the earl was in residence.

  Miss Lily stood as Sophie entered the room. A greeting of equals, these days, or at least of those who gave each other respect. ‘My dear Sophie.’ She held out her hands. They felt chilly under the lace gloves when Sophie grasped them. Miss Lily sat on her brocade sofa, with Sophie, as so often before, on the chair in front of her.

  ‘Well, my dear, do you regret your visit?’

  ‘No. I … I think this has been the most wonderful time of my life.’

  Miss Lily laughed. ‘Then make sure it doesn’t stay that way. Life should be better year by year, or you are seriously at fault.’

  ‘Do you regret accepting me?’

  ‘If a lone woman can give herself the airs of a university, I think that you and Hannelore are my only true graduates this year. I had hopes of Emily, but she focuses on her own advancement.’ Miss Lily smiled. ‘Just now Lady Alison is still a hedgehog, curled around herself for her own protection. If she ever uncurls, well, we’ll see. But you will be … interesting, in the next few years. You’re not nervous about meeting Her Grace?’

  ‘No. I almost feel I know her already, from everything Alison has said.’

  ‘She won’t be grandmotherly to you, but she will be kind. She is glad her granddaughter has found a friend. And young Mr Overhill? I gather his letters have stopped?’

  ‘I think he has accepted I won’t marry him. Truthfully … I don’t know if I want to marry an Englishman either. Not if it means never living in Australia again.’

  ‘You may change your mind when you have seen more of England, and English life.’ Miss Lily spoke with the certainty of one who, despite her travels, considered England to be the still centre around which the world revolved.

  ‘Perhaps I’ll be like you, and never marry at all.’

  ‘My dear, your mother may have vanished, but that doesn’t mean the person you are now must disappear with your marriage. That is what you fear, isn’t it?’

  ‘I … yes, a little.’

  ‘As you know yourself better, there will be less chance that marriage will subsume you into the identity of your husband.’ She paused. ‘Why do you assume I never married?’

  ‘We call you “Miss”.’

  ‘Yet you know I use a pseudonym.’

  ‘What is your real name, then? You have told me so much already. Are you married — or were you once?’ she added, thinking of widows. A soldier husband, killed in India. Of course, that would fit. Her husband, not Miss Lily, might be the relative of the earl …

  ‘If you ask me the next time we meet, I may tell you. In the meantime, you have your father’s drive and intelligence, as well as what I imagine was your mother’s beauty. And money — even from corned beef — gives immense opportunities, if you are prepared to take them.’

  ‘So I should find a suitable husband?’

  ‘That is what the season is for. But for you? Wait a little, my dear, until you are deeply sure not just that you have found a man to share your life with, but that the life will be fulfilling for you too.’

  ‘If I do, will you come to my wedding?’

  Once again, Miss Lily looked startled. ‘You are the only girl who has ever asked me that.’ A strange smile lurked as she added, ‘No, my dear, no matter who you marry, there can be no Miss Lily at your wedding.’

  ‘I still don’t understand. Why do you have to vanish?’

  ‘Think about it. A certain Miss Lily gives sometimes quite shocking lessons to young girls, receives information and passes it to others. There can be gossip, no matter how discreet everyone is. Lord Buckmaster and his talk of my “lovely ladies”. Others may talk too, with more malice or carelessness. But, you see, there is no Miss Lily. None in Debrett’s. They ask the Earl of Shillings about his cousin. He replies, quite genuinely, that he has no relative called Lily. I don’t exist, so that I cannot hurt you, or my other young women. So that we can continue with our work.’

  ‘I … I hope I can be of use, then.’

  ‘Probably not, in your first season. It will be filled with the trivialities you so despise. But remember that you will be making useful connections, useful friends. Starting, possibly,’ said Miss Lily lightly, ‘with Hannelore’s uncle, who has access to the German Foreign Office.’

  Sophie stared at her. ‘But surely Hannelore …’

  ‘Is German. She may pass on information she believes will help keep the balance of power, will certainly cajole the Kaiser into keeping England’s friendship, but never doubt her loyalty to her country. It is also likely,’ added Miss Lily, ‘that her uncle will speak more freely of his work to a charming colonial than to his niece.’

  ‘What kind of information?’

  ‘That is impossible to say. A private meeting with the Tsar, for example, might mean a treaty or simply dinner. Small matters, like agreeing to stand godfather to someone in Luxembourg, may be part of a jigsaw that others can put together. But mostly, this year you are a cygnet, still to find what kind of swan you truly are.’

  Sophie sat silent.

  ‘Of all the girls who have been here,’ said Miss Lily at last, ‘I think you have been closest to my heart.’

  Sophie felt her throat close up with tears. Surely Miss Lily couldn’t mean it? ‘The ever-charming Miss Lily, knowing just what to say?’

  ‘I told you once I would never lie to you. If I ever had a daughter, I would wish her to be like you. Nor was that calculated charm, to a girl who I know is motherless. It is nothing less than the truth.’ She added — probably to let me compose my face so I don’t cry, thought Sophie — ‘I don’t expect you to reply, “You are exactly what I would have wanted for a mother.” I am quite unsuitable as a mother, and I hope you know it.’

  Sophie hoped her nose wouldn’t run. Tears could be ignored, but not a runny nose. ‘I wish this weren’t really goodbye.’

  ‘It doesn’t have to be. My dear, next Christmas, if you are not engaged by then, not committed to another’s family nor back in Australia, will you spend it here? I have decided I need another Christmas at Shillings. I think I can guarantee, too, that this time the earl will be here also. I would very much like you to meet him — something else I have not said to any of my girls before.’

  ‘I … thank you, Miss Lily.’

  ‘Thank you, my dear. My nanny told me once — she was in her nineties then — to make sure that as I grew older I had young friends too.’

  ‘Why did she say that?’

  ‘Because the old ones just go and die on you.’

  Sophie laughed. ‘I won’t go and die on you. I promise.’

  ‘I’m grateful,’ said Miss Lily dryly. ‘I would hate to have wasted these last months’ work.’

  Sophie and Alison left first, with their maids, driven to the station in the earl’s carriage. Miss Lily felt it inadvisable for all four girls to travel up to London together in the same train. Their trunks, hatboxes, travelling rugs and luncheon hamper (‘Never trust that you will find anything resembling food on any but French trains,’ advised Miss Lily) had already been taken to the station.

  They all hugged. Emily’s grace already almost rivalled Miss Lily’s, and she displayed no hint of regret at leaving.

  To Sophie’s surprise there were tears on Hannelore’s face. The prinzessin stood back, fumbling for her handkerchief — which was even more shocking, for Sophi
e hadn’t seen Hannelore fumble with anything before.

  ‘It has been a good time here,’ she said abruptly, aware of how much she had revealed. ‘At home I am the prinzessin; at the school in Switzerland too. Here I have been Hannelore.’

  ‘You will be Hannelore to us, always.’ Alison hesitated, then kissed her on the cheek. ‘We will see you soon, you goose. Come to tea, tomorrow.’ They looked at each other and laughed. Tea would always be a special word for them, thought Sophie: full of memories of crumbs and laughter.

  ‘And if London gets too cold, there is Thuringa,’ said Sophie lightly. ‘If you ever need a warm retreat from the world, I can promise you one there.’

  ‘One day. Perhaps.’

  Sophie thought she meant it too, though she realised how little escape was possible for a prinzessin.

  She glanced at Emily. A smiling Emily, but preoccupied, as though her mind were already on the world she planned to conquer. She hasn’t asked us to tea next week, thought Sophie, or even said she’ll come to visit us with Hannelore.

  The staff lined up to bid Alison and Sophie farewell — the maids, the footmen, even Mrs Goodenough, and Jones immaculate in his tails, opening the door of the carriage for them himself, rather than the coachman: a singular honour. Doris already sat inside, clutching Sophie’s jewel case. She seemed elated, not tearful, at leaving the only home she’d known. Alison’s maid, with perfect discretion, looked almost invisible against the leather seats.

  The staff waved as the carriage crunched across the gravel to the gates. Sophie craned to get a final look at Miss Lily. She wore a hat, wide-brimmed and heavy with silk roses, her scarf draped delicately about her neck even for this brief excursion. Careful of her skin, thought Sophie. If I’m not more careful, I’ll be leather by forty.

  But forty seemed a very long way away.

  The driveway flickered on either side, the trees in leaf, the shadows soft and deep.

  Goodbye, Shillings, she thought. To her surprise, she was nearly as sad to leave the place as she was to farewell the woman still standing on the stairs.

  Chapter 33

  Do not be afraid to think you have taken the wrong road. Someone who never feels that has never considered what she wants from life.

  Miss Lily, 1914

  2 May 1914

  Dear Dad and Miss Thwaites,

  I have met the Queen!

  Her Grace took Alison and I — sorry, Alison and me, Miss Thwaites (but it still doesn’t sound right!) — to Windsor Castle for tea. We didn’t go in the front, with all the guards, but through an ancient gate called King Henry VIII’s Gate, then up through something called the Lower Ward. It has ancient stone walls and still has a portcullis (I think that is how it’s spelled) that can be raised and lowered to keep out attackers. Or maybe colonials, if they aren’t accompanied by the King’s second cousin by marriage and the Queen’s goddaughter!

  I’d expected something all grand and ancient. It WAS ancient, but not nearly as grand as the Sydney Town Hall. Alison says that is because the Sydney Town Hall wasn’t built to keep out invading armies, and that is what castles are really about.

  All Windsor Castle feels damp because it is so near the river. Somehow we acquired a footman. He was quite old; I think the old ones get the honour of escorting Her Majesty’s goddaughter and a duchess. The footmen really do still wear powdered wigs and they smell of sweat and mildew, which I think must be from their coats, as they do not look like they are cleaned very often!

  Our footman didn’t even look at us, or not directly, and we were really looking very pretty, but I suppose it is his duty. Her Grace is what people here call ‘distinguished’, which means she is large but solid, and as tall as a man. But she moves and dresses beautifully, mostly in grey or mauve lace that drapes at her neck and wrists and skirt. It was grey lace today, and Alison and I trailed after her like cygnets after a swan.

  We went through a narrow stone passage — damp and smelling like the bat cave at Thuringa — into the castle itself. It really does look just like a proper castle: wonderful stone ceilings, vaulted I think they are called, and oak panelling, which I know about now.

  We kept passing lots of other footmen and pages, and they bowed low as soon as they saw us and didn’t look up till we had passed. They must know the shoes of everyone in the palace.

  MY shoes were ivory kid, very plain, without even buckles. I wore my new ivory silk with narrow sleeves and large cuffs, and ivory stockings and gloves and hat, and Alison wore white in the same style so we matched, which I think was deliberate on Her Grace’s part to make me seem one of the family.

  The footman opened the door to a, well, quite plain-looking room, and there was Her Majesty Queen Mary just sitting by herself KNITTING, and I realised that of course this is their home as well as being a fortress. She didn’t stand up when Her Grace went over and gave a tiny curtsey and kissed her cheek all at the same time, which must take a lot of practice, especially when there is so much of you to curtsey. I didn’t think ANYONE kissed the Queen — though of course her own family must, or at least the King.

  Alison and I curtseyed and I did it PERFECTLY. Alison only had to give a little bob, as she had met Her Majesty previously, but I had to go right down to the floor with my head lowered, then up again. Next time it won’t have to be so low — if there IS a next time, of course.

  Then the Queen invited Alison and I — me — to sit down and asked me about koalas and kangaroos, and I gave her the answers I’ve given two thousand people in England so far. Then another three footmen brought in ‘tea’: Earl Grey in a silver pot, with a samovar for more hot water, which is most efficient, and toasted crumpets and fruitcake and sponge cake and bread and butter and tarts called ladies-in-waiting. I’d been too nervous and excited to eat lunch and was starving, but you can only eat if Her Majesty does, so I just sipped my tea and FINALLY she took a piece of bread and butter, so I could too, but only the bread and butter, because she never touched anything else. While this was going on Alison and I listened to Her Majesty talk to Her Grace about people I’d never heard of.

  I was starving by then and so was Alison. I think Her Majesty guessed, because she gave a sudden twinkling smile and said, ‘Run along now, Alison, and show Miss Higgs the kitchens.’

  We left Her Majesty and Her Grace talking about what His Majesty’s cousins in Germany think about the rebellion in Albania. I also think Her Majesty didn’t consider the subject suitable for young ears.

  Alison and I went down several dim stone passages with tiny windows set into walls fourteen feet thick, and finally got to a HUGE kitchen containing hundreds and hundreds of shining copper frying pans and saucepans. It had electric stoves and electric heating tables as well as the old wood stoves, and a giant fireplace — big enough to roast an ox in, just like in the stories, though there wasn’t an ox in it — and there were people running everywhere and girls doing the washing up. It seemed an awful lot of food for just the royal family, but of course everyone else in the castle must be fed too.

  One of the cooks was called Dorothy and she knew Alison; she had worked for Her Grace when she was younger — the cook I mean, not Her Grace, though come to think of it both would have been younger then. She’d known we were coming and had made ginger nut biscuits specially because Alison loves them, and a sponge cake with Devonshire cream and strawberry jam, and fresh bread rolls with cheese. We ate at the staff dining table; it’s enormous and full of ridges from all the scrubbing it gets. We weren’t allowed to sit up near the top: the head butler is meant to sit at one end and the housekeeper at the other. In the Windsor Castle kitchen even the Queen’s goddaughter isn’t as important as a butler.

  Alison told Dorothy about the plans for our coming-out ball, and our new dresses and hats and who is making them and what they are made of and how everyone back at the Abbey is. Then Dorothy wrapped up some of the special ginger nuts in a napkin and we took them out into the park.

  Alison showed me Queen
Anne’s Garden (Queen Anne was so fat that she had to be carried around it on a sling carried by heaps of footmen). Then we went down to the river and just sat there nibbling ginger nuts and talking, and I kept thinking, This is me, Sophie Higgs, eating the Queen’s ginger nuts and sitting by her river.

  Tomorrow night is Alison’s and my ball. It is funny, though: it is WONDERFUL about my ball and I can’t thank you and Her Grace enough, but somehow it feels like that moment by the river was the happiest in my life.

  Love from your very excited,

  Sophie

  The river curved with a grace that seemed as old and practised as every ritual in the castle. The high grey walls and towers of Windsor Castle gleamed in the low rays of the afternoon sun.

  Such different light here from Thuringa’s, where the river was curling and shallow, and the black swans honked.

  A swan — a white one — paddled towards them, as though England itself were trying to be nice to Sophie. Three cygnets followed it, not quite as serenely.

  ‘Mouse, look, there’s a swan!’

  ‘Belongs to the King,’ said Alison idly. ‘All swans belong to the King.’

  ‘I was too scared to be swan-like except for my curtsey,’ Sophie confessed. ‘But Her Majesty seems nice.’

  Alison glanced at her. ‘You sound surprised.’

  ‘One doesn’t think of queens as being nice.’

  Alison laughed too. ‘Queens are just like other people.’

  ‘No, they’re not.’

  ‘Well, all right, they’re not. I meant that every queen is different. Her mother-in-law Queen Alexandra isn’t like Queen Mary at all. Even before King Edward died she was much more informal; she loves charades and word games and practical jokes. She’ll turn up unannounced and stay to dinner like an ordinary person.’