Queen of Hearts

by Rhys Bowen

  As we reached the open sea and the passage around the Isle of Wight I felt the rise and fall of the water’s swell for the first time. I hope I won’t be seasick, I thought. It would be such a waste with all that fun and those lovely meals awaiting me. I decided to go down and change for dinner. If by some miracle Darcy was on the ship, I’d be bound to see him then, if he didn’t find his way to my cabin first. I hurried eagerly along the passageway.

  Queenie was standing looking out of my cabin window as I arrived. “It ain’t half going up and down, miss,” she said.

  “You’ll be fine, Queenie. You’ll get used to it in no time at all. I see you’ve unpacked. Well done. Now I’d like to change for dinner.”

  “What do you want to wear then? Them new pajamas what’s all the rage?”

  “No, I think I’ll look sleek and sophisticated in the backless midnight blue.”

  “Bob’s yer uncle,” she said. Then she paused. “Here. What kind of underwear goes with a backless dress?”

  “Nothing, Queenie.”

  “What, no vest? No brassiere?” (She pronounced it “brazier,” like the fire.)

  I laughed. “Certainly no vest, and I’m afraid no brassiere either.”

  “Blimey. You’re being a bit daring, aren’t you? What if yer boobs fall out?”

  I laughed. “Queenie, the dress is made so that they don’t. Besides I don’t have your size breasts to worry about.”

  She started to lay out clothes on my bed while I went to wash.

  “’Ere,” she called. “What about my dinner then? Where am I supposed to eat?”

  “I believe the maids’ dining room is up on the promenade deck, but you should ask Claudette. And Queenie, do try and mind your manners, won’t you? The other maids would be horrified at your language.”

  “Don’t worry, miss,” she said. “I’ll be too keen on me food to do a lot of talking. I intend to eat all I can in case I feel sick later.”

  I left her to put away my things and went along the passageway to find my mother. Mummy looked pleased when I went to see if she was ready for dinner. “You look quite presentable for once, darling. You’ll never be a great beauty like me, but you could turn some heads if you learned to make the most of yourself. This fresh-scrubbed look was fine before you came out, but you really should learn some makeup tricks. I’ll have to teach you. Come over here and let me put on some rouge and lipstick.”

  “No, really I’m all right,” I said, but Mummy was already brandishing a lipstick. So I was feeling rather self-conscious as we walked down the staircase to the first class dining room. It was now full of people and the murmur of voices echoed from the high stained glass ceiling and the gallery above. Lights twinkled from polished silver and glassware on the white-clothed tables. The maître d’ bowed when he spotted Mummy. “Miss Daniel, Lady Georgiana. The captain has requested that you do him the honor of dining at his table. This way, please.”

  Mummy paused and posed prettily, to make sure the whole dining room was aware of her, and gave me a pleased little smirk as the maître d’ led us down the full length of the dining salon. I glanced around, just in case Darcy was at one of those tables, but I saw no sign of him as I started after my mother. Unfortunately the fashionable and low-backed dress also had a very tight skirt. I had to take lots of little tiny steps in my unaccustomed high-heeled shoes to try and keep up with Mummy. It was unfortunate that I was halfway down the dining room when the ship gave an impressive roll. Suddenly I was tottering forward, going faster and faster and the only way of stopping myself was to grab on to the back of an approaching chair. Unfortunately also, the chair was occupied by a large bare back into which I careened with a thump. The poor woman had been about to take a sip of a cocktail and I had managed to thrust her face right into the glass. I suspect the cherry had gone up her nose as she gave a rather peculiar strangled sort of snort before she let out a gasp of indignation.

  “I’m so sorry,” I gasped. “I didn’t mean . . .”

  She spun on me, her face spattered with amber liquid. “You clumsy, stupid girl,” she said in a clipped American accent. “What sort of game do you think . . .”

  Suddenly the maître d’ was at my side. “I’m so sorry, Your Highness. I should have escorted you personally, since we’re going through a rough patch of water.”

  For once I was not about to deny being a highness rather than a lady. The woman’s face was now a picture of embarrassment. “Oh, Your Highness. I had no idea,” she stammered. “Of course I should have realized that the ship was rolling.”

  “I really am terribly sorry,” I said. “Is there anything I can do?”

  “I’m sure I’ll be fine as soon as I’ve wiped this off my face.”

  “And I’ll be happy to send you another cocktail to take the place of the spilled one,” said the maître d’. “The captain is waiting to meet you, Your Highness.”

  And I was whisked away, this time clutching his arm. We came to a central table for eight. Four people were already seated at it—the captain, looking resplendent in a uniform decorated with much gold braid, a striking Indian woman dripping with jewels, and a stout middle-aged couple—the wife wearing a rather frumpy brown lace dress. The men rose to their feet.

  “Miss Daniels, Lady Georgiana. Welcome. I’m Captain Harrison. Do take a seat.” The captain motioned for Mummy to sit next to him and a chair was pulled out for me beside the Indian lady. “May I introduce our table companions: Princess Promila, daughter of the late maharaja of Kashmir, and Sir Digby and Lady Porter. Sir Digby is the head of the British Industries Development Board.” He gestured toward my mother and me. “I’m sure you’re familiar with Claire Daniels, former duchess of Rannoch, and her daughter, Lady Georgiana.”

  “Claire Daniels. Of course,” Sir Digby said, looking at Mummy with keen interest. “Saw you on stage back in the good old days before the war, when you were still acting, didn’t we, old dear? Absolutely cracking performance. Absolutely cracking.”

  Lady Porter managed a weak smile. I could tell that she had looked forward to being the leading light of the captain’s table and was now already eclipsed by a princess, a famous actress and me. Princess Promila gave me a warm smile as I took my place beside her. “You are a grandchild of the old queen, are you not?”

  “Great-granddaughter,” I said.

  “My father spoke so highly of her. He stayed at Osborne House when he was a young man and came home so impressed. Such a little woman, he would say, and yet she commands an empire that spans across the world. He was a great champion of the British, my father.” She spoke with a clipped, almost exaggerated English accent with no trace of Indian in it. She had either had an English governess or been educated at an English girls’ school.

  “Do you still live in India?” I asked.

  “Some of the time. I have a flat in Paris which I vastly prefer, but one is required to go home from time to time.” She waved a dainty hand languidly in a way that Westerners never can. “I must say I enjoy my freedom away from court. Too many restrictions for a woman in Kashmir. Have you ever been there?”

  “No, never. This is my first time outside Europe,” I confessed.

  “You should come out to India sometime. We do throw absolutely splendid parties. No expense spared.”

  “I’ve heard,” I said. “My cousin the Prince of Wales had a marvelous time on his official visit.”

  “Yes. He came to stay with us. I happened to be home and helped entertain him. What a charmer. Is he ever going to get married, do you think? He must be nearing forty.”

  “Yes, he is. And his parents keep hoping he’ll do the right thing and marry. I’m not so sure.”

  “They say he has a certain American woman, don’t they? Quite notorious. On her second husband, or is it her third?”

  “I’m not sure. But she certainly doesn’t have the makings of
a future queen.”

  “Fortunately for Britain she is still married to one of these husbands, so that rules out that impossible situation, doesn’t it? Have you met her?” she asked.

  “Yes. I’m not madly keen on her.”

  “Neither is anyone except the prince, so one hears. Sharp tongue and rapier wit. I’m going to America to visit old friends, how about you?”

  “I’m keeping my mother company,” I said. I saw Mummy give me a warning frown and left it at that. A wine waiter had uncorked a bottle of champagne and was pouring it into our glasses.

  “Ah, here are our other table companions now, I believe.” The captain had risen to his feet again. A stocky bear of a middle-aged man was coming toward us. He had a shock of gray hair and wore round wire-rimmed spectacles that gave him an owlish look. Beside him was an incredibly sultry and glamorous woman in silver lamé with a silver fox fur draped carelessly over one shoulder. I recognized her instantly, as did everyone else in the dining salon, I’m sure.

  The captain turned to Mummy. “Surely you have already met Mr. Cy Goldman, the impresario of Golden Pictures, and of course the film star Stella Brightwell?”

  The man opened his arms in an expansive gesture. “It’s Claire Daniels,” he said in a booming transatlantic voice. “At last, we meet. You don’t know how I’ve been longing for this moment.”

  Mummy went pink, looking pleased and flattered as by now the entire dining room was focused on her. “How do you do, Mr. Goldman.” She held out her hand. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

  “And of course you know Stella. Everyone knows Stella.”

  The glamorous raven-haired beauty displayed a row of perfect teeth as she sat opposite Mummy. “We meet again after so long, Claire,” she said. “I can see that the years have been as good to you as they have to me.”

  She spoke in a deep, husky voice, her English accent now tinged with years of living in America.

  Mummy stared at her, then she threw back her head and laughed. “It’s Gertie. My God. Little Gertie Oldham.”

  She turned to the rest of us. “We were in a pantomime together before the war. I was the principal boy, of course, and Gertie and her sister were the babes in the wood. It all comes back to me now. Gertie and Flossie, the Oldham Sisters. Absolutely adorable. They sang, they danced, they did acrobatics. So talented. You know, I thought I recognized you when I saw your latest film.”

  Stella Brightwell didn’t look too amused about being reminded of her days as Gertie Oldham. “Gertie and Flossie. Can you imagine how awful that sounds now?” Stella Brightwell gave a tinkling laugh. “Soon after you married your duke we dropped those names and became Stella and Bella Brightwell.” She paused to take a sip from the martini that the waiter had placed in front of her.

  “And what became of your sister?” Mummy asked.

  “Left show business,” Stella said. “She never quite had my looks and talent, did she? And I was smart enough to go to Hollywood to chance my luck in films. She didn’t want to leave England. I haven’t seen her for ages.” She reached across and put her hand over Mummy’s. “But it’s so lovely to meet you again, Claire. You know, Cy, she might be the answer to our prayers.”

  “You know, you may be right, honey.” They were both staring at Mummy.

  “Which prayers are these?” Mummy asked, looking half amused.

  “We’ll talk about it later,” Cy Goldman said. “I’m sure these other good people don’t want to be bothered with show business talk.”

  “Oh, but we find it fascinating,” Lady Porter said. “Such a different manner of living when one’s own life is confined to living in an English country town and organizing the Women’s Institute.”

  “You do a splendid job with your charity work, my dear,” Sir Digby said. “And you are quite the star in your amateur dramatics.” He turned to us. “She was outstanding in The Pirates of Penzance.”

  “Oh, Digby. We don’t want to talk about my little stage triumphs.” Lady Porter tittered, going very pink.

  “Were you one of the pirates?” Princess Promila asked.

  Mummy choked into her champagne and managed to disguise it with a cough.

  “And I don’t believe we’ve been properly introduced yet, Miss Brightwell,” Sir Digby went on in his fruity voice. “I’m Sir Digby Porter and this is my wife, Mildred.”

  “And let me introduce Princess Promila,” I added. “I’m Georgiana Rannoch, Claire Daniels’s daughter.”

  “Pleased to meet you, honey. And you too, Princess,” Cy Goldman said. “My, but we are a royal table, aren’t we? I’m feeling like the country bumpkin here.”

  “If there’s one thing you are not, it’s a country bumpkin, Cy,” Stella said with a laugh. “I’ll wager your palace is bigger than any of theirs.” She was looking around as she spoke. “I don’t see Juan,” she said.

  “Who’s Juan?” Mummy asked.

  “Juan de Castillo. A gorgeous young man we met in Spain,” Stella said. “Cy was on one of his plundering trips, you know.”

  “Plundering?” Lady Digby glanced at her husband.

  “Cy is creating his own castle on a hill above the Pacific Ocean,” Stella said. “He’s furnishing it entirely with antiques from Europe. He goes around raiding convents and monasteries and bringing back their treasures.”

  “I do not plunder,” Cy Goldman said in his booming voice. “I pay a fair price. They need money. I need their candlesticks and refectory tables. We both end up satisfied. You should see the stuff I’m having shipped back this time: lovely wood paneling I found at this convent near Seville. All carved oak. And stained glass windows dating back to the fifteenth century, wasn’t it?” He turned to Stella for confirmation.

  “Sixteenth, Cy. I told you before that the fifteen hundreds are the sixteenth century.”

  Cy laughed. “It’s all the same to me. Old is old. And if it’s old I want it in my castle.”

  Stella leaned toward us. “And he’s having an entire chapel dismantled and brought across stone by stone, window by window,” Stella said, looking at Cy Goldman as if he were an impossible but adorable child. “And his prize plundering this time is a pair of golden candlesticks absolutely encrusted with jewels.”

  “And the painting, Stella. Don’t forget the painting.”

  “Oh yes, the painting. A Madonna by El Greco. Found it in a monastery chapel. Cy isn’t letting those out of his sight.”

  “Out of reach, honey. They’re locked in the ship’s safe.”

  Stella turned away, her eyes scanning the dining room as mine had been. “Where is Juan? Spaniards are always so late. I take it he’s to fill that empty seat at our table?”

  “No, Miss Brightwell. I’m afraid the last place at table is to be taken by an American lady,” the captain said. “Ah, here she comes now.”

  I looked up to see none other than Mrs. Simpson making her way toward us across the dining room. The men rose to their feet as Mrs. Simpson approached the table, looking glamorous and perfectly groomed as always in a long black beaded dress and white mink around her shoulders.

  “I’m so sorry to keep you all waiting, Captain,” she said in that low voice with the slight Southern drawl. “You should have started without me.”

  “Oh, but we have,” Mummy said, raising the glass of champagne in Mrs. Simpson’s direction.

  “My, my. What a surprise. It’s the actress and her little daughter off on a transatlantic jaunt,” Mrs. Simpson said. “How lovely to see you again.”

  “Lovely to see you too, Mrs. Simpson,” Mummy said. “Are you traveling alone? No Mr. Simpson in tow this time?”

  “No Mr. Simpson,” she said. “I have a spot of business to attend to in Baltimore and unfortunately no friends were free to accompany me.”

  She made it quite clear that by “friends” she meant the Prince of Wales.r />
  “What a pity,” Mummy said. “Still, I’m sure you’ll soon make plenty of friends on the boat.”

  “Ship,” the captain corrected.

  The two women stared at each other with mutual loathing. They had taken an instant dislike to each other the first time they had met and absence had definitely not made their hearts grow fonder.

  “And how are you, Georgiana honey?” Mrs. Simpson turned to me. “Still not married? The family hasn’t managed to hook you up with a dashing European prince?”

  “I’m afraid not,” I said. “It seems that the family isn’t very good at hooking anyone up with a suitable spouse.”

  I saw the momentary flash of venom in those dark eyes, then she smiled. “My, my. The little one is growing up and developing claws.”

  “You must let me introduce the rest of our table companions,” the captain said hurriedly. And he introduced them in turn. I noticed Sir Digby and Lady Porter now looked decidedly pink and uneasy. I suspected that the rumor of Mrs. Simpson’s liaison with the Prince of Wales might have finally reached the outer suburbs, even though the newspapers had been banned from mentioning the topic so far, out of deference to the king and queen.

  Dinner was superb. After months of good food at Kingsdowne Place I was less impressed than I might have been when I was one step from starvation and living on baked beans, but I still worked my way merrily through every course. Mrs. Simpson was remarkably quiet for once. She answered questions politely, but that was all. Cy Goldman held the fort with tales of his estate above Malibu and the wild animals he had imported to roam around.

  “Isn’t that a little dangerous?” Lady Porter said. “I’ve heard that zebras can be as lethal as lions.”

  “We only send the difficult guests to feed them.” Cy gave a big, hearty laugh.

  Sir Digby tried to steer the conversation to his wife’s prowess in the amateur theater, making Mummy and Stella exchange grins.

  It turned out that Sir Digby and his wife were also crossing the Atlantic for the first time. “Sir Digby was asked to give a lecture at Harvard University and it seemed like too good a chance to turn down,” Lady Porter said. “I must say I was reluctant. We did a cruise on the Med once and I was not the very best sailor, was I, Digby.”