Royal Blood

by Rhys Bowen

  You’d have thought that someone who was second cousin to King George V would find a visit to Buckingham Palace to be old hat, but I have to admit that I was always overawed as I walked up those grand staircases and along the hallways lined with statues and mirrors. In truth I felt like a child who has stumbled into a fairy tale by mistake. I had been brought up in a castle myself, but Castle Rannoch could not have been more different. It was dour stone, spare and cold, its walls hung with shields and banners from past battles. This was royalty at its grandest, designed to impress foreigners and those of lesser rank.

  I was taken up the grand staircase this time, not whisked along back corridors. We came out in the area between the music and throne rooms where receptions are held. I wondered if this was to be a formal occasion until the footman kept going all the way to the end of the hall. He opened a closed door for me, leading to the family’s private apartments. I found I was holding my breath until I couldn’t hold it any longer when finally a door was opened and I was shown into a pleasant, ordinary sitting room. This lacked the grandeur of the state rooms and was where the royal couple relaxed on the rare occasions they weren’t working. At least it probably meant that I wasn’t going to have to face strangers at luncheon, which was a relief.

  “Lady Georgiana, ma’am,” the footman said, then he bowed and backed out of the royal presence. I hadn’t noticed the queen at first because she was standing at the window, gazing out at the gardens. She turned to me and extended a hand.

  “Georgiana, my dear. How good of you to come at such short notice.”

  As if one refused a queen. They no longer chopped off heads but one obeyed nonetheless.

  “It’s very good to see you, ma’am,” I said, crossing the room to take her hand, curtsy and kiss her cheek—a maneuver that required exquisite timing, which I hadn’t yet mastered and always resulted in a bumped nose.

  She looked back at the window. “The gardens look so bleak at this time of year, don’t they? And what horrible weather we’ve been having. First fog and now rain. The king has been in a bad humor about being cooped up for so long. His doctor forbade him to go out during the fog, you know. With his delicate lungs he couldn’t be exposed to the soot in the air.”

  “I quite agree, ma’am. I went out in the fog earlier this week and it was beastly. Nothing like the mist in the country. It was like breathing liquid soot.”

  She nodded and, still holding my hand, she led me across the room to a sofa. “Your brother—he has recovered from his accident?”

  “Almost, ma’am. At least he’s up and walking again but he has come to London to see a specialist.”

  “A disgusting thing to have happened,” she said. “And the same person apparently shot at my granddaughter. It was your quick wits that saved her.”

  “And the princess’s own cool head,” I said. “She’s a splendid little rider, isn’t she?”

  The queen beamed. Nothing pleased her more than talking about her granddaughters.

  “I expect you wonder why I asked you to come to luncheon today, Georgiana,” the queen said. I held my breath again. Doom will strike any moment, I thought. But she seemed jovial enough. “How about a glass of sherry?”

  Usually I find sherry delightful, but the mere thought of alcohol made my stomach lurch. “Not for me, thank you, ma’am.”

  “Very wise in the middle of the day,” the queen said. “I like to keep a clear head myself.” Oh, Lord, if she knew how unclear my head felt at the moment.

  “Why don’t we go through and eat, then,” she said. “It’s so much easier to discuss things over food, don’t you agree?”

  Personally I thought it was absolutely the opposite. I have never found it easy to make conversation and eat at the same time. I always seem to have a mouthful at the wrong moment or drop my fork when under stress. The queen rang a little bell and a maid appeared from nowhere.

  “Lady Georgiana and I are ready for our luncheon,” the queen said. “Come along, my dear. We need good nourishing food in weather like this.”

  We went next door to a family dining room. No hundred-foot-long tables here, but a small table, set for two. I took my place as indicated, and the first course was brought in. It was my nemesis—half a grapefruit in a tall cut glass. I always seem to get the half in which the segments are imperfectly cut. I looked at it with horror, took a deep breath and picked up my spoon.

  “Ah, grapefruit,” the queen said, smiling at me. “So refreshing during the winter months, don’t you think?” And she spooned out a perfectly cut segment. Hope arose that this time the kitchen staff had done their job. I dug into the grapefruit. It slipped sideways in the glass, almost shooting out onto the tablecloth. I retrieved it at the last moment and had to use a surreptitious finger to balance it as I dug again. The first piece came free without too much effort. No such luck with the second. I held on to that grapefruit, dug and tugged. This time two segments were joined together. I attempted to separate them and juice squirted straight up into my eye. It stung and I waited until the queen was busy before dabbing at my eye with my napkin. At least I hadn’t squirted grapefruit juice at HM.

  It was with incredible relief that I finished the grapefruit and the shell was whisked away. A thick brown soup followed, then the main course. It was steak and kidney pie, usually one of my favorites. With it was cauliflower in a white sauce and tiny roast potatoes. I could feel my mouth watering. Two good meals in two days. But the first mouthful revealed that this course was not going to be easy, either. I’ve always had a problem with chewing and swallowing large chunks of meat. It simply won’t go down.

  “Georgiana, I have a special favor to ask of you,” the queen said, looking up from her own plate. “The king wanted this to be done formally, but I managed to persuade him that a private chat would be more appropriate. I did not want to put you in a spot, should you wish to say no.”

  Of course my mind was now racing. They’d found another prince for me. Or even worse, Siegfried had officially asked for my hand, one royal family to another, and turning him down would create an international incident. I sat frozen, my fork poised halfway between my plate and my mouth.

  “There is to be a royal wedding later this month. You have no doubt got wind of it,” the queen continued.

  “No.” It came out as a squeak.

  “Princess Maria Theresa of Romania is to marry Prince Nicholas of Bulgaria. He is the heir to the throne, as I expect you know.”

  I gave a half nod as if the royal families of Europe always discussed their wedding plans with me. Thank God it was someone else’s wedding we were talking about. I brought my fork to my mouth and started chewing.

  “Naturally our family should be represented,” the queen went on. “We are, after all, related to both sides. He is from the same Saxe-Coburg-Gotha line as your great-grandmother Queen Victoria, and she, of course, is one of the Hohenzollern-Sigmaringens. If it were in the summer, we should have been delighted to attend; however, there is no question of the king himself traveling abroad at this bitter time of year.”

  I nodded, having found a particularly chewy piece of meat in my mouth.

  “So His Majesty and I have decided to ask you to represent us.”

  “Me?” I managed to squeak, my mouth still full of that large chunk of meat. I was now in a tricky situation in more ways than one. There was no way I could swallow it. There was no way I could spit it out. I tried a sip of water to wash it down but it wouldn’t go. So I had to resort to the old school trick—a pretended cough, napkin to my mouth and the meat expelled into the napkin.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, collecting myself. “You want me to represent the family at a royal wedding? But I’m only a cousin’s child. Won’t the royal families in question see this as a slight that you only send someone like me? Surely one of your sons would be more appropriate, or your daughter, the Princess Royal.”

  “In other circumstances I would have agreed with you but it so happens that the Prince
ss Maria Theresa has particularly requested that you be one of her bridal attendants.”

  I just stopped myself from squeaking “Me?” for a second time.

  “I gather you two were such good chums at school.”

  At school? My brain was racing again. I once knew a Princess Maria Theresa at school? I was friendly with her? I went through a quick list of my friends. No princesses appeared on it.

  But I could hardly call a foreign princess, apparently related to us, a liar. I smiled wanly. Then suddenly an image swam into focus—a large, chubby girl with a round moon face trailing after Belinda and me and Belinda saying, “Matty, stop following us around, do. Georgie and I want to be alone for once.” Matty—it had to be she. I had never realized that it was short for Maria Theresa. Nor that she was a princess. She had been a rather pathetic, annoying little thing (well, not so little, but a year behind us).

  “Ah, yes,” I said, smiling now. “Dear Matty. How kind of her to invite me. This is indeed an honor, ma’am.”

  I was now feeling decidedly pleased with myself. I had been asked to attend a royal wedding—to be in a royal bridal party. Certainly a lot better than freezing and starving at Rannoch House. Then the ramifications hit me. The cost of the ticket. The clothing I would need . . . the queen never seemed to take money into consideration.

  “I suppose I’ll have to have a frock made for the wedding before I leave?” I asked.

  “I believe not,” the queen said. “The suggestion was that you travel to Romania ahead of time so that the dresses can all be fitted by the princess’s personal dressmaker. I gather she has excellent taste and is bringing in a couturiere from Paris.”

  Had I got it wrong? Matty, who always looked like a sack of potatoes in her uniform, was bringing in a couturiere from Paris?

  “I will have my secretary make all the travel arrangements for you and your maid,” the queen continued. “You’ll be traveling on official royal passports so there will be no unnecessary formalities. And I will also arrange for a chaperon. It would not do to have you making such a long journey alone.”

  Now I was digesting one word from that sentence. Maid. You and your maid, she had said. Ah, now that was going to be a slight problem. The queen had no idea that anyone of my status survived without a maid. I opened my mouth to say this, then found myself saying instead, “I’m afraid there might be a problem about finding a maid willing to travel with me. My Scottish maid won’t even come to London.”

  The queen nodded. “Yes, I appreciate that could be a problem. English and Scottish girls are so insular, aren’t they? Don’t give her a choice, Georgiana. Never give servants a choice. It goes to their heads. If your current maid wishes to retain her position with you, she should be willing to follow you to the ends of the earth. I know that my maid would.” She dug into the cauliflower. “Be firm. You’ll need to learn how to deal with servants before you run a great household, you know. Give them an inch and they’ll walk all over you. Now, come along. Eat up before it gets cold.”

  Chapter 6

  Mainly at Belinda Warburton-Stoke’s mews cottage

  Thursday, November 10

  The car was waiting in the courtyard to take me back me to Rannoch House. It would have been a triumphant return but for one small fact. In one week I had to come up with a maid who wouldn’t mind a trip to Romania without being paid. I didn’t think there would be many young women in London who would be lining up for that job.

  Fig appeared in the front hall as I let myself in.

  “You’ve been gone a long while,” she said. “I hope Her Majesty gave you a good meal?”

  “Yes, thank you.” I chose not to mention the near disaster with the grapefruit and the steak. And the fact that blancmange had been served for pudding and another of my strange phobias is about swallowing blancmange, and jelly—in fact, anything squishy.

  “A formal occasion, was it? Lots of people there?” she asked, trying to sound casual while dying of curiosity.

  “No, just the queen and I in her private dining room.” Oh, I did enjoy saying that. I knew that Fig had never been invited to the private dining room and never had a tête-à-tête with the queen.

  “Good gracious,” she said. “What did she want?”

  “Does a relative need something to invite one to a meal?” I asked. Then I added, “If you really must know, she wants me to represent the royal family at the wedding of Princess Maria Theresa in Romania.”

  Fig turned an interesting shade of puce. “You? She wants you to represent the royal family? At a royal wedding? What is she thinking of?”

  “Why, don’t you think I’ll know how to behave? Do you think I’ll drop my aitches or slurp my soup?”

  “But you’re not even part of the direct line,” she blurted out.

  “Actually I am. Albeit thirty-fourth,” I said.

  “And Binky is thirty-second and at least he’s a duke.”

  “Ah, but Binky wouldn’t look quite right in a bridesmaid’s dress, holding a bouquet,” I said. “You see, the princess particularly asked for me to be one of her bridal attendants.”

  Fig’s eyes opened even wider. “You? Why on earth did she ask for you?”

  “Because we were great friends at school,” I said, not bat-ting an eyelid as I said it. “You see, that horribly expensive education that you gripe about did have its advantages after all.”

  “Binky!” Fig shouted in a way no lady should. “Binky, Georgiana has been asked to represent the family at a royal wedding, in Romania.”

  Binky appeared from the library, still wearing his overcoat and muffler. “What’s this?”

  “She’s been asked to represent the royal family, at a wedding,” Fig repeated. “Did you ever hear of such a thing?”

  “I expect they didn’t want to send any of the direct heirs for fear of assassination,” Binky said easily. “They’re always assassinating each other in that part of the world.”

  It was clear that Fig liked this answer. I was being sent because I was expendable, not because I was worthy. It did put a different complexion on things. “And when is this wedding?” she asked.

  “I’m to leave next week.”

  “Next week. That doesn’t give you much time, does it? What about clothes? Are you expected to have some kind of dress made to be part of this bridal procession?”

  “No. Luckily the princess is having us all dressed by her couturiere, from Paris. That’s why I have to go early.”

  “What about your tiara? It’s still in the vault in Scotland. Will we have to have it sent down to you?”

  “I’m not sure whether tiaras will be worn. I’ll have to ask the queen’s secretary.”

  “And what about travel? Who is paying for all this?”

  “The queen’s secretary is taking care of everything. All I have to come up with is a maid.”

  Fig looked from me to Binky and back again. “How are you going to do that?”

  “At this moment I have no idea. I don’t suppose any of the servants at Castle Rannoch would like a jaunt to Romania?”

  Fig laughed. “My dear girl, it’s hard enough to persuade the servants at Castle Rannoch to come down to London, which they perceive as a dangerous and sinful place. If you remember, your maid Maggie wouldn’t do so. Her mother wouldn’t allow it.”

  I shrugged. “Then I’ll just have to see if I can borrow a lady’s maid from someone in London. Failing that, I’ll have to hire one from an agency.”

  “How can you hire one? You have no money,” she said.

  “Precisely. But I have to come up with a maid somehow, don’t I? I may have to sell some of the family jewels. Perhaps you can send down a diamond or two with the tiara.” I was just joking but Fig shot me a daggers look.

  “Don’t be ridiculous. The family jewels have to stay in the family. You know that.”

  “Then what do you suggest?” I demanded. “I can’t refuse to go. It would be an ultimate insult to Princess Maria Theresa and Her M
ajesty.”

  Fig looked at Binky again. “I can’t think of anyone we know who might be willing to lend her a maid for such an exotic adventure, can you, Binky?”

  “Don’t know much about maids, old bean. Sorry,” he said. “You women better sort it out. Georgie has to go, that’s clear, so if necessary we’ll have to come up with the money.”

  “You want us to come up with the money?” Fig demanded, her voice rising. “How are we going to do that? Sell the family jewels, as Georgiana suggests? Deny little Podge a tutor? It’s too much, Binky. She’s over twenty-one, isn’t she? She’s not our responsibility anymore.”

  Binky went over and put a hand on her shoulder. “Don’t upset yourself, my dear. You know the doctor said you should try to remain calm and think peaceful thoughts.”

  “How can I think peaceful thoughts when we won’t even have the money to pay doctors’ bills or for the clinic?” Her voice was rising dangerously.

  And without warning she did something I had never seen Fig, nor anyone in my immediate circle, do before. She burst into tears and rushed upstairs. Ladies are brought up never to show emotion, even in the direst of circumstances.

  I stared after her openmouthed. I realized that a doctor’s visit for Fig had been mentioned, but it hadn’t occurred to me until now that it might be a psychiatrist. Was her permanent bad temper due to something darker, like insanity in the family? How delicious. Too good to miss.

  “She’s a little upset today,” Binky said in embarrassment. “Not at her best.”

  “Fig went to a doctor for her nerves?” I asked.

  “Not exactly,” he said.

  He looked up the stairs after her, weighed up if the wrath of God might fall, then leaned confidentially close. “If you want to know, Georgie, Fig is expecting again. A second little Rannoch. Isn’t that good news?”

  It was amazing news. That they had done it successfully once, to produce an heir, was mind-boggling enough. That they had done it a second time took some getting used to. I tried to picture anybody actually making love to Fig from choice. But then I suppose it is cold in bed in Scotland. That had to be the explanation.