by Rhys Bowen
“Certainly not. Mr. O’Mara had a family emergency and had to return home to Ireland unexpectedly.”
“Oh, does that mean we might be going to Ireland? I’d rather do that than go back to your right cow of a sister-in-law.”
I was about to tell her, for the hundredth time, that it was not her place to criticize her betters, but it never seemed to sink in. “We will not be going to Ireland. Mr. O’Mara does not want me there at the present.”
Then I walked away, afraid that she might spot the despair on my face.
Chapter 5
FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 30
Back in London and my last night at Kensington Palace.
Feeling really unsettled. I have no idea what tomorrow might bring.
It was becoming decidedly foggy by the time I turned the motorcar into Eaton Square and found number sixteen. The spiky silhouettes of trees in the middle of the square loomed eerie and indistinct in the mist and the air smelled smoky, making it hard to breathe. This might turn into a real pea-souper by the middle of the night. I was glad it wasn’t far from Kensington Palace. I managed to park the motor without scraping anything and went under the portico to the front door. It was opened by a maid. I would dearly have liked to just hand her the keys and ask her to tell her mistress that I had returned the motorcar, but I realized she’d probably want an explanation of why the motor had been returned so quickly. So I told her who I was. She admitted me, took my coat, hat and gloves, then showed me through into a delightful sitting room. Before I could take in more than the roaring fire in the grate with a polar bear skin rug on the floor in front of it a woman rose up from the Queen Anne chair by the fire where she had been sitting.
Darcy’s description of “a funny old thing” had made me expect someone quite different from the person standing before me. I couldn’t say how old she was—maybe forty, or a little older, but she was dressed in black silk pajamas and in her hand was the longest ebony cigarette holder I had ever seen, in which a black Russian cigarette was burning. Dark hair cascaded over her shoulders in luxurious waves. Her face was exquisitely made up with pouting red lips and she batted impossibly long black eyelashes at me a couple of times. The word “sultry” formed itself in my brain as she held out a long slender hand to me.
“Come. Let me look at you.”
I approached cautiously.
She was examining me critically and I was horribly conscious of my creased suit and hair that had been squashed under a hat. “So you are the one,” she said at last. “Interesting. I wouldn’t have said you were at all his type. But where is the dear boy, and what are you doing back here? I thought Darcy said you would be away for some days.” Her voice was deep and throaty, her English with just enough hint of precision and perfection to show she wasn’t a native speaker.
“I’m afraid Darcy had a family emergency and had to return unexpectedly to Ireland,” I said. “He asked me to bring the motorcar back to you with his thanks.”
“Nothing too serious, I hope?” she said.
“I hope so too.”
She took my hand in hers. “But you are freezing. Sit down. Here by the fire. Will you take sherry or brandy?”
“I shouldn’t disturb you any longer, Your Highness,” I said.
She laughed. She had a deep, throaty laugh that matched her voice. “You must call me Alexandra, or Zou Zou. All my friends do. Now sit. I insist.”
I did as I was told while she crossed the room to where a silver drinks tray stood on a low Chinese cabinet. Then she poured me a generous glass of sherry. As she poured I had time to look at my surroundings. The furniture was an interesting and eclectic mix of antique, exotic and modern. On the walls were paintings that even I, not extremely well versed in art, recognized. Surely that was a Monet? And a Chagall? And a Turner over the fireplace? And a virgin by some Italian master? Darcy was right when he said she was not exactly penniless.
“It was very good of you to lend Darcy your motorcar,” I said.
She laughed again. “I did still have the Rolls to get around in, and my little Lagonda sports car. And I was delighted to help out. I am very fond of him, you know. I would do anything for him.”
The way she said those words shot a dagger of warning through my heart. I tried not to think what Darcy’s relationship had been with her, or still was. Was this one of the friends’ couches he claimed he slept on when he was in London? If so, then I didn’t think that he actually slept on the couch. The princess handed me my sherry.
“Drink up,” she said. “Get that down you and you’ll feel better. I always do. I find sherry so much more comforting than gin when I need bucking up. And you clearly need bucking up at the moment.” She resumed her position in the chair across the fire from me. “So tell me, what’s wrong?” she asked. “Tell Auntie Zou Zou everything. Maybe I can help.”
“I don’t think so,” I said. “I don’t think there is anything any of us can do.” But I found myself telling her what I knew. She was a good listener. She nodded when I had finished. “My goodness. I had no idea. I never read newspapers apart from the social column. Too depressing for words. Poor boy. I understood that his father was a difficult man and their relationship was fractious, but this—this is terrible. So why did you not go with him? Does he not need the support of a loving woman at this difficult hour?”
“He didn’t want me there,” I said, and I heard the tremble in my voice. “He said this wasn’t the time to introduce me to his father.”
“I suppose not. A proud man does not like to be seen in such circumstances. So where are you staying in London?”
“I’ve been at Kensington Palace, helping Princess Marina before her wedding.”
“Oh, of course. The famous wedding. I wasn’t invited, of course.” She paused and a frown crossed that perfect face, then she grinned. “Probably because I knew the groom a little too well.” And she laughed again. “So will you stay at the palace and join the Aunt Heap?”
“Oh no. The apartment is being closed up and I’ll go back to my brother at Rannoch House.”
“Oh, of course. You’re Binky’s sister. How thick of me. One hasn’t seen anything of him since he married that dreadful woman. Is she really as poisonous as one hears?”
“She really is,” I said and we shared a smile.
“Then I don’t envy you.” She waved her cigarette holder in my direction. “You must stay for dinner tonight. I have a fun crowd coming. People you might know.”
“Oh, I couldn’t possibly,” I began but she waved the cigarette holder again.
“I absolutely insist. You look tired and worried and I’m sure the food at Kensington Palace won’t be up to snuff. Royal food is always so stodgy and boring, I have found. Their chefs have no imagination. Mine, on the other hand, was lured from Paris.”
“I’m not dressed for dinner,” I said.
“One can see that. But we’re about the same size, aren’t we? Clotilde can find something of mine for you, I am sure.”
“I couldn’t possibly—” I began again, as I entertained visions of my spilling something down a Parisian silk gown.
“Now you are being difficult,” she said. “Darcy will tell you that I like to get my own way. As does he, does he not? Such a forceful young man.” And she gave me a self-satisfied smile. Then she glanced at her wristwatch and said, “I tell you what. My guests will not arrive for an hour. I’ll have my chauffeur run you back to the palace, you go and change into something more suitable and he’ll bring you back in time for dinner. Surely you can’t say no to that?”
“Thank you. I accept most gratefully.”
“Good,” she said. “I shall question you mercilessly, you know. I want to find out every detail about you and Darcy. How you met. How long you’ve known each other. Your plans for the future. I find it all so fascinating that he wants to settle down and give up such a pleasant and fancy-free lif
estyle. Will you retire to the country and grow potatoes, do you think?”
“I have no idea what he has in mind,” I said, “but I can’t imagine Darcy settling down anywhere, can you?”
“Oh yes. I think I can see him as lord of the manor with ten children around him, being blissfully happy, much to the chagrin of all the young women in London.”
She rang the bell then. I was driven back to the palace in the same Armstrong Siddeley by an extremely good-looking German chauffeur whom the princess addressed as Fritzi. As we drove at a snail’s pace through the fog I kept wanting to tell Fritzi that I had changed my mind and would not be returning to dinner after all. The thought of facing a dinner party with the princess and her smart friends was overwhelming at this moment. They would all be dressed in the height of fashion. I’d feel like a fish out of water, terrified that I’d knock over a glass or spill the soup. And I would feel the princess’s eyes on me with that quizzical stare, wondering whatever Darcy could see in me. And what if he telephoned the palace while I was away, expecting to find me there? Would the servants hear the telephone in the front hall? Would they take a message properly?
A pathetic attempt at a fire had begun in my bedroom but it still felt icy after the intoxicating warmth of the princess’s sitting room. Queenie had my trunk open and items of clothing strewn over the bed.
“I can’t find your slippers,” she said, looking up at me. “I know I put them in here somewhere.”
“Never mind the slippers now,” I said. “I’m going out to dinner. I need my smartest evening gown, my black pumps and my jewel case.”
She sighed. “You would, wouldn’t you, right after I stuffed them shoes with newspaper and all, right at the bottom.” She flung out items of clothing with gay abandon.
“I think the burgundy velvet is the best we can do,” I said. “And the rubies to go with it.”
“Bob’s yer uncle,” she said. “Here you are.” And a dark red missile was hurled in my direction. I took it and stared at it in horror. It was obvious it had been crammed into a trunk any which way and was now awfully creased.
“It will need ironing, Queenie,” I said. “But remember it’s velvet. You iron it on the wrong side, with a cool iron or you will melt it.”
“I know,” she said, huffily. “I’ll have to see if there’s still an ironing board in the place.”
I was going to ask her to run a bath but Queenie didn’t handle multiple commands well. Instead I went down the hall and turned on the taps myself.
Feeling quite revived after my bath I waited for her to return, half in dread about what she might have done to my dress. She had certainly ruined enough items of clothing. But miraculously she returned with the dress looking quite respectable, then helped me into it. It wasn’t exactly fashionable but it was presentable. I nodded as I looked at myself.
“And the evening shoes, Queenie?”
I sat down at the dressing table and held out my feet.
“Here’s the right one,” she said and put it on.
“And the left?” I asked as a sinking feeling formed in my stomach.
“I can’t seem to find the left one,” she said. “I’m pretty sure I put both of them in the trunk, but it ain’t here now.”
“Queenie, I can’t go to dinner with one shoe on,” I said.
“You’ve got other shoes,” she said.
“Daytime shoes, not evening pumps. I can’t go to a dinner in brogues!”
“It’s a long dress. Bend yer knees a bit and no one will see.”
If I hadn’t been so angry it would have been funny. “I took them both off in this room, Queenie. Keep looking until you find it. Go on.”
“I already looked once,” she said.
“Try under the bed,” I suggested.
She sighed and got down on her hands and knees. “Only a chamber pot under there,” she said.
“Try the wardrobe.”
“I already looked there,” she said, opening the door defiantly. She disappeared inside, leaving only a large rear end facing me. Then she said, “Well, blow me down. Here it is, in the back corner.” She produced my pump. “My old dad said I’d forget my head if it wasn’t on my shoulders.” She laughed and slipped the shoe onto my other foot.
“You can thank your lucky stars that I had to go out to dinner tonight,” I said. “Otherwise we’d have been miles away and never found it. And I’d have to buy a new pair of shoes out of your wages.”
She chuckled at this. “Go on. You don’t pay me enough to buy a pair of good shoes.”
This, of course, was true and the only reason that I kept her on. I had no money. She took almost no wages while supposedly I was training her. The training had been going on for two years now and she was no nearer to being employable. She would probably never be employable, which meant I was stuck with her. I sighed.
“My jewel case and my fox fur stole, if you don’t mind. I don’t want to keep the princess waiting.”
“Dining with a princess, are we?” she said, as she fastened the rubies around my neck. “Coming up in the world since you took on this job at the palace.”
“Actually she is a friend of Mr. Darcy’s,” I said and wished I hadn’t uttered the words out loud. The phrase “we are just good friends” flashed through my mind. I wrapped the stole around me.
“I don’t know when I’ll be back, Queenie,” I said. “You don’t have to wait up. Just make sure my nightclothes are laid out. You know—nightclothes, not my bathing suit and my ski jumper.”
“I know. I ain’t completely daft,” she said. “And I’ll tell them in the kitchen that you ain’t taking your dinner here, okay?”
“Yes, please do.” I started down the hallway.
“One more thing,” she called after me. “Can I have your helping of stew, then?”
I sighed again as I walked down the stairs.
Chapter 6
FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 30
Chez Princess Zamanska. Dreading this! Why did I agree to it? Because she is not the sort of person one says no to, I suppose.
I heard the sound of laughter as the maid admitted me to 16 Eaton Square.
“The company is in the sitting room,” she said unnecessarily. Then she opened the door and said, in dramatic fashion, “Lady Georgiana Rannoch, Your Highness.”
Heads turned in my direction. Princess Zamanska had been standing with her back to me, wearing a black backless evening gown. Her hair was now piled in curls on her head, held in place with a black ostrich feather. There were diamonds at her throat. The cigarette holder was still in her hand.
“Dear little Georgiana,” she said, coming to me. “How charming you look. Come and meet everybody.”
She led me into the group of people standing with glasses in their hands, around the fire. “I don’t know if you’ve met Georgiana Rannoch,” she said. “Bertie Rannoch’s daughter, you know.”
“Poor old Bertie. Such a shame,” someone muttered. For a second I misinterpreted this as such a shame he’d had a daughter like me, but then the person added, “Dying so young like that.”
“My sentiments exactly,” Princess Zamanska said. “The Riviera feels positively dull and lifeless without him, doesn’t it? But you’ll never guess what—this sweet young thing has now captured the heart of our dear Darcy.”
They were all looking at me, and I could feel them sizing up my old-fashioned and well-worn dress. Some stares were amused, some intrigued.
The princess took my arm. “Let me introduce you. My countrymen the Count and Countess Rostoff,” she said. “And perhaps you know Dicky Altringham? And Bubbles Cantrell-Smythe?” I did, but only by name and by pictures in the Tatler, not by moving in such fashionable circles. Then there was a Sir James and Lady Something-or-other—“He’s big in banking, you know. A good man to know if you want a loan.” Much laughter
at this. She moved on to a dashing Frenchman whom she introduced as Le Marquis de Chambourie. Another person I had heard of but never met. He was already eyeing me with interest. “Enchanté,” he said and kissed my hand, his lips lingering a little too long on my skin.
“Behave yourself, Jean-Claude,” she said. “You are not allowed to devour her before dinner.” She turned to me. “And we are still waiting for our most distinguished guests. She always likes to be fashionably late.”
The doorbell sounded.
“Ah, here they are now,” she said.
We stood, listening expectantly as there was a low murmur of voices in the hallway. Then the maid appeared, looking a little flustered. “The Prince of Wales and Mrs. Ernest Simpson.”
Oh crikey. I stared in dismay as my cousin David and his poisonous lady friend came into the room. He looked dashing in white tie. She, I was amused to see, was wearing a black beaded evening gown quite similar to that of the Princess Zamanska. The princess must have noticed this too as I saw a flash of amusement cross her face.
“How good of you to come, sir,” she said, going over to meet them.
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world, would we, Wallis?” the prince said.
“And Mrs. Simpson. How lovely to see you again. It’s been ages. Not since Bender’s yacht that time.”
“How are you, my dear?” Mrs. Simpson said. “Such a lovely dress. Paris, I think.”
“What, this old thing?” the princess said and gave a deep chuckle. “I’d almost forgotten I had it but Clotilde fished it out from the back of one of the wardrobes and reminded me I hadn’t worn it for ages.”
I glanced at her with admiration. In one sentence she had managed to put Mrs. Simpson in her place without seeming to do so. By running down her own dress she had also insulted Mrs. Simpson’s. I decided I might like her after all. One could not tell from Mrs. Simpson’s perfect face whether she minded or not.
The company was presented, one by one, to the prince and his lady companion. I noted there was no longer a Mr. Ernest Simpson in tow. Rumors were that she was trying to initiate divorce proceedings. About time too. I don’t know how the poor man agreed to play gooseberry for so long. But what Mrs. Simpson thought would happen next I could not imagine. Of course the prince could never marry her. She was a twice-divorced woman. He would be head of the Church of England one day and the church did not sanction divorce.
