by Rhys Bowen
“Where to now, do you think?” she asked as another taxicab screeched to a halt beside us. “Not Barker’s. Too depressing. Selfridge’s? Too common. Liberty’s? Too country. Fenwick’s? Now, there’s a thought. She tapped on the glass. “Bond Street, driver. One should find something there.”
And so we set off again. “Have I time to get my hair set, do you think?” she asked. “That adorable young man around the corner from the Burlington Arcade will fit me in, I know. You can wander for a while, darling, can’t you, while I have a teeny little shampoo and set?”
Privately, I thought that one of the more depressing things in the world was to wander along Bond Street with no means of buying anything in the shops, but it was only a rhetorical question and a fine enough day for walking. We dashed through Fenwick’s, acquiring a Fair Isle skiing jumper, just in case she went skiing, a bathing wrap in case she decided to bathe and a pair of good, sensible, tweed trousers for tramping around the Alps. To this she added a variety of undergarments.
“Of course only the French know anything about underwear,” she said in her clear, theatrical voice, which carried to the gods. “The English don’t seem to think undies should have anything to do with seduction or sex. What red-blooded man would possibly want to tear off these voluminous English knickers?” And she brandished a particularly large pair. Several ladies up from the country turned around in horror. One fanned herself with her gloves. “But there are times when one would rather be warm, and there’s nothing like good English wool for that.”
Then we were outside and Mummy rushed off to the hairdresser, who left some poor client, half rolled in curlers, to his assistant while he ushered my mother to the best chair. I came out again, wondering what to do for the next hour. I knew I could have asked Mummy for money but I was like my grandfather in such matters. The money came from Max and I was too proud to ask for it.
So I wandered down Bond Street , half looking in shop windows, imagining what it would be like to go in and say, “I’d like to look at that emerald necklace,” when I was grabbed from behind.
Chapter 2
ON BOND STREET
Before I could cry out or do anything sensible, I was spun around and a voice gasped in my ear, “Darling, it is you! How absolutely divine.”
And there was my best friend, Belinda Warburton-Stoke, looking even more lovely and glamorous than the last time I had seen her. She was wearing a black, tailored, two-piece suit with scarlet-leather trim and a little scarlet hat with a provocative veil. Her dark hair was cut in a chic bob and her mouth was a gash of bright-red lipstick. The whole thing screamed Paris.
“And shopping in Bond Street, no less,” she said. “Things must be on the up and up for you.”
“I wish they were.” I kissed the cheek she had extended to me. “But it’s lovely to see you too, Belinda. I’ve missed you. Where have you been? I called at your mews cottage a couple of times but it was all shut up and deserted.”
“Paris, darling. Where else?”
“Another French marquis?” She had been smitten by a dashing marquis when we had been in France together the previous year.
“Not at all. I’ve been working for Chanel, if you’d really like to know. Remember, she did say that my designs showed promise, so I thought I’d go and learn at the feet of the master—or in Coco’s case, the mistress.” And she grinned at her double meaning.
“So are you home just for a visit?”
A slight spasm of annoyance passed over her face. “I’m afraid we’ve parted ways, Chanel and I. A certain Frenchman started to show interest in me, the way they do.” (They did, for Belinda.) “He was rather attractive so I didn’t exactly repulse his advances. How was I to know he was one of Coco’s lovers? It turns out she doesn’t like to share. So I was given the boot. Here I am, back in London and dying to start my own clothing line.”
“How exciting,” I said.
She looked around. “Do you absolutely have to shop or can we go for a coffee? I’d love to chat but these high heels are killing me.”
“It will have to be somewhere nearby. I’m with my mother, and she’s getting her hair done around the corner.”
“Ah, so that’s why you’re in Bond Street then. Come on. There’s a little place on Albemarle Street that manages a non-poisonous coffee.” She started off, tottering slightly in enormously high wedges on the uneven pavement. We found the little café and sat, beaming at each other as the waitress brought two demitasses of thick, rich coffee.
“Your own line, Belinda! That sounds thrilling. You wouldn’t like an efficient, private secretary, would you?”
“Do you know of one?”
“Me. I’ve been Mummy’s secretary for the past month. I can actually work a typewriter.”
“I’m impressed. And I’d hire you in a minute, but frankly, my dear, I can’t start my business without capital. I’m almost as broke as you are. My stepmother—you remember, the wicked witch—persuaded my father that I no longer need an allowance. How hateful is that. She said it was my fault I wasn’t married, and that I should be standing on my own feet at twenty-four.”
“So we’re in the same boat,” I said. “I was supposed to be helping Mummy write her memoirs.”
Belinda almost choked on her coffee. “She’d never tell all, surely. My dear, think of the scandals.”
“I know. That’s what she decided. Also, Max has bought her a villa in Lugano and she’s off to join him, abandoning the project and her only daughter.”
“I’d probably abandon my only daughter for a villa in Lugano at this time of year,” Belinda said as a great gust of March wind sent newspapers flying outside the window. “So what about you? Where will you go—back to Rannoch House?” (Rannoch House was the family’s London house on Belgrave Square.)
I shook my head. “It’s all shut up. Binky and Fig decided not to come down to London this winter. Too expensive to move all the staff. They are staying put up at Castle Rannoch.”
Binky, my brother, was the current Duke of Glengarry and Rannoch. The dreaded Fig was his wife and current duchess. In spite of owning a castle and a London home they were almost as broke as I was, thanks to our father squandering the fortune, and then subsequent death duties on the property.
“You lived in the London house alone before,” Belinda reminded me.
“But I’m not allowed to anymore. Fig begrudges the miniscule amount of heat and light I’d use. I can stay on at the house Mummy rented until the end of this month, but I’ve no idea what I’ll do then. I simply can’t go home to Scotland. It’s so dreary there, and Fig makes me feel so unwelcome.”
“It is your family seat. She’s only a Rannoch by marriage. And not connected to the royals the way you are. You should put your foot down, Georgie.”
I vigorously stirred the thick, black liquid in my cup. “Unfortunately, it is her house now and not mine. My brother is the duke and she is the duchess, and I’m only a poor relation.”
“Goodness, you sound depressed,” she said. “I never am. I’m always sure something good will turn up, and it usually does.”
“You have skills and talents,” I said. “I don’t.”
“What about the typewriting?”
“I don’t think I’m good enough to be anybody’s real secretary yet. And anyway, I’ve nowhere to stay.”
“I’d invite you to share my little mews place but there’s only one bedroom, and it would rather cramp my style—in case I decided to bring someone home occasionally.” She didn’t add that the someone in question would undoubtedly be of the male sex.
“I understand,” I said.
“Of course, you have one trump card I don’t have,” Belinda said. “You can always ask your royal relatives to help you.” I should probably mention that Queen Victoria was my great-grandmother and thus King George was my first cousin, once removed.
/> “Belinda, I can’t ask them—” I began but she cut me off.
“You’ve helped them out enough times. What about that princess, or that snuffbox? They owe you a favor, Georgie.”
“You’re right,” I said. “But in their eyes I have two choices open to me—marry a half-lunatic European prince or become a lady-in-waiting to an elderly royal aunt.”
“There are one or two rather handsome European princes. Remember Prince Anton?”
“Yes, but I’m not going to marry out of duty. I already have a chap I love.”
“How is the divine Darcy?”
I looked down at my cup. “Off on some jaunt again. The Argentine, I believe. I do love him, Belinda, but he’s hardly ever here.”
She nodded in sympathy. “Well, even the second of those choices you mentioned sounds preferable to living with Binky and Fig at the moment, don’t you think? Would it be too odious living in a stately home in the country? There would be good food and maybe hunting, and interesting people might come to stay.”
“You really are an optimist, Belinda. But it would be in the depths of the countryside and I’d have to wind wool and walk horrid little dogs that nip my ankles. I want a life of my own, not to be a hanger-on in someone else’s life.” I looked up at her. “So how do you plan to find the money to finance your clothing line? Any rich men in the picture at the moment?”
“I’m only just back from Paris, but I’m working on it. I’ve been to Crockfords every night.”
“You’re going to rely on gambling to come up with the money?”
“Not exactly, darling.” She gave me a cheeky smile. “There are still an amazing number of rich men who go there to gamble—Americans, colonials, foreigners. I look sweet and helpless and ask them for tips on how to play roulette. They always put down my stake for me. But I’m really looking for what the Americans call a sugar daddy.”
“Belinda—you wouldn’t! You wouldn’t really let an older man take care of you just for the money, would you?”
She shrugged. “I don’t see how else I’m going to get rich. There don’t seem to be too many eligible and rich young men around these days. If they are eligible, they are stony broke like Darcy. If they are rich, they are either married or old and flabby. I suppose I might find a ninety-year-old millionaire and marry him.”
I had to laugh at this. “Belinda, you are awful.”
“Just practical, darling. I’m a survivor like your mother.”
I glanced at my watch. “I should probably go. Mummy hates to be kept waiting.”
“Well, let’s see something of each other, now we’re both in town. I may be short of funds but I still have enough for the occasional nightclub or play . . . and I’ll spread the word that we are available for party invitations. We’ll have fun, won’t we?”
As we left the coffeehouse, I really believed that we might. Mummy departed the next day, dressed in her floor-length dark mink and a cloud of Chanel No 5. “Have fun, darling,” she said, kissing me about two inches from my cheek to avoid spoiling her makeup. “And come out and stay with us once we’re settled.”
I watched her go, wondering how any woman could breeze through life so completely unaware of other human beings, even her only child. The taxicab door slammed, she waved and then she was gone.
Mrs. Tombs was standing behind me in the hall, wiping her hands on her pinny. “My rheumatics are playing up something terrible,” she said. “You don’t mind having the leftover stew for your dinner, do you?”
I stomped upstairs in deep gloom. I didn’t think I could endure staying here until the end of the month. I opened my bedroom door and was met by an amazing sight. Someone was sitting at my dressing table—someone with scarlet lips, red cheeks, eyes lined with kohl and hair piled on her head. The effect was like a cheap celluloid doll they sell at funfairs.
“What in heaven’s name?” I began.
My maid jumped up guiltily. “Sorry, miss,” she said.
“Queenie, what were you doing?”
She hung her head, embarrassed. “Your mum left some of her makeup behind. In fact, she threw it away. Seemed a shame. So I rescued it from the wastebasket for you. I thought you might look better if you tarted yourself up a bit.”
“You obviously thought you might look better too,” I said, not knowing whether to laugh or frown.
“Well, I ain’t never had the chance before to tart meself up,” she said. “You never know, I might look good as a vamp.”
“Queenie, only ladies of the night wear that much makeup,” I said. “And servants none at all. Now go and wash it off.”
“Bob’s yer uncle, miss,” she said. “I only did it for a bit of a laugh. Don’t get too many laughs around here, not with her down in the kitchen with a face that would curdle milk.”
I shook my head. “Queenie, I don’t know why I keep you as my maid.”
“I do, miss,” she said. “You can’t afford one of them posh maids what talks proper and knows how to behave.”
“True. But I did hope you might learn to behave like a posh maid.”
“I don’t burn your clothes when I iron them very often these days,” she said defensively.
“But you still call me miss, when I must have told you a thousand times that the correct way to address the daughter of duke is ‘my lady.’”
“Yeh, sorry. I always forget that one, don’t I? I suppose it’s because you don’t look like a lady to me. You look dead ordinary.” She reached the doorway and turned back to me. “Are we really stopping on here?”
“Until the end of the month, I expect,” I said.
She gave a dramatic sigh. “I don’t know much longer I can face that miserable old cow downstairs.”
“Queenie, it’s not up to you to pass judgment.”
“Well, you don’t have to eat with her. If she had her way, I’d starve—and the way she cooks, I’d rather starve sometimes.”
“I tend to agree with you there,” I said, “but I’ve nowhere else to go right now. You certainly don’t want to go back to Scotland any more than I do. My sister-in-law is always badgering me to sack you.”
“She’s another right cow,” Queenie said.
“Queenie. I’ve told you before—that is not the way you should speak of a duchess.”
“Well, she is. The way she treats you. It ain’t fair that you got no money and nowhere to go while she lords it over that bloody great castle. I think you should get your own little place in London like your friend.”
“With what?”
“You got a typewriter now, don’t you? You could be a proper secretary with a bit of practice. They make good money.”
A small bubble of hope formed itself in my mind. “I suppose I might, if I practiced hard.”
“Course you could.” She smiled at me encouragingly and I knew why I kept her. “Well go on then,” she added. “Get working.”
I sat at my typewriter over the next few days and worked away.
The queick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog
Thtqujivk brown box jumpsd over the lacy dobn.
Rats.
Ttj quick briwnficjunbpsobnerthf lax . . .
I wasn’t exactly improving at a rapid pace.
I was all right if I went slowly and carefully. I just got flustered if I was in a rush. The end of the month was getting closer. If I could only find a job soon then I could maybe stay with my grandfather for a few days until I got my first paycheck. Then I could look for a flat of my own. I wasn’t sure whether the royal kin would approve of my being a typist, or of staying with a retired London policeman in a little semi-detached with gnomes in the garden, but then they weren’t paying for my keep either. At least it was better than housecleaning and the escort service I had previously tried.
With time running out, I decided to visit an employment agen
cy. First I used a sheet of writing paper with the Rannoch crest on it to write myself a reference. “This is to recommend Fiona Kinkaid, whom I have recently employed as my secretary. I have found her willing and efficient and satisfactory in every way. I am now going back to the Continent and wish her well.” I signed it with my mother’s round and childish signature, which was so simple to copy. I decided not to use my own name, just in case the press got wind of it and the family objected, so I used the name of a rather glamorous doll I had once owned. Then off I set to the nearest agency. It was up a flight of stairs, just off Curzon Street. Halfway up the stairs, I heard the clatter of typewriters going at an alarming pace. Suddenly the door opened and a girl stomped down the stairs past me. “Old dragon,” she muttered to me. “I only made one mistake and she told me I wasn’t up to snuff. They expect automatons, not people.”
I turned on my heel and followed her back down the stairs. Face facts, Georgiana. How idiotic and naïve of me to think that a few weeks pecking away at a typewriter would make me into a secretary. I was a hopeless case. Unemployable. I now had no alternative other than to go home to Castle Rannoch with my tail between my legs, unless . . . I paused, remembering what Belinda had said. Surely being a lady-in-waiting to an elderly royal relative would be better than Fig. Anything would be better than Fig.
I found the writing paper again and addressed a letter to Her Gracious Majesty, Queen Mary.
I agonized over whether to start it “Dear Cousin Mary,” or “Your Majesty.” I opted for the latter. The queen was a stickler for formality. I explained that I would prefer not to go back to Scotland and wanted to do something useful, but unfortunately had nowhere to stay in London as my brother had closed up the London house. Any help or introduction that she could give me would be gratefully accepted.
I finished “I remain Your Majesty’s most humble and devoted servant, your affectionate cousin, Georgiana.”
