Heirs and Graces (A Royal Spyness Mystery)

by Rhys Bowen

  “Jolly good. Splendid,” the duchess said.

  “Oh yes. Jolly good,” the queen echoed. I thought she looked a little pale.

  Chapter 4

  CHELSEA AND EN ROUTE TO KENT

  That evening, I was supervising the packing of my belongings, not wanting to leave anything to the next morning. I had discovered that leaving Queenie to pack my things could be a disastrous mistake. I remembered the time she had wrapped my riding boots, still muddy, with my one good evening gown. And she always managed to leave something out. So I went around the house after her, opening drawers and calling her attention to left objects. Each time she had to reopen the trunk, she said “Sorry, miss,” and stuffed the object down the side, not caring what she crumpled in the process. I was becoming more and more short-tempered with her.

  “And look, Queenie, here are my best silk stockings,” I said. “Careful with them. Where is the tissue paper?”

  “All gone, miss. Never mind. I’ll shove them inside your shoes.”

  I bit my tongue and took deep breaths. “And you do have my jewelry case? I think I’d better take it with me in the motorcar.”

  “Yes, you’d better,” she said. “I don’t know how I’m going to manage all this stuff as it is.”

  “I’ve told you. You hire a porter and have him load it into the train carriage for you. You will be met at Swanley Junction station. You will remember that, won’t you?”

  “Yes, miss. I expect so.”

  “And don’t fall asleep or you’ll wake up in Dover.”

  “I can’t help it, miss. I always get that sleepy on a train.” She stopped, mouth open, as her brain digested something. “’Ere. What about that typewriting machine of yours? You can’t expect me to carry that. It weighs a bloomin’ ton.”

  “Oh, golly.” I’d quite forgotten it myself, sitting forlorn in the study downstairs. “I certainly don’t want to abandon it. Maybe the duchess can find a place for it in the boot.”

  I was just on my way down to examine the typewriter when there was a thunderous knock at the front door. I opened it and Belinda stood there, dressed up to the nines in a startling, floor-length black opera cape, a black, feathered cap over one eye and a long, black cigarette holder.

  “Come on, darling. Buck up and get changed,” she said. “We’re going on the town.”

  “Belinda, I’ve just packed all my belongings,” I said. “I’m going to the country tomorrow.”

  “You can unpack them again, can’t you? Come on, Georgie. It’s going to be fun. An American businessman is taking me to dinner and dancing at the Savoy. And he said he had a friend in town and did I have a friend. So naturally I thought of you. They are dripping in dollars, darling. We’ll have a fabulous time.”

  “It is tempting,” I said. “I haven’t eaten properly in a week. But I simply can’t leave Queenie to finish my packing.”

  “Of course you can. When are you departing?”

  “Tomorrow morning. A dowager duchess is coming for me in her motorcar. I couldn’t be late.”

  “A dowager duchess? Darling, you’re not really going to be a companion, are you?”

  “Not exactly.”

  She came into the hall and took my arm. “Come on. Upstairs. You can tell me all about it as you get dressed.”

  “Belinda,” I said hesitantly. “This evening—it does just involve dinner and dancing, doesn’t it? These American businessmen will not be expecting more than that?”

  “Darling, they are always the soul of propriety. Especially since I told them that you were the king’s cousin. They’ll treat you with kid gloves and we’ll get a slap-up meal. And you never know—one of them may be the sugar daddy that I’m looking for.”

  “Belinda, you’re wicked,” I said, laughing.

  “So you’ll come then?”

  “Why not?”

  I extracted my good evening dress and shoes, much to Queenie’s annoyance. “I got all them things laid in there nice and proper,” she said, “and now you go and muck the whole lot up again.”

  “That maid of yours is becoming too big for her boots,” Belinda said as we left in a taxicab. “Familiarity breeds contempt. She’ll have to go.”

  “The trouble is, I can’t afford to replace her,” I said. “Essentially she works for her keep. I’d never find another maid who’d do that.”

  Belinda slipped her arm through mine. “Forget about maids. We’re going to have a glorious time.”

  We did. Lovely food, a good band, a man who held me as if I was made of porcelain when we danced and kept calling me “Your Highness.” I wasn’t in bed until two. So I was a little bleary-eyed when Queenie woke me the next morning saying, “I’ve managed to stuff your dress and shoes in that big trunk but the old bat won’t give me a hand with it down the stairs.”

  I leaped up, washed, dressed in my traveling tweeds and helped Queenie bring down the trunk. I could hardly let her bump it all the way down by herself. If Mrs. Tombs thought she was getting a tip, she could think again. I saw Queenie off in her taxicab literally one minute before the duchess arrived. I heaved a sigh of relief that they hadn’t crossed paths. Somehow I didn’t think the duchess would approve of Queenie.

  “You’re off then, are you?” Mrs. Tombs asked as she appeared from the kitchen. “Righty-o. I suppose I’ve got to give your room a good clean now.”

  Then she caught sight of the Bentley with the chauffeur in dark-green uniform standing at the front door. “Blimey,” she said.

  “Here we are,” Her Grace called, waving cheerfully from the backseat. “Wilkins will load in your things. Hop on in.”

  Wilkins was as elderly as the Bentley and looked frail enough for the wind to blow him away. I felt horribly guilty as I watched him stagger toward the boot, carrying my typewriter.

  “What on earth is that monstrosity?” Her Grace asked.

  “My typewriter. I’m learning how to type.”

  “Gracious. What on earth for? It’s not as if a girl of your standing will ever need to find a job.” She patted my knee. “Take my advice and leave the typing to the lower classes, my dear.”

  I thought she was going to forbid me to take the machine but Wilkins had already installed it, and even she wasn’t cruel enough to ask him to remove it again.

  The drive down to Kent was part delight and part terror. I don’t think Wilkins’s vision was that good and he received constant instructions from the dowager duchess, which made the drive even more precarious.

  “I know that silly policeman is holding up his hand to stop traffic,” she boomed into her speaking tube from the backseat, “but that can’t possibly apply to us. He must see that we’re the kind of people who should not be kept waiting. Drive straight past, Wilkins.”

  And I closed my eyes as we headed at full speed into the path of a lorry, which swerved to avoid us at the last second while we sailed on, the duchess apparently oblivious to the chaos behind her. I believe the policeman blew his whistle, but we were long gone. When we came to a railway level crossing at which the gates were being closed, I was relieved that Wilkins wisely refused to make the gatekeeper open them again as the express from Dover came thundering through a few seconds later. In fact, I began to wish that I had taken the train with Queenie and the luggage.

  The terror was compounded by the close proximity to the dowager duchess, who peppered me with questions and regaled me with comments about people I didn’t know.

  “So did you go to school or did you have a governess? No point in overeducating girls, that’s what I always say. Nothing more dangerous than an educated woman. In my day, speaking French, riding and playing the pianoforte were all that was required of a girl. So you’ve come out, I take it? Had any interesting proposals? Have you seen anything of the Devonshires recently? Is it true what they plan to do to Chatsworth?”

  I stum
bled through the answers under the glare of her eagle eye, made larger as she stared through the lorgnette.

  “Never met the Devonshires? I thought everybody knew them. And the Westminsters. Where have you been hiding yourself? You must get out into society more if you’re to make a good match.”

  She peered at me through the lorgnette. “And your small talk is sadly lacking. One needs small talk, my dear, if one wants to flourish in society,” she said. “I don’t hold with idle gossip, but one should be au fait with what is going on. Apropos of which, what do you think about this latest chapter in the saga of the Prince of Wales?”

  I was grateful for once that I could join in this discussion and mentioned that I knew Mrs. Simpson.

  “You’ve actually met the woman, have you?”

  When I told her that the Simpsons had actually stayed at our Scottish castle, I could see my stock rise in her eyes. “So that she could be near HRH at Balmoral, of course,” she said, nodding conspiratorially. “The woman astounds me with her brazenness. And married to someone else too. Has she no shame?”

  I replied that I didn’t think she had.

  “Surely the boy will come to his senses before his father dies,” she said. “My son’s defiance only means the loss of a title, but in the prince’s case it’s the whole future of the monarchy at stake. Why couldn’t he just do what his ancestors have always done—marry someone suitable and then keep a mistress?” She lifted her lorgnette and stared at me. “He could have married someone like you. It’s not as if you’re first cousins.”

  “Much as I like my cousin David, I intend to marry for love,” I said.

  She snorted. “What a curious notion. Got a young fellow in mind, have you?”

  “Well, yes.”

  “Not the son of the stable boy, one hopes.”

  “No. His father is a peer.”

  “Well, that’s all right, then. So many young people have the most curious ideas on equality these days. You read about it all the time in the lesser newspapers, don’t you? Young men and women of our class marrying typists and jockeys and actresses. Don’t they realize that the future of the empire depends on a stable aristocracy?”

  I thought it wise not to mention that my father had married an actress. Actually, I’m sure she knew. It would have made good gossip in its day—as would my mother’s subsequent bolt. I also stayed silent about Darcy’s lack of money or prospects. I found myself thinking about Darcy, wondering where he was and when I would see him again. How would I ever get in touch with him? I wondered. How would he find out I was in the depths of the Kentish countryside? I just wished he was better about writing letters, but then I realized that a lot of his trips were supposed to be hush-hush and he probably couldn’t tell me where he was and what he was doing. I sighed. Why did romance have to be so complicated?

  I stared out of the window, watching the grimy streets of London give way to suburban rows and then, just after we passed through the town of Sidcup, suddenly we were in the countryside. There were orchards on either side of us, some of them sprinkled with early blossoms. The first primroses were appearing beside the road as we came down a long hill and left the main road at the village of Farningham. Then we were driving through a leafy valley with a stream at the bottom until we came to the village of Eynsford itself. It was the quintessential English village with a pub and village shop, nestled beside an old packhorse bridge that crossed the stream. To one side of the bridge was the even more ancient ford that gave the village its name. Two little boys were standing at the edge of the stream with jars that looked as if they might contain tadpoles. Then we left the village behind, and the valley narrowed. Above us, the skeletons of ancient beech and oak trees were showing new spring leaves.

  “Almost there now,” the duchess said as we turned off the road and started to climb the hill. “I think you’ll like Kingsdowne. Lovely old house. Not been ruined by Victorian opulence and lack of taste, thank God.”

  We emerged from the woods to more open farmland and then before us was a high, brick wall and in it an impressive gateway—an enormous arch topped with great stone lions. As we approached it, a man came rushing out of the gate house and the wrought-iron gate was opened for us. Then we drove for a good half-mile through parkland before there was any sign of the house. Through the trees I spotted what looked like the antlers of a herd of deer.

  “Knole likes to think they have a better deer park than us,” she said, referring to another nearby stately home, “but they don’t have fallow deer or Chitral deer, which we had shipped back from India when my husband was viceroy.”

  Then the drive turned a corner, and I think I actually gasped. There was the house—an enormous and elegant building of mellowed gray stone, four stories high and beautifully proportioned, surrounded by manicured lawns and formal gardens. In front of the pillared main entrance was an ornamental lake complete with swans. The house was set on a rising slope of hillside, which at this time of year was covered in a carpet of daffodils. As we came out of the trees, the sun appeared from behind the clouds and suddenly the house was perfectly reflected in the lake. My spirit soared. I was going to be staying at this attractive place for the immediate future, with duties no more onerous than teaching a young Australian which fork to use at dinner. For once I could look forward to an enjoyable time ahead.

  As the motorcar crunched over the gravel of the forecourt, the duchess suddenly turned to me. “I think it best if we don’t let the family know the real reason for your being here, don’t you? They haven’t yet come to terms with the fact that a complete stranger will be coming into their midst, which may mean the end of life as they know it.”

  “So how do you propose to explain my presence?” I asked.

  “Suitably vague, I think. Old friends with your royal grandmother and invited you to stay for a while. Maybe recuperating from an illness and needed good, country air. Yes, I think that should do it.”

  I wondered why we needed a good reason to invite me until I realized that of course it was no longer her house. It was presumably up to her son, the present duke, to do the inviting. And he was a self-confessed woman hater. I wondered what he’d say about my arrival.

  Chapter 5

  KINGSDOWNE PLACE, EYNSFORD, KENT

  Dear Diary, I have fallen on my feet for once. It’s gorgeous.

  As the Bentley came to a halt outside the front steps, a bevy of footmen rushed out to open the doors for us.

  “Welcome to Kingsdowne Place, my lady,” one said, assisting me from the backseat. He was dressed in a smart, black livery with gold buttons. It was almost like being back at Buckingham Palace. Another footman was attempting to assist the dowager duchess from her seat.

  “I am not quite an invalid yet, Frederick,” she said. “There is no need to lug me from the backseat like a sack of coals.”

  “Sorry, Your Grace.” The boy turned scarlet.

  “Come along, my dear,” she said to me, using her cane to stride up the steps ahead of me. We entered a magnificent foyer. In the center a broad staircase ascended to a landing, where it divided in two to rise to the next level. The walls and ceiling were painted with enormous Renaissance-style Italianate murals of Greek gods and goddesses. While I tried not to gawp, the duchess said, “I don’t suppose your maid has arrived yet with your things, so you won’t be able to change for luncheon. But I’ll have Frederick show you up to your room so that you can have a wash and brushup after the journey.”

  Oh, Lord. They didn’t change for luncheon here, did they? Did that mean something for the morning, an afternoon tea dress for tea, a dinner gown and something different for luncheon?

  I was relieved when she added, “One’s clothes do get so crumpled on the journey that I always like to have them pressed as soon as possible.”

  I gave her a weak smile.

  “And when you’re ready come down to the Long Gallery. I
’ll have sandwiches and coffee served there. I expect you’re famished after that long trip.”

  It hadn’t been much more than an hour, but I’d avoided Mrs. Tombs’s earlier, halfhearted attempt at breakfast and was certainly ready to eat. Frederick picked up my overnight bag and jewelry case and set off up the grand stair. I followed, finding it hard to take my eyes off the voluptuous, half-nude figures and cupids that covered the walls and ceiling. At the first landing, we turned to the left and set off down a hallway, which seemed to go on forever. Along the walls the Altringham ancestors glared down at me from their portraits, each one with the bulging, pale eyes that were obviously an inherited trait. From the look of some of them, I wondered if insanity might also be an inherited trait, in which case a breath of fresh air and fresh blood from Australia might be a good thing.

  At last Frederick opened a door and I stepped into a spacious and elegant room. No Victorian frou-frou and bric-a-brac here—the furniture had the clean lines of the Georgians, the four-poster bed was covered in a blue-and-white, silken counterpane. There were two chintz-covered ladies’ chairs around the marble fireplace, and a pretty little Queen Anne writing desk sat in one of the bay windows. Really it was the most inviting bedroom I had ever seen—a room in which one could easily stay for a month or more.

  Frederick put down my cases on a bench. “I don’t know if Her Grace will be wanting to move you to somewhere more suitable,” he said. “We only heard you were coming last night so we were told to put you in one of the guest rooms for now.”

  If this wasn’t suitable, I wondered what was. And in case you think I wasn’t used to staying at the best houses, I’d actually stayed at Balmoral with the king and queen every August. It was a requirement of being related to the royals. And trust me, Balmoral is Spartan compared to this—and one has to endure tartan carpets! I had also stayed at a wide variety of stately homes and family seats, but for sheer opulence and elegance this was going to be hard to beat. It struck me that there was still a significant family fortune connected to this title. As I looked out of the window, I heard the crunch of more tires on gravel and wondered if it could be Queenie arriving from the station. But instead a brand-spanking-new Rolls-Royce was pulling up. A chauffeur in a smart, green uniform leaped out and came around to open the back door. Out of it stepped a portly, middle-aged man. He was dressed in a black-velvet jacket and rather baggy trousers. He stood, looking around and as if on cue, three young men came bounding like colts from behind a high hedge in the formal side garden. They too were dressed in black, form-fitting garments, and the way they moved made me think I was watching a ballet in progress. They greeted the portly man with hugs, dancing around him like a group of greyhounds, greeting their master.