Last, but by no means least, there was a photograph of Eddy. Not their engagement photograph; that lay in a box of memorabilia that no one but herself had access to. It was a photograph that had been taken of him in 1891, not long after he had been created Duke of Clarence and Avondale, and in which he was wearing his ceremonial gold-braided and bemedalled Hussar uniform. Dashingly moustachioed, and with one hand lightly clasping the hilt of his sword, he looked splendid, but then – in May’s eyes – he always had.
Her conversation with Ducky, and the memory of her conversation with Maudie, had put her in an odd, reflective frame of mind where her own marriage was concerned. Without a doubt, she knew there were aspects of married life that she would have found happier if Eddy, and not George, had been her husband. Intimacy with Eddy had been natural and easy, and although he had died without their having become lovers in the married sense of the word, she knew there would have been no embarrassed awkwardness between them, once their bedroom door had closed – as there had been, and often still was, between her and George. And Eddy would never have been so insensitive as to have not discussed with her how their home should be decorated and furnished. There would also have been much more companionship between them, for although Eddy had been as poorly educated as George, somehow they had always found things to chat and laugh about.
But would that happy state of affairs have continued?
In the years since Eddy’s death, she had come to know a lot more about him than she had during the few short weeks of their engagement. She now knew that even when he had been so eager to marry Hélène, he had been writing love letters to Lady Sybil St Clair-Erskine, the nineteen-year-old daughter of the Earl of Rosslyn – and she knew that his having done so wasn’t merely salacious rumour, for Sybil had shown the letters to many people, one of them being Dolly.
She had also discovered that Eddy had been just as much of a gambler as Frank. Due to the misery that Frank’s gambling had caused – and was still causing – it was a vice she had no sympathy for.
Eddy’s ability to be faithless and to lose heavily at the races, and to keep dubious company when playing baccarat for high stakes, were not aspects of his character that she would have been able to live with easily. In comparison, her disappointment that George was incapable of expressing his feelings for her verbally was one that she should have long ago come to terms with, especially as, in letters, he did assure her that he loved her.
In a letter he had sent to her some months after their honeymoon, he had written that although he hadn’t been in love with her when they married, he had come to love her, and he had ended the letter by writing, ‘And I am now utterly devoted to you, Sweet May.’
In a letter he had sent her from St Petersburg when he had attended Tsar Uncle Sasha’s funeral and then the wedding of Nicky and Alicky, he had written, ‘I really believe I will become ill if I have to be away from you for much longer. Goodnight, Sweet May. God Bless.’
Unlike Eddy, George would not have been writing letters to another woman at the same time he had been writing his letters to her.
George wasn’t romantic, but he was very, very dependable and 100 per cent honourable. When he had written that he had come to love her, and was utterly devoted to her – and although he couldn’t bring himself to tell her so – then she could rest assured it was the truth. Unlike so many other women in Granny Queen’s vast family, she was married to a man who would never dream of being unfaithful to her; a man who, although he had a blunt manner and a peppery temper, would never treat her in the cruel way that Aribert of Anhalt treated Marie-Louise.
Another thought came to May, which was that her own shyness and reserve must have always been as off-putting for George in the bedroom as his deep shyness and reserve had been off-putting for her. The stiff politeness that still existed between them, even after the birth of three children, hadn’t existed between them before their marriage. She remembered the Georgie who had wept in front of her when telling her how it had been explained to him that, as Julie Stoner was a commoner, he couldn’t possibly marry her. She remembered how they had relied on each other for mutual support during the agonizing days of Eddy’s illness, and of how they had instinctively known the depths of each other’s grief when he had died. There had been no stiff politeness between them then. Instead there had been mutual, bone-deep grief and an unspoken understanding of what the other was suffering. Only when it had become apparent that an arranged marriage between the two of them was the inevitable outcome of Eddy’s death had stiff politeness intruded on loving friendship. And for both of them, the stiff politeness had grown into a habit.
A feeling of resolution flooded over May. If she wanted to break down the unseen barriers between them, then she was going to have to take the first step, for she knew George was incapable of doing so. And if she was going to take the first step, there was no reason why she shouldn’t take it now, immediately, by going down to the stamp room and putting her arms around him and telling him how very, very fortunate she felt herself to be in having him for her husband.
Abruptly pushing her chair away from the desk, she rose to her feet. Swiftly she left the room and then broke into a run; running along the landing to the head of the stairs and, to the alarm of two members of her household staff, running down them.
At the stamp-room door she came to a breathless halt and hesitated, but her hesitation was minimal.
‘George?’ With a fast-beating heart, she gave the door a sharp knock. ‘George, it’s May. There’s something I’d very much like to say to you. There’s something I simply must tell you.’
Chapter Thirty-Two
JANUARY 1901, YORK COTTAGE
It was the start of a new year, but just like last year and the year before, May wasn’t in the mood to celebrate it. The last New Year she had truly enjoyed had been three years ago, before anxieties about what was happening in Russia and in South Africa had surfaced. In the June of that year, after Alicky had given birth to her second girl, Tatiana, the British Ambassador to St Petersburg had informed Granny Queen that there were rumours that if Alicky’s next child was also a girl, Nicky’s uncles intended removing him from the throne and replacing him with his younger brother, George.
Alicky hadn’t mentioned such things in her letters to May – letters that were becoming more and more sporadic – but four months ago she had written that she was once again pregnant, and May was aware of how vitally important it was that this time the baby was a boy.
In South Africa long-term unrest between Dutch and British settlers had, a little more than a year ago, boiled over into war. And now, arriving back at York Cottage after three days in Wales, where she had attended the funeral of a young man who had died in the fighting, May was in a deeply depressed state of mind. The deceased had been the twenty-two-old son of one of her ladies-in-waiting, just one of thousands of British soldiers to have died since the beginning of the Boer War fifteen months ago – a war that showed no signs yet of coming to an end.
It was a war that was affecting hundreds of thousands of families in Britain, including her own, for all three of her brothers were fighting in the Transvaal. Dolly was a major in the 17th Lancers; Frank was a major in the 1st Dragoons, and Alge was a second lieutenant in the 7th Hussars and only two months ago had received the Distinguished Service Order for bravery in combat.
Almost as many men were dying from sickness in the inhospitable climate as from battle wounds. One of her most engaging and likeable royal cousins, thirty-three-year-old Christle, Marie-Louise’s brother, had served as a staff officer and had died of enteric fever. A telegram told his parents that Frank had been with him when he died. ‘And so at least he didn’t die amongst strangers,’ Uncle Christian had said, his voice breaking in grief. ‘He had a brother-in-arms who was also a much-loved cousin with him, and Frank ensured that Christle’s funeral was carried out just as we would have wanted.’
Having Frank spoken of with appreciation made a welcome ch
ange, and May was still thinking about Frank when she walked into her drawing room – a room she had long established as her own by having its brown-and-tan decor altered to a crisp white, with pale-yellow touches.
Although the paintwork blessedly remained the same now, nothing else was as she had left it. All the furniture, every last little stick of it, had been rearranged. Pictures had been rehung – and not successfully. Framed photographs and objets d’art had been rearranged, and some of her most precious ornaments had been removed altogether.
She didn’t need to ask who was responsible. It was the same person who had been responsible for creating havoc when, without asking permission to do so, May now thirty-three, had had the temerity to have a small scented garden planted below her boudoir window.
No one she knew could keep control of her feelings as she did, but there were limits, and this was one of them. With all thoughts of Frank forgotten, she flung her muff down and, without even taking off her hat and her beaver-collared-and-cuffed coat, went in search of George.
‘Why’ she demanded when she found him, ‘was Motherdear allowed to take it upon herself to rearrange my furniture in my home?’
Under the pretext of tamping tobacco into his pipe, George avoided meeting her eyes. ‘She thinks it now looks much prettier, and thought it would be a nice surprise for you, darling. And it does look very pretty, don’t you think? Having the display cabinet in one of the alcoves, and the bureau placed nearer to the window, means there is full daylight on it, which will make letter-writing so much easier on the eyes?’
‘It does not look prettier than how it looked before, and the display cabinet loses its entire point when half-hidden in an alcove; and the bureau is exceedingly cumbersome so near to the window. And where have the things gone that have been removed from the room?’
‘I don’t know, May. I’m sure they’re somewhere safe. And there can be no question of rearranging the room, now that Motherdear has gone to such an effort to improve it.’
May was saved from saying words she might regret by the telephone on George’s desk ringing. It was there primarily for him to ring out on. Very few people, other than his father and Toria, ever had the temerity to ring him.
Grateful for any kind of an interruption to the present conversation, George snatched up the receiver. ‘Yes?’ he barked into it and then, seconds later, sat down so suddenly, and in such a state of shock, that May forgot all about the unwelcome changes to her drawing room.
He said numbly, ‘It’s Papa, May. He’s at Osborne. Granny Queen is dying.’
On the other end of the telephone line her father-in-law bellowed, ‘May? Pour Georgie a brandy, and then both of you need to leave for Osborne immediately. Do you understand?’
‘Yes. I understand.’ Her mouth was dry, her heart thumping with shock. A world without Granny Queen was unimaginable. Her indomitable presence and loving concern had been a comfort to her for as long as she could remember. Even when, eighteen years ago, Victoria had insisted that her parents leave the country in order to live more cheaply abroad, it had been a banishment made out of loving concern.
Hard on the heels of the grief she knew she would soon be feeling came the realization of how much change would come, if Granny Queen really was dying. For on her death, Bertie would become King; he and Motherdear would move from Marlborough House into Buckingham Palace; and George would be the heir apparent.
The biggest change of all, however, would be becoming accustomed to a world in which there would no longer be a short, squat figure in black silk tapping with her stick down royal corridors, and ruling an empire and a family that straddled every European royal court, and to whom she, May, owed everything. Without Granny Queen having taken an interest in her, she would still be an unmarriageable Serene Highness, facing a future of Needlework Guild charity work and being an aunt to Dolly and Margaret’s children, and any children Frank and Alge might one day have.
The Queen had transformed her life by seeing qualities in her that no one else had seen. Identifying May’s potential, she had decided that she would one day be England’s Queen Consort.
From behind his desk George stumbled to his feet, distraught. ‘How will the family manage without her, May? His protuberant blue eyes were full of tears. ‘How will the country manage? How will the Empire manage?’
It was bitterly cold crossing the Solent, and by the time they arrived at Osborne House, snow was falling.
‘She’s still with us, thank God,’ Louis of Battenberg said to George as he and May stepped into the house, ‘but the doctors say there is little hope. Aunt Lenchen and Aunt Louise have been supervising her care over the last few days and are with her now. Aunt Vicky has been informed, but she’s so ill she can’t possibly travel all the way from Germany. My Vicky is here, of course. Alicky has been informed, but because she’s pregnant she can’t travel. Uncle Arthur Connaught was in Berlin, attending an anniversary celebration of the Prussian Crown, but left immediately he was telegrammed and is expected to arrive soon, which means that five out of six of Granny Queen’s surviving children will be with her before the end. Willy is also on his way – much to your father’s exasperation. It means he’s going to have to leave Osborne and return to London in order to greet him.’
To May, he said, ‘Beatrice and Aunt Marie are in the drawing room with Aunt Alix, Toria and Looloo. Maudie is en route. Irène and Heinrich have gone for a walk. Marie-Louise is here, as is Thora, and all three Connaught grandchildren are here. Ducky isn’t here as she’s caught tonsillitis. Ernie is on his way.’
All May wanted to do was rest from the rough crossing. Pleading a headache, she went immediately to the bedroom that she and George always occupied at Osborne, then wrote a short note to Louise asking when she could spend a precious few minutes with the Queen and gave it to a footman to deliver.
She’d no sooner done so than George burst in on her, his face flushed with temper.
‘Bloody Willy!’ he said vehemently. ‘He’s going to rub everyone up the wrong way with his theatrical posturing and, as if that isn’t bad enough, Papa has asked me to accompany him back to London so that Willy can be given an appropriate royal greeting.’
‘It would be disgraceful if he wasn’t greeted by the two of you,’ she said reasonably. ‘And remember that Willy will be very, very upset. Granny Queen has always been the most important person in the world to him.’
‘Bosh!’ George said and, still wearing his hat and overcoat, left the room to face another stormy crossing of the Solent.
May found Willy energizing and, unlike many members of the family, always looked forward to meeting up with him. Under normal circumstances George, too, got on with Willy. On one of their visits to Berlin, Willy had bestowed on George Germany’s highest honour, the Order of the Black Eagle. Last year Willy had stood as godfather to her and George’s third son, Henry, and not long afterwards she and George had attended Willy’s eldest son’s coming-of-age celebrations in Berlin. It wasn’t the thought of Willy that was the cause of George’s bad temper. It was the thought of having to cross the Solent again – and not once, but twice.
Her thoughts were interrupted by Beatrice. ‘Louise says now would be a good time to sit with Mama for a few minutes, May. Lenchen is catching up on some sleep. She and Aunt Marie sat with Mama all through the night, last night.’
May had never before been in the Queen’s bedroom. Over the fireplace hung a painting of the Entombment of Christ, and the room was full of portraits and photographs of Albert. A large framed portrait of him hung over the canopied bedhead and, on the other side of the bed, looking pathetically small and fragile, the eighty-one-year-old Queen was lying with closed eyes against a bank of pillows, a shawl around her shoulders, a lace cap covering her wispy white hair.
Aunt Louise was seated at one side of the bed and May sat down on the other side, trying hard not to be reminded of the nightmare hours she had spent sitting beside Eddy when he had been dying.
; May didn’t know Louise well, for Louise, a talented sculptress, kept herself very much to herself.
Rising to her feet, Louise said, ‘If you want to say a few last words to Mama, it’s no use hoping for a time when her eyes open. My advice is to seize the moment and hope that you get a response when she hears your voice. The nurse will have to stay here with you, but other than that, I’m going to leave you on your own with her for five minutes.’
She left the room and, grateful for Louise’s thoughtfulness, May took one of the Queen’s hands in hers. ‘It’s May, Granny Queen,’ she said, hoping her naturally low-pitched voice would be loud enough to rouse her. ‘I want you to know how very grateful I am for all the things you have done for me, and that I will always strive to live up to your expectations of me.’
There was a long silence and then the Queen said weakly and uncertainly, ‘Is that May Teck?’
‘Yes, Granny. It is.’
The Queen’s eyes fluttered open. ‘Dear May.’ She gave her hand a feeble squeeze. ‘I have been thinking about you while I have been so ill.’ She paused and then said with great effort, her once-silvery voice barely audible, ‘I’ve been thinking how strange it is, our having being born in the same room at Kensington Palace, and in the same bed. It is a connection between us – and I do so believe in mystic connections.’ She paused again and then said, her voice growing fainter, her eyes closing, ‘I am so glad I have been able to tell you how satisfying it is to me that you will one day be Queen.’
Moments later Louise entered the room, ‘Did Mama not wake? Never mind. If she had, she probably wouldn’t have recognized you. There are times when she doesn’t recognize either me or Lenchen.’
May rose to her feet. ‘She did wake. And she did recognize me. All I wanted to say was said, and all she wanted to say to me was said, too.’
The Summer Queen Page 33
