Four Funerals and Maybe a Wedding Page 2

  “Castle Rannoch? Good heavens no,” I said, rather more emphatically than I had meant. Then I remembered it was her home and she was stuck there for most of the year, so I added, “I do want my friends to attend my wedding, and Castle Rannoch is in the middle of nowhere, isn’t it? Besides, they’d all have to stay at the castle. You’d have to entertain them, Fig. And think of all the Rannoch family members—those hairy cousins with the big appetites. It would cost a pretty penny.”

  I knew I had hit a nerve there. Fig is the stingiest person I have ever met. I saw her face twitch. “Of course you are not wrong there,” she said. Then she paused. “I mean, how would they all get to Castle Rannoch? There is no bus or train.”

  “My point exactly,” I said. “And of course there is no Catholic church within miles.”

  Her eyes blinked up and down rapidly now. “A Catholic church? You are planning to marry in a Catholic church?”

  “That’s because I’m marrying a Catholic, Fig.”

  “You’re not planning to convert, are you?” She sounded as if I’d just said that I was planning to marry a pygmy and become a cannibal.

  “I haven’t decided yet. I’m supposed to be taking instruction from a priest in London—to let me know what I’m getting into. I have to promise to bring up the children as Catholics.”

  She actually reached out a hand and laid it over mine. “Oh, Georgie. Are you sure you want to go through with this? I mean . . .”

  “Fig, let’s get this straight,” I said, still trying to remain calm. “I love Darcy. I want to marry him. His religion means something to him, whereas mine means going to church occasionally because it is expected of me.”

  “You couldn’t have a proper Church of England ceremony and just a Catholic blessing at the end?” she suggested.

  “Then it wouldn’t be a sacrament.”

  “A what?”

  “A holy wedding in the eyes of the church. I wouldn’t be considered properly married. But I really don’t mind where we marry as long as we do marry.”

  “So where is this ceremony to take place? In London?”

  “Yes, I think so. That way it’s easy for Mummy and Max and other friends to come from the Continent. Darcy worships at something called the Farm Street Church when he’s in town, so I wouldn’t mind holding it there.”

  “The Farm Street?” Fig’s eyebrows rose in astonishment. “Where in heaven’s name is that?”

  I did smile now. “On Farm Street in Mayfair, actually. That’s how they always refer to it. Its real name is the Church of the Immaculate Conception or something terribly Roman like that. It’s where posh Catholics attend church in London.”

  “Are there any posh Catholics?” she demanded, looking down her nose at me.

  “Well, yes. There’s the pope for one. And the Duke of Norfolk. The premier duke in the peerage of England, therefore one rung above you, Fig. His family is Catholic. And of course Princess Zou Zou. You can’t get much posher than a princess.”

  “A Polish princess, Georgie. In countries like that they hand out titles like certificates on sports day at school. And she is only a princess because one presumes she married a prince.”

  “You’re right. She was a mere countess before.” I grinned. “Anyway, take it from me that there are enough posh Catholics to fill a church.”

  “And you will be staying with this princess until your wedding? You will be married from her house? What about the reception?”

  I took a deep breath. “Actually, Fig, I’d really like to be married from our London house, if you and Binky would be willing to come down for the wedding. And I’d like Binky to give me away.”

  She shifted uncomfortably. “I don’t know what he’ll say about walking you down the aisle in a Roman Catholic place of worship, Georgiana. But he is very fond of you and we know how softhearted he is, so I expect he’ll agree.” She paused, then could hardly bring herself to say, “And I suppose you expect us to fund the wedding?”

  “Mummy is providing my trousseau and Belinda is making my wedding dress,” I said. “I’m sure Zou Zou would be happy to provide the wedding breakfast here, but it would be nice if it could be at my family’s London house. Nothing too fancy, of course. Champagne, a cake and a few nibbles. You and Binky could manage that, couldn’t you?”

  She had gone quite pink. “Yes, I suppose we could,” she agreed. Then she wagged a finger at me, looking almost animated. “Binky can wear his kilt and Podge can be a page boy and I wonder if Addy is old enough to be a little bridesmaid?”

  I could see her warming to it by the minute.

  “Binky looks spiffing in his kilt,” I said, encouraging her.

  “And bagpipes,” she added. “You know how Binky loves his bagpipes. We’ll bring down old Mr. McTavish.”

  “Oh golly,” I said. I know the sound of bagpipes should be in my blood, but I can’t stand them, having been woken by them at dawn on regular occasions. “Do we really have to have bagpipes?”

  “A Rannoch wedding with no bagpipes?” She sounded shocked. “It simply isn’t done, Georgiana. Binky would insist if you want him to give you away.”

  I decided that bagpipes for five minutes at the end of my wedding ceremony was a small price to pay for keeping my brother and his wife happy.

  “Of course,” I said, giving her a winning smile. “Definitely bagpipes.”

  Chapter 2

  TUESDAY, JUNE 18

  OPENING DAY AT ROYAL ASCOT

  I’m off to Ascot with the king and queen. Could there be anything more terrifying? Having to look chic and not put my foot into a rabbit hole with all those people watching me. Every time I think I have overcome my girlish clumsiness, something new and embarrassing happens. But not today, please! Not in front of the royals with the world watching!

  I spent hours agonizing in front of the mirror, deciding which of Zou Zou’s hats looked chic rather than ridiculous on me. Clotilde had hatboxes open all over my bed and handed me one after another. I could tell from the look on her face which were duds and which weren’t. Certainly not the bright pink feathers. I looked like a flamingo in a windstorm. I was rather taken with a white straw with a very broad brim that hid my face in deep shadow, thus making me look mysterious. But then I decided I’d bump into people every time I turned around. Probably knock the queen forward into her prawn canapé. In the end I opted for a stylish little blue pillbox. Clotilde nodded to let me know it was the right decision to go with a blue-and-white linen suit.

  At ten o’clock I took a taxi to Buckingham Palace. I must have looked presentable for once because the driver didn’t ask me if I wanted dropping at the servants’ entrance. I wasn’t actually supposed to be there until ten thirty, but knowing His Majesty’s fetish for punctuality and the fact that he keeps the clocks at Sandringham half an hour forward, I thought it wise to show up early. It was a good decision. Their Majesties were both sitting, dressed and ready, in the area at the top of the stairs. His Majesty was in a gray morning suit and top hat and Queen Mary was in gray silk and a broad-brimmed hat topped with a swirling ostrich feather. They looked formidable and I swallowed hard as I went up the staircase to greet them.

  “Ah, young Georgie, there you are,” the king said, and I noticed he glanced at the ormolu clock in the niche. He gave a satisfied nod. “Splendid day for it, isn’t it?”

  “The weather is very fine, sir. Not too hot,” I said as I curtsied. Yes, I know he is my cousin, but he is still the king, and one curtsies and calls them “sir” and “ma’am.”

  “You look very nice, my dear,” the queen said as I curtsied to her and kissed her cheek. (Thank heavens I hadn’t opted for the broad brim. I would have poked her eye out.) “Quite suitable.”

  I took the seat I was offered and there was a moment’s awkward silence, since one is not supposed to initiate conversation with royals. I was conscious of the clock ticking loudly and felt I had to say something.

  “How is your health, sir?” I asked the king.

  “On the mend, I hope,” he said.

  “He has been basking in the glow of the jubilee last month.” The queen glanced at him fondly. “What a wonderful occasion. All those people lining the Mall. We’ll treasure it forever, won’t we, my dear?” She reached across and covered his hand with her own. I noticed the concern in her eyes. He had never quite recovered from a bout of pneumonia.

  “A lot of fuss and getting dressed up,” he muttered, but he looked quite pleased.

  “I thought it was absolutely splendid,” I said.

  The Daimler was announced fifteen minutes early and off we went with the king’s equerry and the queen’s lady-in-waiting making up the party. “Shall we be meeting other members of the family there, ma’am?” I asked.

  “The Kents are coming. You are great friends with Marina, of course. Bertie and Elizabeth said no, although young Lillibet begged to be taken. The child is mad about horses. But her father couldn’t be wrapped around her little finger for once. You know how Bertie hates big gatherings with that stutter of his.”

  “If the boy would just practice,” the king stormed, “he’d get over the blasted stutter. I keep telling him, ‘Take a deep breath and then spit it out, boy.’”

  I could see why the Duke of York stuttered every time he faced his father.

  “And David?” I asked cautiously, as the Prince of Wales was giving his parents headaches by flaunting his American lady friend.

  “David? One never knows whether he’ll bother to turn up or not,” the queen said brusquely. “Apparently royal duties are not high on his list of priorities. And if a certain woman snaps her fingers he’ll go running in her direction. One hopes he would not dare to bring her to Ascot. We shall certainly not receive her if he does.”

  “That blasted boy will be the death of me,” the king said. “What he sees in that harpy I do not know. It’s not as if she’s young or pretty. God knows we’ve tried thrusting enough attractive and suitable women in his direction. I don’t know what he’s thinking. As if he could marry her—twice divorced.”

  “We don’t know if the second divorce has gone through yet,” the queen pointed out. There was an uncomfortable silence as the car drove over Westminster Bridge.

  “Let us turn to happier subjects,” the queen said. “Your upcoming wedding, Georgiana. How are plans progressing? Have you decided on where to hold it yet?”

  “Not exactly, ma’am,” I said. “I gather there is a suitable church on Farm Street in Mayfair. Close to Rannoch House.”

  “But the Brompton Oratory is also close to Rannoch House, is it not? You should make sure the church has enough room to accommodate your entire guest list. Our family will all expect invitations, and your great-aunts at Kensington Palace would be most offended if you did not invite them. In addition to which, you are related to various European royal families. I rather think they may want to attend. The young Bulgarians, for example. You attended their wedding, did you not?”

  Oh crikey, I thought. Was my royal cousin planning to invite the royal houses of Europe behind my back? Fig would not be amused if she had to provide champagne and cake for hundreds of hungry Europeans. And the last thing I needed at my wedding was to walk down the aisle and see Prince Siegfried staring at me. The family had tried jolly hard to get us married off. His nickname was Fishface. Need I say more?

  “Why does the girl not want Westminster Abbey or at the very least St. Margaret’s, Westminster?” the king demanded.

  “She’s marrying a Catholic, George,” the queen said gently.

  “Bloody nonsense,” the king muttered. I wasn’t sure whether he meant it was bloody nonsense that I was marrying a Catholic or that I couldn’t get married at Westminster Abbey because I was marrying one. Actually I was truly grateful. I’d have died of fright if I had to walk down the aisle at Westminster Abbey!

  “Let the girl marry properly at the abbey and then have some Catholic johnny come in and swing some incense at the end or something,” the king said, getting quite animated now.

  “I’m afraid my fiancé would not consider us married in the eyes of the church unless we had a Catholic ceremony.” I hardly dared to speak the words because I’m sure it isn’t done to contradict a king. “It’s a matter of a sacrament.”

  “Bloody rubbish,” the king said.

  “Do let us know the minute the date and place are secured, won’t you?” the queen cut in hastily. “We will obviously want to make sure that we can attend, and my secretary will bring you a guest list of those relatives abroad you should invite.”

  “Of course, ma’am,” I said. “We have set the date as July 27. Darcy is away at the moment but we must attend to final details as soon as he returns.”

  “Now, about bridesmaids,” she went on, turning to me as if the idea had just struck her. “You will be having bridesmaids?”

  “A maid of honor, ma’am. My best school friend. My niece is too young to be part of a wedding, although I want my nephew to be a page boy.”

  “I am sure Elizabeth and Margaret would be only too delighted to be your bridesmaids, if asked,” the queen said. “Little girls do so enjoy dressing up. Elizabeth would do a sterling job of carrying your train and little Margaret is now old enough to behave herself, one hopes.”

  “A little firecracker, that child,” the king said and laughed heartily.

  Oh golly, I thought. Two princesses carrying my train. And the crowned heads of Europe watching as I put my foot into the hem of my dress and pitch forward, as I did at my presentation at court! I bitterly regretted that Darcy and I had been foiled in our attempt to elope.

  We left the city behind and drove through the leafy green countryside of Berkshire. There was much cheering when we arrived at the racecourse and I felt horribly self-conscious as faces peered into the car and I overheard a cockney voice saying, “’Oo the bleeding ’ell is that with them?”

  I hadn’t thought much about what Ascot would entail. I knew there was a royal enclosure with strict protocol and dress code. I presumed we’d sit in a shady box and sip champagne and watch horses. Now reality dawned as I saw a string of open horse-drawn carriages ahead of us.

  “Thank heavens it’s not windy today,” the queen said. “Remember last year, when it was hard to keep our hats on? If Lady P had not had a vast supply of hairpins in her handbag, my hat would have sailed away.”

  Lady P, the lady-in-waiting, turned back from her seat at the front of the car. “I have a supply ready today, Your Majesty. In case of sudden breezes. Shall we double-check the hat before you get into the carriage?”

  “Hand the hatpins to Georgiana,” the queen said. “She can do emergency repairs if necessary.”

  That’s when I realized that I was to ride with Their Majesties in an open carriage. Oh golly.

  “Ma’am, surely you won’t want me in the carriage,” I said. “I could wait for you in the royal enclosure. Your subjects will want to get a good view of their sovereigns.”

  “On the contrary, Georgiana. This may be one of the last royal events you can attend as a family member,” she said. “I want you to enjoy every minute of it.”

  I saw then what she was doing. I had just renounced my claim in the line of succession. She was reminding me that I’d no longer be even a very minor royal. Presumably I would no longer be invited to dinners at Buckingham Palace or other royal weddings. I’d be Mrs. Darcy O’Mara. Housewife. Well, actually that didn’t bother me too much. I was always terrified at Buckingham Palace anyway. And Mrs. Darcy O’Mara sounded pretty good to me!

  We were helped into the carriage. I didn’t stumble or pitch forward onto the king’s lap. I was proud of myself. Other carriages behind us were occupied by various family members, and we set off down the main straight—the straight mile of the racecourse—to loud cheers. It was indeed an experience and my cheeks were glowing pink as I followed Their Majesties up to their seats in the royal enclosure. How very odd to have people curtsying to me! I was very grateful to find myself sitting behind the king and queen, next to Princess Marina, now Duchess of Kent. She smiled and squeezed my hand.

  “How lovely to see you, Georgie. I thought that was you in the smart hat in the first carriage. How are your wedding plans progressing?”

  “Well,” I said. “I am to see the first sketches for my dress this week and my mother is coming over to help me shop for my trousseau.”

  “How exciting. And where will it be held?”

  “That’s still a matter for debate,” I said, realizing the queen was within hearing distance. “We’ll be sending out invitations as soon as everything is in place.”

  I looked around but couldn’t see the Prince of Wales, nor Binky and Fig, which was a relief. The races started. A young equerry placed a bet for me. I knew nothing about horses or form and chose blindly . . . and I won. Then I promptly lost at the next race. I had been to point-to-point and steeplechasing before, as Darcy’s father ran a racing stable in Ireland (now owned by Princess Zou Zou). But I had never seen a flat race with this much glamour and pageantry and the absolute thrill of the pounding hoofs flashing past us. Between races I was invited to watch the horses being led around the paddock.

  “I like the look of number seven,” the young man who had been escorting me said. “Good solid legs. What do you think, Lady Georgiana?”

  I was about to say that I preferred number five when I froze. I blinked, not sure if what I was seeing was a trick of the light. But the sun moved out from behind a small cloud and it wasn’t. Darcy was standing down in the paddock next to a gorgeous olive-skinned woman wearing a skintight dress and an amazing hat covered in daisies. They were standing very close together, as close as her hat would allow, leaning toward each other in what was clearly a private conversation. Then she looked up at him, smiled and nodded. I couldn’t breathe. Part of me wanted to be calm and grown-up and call out to him. “Yoo-hoo, Darcy,” I’d shout. “What a surprise. It’s your fiancée.” Then he’d be surprised and embarrassed that I had caught him out. But I couldn’t do it. All I wanted to do was to run away, go home. Hide.