On Her Majesty's Frightfully Secret Service Page 3

  “I have to go to London and then probably on to Italy,” I said.

  “But you have a new maid. You said she was a sweet little thing and so willing.”

  “Just not willing to leave her mother and come to what she calls heathen parts with me,” I said with a rueful smile.

  “Ah, so you want Queenie back. I knew it was too good to last,” Oona said.

  My brain was racing. Queenie was doing well here. Learning skills. Not making too many mistakes. And Oona and Dooley needed her.

  “Dooley will be devastated, of course,” Oona went on, glancing at her husband, who sat silently with a gloomy expression on his face. “No more bottoms to pinch. It keeps him perky, having the occasional bottom to pinch.”

  I stood up. “I’ll go and have a word with Queenie,” I said. “I’ll leave it up to her.”

  I found her in the kitchen putting coffee cups on a tray. The kitchen was surprisingly neat and tidy. Newly baked bread rested on a rack. Something that smelled good was simmering on the stove.

  “I hear you’re doing really well here,” I said. “Sir Dooley and Lady Whyte are pleased with you.”

  She gave a sheepish grin. “They are so nice to me. They appreciate what I do for them. And even Mr. Treadwell said I was getting to be a big help and he ain’t normally the type what gives compliments.”

  “So you’d prefer to stay here, rather than come back to London with me.”

  She looked up, startled. “You’re leaving? Going back home?”

  “Only for a while. I have some things I have to do in London, then I may go and stay with Miss Belinda in Italy.”

  “Italy . . .” Her face became wistful. “I hear Italy’s smashing. Lots of good food.”

  “So I said I’d leave it up to you, Queenie. If you want to stay here, I’m sure I can do without a maid. I just wanted to make sure you were happy here.”

  “Oh yes, miss. I like it here.”

  “Even if Sir Dooley pinches your bottom?” I lowered my voice.

  She giggled. “There ain’t no harm in him, miss. He just likes a bit of excitement from time to time, but he’s harmless, ain’t he?” Then she started to shake with laughter. “I mean, look at him. He’s so small and skinny I could knock him flying with one punch if I wanted to.”

  The kettle boiled and she poured the hot water over the coffee grounds, without spilling any or burning herself. I made up my mind.

  “Very well, then, Queenie. I’m going to leave you here at the moment. I’ll be back in time to plan my wedding and we can talk then about your future.”

  She grinned. “Bob’s yer uncle, miss,” she said.

  Chapter 3

  TUESDAY, APRIL 9, 1935

  On my way back to England. Rather sad to be leaving Ireland.

  I caught the night ferry from Dublin to Holyhead. I couldn’t help feeling a little guilty. Lord Kilhenny was clearly upset that I was deserting him.

  “The rats are abandoning the sinking ship,” he had commented.

  “I’m sorry. I don’t want to abandon you,” I said, “but I have been summoned by Queen Mary, and one can’t say no to a queen.”

  He grunted. “I suppose not.”

  “And in this case it’s really important. She wants to talk to me about this line of succession thing. Presumably it won’t be put to Parliament until she’s spoken to me.”

  “Utter nonsense,” he snapped. “I’d just ignore the whole thing and marry Darcy if it were me. Or you could become an Irish citizen and thumb your nose at the British monarchy.”

  “I can’t really do that,” I said awkwardly. “Anyway I’m just hoping it’s only a matter of formality and we can plan the summer wedding as we had hoped.”

  “All right, then,” he said. “You’d better get going if you want to catch tonight’s ferry. I’ll drive you to the station.”

  “Will you really? That’s awfully kind of you,” I said. Impulsively I leaned up to kiss his cheek and I saw him give an embarrassed smile. That was when I realized he had grown fond of me and I felt a glow of warmth knowing this.

  “And don’t worry. We’ll all be back soon,” I said.

  “All?”

  “Darcy and Alexandra and me,” I said.

  “That’s not very likely. I think the princess has enjoyed playing at owning an Irish racing stable and has now gone on to new interests,” he said. “We’ll probably find that she’s sold it to a sheik or another American—that is, if she ever gets home safely from that stupid round-the-world jaunt of hers.”

  “Don’t be such an old sourpuss,” I said. “She’s very fond of you and of course she’ll come back safely. You know Zou Zou. She lives a charmed life.”

  “We’ll have to see, won’t we?” he muttered.

  “And in the meantime your job is to win the Grand National and let the world see that Kilhenny stables are back on the map.”

  He looked at me and smiled then. “You’re a hopeless optimist, do you know that? But I can see why Darcy likes you. I’m going to enjoy having you around the place and bringing it back to life with grandchildren one day.” Then he realized that he had shown emotion and said gruffly, “Go and get your bags, then, and I’ll bring round the motorcar.”

  We didn’t say much on the way to the station. I was trying to think of bright and encouraging things to cheer him up, but I couldn’t come up with any. I could understand how easily he could sink into depression again in that big gloomy castle.

  “So you’ll come back after your little chat with the queen?” he asked as we pulled up outside Kildare Station.

  That was when I remembered I hadn’t mentioned Belinda. “Not right away,” I said cautiously. “I might be going on to Italy for a little while. I have a school friend there who is not very well. She wrote to me and asked me to come and stay with her as she is all alone.”

  “An Italian, is she?”

  “No, she’s English.”

  “Then what in the name of goodness is she doing in Italy if she’s not well? She should come home to England where there are good doctors.”

  “She has to stay put at the moment,” I said. “The climate there is better for her.”

  “Oh, it’s consumption, is it?”

  “Something like that,” I agreed, finding it hard to lie to my future father-in-law.

  “Then make sure you don’t catch it!” he said fiercely. He came around to open my door, carried my suitcase to the ticket booth, then gave me an unexpected hug. “Come home safely,” he said.

  I caught my train and then had a smooth crossing on the ferry, in contrast to the wild night that had brought me to Ireland. I realized how different that crossing had been. Then I had been in the depths of despair, terrified that Darcy wanted nothing more to do with me and my life was over. Now I had every hope for the future. As Lord Kilhenny had said, if the queen wouldn’t allow me to renounce my claim to the throne then I’d move to Ireland. Simple as that.

  I was brimming with confidence when I arrived back in London and the taxicab deposited me outside Rannoch House on Belgrave Square. I hoped my brother and sister-in-law wouldn’t mind my spending a few days with them. It was raining hard as I went up the front steps, lugging my own suitcase, and rapped on the front door. It was opened not by Hamilton, the butler, but instead I found myself looking at the face of my sister-in-law, Hilda, Duchess of Rannoch, usually known as Fig.

  “Good God, Georgiana, what are you doing here?” she demanded in that voice that could cut glass. She looked down at my suitcase. “I hope you haven’t come for long because we’re planning to go back to Scotland.”

  “And a very good evening to you too, Fig,” I said. “Thank you for the warm welcome and no, I haven’t come for long.”

  “I suppose you’d better come in,” she said and stood aside so that I could step into the front hall
.

  “You look like a drowned rat,” she commented.

  “It is raining rather hard and I didn’t have a spare hand for an umbrella.” I started to unbutton my raincoat.

  “You don’t have a maid with you?”

  “Remember that you told me to get rid of Queenie? Well, I have.”

  “But I meant you should find a more suitable replacement. One does not travel without a maid. It reflects poorly on the family.”

  “As I’ve pointed out to you before, servants cost money and I have very little.” I took my raincoat and hung it on the hall stand. “Shouldn’t Hamilton be answering the front door? Don’t tell me you’ve got rid of him? Doors should be answered by a butler, you know. Otherwise it reflects poorly on the family.”

  I saw a spasm of annoyance cross her face and tried not to grin. “Hamilton had to go home for a death in the family,” she said. “He should be back in a few days. And we only brought a skeleton staff down from Scotland so we’re muddling through. You’d better come into the drawing room. Did you dine on the train?”

  “Yes, thank you, but I wouldn’t say no to a cup of coffee.”

  She rang the bell and a maid was dispatched to bring coffee. “The house is all at sixes and sevens without Hamilton,” she said. “I don’t know what servants are coming to these days. You notice we don’t even have a footman here. Jamie refused to leave his ailing mother. A servant, refusing to follow his masters. My mother would have a fit if she saw a maid serving at the dinner table.”

  The maid came in at this point with a tray of coffee and poured two cups. I thought she did it rather well.

  “So what brings you back to London?” Fig asked. “I take it you have been in Ireland with that Darcy person.”

  “That Darcy person is the son of Lord Kilhenny, thus of the same social level as you,” I said. “You too are the daughter of a baron, are you not? You only rose in the world when you married a duke.”

  Another flash of annoyance crossed her face. I decided that I was learning to stand up for myself rather well and decided to strike a crowning blow. “You asked why I am here. Queen Mary wants to have a chat with me about my wedding.”

  It was infuriating to Fig that I was related to the royal family and she wasn’t, at least not by blood. It annoyed her even more that the queen seemed to be fond of me and was often inviting me for little chats. There was a frosty silence while I suspected she searched for something crushing to say.

  “Where is Binky?” I asked.

  “Went to bed early. Not feeling too perky. Actually he caught a cold as soon as he came back to this abysmal climate.” She gave a dramatic sigh. “Oh, how one misses the Riviera. The flowers. The blue sea. The sunshine.” She gave me a triumphant little smirk. “I suppose it rained a lot in Ireland? From what one hears it rains all the time.”

  “Pretty much the same as in Scotland,” I said. “I should have thought you were used to rain by now, after all these years of living at Castle Rannoch.”

  “Just because one puts up with it doesn’t mean one enjoys it,” she said. “It’s only when one sees how pleasant life could be elsewhere that one becomes a little discontent—especially with a husband who is coughing and sneezing all night.”

  I finished my coffee and assured her that I could carry my own suitcase up to my bedroom.

  “Will you be going straight back to Ireland after your tête-à-tête with the queen?” she asked.

  “No, actually I thought I might go and stay with a friend who is living in Italy,” I said and was rewarded with an absolutely venomous glare.

  • • •

  IN THE MORNING I was greeted warmly by Binky, then received an equally warm greeting when I went up to the nursery to see my nephew and niece. Little Adelaide hung back shyly, having forgotten who I was but six year old Podge gave me a frank and accurate account of life on the Riviera with Fig’s sister and brother-in-law, the cramped conditions, the spartan meals and how dreadfully boring his cousin Maude was. “And do you know, Auntie Georgie,” he said, frowning, “they took me down to the beach every day, but there’s no sand and the water was too cold to swim. It was a very boring beach.”

  I was still chuckling as I left them and went to Binky’s study to write a letter to the queen. I apologized for not answering her sooner, telling her the letter had just been forwarded to me in Ireland. But I had come immediately to London and looked forward to visiting Buckingham Palace whenever might be convenient for her. I sealed the letter, walked through the rain to the postbox, came back and waited.

  I didn’t have to wait long. The next morning there was a telephone call. Fig answered it herself, in the absence of Hamilton, and came into the breakfast room looking distinctly put out.

  “You’re wanted on the telephone,” she said. “It’s the palace.”

  I jumped up. “Oh good.” I gave her a bright smile as I hurried out of the room.

  It was the queen’s secretary on the line and he informed me that Her Majesty would be free that afternoon if I would like to come to tea. I accepted, naturally, and spent the rest of the morning trying to find something suitable to wear. The weather was so miserable that I didn’t think even Her Majesty would be in a tea dress. I examined my meager wardrobe. I had never had the money to be fashionable and now my clothes seemed hopelessly dowdy and old-fashioned. I had taken my stout winter items with me to Ireland and they now looked a little the worse for wear. I did have my mother’s cast-off silver fox coat, but it was raining cats and dogs and I didn’t want to arrive looking like a drowned English setter. I settled on a gray jersey skirt, another pass-on from my mother, and added a peach cashmere cardigan, also from her. I should point out, for those who don’t know, that my mother had been a famous actress before she married my father and had worked her way through a long line of rich men ever since. She had the most fabulous clothes, looked absolutely stunning, even now that she was over forty. However, she was several inches shorter than I and had a waist that men could still span with their hands (and I expect a good many of them had tried it!). So hand-me-downs were few and far between—not that I bumped into her often. She spent most of her time in Germany with the man she planned to marry, industrialist Max von Strohheim.

  I sighed and tried on the skirt and cardigan over a cream chiffon blouse. Acceptable if not fashionable, I decided and paused, examining my five-foot-six frame in the mirror, wondering whether my mother might be persuaded to buy me a trousseau and what my wedding dress should look like. I had these sorts of fantasies quite often these days. It still seemed like something of a fantasy to me that a handsome, dashing man of the world like Darcy would want to marry a shy, slightly awkward and hopelessly naïve girl like me. But he had proposed. I proudly wore his late mother’s engagement diamond on my ring finger and if the king and queen and Parliament said yes to the marriage today I could start planning a summer wedding. If Darcy came home in time from his latest assignment, that is!

  Chapter 4

  THURSDAY, APRIL 11, 1935

  Off to Buckingham Palace to have tea with the queen in a few minutes. How grand that sounds and how easy it is to write it! But golly, I’m always a bundle of nerves, even if she is a relative. Please don’t let me knock over any statues or priceless Ming vases!

  At three o’clock it was still raining hard and a fierce wind was driving the rain almost horizontally. I decided I simply couldn’t arrive looking as if I’d been dragged from the nearest lake so I decided to throw caution to the winds and hail a taxicab.

  “Where to, love?” he asked as I climbed into the backseat.

  “Buckingham Palace, please,” I said.

  He chuckled, a deep throaty chuckle that turned into a cough the way it did with many Londoners who had lived with years of smoky fog. “Cor blimey. You going to have tea with the queen, are yer?”

  “Actually I am,” I said.

 
; There was a silence, then he burst out laughing. “Go on, pull the other one! You nearly had me for a moment there.”

  “No, honestly,” I said. “I am going to tea there.”

  “What—are you going to be presented with a medal or something?”

  “No,” I replied. “The king is my cousin.”

  “Blimey!” he said, turning to look at me as if he expected me to have grown a crown on my head. “Begging your pardon, Your Royal ’ighness. You don’t expect a toff like you to be riding in a cab driven by the likes of me, do you? I thought your lot went around in Daimlers and Bentleys and coach and ’orses.”

  “Not all of us live that way,” I said. “I’m rather a poor relation, I’m afraid. Even taxicabs are a luxury for me.”

  We drove around Hyde Park Corner and down Constitution Hill.

  “So where do you want to be dropped off, Yer Highness?” he asked.

  “Outside the front gates, please. I’m afraid they won’t let you drive up to the doors and I’m going to get rather wet.”

  “What, one of their own family? We’ll see about that,” he said and turned into the front entrance, between those imposing gilded gates. Guards stood on either side, with rain streaming down their faces and running down their bearskins while they looked stoically straight ahead. Until we pulled up, that is.

  “I’ve got a member of the royal family ’ere.” The cabby leaned across. “And we don’t want ’er getting wet when she comes to see the queen, do we?”

  The guard bent to peer at me. “And you are, miss?” he asked.

  “Lady Georgiana, the king’s cousin, and of course I understand that you can’t let a cabby drive into the courtyard.”

  “Who says we can’t?” he said, giving me an unguardlike grin. “Go on, then, cabby, but make sure you come straight out again.”

  “Thank you!” I beamed at the guard. He stood back at attention, but allowed himself a hint of smugness in his expression.

  So we swept into the central courtyard and a footman came out to open the door for me. He looked surprised at the cab.