A Royal Pain Page 3

  “I must say it is useful to have a name,” I said as we were seated.

  “You should make use of it more often. You could probably get credit anywhere you wanted, for example.”

  “Oh no, I’m not going into debt. You know our family motto—Death Before Dishonor.”

  “There’s nothing dishonorable about debt,” Belinda said. “Think of the death duties your brother was saddled with when your father shot himself.”

  “Ah, but he sold off half the estate, the family silver and our property in Sutherland to pay them off.”

  “How boringly noble of him. I’m glad I’m just landed gentry and not aristocracy. It comes with less weight of ancestors’ expectations. My great-great-grandfather was in trade, of course. Your crowd would have nothing to do with him, even though he could buy the lot of ’em. Anyway, I quite enjoy the vices of the lower classes—and speaking of vices, you never did tell me...”

  “About what?”

  “Your virginity, darling. I do hope you have finally done something to rid yourself of it. Such a burden.”

  Unfortunately blushes really show on my fair skin.

  “You have finally done it, haven’t you?” she went on in her loud bell-like tones, eliciting fascinated stares from all the surrounding tables. “Don’t tell me you haven’t! Georgie, what’s the matter with you? Especially when you have someone who is ready, willing and oh so very able.”

  The poor young man who was busy pouring water into our glasses almost dropped the jug.

  “Belinda,” I hissed.

  “I take it that the rakish Darcy O’Mara is still in the picture?”

  “He’s not, actually.”

  “Oh no. What happened? You two seemed so awfully chummy last time I saw you.”

  “We didn’t have a row or anything. It’s just that he’s disappeared. Not long after the infamous house party. He just didn’t call anymore and I’ve no idea where he’s gone.”

  “Didn’t you go and look him up?”

  “I couldn’t do that. If he doesn’t want me, then I’m not about to throw myself at him.”

  “I would. He’s definitely one of the most interesting men in London. Let’s face it, there are precious few of them, aren’t there? I am positively dying of sexual frustration at the moment.”

  The chef, now standing at our table, pretended to be busy straightening the cutlery. Belinda ordered all sorts of yummy things—an endive salad with smoked salmon and grilled lamb chops accompanied by a wondrously smooth claret, followed by a bread and butter pudding to die for. We had just finished our pudding, and coffee had been brought to the table, when a braying laugh could be heard across the grill, a sort of “haw haw haw.” A young man got up from the table in question, still shaking with merriment. “What a riot,” he said and started to walk in our direction.

  “Now you see what I mean about there being no interesting men in London,” Belinda muttered. “This is the current flower of British manhood. Father owns a publishing house but he’s utterly useless between the covers.”

  “I don’t think I know him.”

  “Gussie Gormsley, darling,” she said.

  “Gussie Gormsley?”

  “Augustus. Father is Lord Gormsley. I’m surprised he’s not on your list of eligibles. Must be the publishing connection. No trade in the family and all that.” She waved at him. “Gussie. Over here.”

  Gussie was a large, fair young man who would have made an ideal rugby forward. His face lit up with pleasure when he saw Belinda.

  “What-ho, Belinda old bean,” he said. “Long time no see.”

  “Just back from the Med, darling. Have you met my good friend Georgiana Rannoch?”

  “Not Binky’s sister? Good God.”

  “Why do you say good God?” I asked.

  “I always thought—well, he’d always given us to think that you were a shy, retiring little thing, and here you are absolutely dripping with glam.”

  “Georgie is probably the most eligible woman in Britain,” Belinda said, before I could stammer anything. “Men are positively fighting over her. Foreign princes, American millionaires.”

  “No wonder Binky kept you a secret,” Gussie said. “I must introduce you to old Lunghi.” He turned and waved back toward his table in the corner.

  “Lunghi who?” Belinda asked.

  “Lunghi Fotheringay, old bean.” Of course he pronounced the second name “Fungy.” One does.

  “Lunghi Fungy? What a scream,” Belinda said. “Why is he called Lunghi?”

  “Just back from India, you know. Showed us a snapshot of himself with a bit of cloth wrapped around his loins and someone said, what do you call that, and he said a lunghi, and then we realized how funny it was. So Lunghi Fungy he became.” He gestured again. “Over here, old man. Couple of delectable young fillies I want you to meet.”

  I felt myself blushing with all eyes in the Savoy on me, but Belinda turned on her brilliant smile as Mr. Fotheringay approached. He was slim, dark and serious looking. Not bad, in fact.

  Introductions were made and then Gussie said, “Look here, there’s going to be a bit of a shindig at our place next week. You two wouldn’t like to come, would you?”

  “Love to, if we’re free,” Belinda said. “Anyone interesting going to be there?”

  “Apart from us, you mean?” the dark and brooding Lunghi asked, gazing at her seriously. It was quite clear in which of us his interest lay. “I can assure you we are the most fascinating men in London at the moment.”

  “Unfortunately that seems to be so,” Belinda agreed. “London is singularly devoid of fascination at present. We’ll take them up on it, then, shall we, Georgie?”

  “Why not?” I replied, trying to indicate that such invitations were commonplace.

  “See you there then. I’ll pop invitations into the post so that it’s official and all that. It’s Arlington Street—that big modern white block of flats beside Green Park. St. James’s Mansions. You’ll know it by the sound of jazz emanating from it and by the disgruntled looks on the faces of the neighbors.”

  Belinda and I rose to leave. “There you are. Good things happen when you’re with me,” she said as she paid the bill without a second glance. “And he was certainly impressed with you, wasn’t he?”

  “With your outfit, more likely,” I said. “But it could be fun.”

  “One of them might do, you know.”

  “For what?”

  “Your virginity, darling. Really you are so dense sometimes.”

  “You said that Gussie was useless between the covers,” I pointed out.

  “For me. He might be all right for you. You won’t expect too much.”

  “Thanks all the same,” I said, “but I’ve decided to wait for love. I don’t want to end up a bolter like my mother.”

  “Speak of the devil,” Belinda said.

  I looked up to see my mother entering the room.

  She stood in the doorway of the Savoy Grill, pretending to be taking in the scene, but really waiting until everyone in the place had noticed her. I had to admit that she did look an absolute vision in flowing white silk with just enough touches of red to be startling. The cloche hat that framed her delicate face was white straw with red swirls woven into it. The maitre d’ leaped forward. “Your Grace, how delightful,” he muttered.

  My mother hasn’t been Her Grace since many husbands ago, but she smiled prettily and didn’t correct him. “Hello, François. How lovely to see you again,” she said in that melodious voice that had charmed audiences in theaters around the world before my father snapped her up. She started across the room and then she saw me. Those huge blue eyes flew open in surprise.

  “Good heavens, Georgie. It is you! I hardly recognized you, darling. You look positively civilized for once. You must have found a rich lover.”

  “Hello, Mummy.” We kissed, about an inch from each other’s cheeks. “I didn’t know you were in town. I thought you’d be in the Black Forest at t
his time of year.”

  “I came over to meet—a friend.” There was something coy in her voice.

  “So are you still with what’s-his-name?”

  “Max? Well, yes and no. He thinks so. But one does tire of not being able to chat occasionally. I mean the sex is still heavenly, but one does enjoy a good conversation and for some reason I simply can’t learn German. And all Max likes to talk about is shooting things. So I have taken a quick flit over to London. Ah, there he is now.” I saw a hand waving from a far corner of the restaurant. “Must fly, darling. Are you still at dreary old Rannoch House? We’ll have tea or something. Ciao!”

  And she was gone, leaving me with the usual disappointment and frustration and so many things left unsaid. You’ve probably guessed by now that as a mother she hasn’t been too satisfactory. Belinda took my arm. “I don’t know why you are adamant about not ending up like your mother. She does have a wardrobe to die for.”

  “But at what cost?” I said. “My grandfather thinks that she’s sold her soul.”

  A taxicab was hailed for us. We climbed in. I stared out of the window and found that I was shivering. It wasn’t just the meeting with my mother that had unnerved me. As we were getting into the taxi, I think I spotted Darcy O’Mara walking into the Savoy, with a tall, dark-haired girl on his arm.

  Chapter 4

  “You’re very quiet,” Belinda commented during the taxi ride home. “Did the food not agree with you?”

  “No, the food was divine,” I said. I took a deep breath. “You didn’t happen to notice Darcy coming into the Savoy as we left, did you?”

  “Darcy? No, I can’t say I did.”

  “Then I may be imagining things,” I said. “But I could swear it was he, and he had a young woman on his arm. A very attractive young woman.”

  “Ah well,” Belinda said with a sigh. “Men like Darcy are not known for their spaniel-like devotion, and I’m sure he has healthy appetites.”

  “I suppose you’re right,” I said and sat for the rest of the cab ride in deepest gloom. It seemed that my stupid reticence had robbed me of my chance with Darcy. Did I really want him? I asked myself. He was Irish, Catholic, penniless, unreliable and in every way unsuitable, except that he was the son of a peer. But the image of him with another girl brought almost a physical pain to my heart.

  What’s more, those fleeting meetings with my mother always left me frustrated and depressed. So much I wanted to say to her and never a moment to say it. And now it seemed she might be moving on to yet another new man. It was the vision of ending up like her that had made me cautious about surrendering to someone like Darcy in the first place. I wasn’t sure that I had inherited her flighty nature, but I was sure I had definitely inherited those stalwart Rannoch traits. And Death Before Dishonor was our family name!

  I let myself into Rannoch House, still wearing Belinda’s stylish outfit, my maid’s uniform and the clompy shoes now in a Harrods carrier bag. I had tried to make her take back the clothes she had lent me, but she had insisted that it was going to be good advertising and all I had to do was to hand her card to anyone who complimented me. I suppose she was right in a way, although she obviously thought I saw my royal relatives more frequently than I really did. As far as I knew, the next time I would set eyes on the king and queen would be at Balmoral, whither I was summoned each summer, Castle Rannoch being but a stone’s throw away. And at Balmoral it was strictly Highland dress.

  I stepped into the gloom of the front hall and noticed a letter lying on the mat. I picked it up expectantly. Post was a rarity as hardly anybody knew I was in London. Then I saw what it was and almost dropped it. From the palace. Hand delivered.

  I went cold all over. From Her Majesty’s private secretary. Her Majesty hopes that you will be able to take tea with her tomorrow, June 7th. She apologizes for the short notice but a matter of some urgency has arisen.

  My first thought, of course, was that Siegfried had recognized the maid’s uniform and had promptly visited the palace to tell them the awful truth. I’d be sent to the country and—“Wait a minute,” I said out loud. She might be Queen of England and Empress of India and all that, but she can’t force me to do anything I don’t want to. This isn’t the Middle Ages. She can’t have my head cut off or throw me into the Tower. I’m doing nothing wrong. I know that cleaning houses is a little beneath my station, but I’m earning an honest living. I’m not asking anybody to support me. I’m trying to make my way in the world at a difficult time. She should be proud of my enterprise.

  Right. That’s that, then. That’s exactly what I’ll tell her.

  I felt much better after that. I marched upstairs and took off Belinda’s creation. Then I sat at my desk and wrote out a bill, for half the agreed amount, to the Dowager Countess Sophia, with an explanation about the maid’s sudden aversion to London dust.

  Rannoch House

  Tuesday, June 7, 1932

  Diary,

  Lovely bright morning. Buck House today. Tea with queen. Not expecting much to eat. Really, royal protocol is too silly. May have to distract HM and gobble down a quick cake this time. I wonder what she wants. Nothing good, I fear....

  When I was dressing to go to tea at the palace, I wasn’t feeling quite as brave anymore. Her Majesty is a formidable woman. She is small and may not appear too fierce at first glance, but remember my great-grandmother, Queen Victoria. She was small and yet a whole empire trembled when she raised an eyebrow. Queen Mary doesn’t have quite that power, but one look at that ramrod straight back and those cold blue eyes with their frank, appraising stare, can turn the strongest person to a jelly. And she doesn’t like to be crossed. I stared at the clothes in my wardrobe, trying to decide what would make the best impression. Not too worldly, so definitely not Belinda’s creation. I have some fairly smart formal dresses, but my summer day clothes are sadly lacking. The dress I liked best was made of cotton. It needed a proper ironing and I had not yet mastered the use of the iron. I ended up with more creases than I started with, not to mention a scorch or two. And now was not a good time to practice. In the end I opted for simplicity and went with a navy suit and white blouse. Rather like a school uniform but at least I looked neat, clean and proper. I topped it off with my white straw hat (nothing like my mother’s stylish little number) and white gloves, then off I went.

  It was a warm day and I was rather red in the face by the time I reached the top of Constitution Hill. I dabbed at my face with my eau de cologne-soaked hanky before I walked past those guardsmen. The visitors’ entrance is on the far side of the palace. At least a visitor like myself, arriving without benefit of state coach or Rolls, can enter through a side gate. I crossed the forecourt, feeling, as I always did, that eyes were watching me and that I’d probably trip over a cobble.

  I was received with great civility and ushered upstairs, the royal apartments being one floor up. Luckily I didn’t have to face the grand staircase with its red carpet and statues, but was taken up a simple back stair to an office that looked as if it could have been any London solicitor’s. Here Her Majesty’s secretary was waiting for me. “Ah, Lady Georgiana. Please come with me. Her Majesty is awaiting you in her private sitting room.” He seemed quite cheerful, jolly even. I was tempted to ask him if Her Majesty had inquired about the train service to deepest Gloucestershire. But then maybe she hadn’t disclosed to him why she had summoned me. He may have known nothing about aunts with Pekinese dogs.

  Thank heavens we’re not Catholic, I thought. At least they can’t lock me away in a convent until a suitable groom is found. That made me freeze halfway down the hall. What if I was ushered into the sitting room only to find Prince Siegfried and a priest awaiting me?

  “In here, my lady,” the secretary said. “Lady Georgiana, ma’am.”

  I took a deep breath and stepped inside. The queen was seated in a Chippendale armchair in front of a low table. Although she was no longer young, her complexion was flawless and smooth, with no sign of wrink
les. What’s more, I suspected she didn’t need the help of the various expensive preparations my mother used to hang on to her youthful looks.

  Tea was already laid, including a delicious array of cakes on a two-tiered silver and glass cake stand. Her Majesty held out a hand to me. “Ah, Georgiana, my dear. How good of you to come.”

  As if one refused a queen.

  “It was very kind of you to invite me, ma’am.” I attempted the usual mixture of curtsy and kiss on the cheek and managed it this time without bumping my nose.

  “Do sit down. Tea is all ready. China or Indian?”

  “China, thank you.”

  The queen poured the tea herself. “And do help yourself to something to eat.”

  “After you, ma’am,” I said dutifully, knowing full well that protocol demands that the guest only eats what the queen eats. Last time she had chosen one slice of brown bread.

  “I really don’t think I’m hungry today,” she said, making my spirits fall even further. Did she realize what torture it was to sit and stare at strawberry tarts and éclairs and not be able to eat one?

  I was about to say that I wasn’t hungry either, when she leaned forward. “On second thought, those éclairs do look delicious, don’t they? We’ll forget about our figures for once, shall we?”

  She was in a good mood. Why, I wondered. Was this a good-bye tea before she announced some awful fate for me?

  “How have you been faring since I saw you last, Georgiana?” she asked, fixing me with that powerful stare.

  I had been trying hard to take a bite of éclair without getting any cream on my upper lip. “Well, thank you, ma’am.”

  “So you stayed in London. You didn’t go to the country after all, or home to Scotland.”

  “No, ma’am. I had been planning to keep Sir Hubert company when he returned home from the Swiss hospital, but he has decided to complete his recovery at a Swiss sanitarium and there was little point in going home to Scotland.” (Sir Hubert was my favorite former stepfather and had been seriously injured during a mountaineering expedition in the Alps.)