Malice at the Palace (5 page)

Fig and Binky were sitting by the drawing room fire when I returned. Podge was with them, sitting beside his mother and showing her a drawing he had made, while Binky had Adelaide on his knee and was bouncing her while Nanny hovered protectively near the doorway.

“There you are, Georgiana.” Fig looked up. “So how was tea at the palace?” She almost spat out the last word.

“The cake wasn't quite as good as the one I had at my grandfather's,” I said with a smile.

“Was anybody else present? Was it a large tea party?”

“Just the queen and I. Oh, and the Prince of Wales came in for a moment.”

“Really?” She blinked rapidly and one could see the wheels of her brain turning, demanding to know why I should have a tête-à-tête with the queen and not she.

“I'm glad you're going to be staying with us for a long while, Aunt Georgie,” Podge said.

“Unfortunately I won't be here as long as I had thought, Podge,” I said. “But I will come to visit and maybe I can take you out to the park.”

“You won't be staying here after all?” There was a note of hope in Fig's voice.

“Unfortunately no,” I said. “The queen wants me to move into Kensington Palace and look after Princess Marina.”

It gave me great satisfaction that those words had the effect I had hoped for.

SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 3

KENSINGTON PALACE, LONDON

Dear Diary: Today I move into Kensington Palace. Moving up in the world. Actually I'm partly excited and partly terrified. Please don't let me break anything or knock an elderly princess down the stairs!

Kensington Palace is not like its sister Buckingham. It sits in the middle of a public park with a much-traveled walkway going past it. There are no guards and only the southern side has gates. And some of it is open to the public. In fact as I approached, a group of schoolchildren were huddling together and looking miserable in the rain as they waited to be escorted around the state rooms. I had actually never been inside before so I went to the reception desk and was about to be handed a ticket when I let the woman know that I was looking for the way to apartment 1.

“You can't get into the private apartments this way, miss,” she said. “The private rooms are quite separate from the public. You'll have to follow the path around and it's on the other side, at the back of the building.” She looked at me suspiciously. It was raining and I was wearing my mack again and probably didn't look much like a person who visited royal apartments. “Are you delivering something?” she asked. “I could have it sent around there for you.”

“No, I'm coming to live there,” I said and departed, giving her a bright smile and something to think about. I went back into the rain and then found the path that would take me to the back of the palace. The rain came down harder and the wind buffeted me as I finally came to what I hoped was the right door. I rang the bell. Nobody came immediately so I tried the knob and the door swung open. I stepped into a foyer and looked around with surprise. I had expected something like Buckingham Palace—walls lined with royal portraits, antiques and statues everywhere. But this was more like an ordinary home, slightly outmoded and with a lingering smell of furniture polish and damp. I gave a sigh of disappointment, mingled with a small sigh of relief. At least I wouldn't have to worry about knocking over priceless objects every time I turned around, the way I did at Buckingham Palace. It was also rather cold in that foyer, with a draft swirling about my legs. Not too welcoming a first impression for a newly arrived princess, I thought. But perhaps they were not planning to turn on any form of heat until she arrived.

I wasn't quite sure what to do next. I wondered if the queen would have supplied servants or if Princess Marina was bringing her own and they weren't here yet. I realized that I should have asked to be taken to Major Beauchamp-Chough, not have gone straight to the apartment. Protocol probably demanded that he escort me to my quarters. But it was a long, wet walk back to the front of the building. There was an archway at the end of the entry hall leading to a passageway beyond. As I looked toward it I saw a woman walk across it. She was moving swiftly, almost gliding and making no sound.

“Hello,” I called. “Wait a minute, please.”

When she didn't stop I ran after her, and found myself standing in a long dark corridor that was completely empty. Where had she gone? There were no side hallways and she would not have had time to open and close a door. That was when I realized she was wearing a long white dress and her hair had been piled upon her head in little curls. I felt the hair on the back of my neck stand up. At that moment I heard the brisk tap of feet on the marble-tiled floor and a woman came across the foyer toward me. This one was all too solid. She was probably in her thirties, well fed, in a wool dress that was a little too tight for her, pale faced and with pale hair piled in an old-fashioned bun. She spotted me and bore down upon me, wagging a finger.

“Ah, there you are, you naughty girl,” she said in strongly accented English. “Where have you been? I have been waiting for you.”

“I didn't realize there was a specific time for my arrival,” I said, taking aback by her ferocious approach.

“That is no way to address your betters,” she said, giving me a haughty stare.

“My betters?” Indignation now overtook surprise. “I'm sorry. I don't know who you are, but I rather think we must be equals, unless you are Queen Victoria reincarnated.”

I saw uncertainty cross her face. “Are you not the girl who was sent to bring me pickled herring from Harrods?”

I tried not to grin. “I am Lady Georgiana, cousin to His Majesty,” I said. “May one ask your name?”

“Oh, thousand pardons,” the woman stammered, thoroughly flustered now. “I did not expect . . . we were not informed that His Majesty's cousin would be visiting. And I did not expect a royal person to arrive alone in such a manner.” And she looked at my sodden mack and the puddle accumulating around my feet.

“Yes, I'm sorry. I realize I don't look very royal,” I said. “But it's raining cats and dogs out there and I don't have a motorcar.”

She went and peered out of the window. “I do not see any cats and dogs,” she said.

“Just an expression.”

“Ah,” she said solemnly. “An English idiom. I must learn these things. Cats and dogs.” She nodded as if her brain had processed this information, then she gave me a little bowing jerk of the head. “I am the Countess Irmtraut von Dinkelfingen-Hackensack. I am the cousin of Princess Marina. Our mothers are related. My mother was a Pushova.”

I didn't think I'd heard correctly. “I beg your pardon?”

“A Pushova. My mother was a Pushova. The daughter of Prince Vladimir Pushov, related to the czar.”

“Oh, I see.” Thank heavens I hadn't started to laugh!

“How do you do, Countess.” I held out my hand and she shook it heartily.

“Has the king sent you perhaps to assure that the accommodations are suitable?”

“Actually it was the queen who asked me to come and stay here to look after Princess Marina until her marriage.”

Countess Irmtraut frowned. “To stay here? Look after Her Highness? Why should this be necessary? She has me to look after her. And I know her wishes.”

Oh dear. She looked seriously put out. “I'm sure you do,” I said. “But the queen suggested that I acquaint Princess Marina with the way things are done in England and show her around London.”

“I see.” She did not look very happy.

“I don't know which rooms I am to have,” I said. “I presume Major Beauchamp-Chough will show me to my quarters.”

“This major is the very correct Englishman who lives here?” she asked.

I nodded. “I believe so.”

“He is very military, I think,” she said. “Not a sympathetic man. Prince George, is he a sympathetic man? I do not wish someone like this major for Marina.”

“Prince George is very nice,” I could say with complete truth. “Very kind. Good sense of humor.”

“This is good. Not all princes are sympathetic. We have met some recently who are . . .” She broke off, weighing whether to proceed with this topic. “You are acquainted with Prince Siegfried perhaps?”

“Of Romania? Oh dear, yes. There was a push to make me marry him once.”

“Somebody pushed you? This is dangerous. Did you fall?”

“No, I meant that my relatives were keen on such a match for me. But he was awful. Arrogant. Cold. We called him Fishface.”

She looked troubled. “But he does not have the face of a fish, I think. He has the face of a human.”

I was beginning to find this conversation really tiring and was relieved when a door nearby opened and a man came out, striding toward me with purpose.

“Lady Georgiana,” he said, extending his hand to me. “I was just told that you were in the building. Forgive me for not welcoming you. Beauchamp-Chough. Major, Life Guards. I'm currently acting as His Royal Highness Prince George's equerry and have been put in charge of this upcoming bun fight.”

“Bun fight?” Countess Irmtraut exclaimed. “There is to be a fight with pastries? This is an old English custom?”

The major and I both laughed.

“Actually it's a familiar term for any kind of celebration, hence, the wedding,” the major said.

“I see. Another English joke.” Her face did not crack a smile, but the major exchanged a brief glance with me and there was a flicker of amusement in his eyes.

He was younger than I expected, but certainly of military bearing, tall, erect, with a neat little blond mustache. Quite good-looking, I noted.

“How do you do, Major Beauchamp-Chough.” I shook his hand while Countess Irmtraut stood and glowered.

“Most people call me B-C,” he said. “Or Major B-C, if you wish.” He grinned. “It refers to my initials, not my age.”

“But it is impossible for you to have been born before Christ,” Irmtraut said. “Surely you did not think we would believe you to be so old.”

When neither of us replied she sighed. “I see. Another English joke. Your country has much humor, I think.”

“Oh, absolutely. A laugh a minute,” he said, and to my amusement she checked the watch that was pinned to the front of her dress.

“Major Beauchamp-Chough,” she said, “I requested that someone be dispatched to find me some pickled herring. So far nobody has returned with any.”

“Perhaps they are still fishing for it in the Round Pond,” he suggested, his face expressionless.

“But no.” Countess Irmtraut shook her head emphatically. “They will find no herring in a pond. It is a fish of the oceans.”

The major caught my eye again and almost winked. I decided that I liked him.

“It was more English humor, Countess.”

“I do not understand this English humor,” she said grouchily. “I will await news of my herrings in my room.” And she swept out.

“Not the easiest lady, I'm afraid,” the major said. “Fortunately the princess is quite charming and easy to get along with.”

“You've already met her?”

“I was lucky enough to visit her parents with His Royal Highness,” he said. “Prince George and his parents will be going to meet her from the boat train tomorrow afternoon. They will be bringing her here and tomorrow evening there will be a dinner at Buckingham Palace for her to meet the family. You will be invited, of course, and will travel with Princess Marina in her motorcar.”

“Thank you very much,” I stammered. “Now if you would please have someone show me my room. I think I need to get out of these wet clothes before I make a bigger puddle on the floor.”

“I'll be happy to escort you,” he said. “This way.”

He led me under the arch and up a spiral staircase. For a palace it was quite plain, with whitewashed walls and plain stone steps. “I hope you don't mind stairs,” the major said. “This is one of the smaller apartments and I've given the first floor over to Princess Marina and her maid. You and the countess have rooms on the second floor and there are small bedrooms for your maid on the third. Your maid did not come with you?”

I swallowed hard. “She will be arriving later with my luggage.” The thought of the major meeting Queenie made me feel positively sick.

The major went up the next flight at great speed, proving that he was as fit as he looked. “Here we are,” he said, opening the first door we came to. The furniture was rather old-fashioned and the wallpaper a trifle dingy, but it was large and pleasant enough, with windows opening onto an inner courtyard, rather than the park.

“I'm afraid this apartment is in serious need of modernization,” he said, “but it is the only one unoccupied that is big enough to house the royal party. As you probably know we have four elderly ladies occupying other apartments here.”

“The Aunt Heap,” I said with a grin.

“You've been talking to the Prince of Wales.” He returned my smile. “Yes, two of Queen Victoria's daughters and two granddaughters are all in residence. Your great-aunts and your father's cousins, are they not?”

“I suppose they are. I always get confused with family relationships.”

“Oh, and before I forget,” he went on, opening a wardrobe door to check inside, “Princess Louise asked me to invite you to dine with her this evening in her apartment. It's 1A—the apartment that runs the length of the south side. Seven thirty, she said.”

“Thank you. How kind of her.”

“I'll leave you to settle in, then,” he said. “I am in apartment 10 if you need me. The official entrance is around at the front of the building, through the public foyer, but luckily I have a bolt-hole back door into the courtyard so I don't have to negotiate hordes of schoolchildren. They always want to know which member of the royal family I am.” He gave an exasperated smile, nodded to me and left. I heard his footsteps retreating down the stairs again.