Royal Blood (4 page)

“I have come for Lady Georgiana,” he said, not guessing for a moment that I was anything other than a servant. “From the palace.”

That’s when I noticed the royal standard the Daimler was flying. Oh, golly. Thursday. Luncheon with the queen. With my brain pickled with alcohol I had completely forgotten.

“I’ll inform her,” I muttered. I closed the front door and was about to rush up the stairs in flat panic when Fig’s head emerged from the top of the kitchen stairs.

“Who was it?” she asked.

“The queen’s chauffeur,” I said. “I’m supposed to go to the palace for luncheon today.” I implied that luncheon with Her Majesty was a normal occurrence for me. It always annoyed the heck out of Fig that I was related to the royals and she was only a by-marriage. “I’d better go up and change, I suppose. I shouldn’t keep her chauffeur waiting.”

“Luncheon at the palace?” she demanded, scowling at me. “No wonder you don’t bother to keep any food in the house if you are always dining in high places. Did you hear that, Binky?” Fig called down the stairs. “The queen has sent a car for her. She’s going to lunch at the palace. She’s going to get a decent lunch. You’re the duke. Why aren’t we invited?”

“Probably because the queen wants to talk to Georgiana,” Binky said, “and besides, how would she know we are here?”

Fig was still glaring as if I’d arranged this little tête-à-tête just to spite her. I must say it gave me enormous pleasure.

Chapter 5

Buckingham Palace
Thursday, November 10

In spite of a head that felt as if it were splitting down the middle and eyes that didn’t want to focus, I managed to bathe and make myself look respectable in fifteen minutes flat. Then I was sitting in the backseat of the royal Daimler being whisked toward the palace. It wasn’t really a great distance from Belgrave Square down Constitution Hill and I had walked it on previous occasions. However, today I was most grateful for the car because the fog had turned again to a nasty November rain. One does not meet the queen looking like a drowned rat.

As I looked out through rain-streaked windows at the bleak world beyond I had time to wonder about the implications of this summons and I began to worry. The queen of England was a busy woman. She was always out opening hospitals, touring schools and entertaining visiting ambassadors. So if she made time to bring a young cousin to lunch, it had to be something important.

I don’t know why I always expect a visit to Buckingham Palace to signal doom. Because it so often did, I suppose. I remembered the visiting princess foisted on me by my royal kin. I remembered the instruction to spy on the Prince of Wales’s unsuitable woman, Mrs. Simpson. My heart was beating rather fast by the time the car drove between the wrought-iron gates of the palace, received a salute from the guards on duty and crossed the parade ground, under the arch to the inner courtyard.

A footman leaped out to open the car door for me.

“Good morning, my lady. This way, please,” he said and led the way up the steps at a good pace. I followed, being extra careful as my legs have been known to disobey me in moments of extreme stress.

You’d have thought that someone who was second cousin to King George V would find a visit to Buckingham Palace to be old hat, but I have to admit that I was always overawed as I walked up those grand staircases and along the hallways lined with statues and mirrors. In truth I felt like a child who has stumbled into a fairy tale by mistake. I had been brought up in a castle myself, but Castle Rannoch could not have been more different. It was dour stone, spare and cold, its walls hung with shields and banners from past battles. This was royalty at its grandest, designed to impress foreigners and those of lesser rank.

I was taken up the grand staircase this time, not whisked along back corridors. We came out in the area between the music and throne rooms where receptions are held. I wondered if this was to be a formal occasion until the footman kept going all the way to the end of the hall. He opened a closed door for me, leading to the family’s private apartments. I found I was holding my breath until I couldn’t hold it any longer when finally a door was opened and I was shown into a pleasant, ordinary sitting room. This lacked the grandeur of the state rooms and was where the royal couple relaxed on the rare occasions they weren’t working. At least it probably meant that I wasn’t going to have to face strangers at luncheon, which was a relief.

“Lady Georgiana, ma’am,” the footman said, then he bowed and backed out of the royal presence. I hadn’t noticed the queen at first because she was standing at the window, gazing out at the gardens. She turned to me and extended a hand.

“Georgiana, my dear. How good of you to come at such short notice.”

As if one refused a queen. They no longer chopped off heads but one obeyed nonetheless.

“It’s very good to see you, ma’am,” I said, crossing the room to take her hand, curtsy and kiss her cheek—a maneuver that required exquisite timing, which I hadn’t yet mastered and always resulted in a bumped nose.

She looked back at the window. “The gardens look so bleak at this time of year, don’t they? And what horrible weather we’ve been having. First fog and now rain. The king has been in a bad humor about being cooped up for so long. His doctor forbade him to go out during the fog, you know. With his delicate lungs he couldn’t be exposed to the soot in the air.”

“I quite agree, ma’am. I went out in the fog earlier this week and it was beastly. Nothing like the mist in the country. It was like breathing liquid soot.”

She nodded and, still holding my hand, she led me across the room to a sofa. “Your brother—he has recovered from his accident?”

“Almost, ma’am. At least he’s up and walking again but he has come to London to see a specialist.”

“A disgusting thing to have happened,” she said. “And the same person apparently shot at my granddaughter. It was your quick wits that saved her.”

“And the princess’s own cool head,” I said. “She’s a splendid little rider, isn’t she?”

The queen beamed. Nothing pleased her more than talking about her granddaughters.

“I expect you wonder why I asked you to come to luncheon today, Georgiana,” the queen said. I held my breath again. Doom will strike any moment, I thought. But she seemed jovial enough. “How about a glass of sherry?”

Usually I find sherry delightful, but the mere thought of alcohol made my stomach lurch. “Not for me, thank you, ma’am.”

“Very wise in the middle of the day,” the queen said. “I like to keep a clear head myself.” Oh, Lord, if she knew how unclear my head felt at the moment.

“Why don’t we go through and eat, then,” she said. “It’s so much easier to discuss things over food, don’t you agree?”

Personally I thought it was absolutely the opposite. I have never found it easy to make conversation and eat at the same time. I always seem to have a mouthful at the wrong moment or drop my fork when under stress. The queen rang a little bell and a maid appeared from nowhere.

“Lady Georgiana and I are ready for our luncheon,” the queen said. “Come along, my dear. We need good nourishing food in weather like this.”

We went next door to a family dining room. No hundred-foot-long tables here, but a small table, set for two. I took my place as indicated, and the first course was brought in. It was my nemesis—half a grapefruit in a tall cut glass. I always seem to get the half in which the segments are imperfectly cut. I looked at it with horror, took a deep breath and picked up my spoon.

“Ah, grapefruit,” the queen said, smiling at me. “So refreshing during the winter months, don’t you think?” And she spooned out a perfectly cut segment. Hope arose that this time the kitchen staff had done their job. I dug into the grapefruit. It slipped sideways in the glass, almost shooting out onto the tablecloth. I retrieved it at the last moment and had to use a surreptitious finger to balance it as I dug again. The first piece came free without too much effort. No such luck with the second. I held on to that grapefruit, dug and tugged. This time two segments were joined together. I attempted to separate them and juice squirted straight up into my eye. It stung and I waited until the queen was busy before dabbing at my eye with my napkin. At least I hadn’t squirted grapefruit juice at HM.

It was with incredible relief that I finished the grapefruit and the shell was whisked away. A thick brown soup followed, then the main course. It was steak and kidney pie, usually one of my favorites. With it was cauliflower in a white sauce and tiny roast potatoes. I could feel my mouth watering. Two good meals in two days. But the first mouthful revealed that this course was not going to be easy, either. I’ve always had a problem with chewing and swallowing large chunks of meat. It simply won’t go down.

“Georgiana, I have a special favor to ask of you,” the queen said, looking up from her own plate. “The king wanted this to be done formally, but I managed to persuade him that a private chat would be more appropriate. I did not want to put you in a spot, should you wish to say no.”

Of course my mind was now racing. They’d found another prince for me. Or even worse, Siegfried had officially asked for my hand, one royal family to another, and turning him down would create an international incident. I sat frozen, my fork poised halfway between my plate and my mouth.

“There is to be a royal wedding later this month. You have no doubt got wind of it,” the queen continued.

“No.” It came out as a squeak.

“Princess Maria Theresa of Romania is to marry Prince Nicholas of Bulgaria. He is the heir to the throne, as I expect you know.”

I gave a half nod as if the royal families of Europe always discussed their wedding plans with me. Thank God it was someone else’s wedding we were talking about. I brought my fork to my mouth and started chewing.

“Naturally our family should be represented,” the queen went on. “We are, after all, related to both sides. He is from the same Saxe-Coburg-Gotha line as your great-grandmother Queen Victoria, and she, of course, is one of the Hohenzollern-Sigmaringens. If it were in the summer, we should have been delighted to attend; however, there is no question of the king himself traveling abroad at this bitter time of year.”

I nodded, having found a particularly chewy piece of meat in my mouth.

“So His Majesty and I have decided to ask you to represent us.”

“Me?” I managed to squeak, my mouth still full of that large chunk of meat. I was now in a tricky situation in more ways than one. There was no way I could swallow it. There was no way I could spit it out. I tried a sip of water to wash it down but it wouldn’t go. So I had to resort to the old school trick—a pretended cough, napkin to my mouth and the meat expelled into the napkin.

“I’m sorry,” I said, collecting myself. “You want me to represent the family at a royal wedding? But I’m only a cousin’s child. Won’t the royal families in question see this as a slight that you only send someone like me? Surely one of your sons would be more appropriate, or your daughter, the Princess Royal.”

“In other circumstances I would have agreed with you but it so happens that the Princess Maria Theresa has particularly requested that you be one of her bridal attendants.”

I just stopped myself from squeaking “Me?” for a second time.

“I gather you two were such good chums at school.”

At school? My brain was racing again. I once knew a Princess Maria Theresa at school? I was friendly with her? I went through a quick list of my friends. No princesses appeared on it.

But I could hardly call a foreign princess, apparently related to us, a liar. I smiled wanly. Then suddenly an image swam into focus—a large, chubby girl with a round moon face trailing after Belinda and me and Belinda saying, “Matty, stop following us around, do. Georgie and I want to be alone for once.” Matty—it had to be she. I had never realized that it was short for Maria Theresa. Nor that she was a princess. She had been a rather pathetic, annoying little thing (well, not so little, but a year behind us).

“Ah, yes,” I said, smiling now. “Dear Matty. How kind of her to invite me. This is indeed an honor, ma’am.”

I was now feeling decidedly pleased with myself. I had been asked to attend a royal wedding—to be in a royal bridal party. Certainly a lot better than freezing and starving at Rannoch House. Then the ramifications hit me. The cost of the ticket. The clothing I would need . . . the queen never seemed to take money into consideration.

“I suppose I’ll have to have a frock made for the wedding before I leave?” I asked.

“I believe not,” the queen said. “The suggestion was that you travel to Romania ahead of time so that the dresses can all be fitted by the princess’s personal dressmaker. I gather she has excellent taste and is bringing in a couturiere from Paris.”

Had I got it wrong? Matty, who always looked like a sack of potatoes in her uniform, was bringing in a couturiere from Paris?

“I will have my secretary make all the travel arrangements for you and your maid,” the queen continued. “You’ll be traveling on official royal passports so there will be no unnecessary formalities. And I will also arrange for a chaperon. It would not do to have you making such a long journey alone.”

Now I was digesting one word from that sentence. Maid. You and your maid, she had said. Ah, now that was going to be a slight problem. The queen had no idea that anyone of my status survived without a maid. I opened my mouth to say this, then found myself saying instead, “I’m afraid there might be a problem about finding a maid willing to travel with me. My Scottish maid won’t even come to London.”

The queen nodded. “Yes, I appreciate that could be a problem. English and Scottish girls are so insular, aren’t they? Don’t give her a choice, Georgiana. Never give servants a choice. It goes to their heads. If your current maid wishes to retain her position with you, she should be willing to follow you to the ends of the earth. I know that my maid would.” She dug into the cauliflower. “Be firm. You’ll need to learn how to deal with servants before you run a great household, you know. Give them an inch and they’ll walk all over you. Now, come along. Eat up before it gets cold.”