September 1946
Buckingham Palace, London
Hullo, Crawfie. It’s good to be back.” Lilibet greeted me in a voice so flat, so expressionless, that my head came up from my book like a hound scenting danger. I was up out of my chair in a moment. She gave me a quick peck on the cheek before sitting down on the window seat. The clocked ticked the seconds away as silence built, until I couldn’t bear it.
“How was it?” I asked. “Philip’s visit to Balmoral?”
She lifted her head. “It was very pleasant.” There was a frog in her throat. “I have a bit of a cold, which is surprising because the weather was spectacular.” She smiled—at least her mouth performed the job—a joyless excuse for one. It was hard to read her expression with the sun coming in through the window behind her, but she radiated misery.
I swallowed down unease. “Philip enjoyed his first experience of deer stalking?” My encouraging inquiry rang across the room, and she cleared her throat again. “Oh yes, it was perfect weather for it. We only got one good shot in, but I know Papa loved showing Philip the ropes—like you, Crawfie, Papa is a natural teacher.” Her voice fell away, and she returned to removing dog hairs one by one from a skirt covered in them.
“Well, that sounds like good news. His Majesty rarely bothers to spend time with those who bore or annoy!”
Lilibet folded her hands in her lap. I could have screamed with impatience as I waited for her to make up her mind what, or what not, to reveal. “I’m rather afraid to tell you this, and I really shouldn’t. I think Mama and Uncle David have it in for Philip.”
David Bowes-Lyon! I clamped my jaws tightly together to stop myself from blurting. So, Uncle David had braved the discomforts of a summer at Balmoral to be at his sister’s side. I saw him standing in the drawing room, surrounded by old pals, with the newest American cocktail in his hand: the polished clubman telling stories about how much the tweedy set and their heather-covered moors and craggy outcrops of rock bored him to death.
Perhaps she sensed my anger, because she lifted her wrist and looked at her watch. “I don’t know, Crawfie. Perhaps I have been rash in wanting to marry Philip. Anyway, I’ve got to run. We have to go to Windsor this weekend—Mummy wanted to make sure you knew you were coming too.”
“Things were all right in the beginning,” Lilibet finally admitted the following morning as I packed my overnight bag for Windsor.
“Between who?” I asked.
“Oh, between Papa, Philip, and me. We set out after breakfast with a picnic lunch to stalk. And”—her laugh was warm with affection—“Philip was particularly good at it. He had an expert ghillie, and Papa helped him understand the subtler points of stalking, but he’s a natural sportsman.”
For the life of me I couldn’t understand why anyone wanted to spend the day trudging the tundra in the pursuit of an animal that was inevitably doomed to die. What were shotguns for but to kill prey at long distance and get the whole thing over with quickly?
“So where was the difficulty?”
“There really wasn’t one. Except perhaps that Philip sometimes says things that are . . . you know . . . a bit . . . off course.”
Off course? What did that mean? Vulgar, unmannerly, too outright? I shook my head. “He always strikes me as being willing to fit in—to get along with everyone.”
She folded my handkerchiefs into rigid little squares and put them in my bag. “When everyone else arrived, it was as if he was trying too hard. And . . . sometimes he is a bit boisterous, and . . . well, you know, rather forceful.”
A horrible thought struck me. “When did your uncle David arrive?”
“About four days after us. He had a cold, so he couldn’t join the rest of us on the moor. He stayed inside and kept Mummy and Tommy Lascelles company.”
I almost snorted in disgust. David Bowes-Lyon wouldn’t join anyone, except by the fire in a drawing room for the sort of gossip that demolishes reputations.
“Unfortunately, Philip pulled Uncle David’s leg about his cold: told him to gargle with warm seawater and advised him to get out on the moors and walk it off rather than shut himself up in a stuffy drawing room.”
Well, good for him! I was glad that he hadn’t put up with any of Uncle David’s sniping in corners.
“It didn’t go down too well with Mummy . . .”
“Who else was there when Philip was with you?”
She counted their names off on her fingers: a few of the king’s ponderous old shooting cronies and their wives, and the effete bachelor friends of the queen. No wonder Margaret was at a screaming point when she came back from Balmoral or Sandringham.
I watched her struggle with being too critical of the man she loved. “Oh, I think I am making too much of it.” She shrugged her shoulders and laughed.
“So, tell me.” I was as direct as I dared to be, and I saw her eyes widen at my candor. “Apart from Philip not getting along with Uncle David?”
She laughed. “He thinks him a witless pea brain. I am afraid that Philip rather put their backs up,” Lilibet admitted.
“Whose back up? How?” I asked.
“We-ll, Tommy Lascelles for one. I know he doesn’t like Philip. And he tries to trip him up, rather, which Philip deals with very patiently. But then Tommy keeps on picking and in the end Philip bristles.”
“Tommy is a bit of a fossil.”
She brightened. “Yes, he is, rather, isn’t he?”
“Yes, it’s his job. What was he picking about?”
“Just little finicky things . . . He had a go at Gordonstoun being too experimental and eccentric, and when Philip sneered at Eton— which he should not have—Tommy went off and told Papa, and Papa told Mummy, who told me that Philip is often . . . ‘tactless’ was the word Tommy used.”
And there we had it.
I could hear the spiteful whispers: “Philip is not the one for Lilibet. Philip is an outsider. Not to be trusted. He has sisters who married Nazis. And he is tactless.”
“Papa was a bit cold with Philip after that.” She turned away, but I saw her eyes stare away tears.
I folded a shawl, put it in the suitcase, and closed the lid. And we walked into my sitting room as the maid brought in my morning coffee.
“And after that?” I asked when we were alone.
“Papa says that I am too young to get married. But his tone to Philip was snubby.”
And your mother? I silently prompted as I handed her a cup of coffee.
“And Mummy says the same.
“Philip did his best, but . . .” She lowered her head and gazed down at the cup balanced on her lap. “Everything is so tiresome, Crawfie. Even Bobo told me this morning that she thinks that Philip is beneath me.”
I clenched and unclenched my hands. I would have difficulty not strangling that wretched Bobo MacDonald the next time I saw her. But I said nothing about Lilibet’s loyal dresser. “How much influence do you think Tommy Lascelles really has with the king?” I asked her. Lilibet shook her head slowly from side to side and shrugged her shoulders. If I was a fatalist, I would believe, as they say in the American films, that it was “curtains” for Philip.
“You know something?” I said, trying to be the only one not to put the kibosh on love. “I think this will all work itself out. All these hiccups and reactions are just the result of your introducing the idea of change.”
She opened her eyes wide and drew in a deep breath. “It is all such a mess. Philip can’t even become a British citizen with all the civil unrest in Greece at the moment. And he can’t stay in the navy if he’s not a citizen.”
It was time to boost, not commiserate. “First of all, if your father gives his permission for Philip to marry you, I promise you his citizenship will not be a problem. And your mother will come around; she is just being cautious because she worked hard to reestablish the monarchy after all that business with the abdication.” I didn’t know if she was listening or not. She had fixed her gaze at the bottom of her coffee cup as if she was about to tell fortunes. Sad ones. “Lilibet, I think we shall just have to sit tight and wait them all out. All that happened at Balmoral was that your mother and father got to know Philip a little better—people take a while to adjust to change. Don’t back down now.”
She lifted her gaze from her cup. “I don’t intend to, Crawfie. I will simply tell them that the only husband I want is Philip.”
“What does Philip have to say about it all?” I couldn’t help but ask.
Finally, she smiled, her sweet, generous smile. “Philip thinks we have to be patient.” A quick glance at me out of the corner of her eye. “But he did ask Papa for his permission to propose to me.” She laughed outright at my expression.
“Lilibet, why didn’t you tell me this at the beginning?”
She put her finger to her lips. “Because I wanted your advice on the unfortunate bits first.”
“And His Majesty said yes?”
“His Majesty said not yet. That I was only twenty and he would like Philip to hold off until next year, which Philip agreed to.” She stood up and smoothed the front of her skirt. “And that is why we four are off on an official trip to South Africa. We are leaving in February next year. We will be gone for three months.”
“Three months?”
“Yes, it was Mummy’s idea that Margaret and I should go with them. It’s a test, of course. To see if I will forget all about Philip.”
“Something has to be done, Crawfie, and quickly too.” Margaret’s hand on my arm brought me to a sharp halt as we labored up the hill from the Victoria walk later that afternoon, followed by a crowd of panting dogs.
“En français, Margaret. Nous devons pratiquer nos verbes,” I said, but I was too distracted to care.
“No, Crawfie, it’s too important for French. The Lilibet and Philip business is serious, much too serious to be fumbling around for the future tense of ‘to be.’ I know Lilibet is all dewy-eyed about Philip and believes quite wrongly that all is going well, but things are unraveling, and she hasn’t any idea how fast.”
“What seems to be the problem?” I asked, mindful that Margaret was a blurter.
There were no thoughtful pauses from Margaret. She took in a deep breath. “First of all, Mummy is very much against Lilibet marrying Philip. She will go to any lengths to prevent it. Do you know what I mean? No, of course you don’t, so I’ll tell you.
“While Lilibet, Philip, and Papa were off stalking, Mummy spent a lot of time with Tommy Lascelles. Tommy doesn’t approve of Philip to begin with. But after a session or two with Mummy and Uncle David, he holed himself up in his office and spent his time busily writing letters and getting answers to them. It has to do with Philip’s family and his suitability as a future consort to Britain’s queen.”
I had to turn my head away; her urgent voice and deeply serious expression would have been amusing at any other time. Margaret was playing her role of intelligence gatherer to the hilt. “Tommy thinks that Philip has a bit of a reputation . . . as a lady’s man.”
I shook my head. “What? No, it’s not possible. In fact, it’s ridiculous.”
“Yes, it is a fact, because I heard Uncle David telling Mummy that Philip is too sophisticated and far too European for words. And everyone knows what that means.”
This was just the sort of thing that David Bowes-Lyon would come up with. If Philip was handsome, virile, and good company, of course he had to be a lecher.
“I overheard everything. Everything! According to Uncle David, Philip has always had lots of girlfriends. Even when he was writing to Lilibet during the war, he was always with some woman or other. But for years, he has been very close with that glamorous Hélène Cordet.” She looked at me in a kindly, pitying sort of way. “Now, I know you don’t know who she is, Crawfie, but I do. She is a singer—a really good one, actually. And she is absolutely gorgeous. Much more gorgeous than Lilibet—she has what they call sex appeal. And please don’t tell me that you don’t know what that means.” I started to ask her how she knew what sex appeal meant, but she waved an impatient hand. “Philip is godfather to her children.” She lowered her voice, but its clear tone rang ahead of us up the hill. It was as much as I could do not to put my hand over her mouth. “Uncle David says there is a rumor that he might even be their father.”
I pushed the hair back out of my eyes and stared at her in horror. If only half of this is true, it makes Philip look tawdry, shopworn, and certainly not the man I have taken him for.
“Crawfie, you are gaping.”
“There are always rumors—Philip is a good-looking and an attractive young man.”
Her laugh was derisive, and it was patronizing too. I frowned at her until she apologized.
“And then there is Papa. He is not very keen on the idea of Lilibet and Philip at all. Not one bit.”
I was not a poker player. I knew my face expressed the fear that threatened to submerge me, to send me running to my room to try to work out how we could overcome this hurdle.
“Does he believe that Philip is—?”
“A womanizer? I don’t know what he has heard. But Papa is furious with Uncle Dickie because he is not only sponsoring Philip’s naturalization to become a British citizen and giving Philip his name, but he is telling everyone that Philip and Lilibet are secretly engaged to be married.”
“But they are not, are they? So, it is just another rumor.”
She reached out her hand and joggled me by the elbow. “Oh, Crawfie, please wake up! Uncle Dickie has put Papa’s back up, and he is digging in. On top of all this womanizing business, Philip is looking more and more like an unsavory gold digger by the minute.” She put her hands on her hips and glared at me as if I was being obtuse on purpose.
I remembered my role as governess. “Please don’t put your hands on your hips, Margaret.”
She folded them across her bosom. Her Windsor blue eyes flashed outrage and fury. “Don’t you see? Papa doesn’t want Lilibet to marry anyone at all right now; he just wants it to be ‘we four’ again. And it doesn’t help with everyone biting at Philip’s ankles and running him down, behind his back, to Papa!”
I was still too taken aback by the “womanizing” accusation to offer any suggestion that would be of use.
“Lilibet has no idea!” Margaret threw her hands up at her sister’s naivete. “No idea at all what is going on. It makes me so angry with all of them.” Her brows came down and she took a step closer. “So, what are we going to do?”
We had reached the top of the hill, and the corgis threw themselves down in a panting heap. I fanned my face with my hand. “Well, there is nothing whatsoever we can do, is there?”
“What?” she exploded. “We can’t just let them ruin Lilibet’s one chance of happiness.” Her cheeks were scarlet, and her hands were back on her hips. “We can’t just stand by and let this happen. Lilibet wouldn’t let my happiness be destroyed by a bunch of old gossipers and starchy out-of-date courtiers . . . she just wouldn’t!” Tears welled up in her fierce eyes and her lower lip jutted.
I put my arm around her shoulders. “Margaret, life isn’t that simple, I’m afraid. Especially for the heir to the throne.”
She shook my arm off. “Don’t start talking to me about duty. How can Lilibet possibly do the job of being queen if she’s married to some dull chap that Mummy chose for her? Answer me that one. Philip is perfect for her; he will stick up for her and give her confidence.” She didn’t wait for an answer. “She has no one at all, except you and me.” She broke away and started to stump off toward the castle gate, and I puffed after her.
“I know how upsetting it is, but we have to have some faith in Lilibet.”
“She is such a Goody—”
“Yes, I know she often comes across as dutiful and obedient.”
“I was going to say that she is a wretched Goody Two-shoes. It makes me so bloody furious. Sorry again, Crawfie.”
“And I was going to say that we must not forget that she has learned patience and self-discipline: two attributes that have made her strong and steadfast. All she has to do is not back down and wait them out. All this fuss and bother, all of these rumors about Nazis in the family, philandering fathers, and mentally ill mothers, and now Philip’s affairs with other women, are all simply fuss. I am quite sure that Lilibet will prevail. And it is our job, Margaret, to stand by her. Encourage her and help her stand firm, and that means doing just that and absolutely nothing more. I hope I am being clear.”
“You don’t think we should at least say something to Papa?”
The gleam of battle had not gone from her eyes. I thought of all the passionately well-meaning damage she could do, and I tried not to clutch at her in my panic.
“Margaret,” I said slowly, forcing calm. “If you really want to know what I think, the very best thing we can do is to let Lilibet deal with this in her own way. She knows we care; she knows we love her. I promise you she will come through.” I had almost convinced myself.
“Yes, Crawfie, all right.” She wiped her eyes with her handkerchief and on we went together toward the castle gate. “Mentally ill mothers? I didn’t know that about Philip’s mother. Do you mean to say she actually went bonkers?” I hadn’t the energy to reply.