PROLOGUE
Aberdeen, Scotland
JULY 1987
Everything was ready. The mahogany table in the dining room was spread with a white lace cloth. Sunlight streaming through the wide bay window set the gold rims of the china cups ablaze. Plates had been set out with little white linen napkins. Silver cake-forks had been removed from boxes and polished. Sugar tongs, a silver cream jug and silver spoons all shone brilliantly.
In the cool of the kitchen, sandwiches waited on best plates. Smoked salmon, chicken, ham and cucumber, all with the crusts removed. There were the circular jam sandwiches, “jam pennies,” that had always been a favorite. There were scones and muffins and a magnificent chocolate cake.
There were flowers everywhere, bought specially for the occasion. Vases and jugs rescued from dark cupboards had been washed and restored to use. Pastel summer petals foamed on every surface and the rich scent of roses mingled with that of beeswax polish.
On the other side of the hall, in the high-ceilinged drawing room, a tall old woman in a pale pink dress stood straight-backed at the window. Pearls glowed at her neck and on the decoration pinned to her bosom. On either side of her nose, large, sloping eyes burned with anticipation. She was breathing rapidly and her knuckles were clamped to the sill. Her entire being was focused on the end of the street, where it met the busy main road. It was along there that her visitors would come.
They had not been here before, to her fine big villa on one of the city’s best streets, built of the local gray granite. In dark weather it looked somber, but in sunshine, against a blue sky, it glittered. Today, the end of July, was one of those beautiful, glittering days.
The light through the drawing room’s big window fell on the elegant stone mantelpiece. On it stood a row of silver-framed photographs. One was of two smiling little girls, dressed identically in red tartan kilts and jerseys. The elder held a brown dog with pointed ears, which the younger was petting. They stood against a tulip border, and behind them were castle towers.
The photograph next to this one showed the same girls in coronets. They looked immensely serious in long white dresses, fur-edged cloaks flowing round like a velvet river. Behind them stood a man and woman, also in cloaks and in crowns heavy with jewels. The man looked apprehensive but the woman’s gaze had a steely strength.
In the quiet of the drawing room, the old lady continued to wait. From time to time she gave an excited sigh, as if a long-held dream was to be realized. Perhaps this year, finally it would be fulfilled. She never ceased to hope. It was hope that, annually, led her to polish the silver, select the flowers with care, cut the sandwiches.
The only other sound was the tick of a grandfather clock. Flames danced in the fireplace between the arched alcoves. Summer it may be, but big Scottish houses could be cool, Scottish castles even cooler. Few people knew that better than she did.
Now, the woman held her breath. The moment had arrived. Along the main road from the airport a limousine had glided into view. That would be the police escort. Her guests would be in the one directly behind. The old hands gripped the sill harder. She thought she could see, in the rear, the pale flash of a familiar face.
IN THE FRONT of the second car, a fogyish young man opened an attaché case. He was new to the job, and his movements betrayed his nervousness. He took out a piece of paper and twisted his pin-striped body to the rear. Here sat two dark-haired middle-aged women between whom there was a strong sisterly resemblance.
One was heavily made-up, deeply tanned and wearing a bright coral frock with theatrical white jewelry. The other, more conservative, wore a fawn twinset, a kilt and a double string of pearls. Her hair rose from her forehead in a dark wave.
The new equerry respectfully cleared his throat. “If I might mention it, ma’am. We are about to pass the road where a former employee of the Royal Household lives.”
The woman in the twinset had been gazing out the window. Now she looked at the equerry.
“Her name is Marion Crawford. She says she was Your Majesty’s governess for seventeen years. I’m told she writes every year, offering Your Majesty the opportunity to take tea with her on the way to Balmoral.” The equerry paused. “I thought perhaps . . .”
The woman with the tan burst in, shrilly. “Letters from Marion Crawford should be handled with a very long pair of forceps!” She looked agitatedly at her sister. “Lilibet?”
There was no reply. The chauffeur gently pressed the brake. A blue street sign signaled the end of the old woman’s road.
Up in the house, behind the gleaming drawing-room window, the wrinkled hand was waving frantically. The cars had slowed! Finally, after all these years, they would turn up the avenue and into her drive! She had opened the gates, as she always did.
“Lilibet!” demanded the woman in the bright coral frock.