CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
It was a mouse. It was sitting on the towel in her bathroom, staring boldly back. It didn’t seem scared in the least. On the contrary, it seemed to think it owned the place.
Beyond the gilded public rooms, Buckingham Palace was riddled with vermin and generally falling apart. That very morning, the curtains in her room had collapsed. The entire edifice—pelmet, curtains and heavy brass pole—had smashed to the floor only inches from where she stood.
And it was cold, so cold. The fire in the small fireplace did nothing to address the bone-piercing chill. The wind had moaned in the chimney like a thousand tragic ghosts. Given the parlous state of the monarchy, it was difficult not to see it all as a metaphor.
The drama of the abdication might be over, but the extent of the damage to the monarchy was becoming clear. The new occupant of the throne was not popular. George VI’s stammer and shyness fueled rumors that he was frail and weak. According to malicious gossip, he would not even survive the coronation in May, let alone the burden of monarchy.
But he had Debo’s support, at least. Marion had bumped into her near the palace, soon after moving in. She wore a fur coat against the freezing February chill. “How are you?” Marion had asked.
Debo rolled her wide green eyes. “As well as can be expected. Considering all I have to put up with.”
That morning’s front pages had been full of the fighting in Spain. Madrid, held by the government, was under heavy attack from Franco’s forces. Hundreds of international volunteers had been killed. Did Debo have any news?
“Esmond’s back. He got dysentery. He works in advertising now.”
“And Valentine?”
“Don’t know, sorry.” An elegant eyebrow raised. “Didn’t realize you still cared. It was years ago, wasn’t it? You and him?”
Marion looked down. She realized how she must look to this rich and beautiful child: old, worn, subordinate. Pitiable, really.
Debo changed the subject. “You’ve heard about Unity? In Germany with the Führer. They have lunch every day—they’re like that.” Debo crossed her first and second fingers and held them up.
“How horrible.”
“It gets worse. My sister Diana has fallen in love with Oswald Mosley. She’s left her husband and he’s left his wife. Frankly,” Debo added, “my only hope now is your lot.”
“My lot?”
“The king and queen. They’re bringing back debutantes. I’ll be spotted by the dear old Duke of Right and live happily ever after in some vast pile in the country.” She looked at her watch. “Cripes, I’ll be late for the hairdresser.”
Standing in her bathroom, Marion looked at the mouse. It looked back with wide, wicked black eyes. A Communist rodent, she had no doubt.
She went outside. Her bathroom was across a wide corridor, floored with the inevitable lino. Something moved at the passage’s far end. She recognized the palace postman, an individual whose existence had amazed her at first. That the palace was actually a village, and its corridors effectively streets, had taken some getting used to. The vastness was beyond anything she had expected. Her visits before had not scratched the surface of the size of it.
The postman ambled steadily toward her, whistling, a rasping, tuneless whistle. “There’s a mouse on my bath towel,” she told him.
The postman was plump, with a round pink face. He put a finger to his lips and leaned conspiratorially forward. “Not so loud. Or they’ll all want one.”
“Ha ha.” Marion folded her arms. “But I want to get rid of it.”
“You’ll need to send for the vermin man. Does all the rats and mice. You’ll find him in the green book. Cheerio, dear.” With that, the postman went whistling off.
She returned to her room and stepped over the shattered corpse of the collapsed curtains. The holes in the wall above gaped like wounds. On her plain desk was the volume the postman had recommended. It was an inch thick, stamped with the crown and entitled: Offices and Addresses of Their Majesties’ Households and Officers of State and Other Royal Households.
On her first night in the palace, Marion had read it in disbelief. The rotting palace had more than four hundred staff, mostly with bizarre and arcane titles. There were Yeomen not only of Gold and Silver Pantries but Glass and China ones as well. There were a Hereditary Grand Falconer and a Raven Master, a Barge Master, a Keeper of the Swans, a Historiographer Royal and a Silver Stick in Waiting. There were Aides de Camp, First Flag and Principal Naval, and literally hundreds of Equerries, Extra Equerries and Gentleman Ushers.
Turning the pages, she had shaken her head. Was this extraordinary list romantic or ridiculous? She knew what she would have thought once. But now she was here and part of this household, it was becoming increasingly difficult to tell.
There were other things to get used to as well, like the vast distances that getting to different parts of the building involved. From her bedroom in Piccadilly to the boudoir took two minutes. From her palace room to the schoolroom was ten.
It was large, light and overlooked the garden. The first choice of schoolroom had been on the top floor, where the king himself had been schooled as a boy. But showing her the cramped, dark space with the bars over the windows, he had closed the door hurriedly. “No. That won’t do at all.”
Lunch with the family was also a thing of the past. Now she ate with the Household. This was a more confusing journey even than to the schoolroom, down endless corridors and round corners that all looked the same. She had arrived late and flustered for her first few lunches. The Household Dining Room was as grand as a state dining room; a big table full of people with silver cutlery spreading like wings on either side of crested plates. There were flowers in silver vases, silver cruet sets, huge napkins. There were clusters of crystal glasses and footmen in red and gold braid. Servants to wait on servants.
Not that the Household members were especially servant-like. The Ladies of the Bedchamber all had thick, shiny hair and rangy racehorse figures. The equerries had the sorts of noble features associated with ancient lineages and coats of arms. Marion had felt like the new girl at a very exclusive school. One she was not at all certain she was going to like.
However, she had quickly gotten used to it, and now recognized most of the regulars. Her neighbor today was new, however. Dark and lean with chiseled features, he had a craggy brow and his hair was thick and black. She felt a leap of recognition. “Mr. Lascelles!”
A blush swept her cheeks. Had she sounded overexcited?
He raised an eyebrow and gave a hint of a smile. “How are you finding the palace, Miss Crawford?”
She had rallied now. She eyed him confidently. “Shall I be honest, Mr. Lascelles? My room is falling to pieces and there was a mouse in my bathroom this morning.”
An equerry a few places away leaned forward. “Just the one?” he called cheerfully. “I’ve had three in mine.”
Laughter ran round the table. Lascelles dabbed his mouth with his napkin. “The refurbishment program is somewhat behind schedule, certainly.”
This provoked more laughter, followed by the murmur of general conversation. Marion picked up her fork and prepared to address her smoked salmon. Her gloomy mood of earlier had lifted; she felt almost skittish. Was it Lascelles? She wanted his attention, she realized. “Actually,” she murmured, leaning close to him, “the mouse is not my only complaint. The last time we met you misinformed me.”
Beneath the craggy brows, the dark eyes narrowed. “Indeed, Miss Crawford? About what?”
The corner of her mouth tugged sideways. “You said, Mr. Lascelles, that the king had many years in him yet, and that the Prince of Wales would not marry Mrs. Simpson.”
Lascelles stared at her. She met his gaze. He was the first to drop his, and gave a rueful smile. “You are quite right, Miss Crawford. That was my information in the first instance, and my assumption in the second. But as you say, I was wrong.”
Marion guessed there were few people the lofty Lascelles ever admitted that to. She felt triumphant, and rather excited.
“I WISH I could see Papa,” Margaret started to say.
“You can’t. He’s busy kinging,” her sister would reply. It was true that the king was almost constantly occupied. He was learning the craft of monarchy on the job and from the bottom up. There was no spending the afternoon gardening anymore, or games of cards before bed. Touchingly, he had placed the girls’ rocking horses outside his study, so he could hear the thump of them riding and feel them nearby.
“He spends more time with Mr. Lascelles than with us,” Margaret complained. “I don’t like Mr. Lascelles. Do you?” She looked hard and suddenly at Marion, who, to her annoyance, felt her cheeks begin to burn.
“Ha!” crowed the youngest princess, triumphantly. “Crawfie is in love with Mr. Lascelles!”
“Don’t be ridiculous!” Marion spluttered, furious. But the truth was, she liked Lascelles very much. He was an amusing and erudite conversationalist, albeit slightly pompous at times. She looked forward to seeing him at lunch and was disappointed if, out with the king on an engagement, he did not appear.
He never came into the schoolroom. So it was a surprise, one afternoon, to look up and see his tall, dark and evidently annoyed form in the doorway. She took a deep breath to still the sudden flutter in her chest. “Mr. Lascelles!”
His hooded eyes rolled suspiciously round the room. The girls, at their desks, looked up at their unexpected visitor. Margaret looked particularly angelic.
“I’m being constantly summoned to see His Majesty,” Lascelles ground out from under his mustache.
A high voice piped up. “But isn’t that your job, Mr. Lascelles?” It was Margaret who had spoken.
Lascelles gave her a flinty look. “Not necessarily. Especially when His Majesty is not expecting me.” He glanced at Marion. “According to the palace switchboard, the summonses were coming from the schoolroom telephone.”
The telephone was newly installed. Margaret especially loved playing on it. Marion stared at her, eyebrow raised. The youngest princess looked innocently back, batting her long black lashes.
Lascelles cast a final glance at Margaret, in which warning and suspicion seemed entwined. As he left, he caught Marion’s eye too. The wry friendliness of the lunch table was gone. His expression was all icy disdain. It seemed to convey his contempt not only for her poor control of her pupils but for herself as well. A kind of despair filled her, along with fury at Margaret, who had obviously done this on purpose, to embarrass her.
The door hadn’t quite closed before the royal culprit collapsed loudly into raucous giggles.
“Margaret!” thundered Marion.
The violet eyes blinked innocently. “It was Cousin Halifax!”
“Oh, Crawfie!” Lilibet looked at Marion in despair. “What are we going to do about her?”
Never mind that, Marion thought. What was she going to do about Alan Lascelles? He would make a dangerous enemy.