CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

In the Windsor Castle sitting room, the American First Lady looked moved. Deeply ensconced in a green brocade armchair, Mrs. Roosevelt held that most English of symbols, a cup of tea, along with a slice of that most American of confections, a pumpkin pie. “I’m touched beyond words,” she said, her large eyes glassy with emotion. “What a wonderful idea!”

“The girls thought of it.” The queen beamed. “They hoped you would like it.” She sat opposite her guest on a green silk sofa. Immaculately coiffed, high-heeled, blue-dressed and legs crossed at the ankles, she was the picture of the relaxed hostess. No one would think she was the queen of a threatened country entertaining its most powerful ally.

Marion, sitting at the back by the window, felt it was probably petty to want the credit for what had actually been her pumpkin pie idea. As the king kept telling the nation on the radio, these days they were all in it together.

The fragrance of cinnamon and nutmeg wafted into the air as Lilibet shot her governess a guilty glance. “Crawfie’s been teaching us about America and the Pilgrims,” she said in her diplomatic way.

Mrs. Roosevelt looked at Marion with friendly interest. “Is that so? Well done, Crawfie.”

“So we thought we might celebrate Thanksgiving, while you were here,” the queen put in, smoothly. “A little early, I know.”

Mrs. Roosevelt raised her silver fork, took a bite and looked enchanted. “The early bird catches the best pumpkin pie!” Everyone laughed politely. The rest of the group comprised Mrs. Roosevelt’s secretary, a lady-in-waiting and a dark-haired male figure next to Marion that she was trying her level best not to look at.

The queen gaily clapped her glittering little white hands. “Well done, Margaret and Lilibet!”

The group obediently clapped, and the activity gave the dark-haired figure the opportunity to shift toward her. The familiar cologne ebbed at her nostrils. She kept her head facing front. She would show no interest; none at all.

“I’m guessing that it’s actually well done, Miss Crawford.” His low voice was warm with amusement.

“The girls did help,” she said stiffly. “They collected everyone’s sugar rations.”

Lascelles snorted. “I imagine that went down a treat.”

Marion kept her eyes facing front. “But I hear you’re the one who should be congratulated, Mr. Lascelles. Mrs. Roosevelt’s visit has been a huge success.”

Tommy had indeed done his work well. The lord mayor and his entourage had been nowhere to be seen. From the moment she arrived, Mrs. Roosevelt’s experience had been of a Britain battered by its enemies but standing firm. From Paddington she was whisked straight to Buckingham Palace, where she saw the boarded-up windows and the black line painted round every bath. From here to the East End, with its glass-crunching streets and heaps of smoking broken brick, and St. Paul’s with its nave open to the sky.

“I can’t take all the credit,” Lascelles muttered. “The cupboards were Her Majesty’s idea.”

Cecil Beaton, an up-and-coming photographer, had been summoned to the palace to take pictures of Mrs. Roosevelt in front of miles of empty kitchen cupboards. The king, reluctant to show his nation in quite such an abject light, had not been keen. But his wife, her PR touch as sure as ever, had prevailed.

Nor had she stopped there, making sure Mrs. Roosevelt slept in her own bedroom with a one-bar electric fire and boarded-up windows. She had eaten off gold plates, but the menus, handwritten on monogrammed cards, had been utility ones. The First Lady had enjoyed, if that was the word, “mock goose”—layers of potatoes and apples baked with cheese and pickled onions, with beetroot pudding for dessert. No wonder she was so pleased to see the pumpkin pie.

The Windsor tea was her last engagement before leaving. And perhaps this was the queen’s greatest coup de théâtre of all, because above the green brocade chair in which Mrs. Roosevelt sat were holes in the ceiling where glass chandeliers, now removed for safety, had once sparkled. Wires hung down like black roots. Antique cabinets and tables, their carving and gilding shrouded under sheets, were turned to the tapestry-covered walls.

Beside Marion, Tommy spoke again. “I am,” he murmured, “in possession of some very interesting information.”

Excitement shot through her, despite herself. Reports from intelligence agents the world over passed daily over his desk. Was she about to hear some incredible secret? Something was happening in Egypt, she knew. The king was like a cat on bricks almost as hot as the Western Desert, where Montgomery and his Eighth Army currently were. Now, finally, she turned to look at him. The dark eyes were glinting mischievously.

“I hear,” he said, “that you are organizing a pantomime.”

“That’s your interesting information?”

“Isn’t it true?”

“Well, yes. As it happens. We’re doing Cinderella.”

It had begun as a casual suggestion in the air raid shelter, born out of the Midsummer Night’s Dream acting sessions. Margaret and Lilibet had taken the idea up eagerly, and so she had floated it with Ivy and Peter, both of whom thought it the ideal distraction for their pupils.

The latter, with his knowledge of classical drama, had even offered to write it. “Don’t make it too miserable,” Ivy warned.

Peter gave her an indulgent look. “The ancients invented comedy as well as tragedy.”

“If you say so.” Ivy shrugged, but fondly.

“I hear Princess Margaret has the lead role,” Tommy said.

“Who else?”

“Always one of my favorite fairy tales,” he went on. “The humble girl elevated to great and glorious heights.”

There was a crash now, as of doors bursting open. A woman stood in the doorway, a dark-haired woman in a neat navy suit with a tight waist and a widely flared skirt. She had toweringly high heels, bright red lipstick and quick, sparkling, dark eyes that danced assessingly about the room. Her swift, sharp survey struck Marion as being at odds with her attitude of cartoonish apology. “Excuse me, ma’am, ma’ams,” she gasped, waving her hands helplessly and curtseying wildly to all and sundry.

An out-of-breath footman in the battle dress issued for the war’s duration had now caught up. He was evidently anguished. “Your Majesty, I apologize, this lady insisted you were expecting her.”

The queen remained composed on her sofa, legs still crossed at the ankle. Her face evinced nothing but mild surprise. Beside her Margaret and Lilibet were agog. Marion slid a glance at Tommy. His aristocratic ease gone, he looked frankly horrified. Lady Delia Peel, the lady-in-waiting, was scarlet. Confusion, meanwhile, was written all over Mrs. Roosevelt’s large, jowly features.

Entirely unabashed, the newcomer ran straight up to the queen. She swept a low, elaborate curtsey. “Your Majesty,” she exclaimed, batting her eyelashes, “we met at Lady Astor’s. I was there with Mrs. Roosevelt, if you remember.” She flashed a great toothy beam in the direction of the First Lady. “Mrs. Roosevelt mentioned this tea today, and suggested I come along.”

Puzzlement now joined embarrassment on Mrs. Roosevelt’s big, good-natured face. It was clear she had no memory of any such invitation, but could hardly contradict her countrywoman in the queen’s presence.

Marion, like everyone else, could only stare in amazed silence. Was the woman unaware, or just simple? This was not the first royal gate-crasher she had seen; people annually tried to slip in uninvited to the palace garden parties. But this, a private gathering where the queen of England was entertaining the First Lady of the United States, and in wartime too, was on another level. She had never seen anyone attempt anything like it, let alone succeed.

The woman gushed on, completely without embarrassment of any kind. “I’d have been here earlier,” she exclaimed, “except that I’ve had a little trouble with the beefeaters and soldiers and all.”

Marion, glancing round, saw it dawning on everyone that this woman had just fast-talked her way through the entire Windsor Castle guard. Who on earth was she?

The queen was evidently wondering the same thing. She swung her blue eyes inquiringly at Mrs. Roosevelt. “Ma’am,” the embarrassed First Lady began, “allow me to introduce Mrs. . . .” She hesitated, evidently struggling to remember.

“Mrs. Gould, Beatrice Gould.” The dark-haired woman beamed, utterly unabashed. She turned now to the queen. “We spoke at Lady Astor’s, ma’am. You very kindly agreed to write some articles for my magazine.”

“Your . . . magazine?” the queen repeated, faintly.

“That’s right, ma’am. The magazine of which I’m the editor. The Ladies’ Home Journal of America!”

Marion could only stare, amazed by the sheer scale of the woman’s nerve. This was no simpleton, she was sure now. The scatty breathiness was an act. She had caught Beatrice Gould’s glance as it switched from the wife of the president to the wife of the king, and something about its black glitter stayed with her. It had been a look of absolute, ruthless determination.