CHAPTER SIXTY
The glass will be the easiest,” drawled the earl’s daughter. “It only needs a good kick. Getting rid of silver is much more difficult. Walter and I had such luck. All ours was stolen when we were on our honeymoon.”
As the group dissolved into honking laughter, Marion felt a wave of disgust. Most of these people were Philip’s friends; he seemed to run with a fast, smart set. Especially, or so the rumors went, after he had dropped Lilibet back at the palace in the evening.
The princess had always avoided people like this before. But she was showing them the exhibition of her wedding presents with every appearance of enjoyment. It was the preview day; tomorrow it would open to the public, admission one shilling. The queues would stretch for miles. Wedding mania had gripped the nation.
A huge table, draped with white, filled up the entire length of the St. James’s Palace ballroom. Arranged on it, against an already ornate background of huge portraits in thick gold frames, were no less than 2,667 gifts. Sent from not just the furthest corners of the Empire, but from across the entire world, they gave the heavy ballroom the fantastical aspect of Aladdin’s cave. China and glass glittered, silver and gold gleamed. Leatherware, brassware and furniture shone. Pictures and mirrors glowed. There was enough to furnish not one pair of newlyweds’ house, but many, many palaces.
The princess led the way in the corn-colored frock from which, at the moment, she could scarcely be parted. Philip liked it, Marion suspected. He had good taste, she would give him that; the yellow was the perfect foil for Lilibet’s glossy dark hair, rich red lips and creamy skin suffused with rose. She still wore very little makeup. There was something of the innocent girl about her yet.
Not so these sophisticates of the aristocracy stalking round on their colt legs, tossing fur stoles over elegant shoulders. A white-gloved hand brushed, questioningly, a large pile of magnificently bound leather books. “They’re from Mr. Churchill,” came Lilibet’s high, clear voice. “He autographed them for us.”
The owner of the white-gloved hand read the gold-stamped title. “The World Crisis? Hardly bedtime reading! This is much more like it!” The earl’s daughter paused before a mass of magnificent rubies.
“They’re from the Burmese nation,” supplied Lilibet.
“Goodness, look at these diamonds,” interrupted a duke’s sister. “They’re absolutely amazing.”
“They’re from the Nizam of Hyderabad.”
High-pitched titters greeted this. “The what of where?”
“What on earth is a Nizam?”
“Does it matter?” murmured the white-gloved girl, gazing at the diamonds. More titters.
And so it went on, slowly round the display. Gasps of admiration alternated with exclamations of puzzlement.
“But my dear, what could this possibly be?”
The fast set had paused before a lump of pinkish stone. Lilibet beamed round at the group. “It’s an uncut diamond.”
“Is this one too?” The duke’s daughter had stalked ahead and was gesturing at a large gray boulder.
“That’s a bit of Snowdon. An old man from Wales sent it. He said in his letter that it was for luck.”
Luck, thought Marion darkly. None of this had brought any luck that she could identify. As feared, she had become relegated and ignored, dragged along to carry the handbags. She, who had been Lilibet’s all in all. Her friend and companion, her trusted teacher, her playmate, her wartime comfort. All forgotten now that Philip had entered the picture.
Beside the piece of mountain was a small lump of gold. “From the people of Wales for my wedding ring,” came Lilibet’s high, trilling voice. The people of Wales strike again, Marion thought, remembering the first visit to the Little House. Sudden tears stung her eyes and she had to turn away.
The group passed on, not bothering to look at the lace Victorian underslip, beautifully hand-embroidered, that had been worn by the brides of an old lady’s family for generations. But no more—and Lilibet would not wear it either.
“What’s this?” White Gloves was pointing at a piece of plain cloth.
“It’s a loincloth. From Mahatma Gandhi. He made it himself, on a spinning wheel.”
“Whyever would he do that?”
“Well, he’s renounced all worldly possessions, you see.” Lilibet passed on to a silver ashtray. “From the Eisenhowers. I rather wish they hadn’t, though, as Philip’s promised to stop smoking.”
There were exclamations of disgust at two misshapen black lumps arranged on a plate. Marion had opened that one too. The lumps were charred toast, sent by two high-spirited young women who had been making it when the news of the royal engagement came over the radio. They had been so excited they had burned their supper.
“Imagine sending toast,” scoffed the duke’s daughter.
“Imagine making it,” added White Gloves, derisively.
As the princess laughed her high, trilling laugh, Marion thought of the Balmoral bothy. How little Lilibet had loved to make it then.
“IT’S A NIGHTMARE.” Norman had lost weight and was smoking copiously. “They’re bribing all my staff. My packer’s actually been offered a yacht.”
Marion clutched her jacket around herself. It was late October and very cold but they were in the palace gardens because Norman thought the rooms he used were bugged. He had taken to checking the corners of ceilings for spy cameras. Marion was reminded, poignantly, of Cameron the royal detective and the trip to the YWCA. Happy, long-ago days.
She tried to concentrate. “A yacht? Really?”
“It’s hell, I tell you.” Norman’s tone exactly blended hysteria and delight. “The whole world wants pictures of my dress. I’ve had to cover all my windows in muslin. My manager is literally sleeping in the salon.” He lit another cigarette and puffed on it agitatedly.
Finding the right design had taken months. It was perfect, though, a vision in satin and pearls and featuring the exquisite embroidery that had made the Hartnell name. Marion was one of the tiny handful to have seen the sketches. But the queen, who had ultimate veto, had taken her time to approve them.
A delaying tactic, obviously. Both king and queen were battling valiantly to hide their dread and despair at the coming parting. Showered with congratulations, none of which he wanted, the king was doing his best to seem cheerful. The queen’s serene smile no doubt required as much courage as any of her wartime displays of bravado.
Marion looked at the trees, blazing richly with autumn color. They had, she felt, an elegiac air. As she glanced at the silver lake another memory surfaced, of Lilibet falling in. Of Tommy’s muscled torso. She pushed it away, thinking of George’s muscled torso instead.
“And of course,” Norman said, “I’ve only just got over the worms.”
“I didn’t realize you’d been ill.”
“The silkworms.” Norman sighed deeply. “People thought they were Italian, or possibly Japanese. I was accused of using enemy silkworms.” He let out a rush of cigarette smoke.
“I thought the war was over.”
“Not in the field of bridal gowns, my dear.”
Marion snorted. It was good to laugh with Norman again. “What do you think of Philip?” she asked.
“Godlike.”
She nudged him. “I’m talking about the sort of person he is.”
“Does it matter?” He brushed a fallen leaf from his jacket. A silence followed, punctuated by the twittering and trilling of birds. They would be leaving soon as well. Everyone was, except her.
“I suppose the cake’s a bit odd,” Norman said, eventually. “They’re having a battle scene on it. On the third tier. That battle that Philip was in. Operated the searchlight or something.”
“Matapan?”
“Royal icing, I heard. With edible paint.”
She thumped him. “Not marzipan. Matapan. The name of the battle.”
Norman was huffily straightening his immaculate jacket sleeve. “If you say so. But what sort of man has a battle on his wedding cake? Rather macho, isn’t it?”