The test of true beauty comes at fifty. It is then that half a century of expressions have been etched upon the face, be they joy or discontent.
Miss Lily 1913
VIOLETTE
She was not going to meet the prince! This, in Violette’s opinion, was unfair. Had not the king himself declared that his son should marry an Englishwoman? Which she was now, according to the piece of paper that officially made Mr Jones her papa.
Violette had even behaved herself most beautifully at dinner, and coffee afterwards, and even at breakfast the next morning. She had not flirted with Mr Lorrimer, though as an expert in susceptible men, Violette was not entirely sure she could have enchanted him. But nonetheless, her manners had been most excellent, and where she had not been sure what to do, she had watched her ladyship for guidance. She was entirely respectable enough to meet a prince!
Being Miss Green’s daughter might have been an embarrassment, however, had not that most interesting Mr Lorrimer sent within the week yet another two pieces of paper, these ones asserting that her parents had been married and had then divorced.
It was slightly bewildering, suddenly having two parents, neither of whom she wished to kill. Violette even quite liked the man she now called Papa — and being legitimate, as well as having a house which was not quite a palace to live in and being — officially it seemed — the protégée of the Countess of Shillings.
But only slightly. Violette’s life had been event-filled from her birth. And now the Prince of Wales would visit! His equerry had called that morning to say His Royal Highness would call in on his way back to Sandringham. An unofficial visit, which meant the staff would not be lined up outside to bow or curtsey to him as he entered the house, so that he could not even catch the eye of the beautiful and now entirely English, almost, young lady, who would be attired most perfectly in white.
She could catch a glimpse of the prince from upstairs, her ladyship had suggested, as long as she was not too visible. She might even help in the nursery, as the prince would quite possibly ask to see the children.
But if he met her there Violette would seem to be a nursery maid. A prince would never marry a nursery maid, nor even make her his mistress. Being a royal mistress was respectable, it seemed from all she had read, even if being the mistress of any other man was not.
Besides, Violette was not a nursery maid, though she quite enjoyed playing with Rose and Daniel, as long as it was always quite clear she would never be a servant, like her mama.
It was impossible not to feel a little contempt for the woman she still thought of as Green, content to serve another woman instead of having a life of her own, as Violette would have, especially as there seemed to be an unlimited amount of Vaile — or Higgs — money that might be spent on finding out what that life could be.
Exactly what her life would entail she had not yet decided. Possibly she might become a couturier, designing garments even more beautiful than those in Paris, or an aviatrix. Or, of course, she could become the Princess of Wales.
This required a plan. The earl, it appeared, was to have a private talk with the prince in the library. The library doors opened onto the terrace. What could be more natural than the protégée of the countess wandering in the orchard and gardens, picking flowers, thus getting prickles in her most flattering white dress, and so needing to enter discreetly through the library door, flowers in her arms and, perhaps, a few tucked in her flowing blonde curls? She would then find in complete surprise that the library was occupied by a young, handsome prince. She would blush, laugh, apologise, offer him a flower . . .
What prince could resist?
She waited till the car drove up, till the prince had entered. Violette glimpsed him from above the stairs, as her ladyship had suggested. Smaller than he seemed in the photographs and thinner too; nor was he smiling — until her ladyship greeted him.
Men did smile when her ladyship spoke to them, and women too. Even her mother was able to make people smile, though she did not use the art as often as the countess. That deserved further study. But not today.
Violette waited until her ladyship emerged from the library, then slipped down the servants’ stair and out into the kitchen courtyard. From there it was an easy stroll to the orchard, full of lichened trees bearing hard green cherries and still miniature apples, pears, quinces and medlars, then through the orchard to the carefully cultivated ‘wilderness’ with its cornflowers, in full bloom now, and far more suitable for a beautiful maiden’s careless gathering than the formal roses from the beds nearer the house.
Violette glanced at her wristwatch, a gift from her parents for all the birthdays she had not celebrated with them — a birthday was something she had not celebrated before, but sounded most pleasant, certainly. She would give the men an hour to talk . . .
She drifted back towards the house, cornflowers in her arms, matching the blue of her eyes exactly.
The day was warm and, yes, the library’s French doors were open. Most perfect. Violette halted at the sound of voices unmistakeably ‘discussing’. She would wait for the discussion to be over, for the lull when a prince would welcome the sight of a beautiful maiden emerging like a summer day in winter . . .
‘I say, old chap, you are taking this awfully well.’ The prince’s voice, high and light.
‘I must confess to being mildly curious about this Hitler fellow myself, and a summer journey through Europe, with a few days staying with one of Sophie’s oldest friends, sounds delightful. I haven’t seen Berlin since before the war.’ That was the earl’s voice. ‘But Sophie simply doesn’t understand how close our ties with Germany have always been. Her only experience was during the war and just after it. Besides, she misses home.’
‘Australia!’ The prince laughed. ‘Terrible place. I was black and blue at the end of it. Everywhere I went people swamped me, touching me — or rather swallowing me in a football scrum. Whenever I entered a crowd, it closed around me like an octopus. I can still hear them: “I touched him!” And if I were out of reach, then a blow to my head with a folded newspaper appeared to satisfy the impulse.’
‘Hopefully an earl will not elicit the same impulse. But we won’t stay in Sydney long in any case. Sophie wants to see her estate again, Thuringa. She calls it the “true Australia”.’
‘Ah, yes, I am familiar with the true Australia too. Mayor’s wives in flowered hats and a million flies . . . and the native stockmen! They are the most revolting living creatures I’ve ever seen, and I have been to Africa and America, and you do see some specimens there, old man. But the Australian darkies are the lowest known form of human beings, quite the nearest thing to monkeys.’ The prince seemed to think he had made a joke.
A pause. Violette thought the earl’s voice was not quite as relaxed as he wished it to seem as he replied, ‘I think Sophie is very attached to some of the native stockmen. Her farm manager is Aboriginal.’
‘Not really? Well, Sophie is Australian after all, old chap. No offence meant. You know I adore her.’
‘Of course. None taken.’
‘At least Australians are good British stock. Some races are simply superior to others, and of course some people too. Even if my own family . . . You know about my brother, the one with epilepsy.’
‘I was sorry to hear about his death.’
‘My dear chap, no need. That is exactly what I meant. The poor boy was close to being an animal towards the end. Degenerates and the unfit should not be allowed to breed, or even live if they are a burden to themselves and society. That is part of the creed of the Hitler chap that interests me. Have you read that book of his?’
‘Mein Kampf? Yes. The prinzessin sent a copy to Sophie. Sophie doesn’t read German but I suppose the prinzessin thought she could have it translated. Or that I’d read it to her.’
‘One of my cousins gave it to me. It’s the most fascinating work ever written, don’t you think?’
‘Interesting, certainly.’ Violette wondered if the prince could hear the less obvious emotions in the earl’s voice. She thought perhaps he did not. Even a prince, it seemed, might not be very bright. ‘My German probably isn’t as fluent as yours, sir,’ added the earl. ‘I may have missed the full force of his arguments.’
‘Herr Hitler says that if we’d had the courage to kill twenty-three thousand Jews at the start of the war it would have been over in a year. It was the Jewish bankers and war profiteers who kept it going. It’s a jolly good point.’
‘I’m afraid I don’t agree, sir.’
‘Even poor bally old Wilhelm suggested that the Jews be gassed. He was right on that point, at least.’
‘If I might say, sir —’ began his lordship.
It was as if the prince did not even hear him, or had heard agreement, not dissent. ‘Degenerates are taking over the world, according to this man Hitler. Sexual depravity of the worst kind. He’s correct about that too. Makes one wonder what else he has a nose for, what?’
It was surely time to enter the library. The discussion was over. The earl was increasingly uncomfortable with the conversation, although he hid it well. Violette was sure now that the prince was not the kind to pick up on the feelings behind the polite words. Possibly, as a prince, he had always assumed that everyone about him agreed with him, and so had never thought that true feelings might be unexpressed.
And suddenly she had no wish to waft in. Life had given her little respect for men who could be manipulated. And it was obvious that this man so easily could be, even if he were a prince, or perhaps because he was.
And he was not kind. It would be interesting to be a princess, certainly. But Violette believed she had at last met two men who were truly kind: her father and his lordship. Even to be a princess she did not want to be bound to a man who was not kind, who could make light of the death of a brother who had epilepsy, like poor Mademoiselle Lamonte in the village. Mademoiselle Lamonte was often dazed and shaky, but Violette had liked her, and Grandmère explained the condition that she suffered from.
Mademoiselle Lamonte had not been an animal. Violette had a sudden image of the prince behind bars in a zoo, an animal himself, and all the people he so unthinkingly classed as animals gazing at him, and throwing him bananas.
She turned and walked quietly back towards the kitchen. She would use the servants’ stairs again and present these flowers to her mother, who would be pleased, even though she would also look at her sharply and wonder why she had been given them, for her mother was not someone as easily manipulated as that imbecile prince. But she would, perhaps, accept they had been gathered on impulse.
She might even guess what Violette had intended. But Violette was sure of one thing. The family — including her parents — was about to travel across Europe, to stay in the palace of a princess in Germany. And there was no way Violette was going to permit them to leave her behind.