A Royal Pain (9 page)

“But you are not still wirgin?” she asked.

“Werging?”

“You are voman of vorld. Not wirgin.”

“Oh,” I said. “I see. Well, yes, I am still a virgin, I’m afraid.”

“This is not good,” she said, wagging a finger at me. “Young girl like me. Eighteen years old. Men like that I am virgin. But old like you, is not good. Men think there is something wrong with you.”

“I’m not that old,” I said. “I won’t be twenty-two until August.”

But she didn’t look convinced. “We must do something for you. Pretty damned quick.”

“You sound like my friend Belinda.”

“Belinda? I like this Belinda. I will meet her soon?”

I couldn’t say “You already have, hanging up the baroness’s clothes.” “I’m sure you will,” I said instead. “She and I are great friends. But she really is a woman of the world. If you want to know anything, ask her.”

“Maybe she will find me hot sexy guy?”

“Your Highness, I rather think that you’ll be expected to save yourself for marriage,” I said. “You’ll be expected to make a good match with a prince.”

“But princes are so dull, don’t you think?” she asked.

This was not a good sign. She was supposed to fall hopelessly in love with the Prince of Wales.

“We have some awfully entertaining princes in England,” I said. “You’ll meet them soon.”

In the middle of the night I woke up and lay there, wonderingwhat had awoken me. Then I heard it again, the creak of a floorboard. One of my guests using the bathroom, I surmised, but I got up in case they couldn’t find the light switch. I had just opened my door a few inches when I gasped: a dark figure was coming up the stairs from the ground floor. Before my heart started beating again, I recognized it was Irmgardt, Hanni’s maid. She didn’t notice me, but tiptoed right past and kept on going, up the next flight of stairs to the servants’ quarters.

What had she been doing downstairs? I wondered. Obviously not fetching something for her mistress, or she would have brought it to her bedroom. I didn’t notice anything in her hands but Fig’s words about locking up the family silver did spring to mind. Surely a royal maid would have been well vetted before she was allowed to accompany a princess. Maybe she had just been looking for something as simple as a glass of water. I closed my door and went back to sleep.

Next morning I passed along Hanni’s instructions to my grandfather and Mrs. Huggins. Cut back on the food and turn down the hot water. They were reluctant to do this. “What, and have them think I don’t know how to cook proper?” Mrs. Huggins demanded. “I’m proud of my cooking, I am.”

“And I don’t want that old dragon coming after me because there’s no hot water,” Granddad said. “She’s already waved her stick at me a couple of times.”

“Tell her it’s an old and eccentric boiler system in the house and it’s unpredictable whether we have hot water or not. Tell her in England we are used to cold baths. My brother, the duke, takes them all the time.”

“I hope you know what you’re doing, ducks.” Granddad shook his head. “You wouldn’t want her complaining to the queen that you’re not treating them proper.”

“Oh, I don’t think she’d do that,” I said, but I wasn’t sure. I rather had a feeling that this was a lost cause. Baroness Rottenmeister struck me as one of those noble creatures who will not flinch from her duty, however horrible it is. Rather like my ancestors, of course. Oh, God. I hope she doesn’t have Rannoch blood!

Sunday, June 12

On Sunday morning the baroness, Irmgardt and Hanni had to go to mass. I sent them off in a taxicab. The baroness was horrified that I wouldn’t be joining them. “In England we’re all C of E,” I said. “Church of England,” I added when she clearly didn’t understand. “The head of the church is the king, my cousin. We don’t have to go every Sunday if we don’t want to.”

“You are relation of head of church? A nation of heathens,” she said and crossed herself.

When they returned, Mrs. Huggins was about to cook bacon, eggs and kidneys for breakfast but I insisted on porridge.

“This is breakfast?” the baroness asked.

“Scottish breakfast. It’s what we eat at home at Castle Rannoch.”

She prodded it with her spoon. “And what goes with it?”

“Nothing. Just porridge. In Scotland we eat it with a little salt.”

She sighed and pulled her shawl more closely around her. Luckily the weather was cooperating for once. The brief summery spell had been replaced by usual English summer weather. It was raining cats and dogs and was distinctly chilly. Even I looked longingly at the fireplace and almost relented about lighting fires. But I knew what was at stake and bravely sought out a woolly cardigan. There was no sign of Belinda all morning. I suspected that the party had not ended until the wee hours and rising early for her meant around eleven.

Mrs. Huggins absolutely insisted on cooking a roast for Sunday lunch. “I don’t want them foreigners to think we don’t do things proper in England,” she said. “We always have a joint on a Sunday.” But I did persuade her not to do too many roast potatoes to go with it, but a lot of greens. And for pudding something light. She suggested junket. Perfect.

The baroness ate her meat rapidly. “Good
Fleisch,
” she said. “
Fleisch
is healthy.” But I noticed she didn’t attack the great mound of greens with the same enthusiasm, nor did she like the junket.

“Yoonkit?” she asked. “What means yoonkit?”

It had never been a favorite of mine. I always associated it with invalid food but I managed to give an impression of someone eating with gusto. After lunch it was too wet for a walk, so we sat in the cavernous drawing room while the wind whistled down the chimney. The baroness napped in an armchair. Hanni and I played rummy.

“Does nobody come to call? No visitors?” the baroness demanded, as she stirred during her nap. “Life in England is very dull.”

“I think the rain is stopping.” Hanni looked out of the window. “We go for walk. You show me London.”

We left the baroness snoozing in her armchair.

“Let us walk through the beautiful park,” Hanni suggested. “Very romantic place, no?”

So we walked through Hyde Park, where drops dripped on us from the horse chestnut trees and Rotten Row was sodden underfoot. The park was almost deserted until we came to Speakers’ Corner. There a small crowd was gathered around a man standing on a packing case.

“The workers will rise up and take what is rightfully theirs,” he was shouting, while around him other earnest young men were carrying signs saying,
Join the Communists. Make the world a better place. Down with monarchy. Equality for all. Up the workers.

Hanni looked at them with interest. “They can say this and not be arrested?” she asked.

“This is called Speakers’ Corner. You can say what you like here, however silly it is.”

“You think communists are silly?” she asked.

“Don’t you?”

“I think it would be nice if all people had money and houses and enough food.”

“And you think the communists could deliver that? Look at the mess in Russia.”

“I don’t know,” she said, then gave a little squeak as her glove dropped onto the wet ground. Instantly one of the young men lowered his sign and leaped for her glove.

“There you are, miss,” he said, handing it back to her with a charming bow.

“Thank you very much.” Hanni blushed prettily. “Your friend speaks very well,” she told him.

He beamed at her. “Are you interested in coming to one of our meetings? We hold them at St. Mary’s Hall in the East End. You’d be most welcome.”

“You see. Communists are nice people, no?” Hanni whispered as he retrieved his sign. “He was handsome guy.”

I had to agree he was handsome, even though he was wearing a threadbare tweed jacket and hand-knitted pullover. The interesting thing was that he spoke like a gentleman.

At that moment there was the tramp of boots and a group of young men wearing black shirts, adorned with an emblem of a lightning bolt, marched up to the communists.

“Go back to Russia where you belong,” one of them shouted. “England for the English.”

“We’re as bloody English as you are, mate, and we’ve a right to speak here,” the man shouted from his platform.

“You’re a bunch of intellectual pansy boys. You’re no bleedin’ use to anybody,” one of the blackshirts jeered and leaped up to push him from the platform. Suddenly a scuffle broke out around us. Hanni screamed. The young man she had spoken to tried to fight his way through the melee toward her, but he was punched by a large thuggish black-shirt. Suddenly a strong arm grabbed me around the waist and I found myself being propelled out of the skirmish. I looked up to protest and found myself staring at Darcy O’Mara.

“Over here, before things get ugly,” he muttered and steered Hanni and me away into the park, just as the sound of police whistles could be heard.

“Those hooligans can’t stop free speech in Britain. We’ll show them the right way,” someone was shouting as the police waded in to break up the fight.

I looked up at Darcy. “Thank you. You arrived at the right moment.”

“Ah well, didn’t you know I’m your guardian angel?” he asked with that wicked grin. “What on earth were you doing at a communist rally? Are you about to trade Castle Rannoch for a peasant’s hovel?”

“We were only there by accident,” I said. “We went for a Sunday afternoon stroll and Hanni wanted to know who was shouting.”

Darcy’s gaze turned to Hanni. “A friend of yours?” he asked. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

“Highness, may I present the Honorable Darcy O’Mara, son and heir of Lord Kilhenny of Ireland. Darcy, this is Her Highess Princess Hannelore of Bavaria,” I said. “She’s staying with me at Rannoch House.”

“Is she, by George.” I saw his eyes light up. “Delighted to make your acquaintance, Your Highness.” He gave a very proper bow, then lifted her outstretched hand to his lips. “I’d volunteer to escort you ladies back to Belgrave Square but unfortunately I’m already late for an appointment. I look forward to seeing you again soon, now that I’m back in London. Your Highness. My lady.” Then he melted into the by-then considerable crowd.

“Wow, holy cow, hubba hubba, gee whiz. That was some guy,” Hanni said. “Don’t tell me he’s your main squeeze!”

“My what?”

“Your honey. Your sugar. Isn’t that right word?”

“In England we’re a little less colorful with our language,” I said.

“So you say it?”

“Boyfriend? Escort?”

“And is he?”

“Obviously not anymore,” I said with a sigh.

Chapter 9

Monday morning—cold and blustery again. More porridge for breakfast. Mrs. Huggins wasn’t particularly good at porridge and it was like gooey wallpaper paste. I ate mine with expressions of delight. I thought the baroness might be beginning to crack.

“When will king and queen invite us to palace?” she asked hopefully.

“I couldn’t say,” I said. “It depends how busy they are.”

“Is most irregular that princess not received at palace by king,” she said; then she added, “The food at palace is good?”

“They are also trying to eat simply,” I replied, knowing that they were.

“And where is your maid?”

“I’m afraid she hasn’t returned from visiting her mother.”

“Servants in England have no idea of duty. You must dismiss her instantly and find a good reliable German girl,” the baroness said, waving her stick at me.

At that moment the post arrived, bringing two letters.

One was indeed from the palace, inviting us to dinner on Tuesday evening. The other had been forwarded from my post office box and was from a Mrs. Bantry-Bynge, one of my regular customers in the house-cleaning business. Every now and then Mrs. Bantry-Bynge abandoned Colonel Bantry-Bynge and popped up to town, apparently to see her dressmaker but really for a tryst with a frightful slimy man called Boy. I had been called upon to make up the bedroom for her on several occasions now. It was easy work and she paid generously. Buying my silence, Belinda called it.

But Mrs. Bantry-Bynge needed my services this Wednesday. She would be spending Wednesday night in town, dining with friends. Oh, bugger, I muttered. It is not a word that a lady ever says out loud, but one has been known to mutter it out of earshot in times of severe crisis. How on earth was I going to find an excuse to leave Hanni and the baroness for several hours? Maybe somebody at the palace dinner party might be persuaded to invite Hanni out for a spin in a Rolls, or maybe I could prevail on Belinda, wherever she was.

I was just showing my guests the dinner invitation to the palace when there was a knock on the front door and in swept Belinda herself, looking startling in a silver mack.