The Good Servant, page 11
Tommy stood up. ‘My dear fellow. You must need a drink.’
‘I think so. Yes, please.’
‘Sit down. P-T,’ he called, ‘whisky please.’
She came in moments. She kept a bottle under her desk with glasses and soda, just in case. ‘Here we are, sir.’
Lord Dawson took the glass with a shaky hand. ‘Thank you.’
Tommy looked at his loyal secretary. ‘P-T, would you care to join us?’
‘Thank you, sir.’ She looked anxiously at both men. ‘How is the Queen?’
‘Steadfast. Sitting with him,’ Lord Dawson answered. ‘With all her children around her.’
‘Oh golly.’ P-T paled and sat down on a wooden upright chair. ‘Oh dear.’
‘Indeed.’ Tommy raised his glass. ‘The King is dead. Long live the King.’
P-T gulped her whisky.
‘Come along, P-T,’ said Tommy when she had finished, ‘you need to sleep. We shall be busy tomorrow.’
‘Yes, sir,’ she replied. ‘I am so sorry. For all of us.’
When she had left, Tommy poured himself and Lord Dawson another glass.
‘He did not suffer?’
‘No,’ said Dawson. ‘At least I could help him with that.’
‘Thank God.’
‘Indeed, but’ – Dawson faltered – ‘I have done something, and I hope God may forgive me.’
Tommy looked at the man. He seemed to be suffering some inner turmoil. ‘What have you done?’
‘If I tell you, would you promise to keep it within these four walls? Please?’
Tommy sat forward. ‘If this is a confession, I am no priest.’
‘I need to tell someone I trust and that is you.’
‘All right.’
‘Earlier this evening, I injected 750mg of morphine and a gram of cocaine, into the King’s veins. I hastened his death.’
Tommy’s tired brain was in overdrive. ‘What? Why?’
‘I thought it suitable that his death should be announced before the presses of The Times newspaper rolled at midnight. This way the country will wake to the news at breakfast. If he had passed away any later, the solemnity of his death would be reported by the lesser evening papers.’
Tommy was stunned. ‘Good God!’
‘The Queen and the family can sleep tonight and be stronger tomorrow as they face the agony of grief and burial and succession.’
Tommy twisted the glass in his hand taking all this in, then he said, ‘You will not speak of this again. As for me, I shall wipe this conversation from my mind. You did what you felt was right. Let us leave it at that.’
21st January 1936
Darling,
He has gone. At five to midnight.
All the family were with him as he breathed his last.
I am told that the Queen, who has maintained a long vigil at his bedside, instantly turned to her eldest son and, bowing, took his hand in hers and kissed it. ‘God Save the King,’ she said unfalteringly before stepping back with a small curtsey.
The King is dead.
The house is now brimming with the quiet efficiency of state.
It is two o’clock in the morning now. I have just returned from visiting the old King in his room to pay my respects and thank him for his life of duty. Like all our generation, I have seen too many dead men, but none has ever had a more peaceful face.
The new King will return to London tomorrow to present himself to privy councillors who, no matter how they judge him, must swear allegiance to him.
He is taking his own aeroplane to do so, apparently creating a kingly precedent. His father never flew in his life.
I will write again tomorrow, but for now I am going to get some sleep.
Thank you for the clothes parcel. Tomorrow will be all hands to the pump.
With grateful love,
Tommy
Chapter Fifteen
Dunfermline, 21st January 1936
Maggie’s eyes were swollen with tears. Whether they were for the dead King or Marion’s insistence on returning to Windsor and Royal Lodge, she couldn’t have told you.
‘Surely they can do without you for another day?’
Marion had reached the end of her forbearance. She had been awake since Alah had telephoned in the early hours. The poor woman had sobbed down the telephone, hardly able to get her words out. And now, dealing with her mother’s bleating was the last straw.
‘Mother!’ she snapped. ‘This is not about me staying here to comfort you! It’s my job to go to London and comfort two little girls who have lost their grandfather! Read the telegram if you don’t believe me.’ She handed the flimsy piece of paper to her mother. ‘The Duchess isn’t well. She has flu. The Duke is in mourning. The girls need me and that’s that.’
‘What about me? I need you.’
‘Stop it!’
‘You’ve changed, Marion. You used to be a loving daughter but now …’
‘Pass me my cardigan, would you?’
Pathetically, Maggie looked around her. Her daughter’s rumpled single bed was a mess of discarded hangers and clothes.
‘Which one?’
‘The blue one. You’re sitting on it.’
Marion was in no mood to bend to her mother’s neediness. Her head and heart were aching with the enormity of the King’s death. She desperately wanted to be back in London, to bring reassurance to the Princesses and to the household. So much must be happening and it was vital that the girls were protected from all the emotional upset. The Duchess would need to know that life around her would carry on, to give her the time to soothe her husband in his grief and pick up the threads of public duty and royal continuance.
Her mother pulled the cardigan from under her and lifted it to her cheek, rubbing the soft wool on her skin.
‘One of the nicest things I ever knitted for you.’ She sighed and put her nose to it. ‘It smells of you.’
Marion gritted her teeth in furious despair.
Maggie shot her an angry look. ‘Can I not say anything to you? Do you speak to the Duchess the way you speak to me?’
Her stepfather came in bearing a tray of tea. ‘I’ve put some sausages under the grill.’
Maggie wiped her eyes ostentatiously. ‘The last thing I want is food. I couldn’t keep it down.’
‘Ah.’ He put the tray down, assessing the situation. ‘You two squabbling?’
Maggie sighed. ‘I just don’t know why she has to go back so soon.’
Robert took charge. ‘Let’s leave Marion to her packing. This is a very difficult time for her. Come downstairs with me.’
With space to herself, Marion collected herself and continued to pack, making a mental list of everything she had to do and would need to do once back in London. She also had to tell someone else that she was leaving today.
George.
George had spent Christmas day with them. Maggie’s determination to matchmake was ironclad.
Marion had been dreading it.
At midday on Christmas day, George’s car had driven onto the frosty drive, the boot laden with presents.
Maggie had made all sorts of fuss, welcoming him as if he were already a son-in-law.
‘Marion, pour our guest a sherry. George, settle yourself on the sofa with Marion. Robert, I need your help in the kitchen.’
Excruciating.
Sitting next to each other, as decreed, George had admired the decorated tree in the corner and the cooking smells from the kitchen.
Marion was impelled to continue a conversation.
‘Are you still helping your friend with the motor sales?’
‘I am indeed. We met during the war. In France. Gordon Highlanders. The kind of friendship that is forged in battle. Brothers-in-arms, if you like.’
‘Where were you in France?’
‘Anywhere they needed us. We saw a lot of action. Lost good friends. Dreadful time.’ He drained his sherry.
‘And that’s where you were given the rank of major?’
She saw embarrassment and modesty in his eyes before she asked, ‘Would you like another?’
‘No. No.’ He smiled at her and she saw how his eyes crinkled at the edges. ‘I want to appreciate your mother’s lunch. So kind of her. It’s a long time since I had a Christmas lunch with friends. Or indeed family.’ He rubbed his moustache. ‘Sorry. You don’t want to hear my woes.’
Marion found that she actually did want to hear more, but as if on cue, her parents appeared.
‘Marion.’ Her mother smiled at her. ‘Would you help me for a moment? And Robert, would you take George into the dining room? Luncheon is ready.’
‘Well?’ In the kitchen, Maggie whispered conspiratorially, ‘How have you two been getting on?’
Marion refused to be drawn. ‘Shall I take the dish of potatoes in?’
‘Marion!’ Maggie would not be shaken as she caught Marion’s elbow. ‘George is so nice, isn’t he?’
Marion managed a brief smile, picked up the bowl of roast potatoes, and whispered, ‘Mother, he’s too old for me.’
George had brought with him a box of six crackers, and although his other gifts were stowed under the tree – not to be opened until teatime, a custom ordered by her mother years before – she did relent where the crackers were concerned and had laid one on each place setting, with the remaining two in the centre of the table.
‘George!’ She twinkled as she said, ‘You are spoiling us.’
Robert picked his up and shook it. ‘I didn’t think you liked crackers, old girl.’
‘She doesn’t,’ Marion added.
‘It’s not that I don’t like them.’ Her mother rubbed her hands nervously. ‘It’s just that the bang can be a bit unnerving.’
‘Well, I tell you what’ – George smiled at Marion sitting opposite him – ‘you cover your ears, Maggie, while Marion and I pull the first one.’
He offered up the cracker to a hesitant Marion.
‘Come on,’ he said, waggling it in front of her. ‘A cracker for a cracker.’
‘Oh dear.’ Maggie put her hands over her ears and squeezed her eyes shut.
Marion held the cracker and pulled hard. It snapped, leaving George with the winning end.
Marion tapped her mother’s arm. ‘It’s done. George has won.’
George found the party hat inside the cracker and placed it on Maggie’s head.
‘I now pronounce you: Queen Maggie.’
‘Oh!’ Maggie giggled. ‘You are a card. A real tonic.’ She turned to Marion. ‘Tell George about the Duchess’s diamond tiara.’
George raised his eyebrows. ‘What Duchess is this, then? I am intrigued. Do tell?’
Marion, mortified, remained silent.
‘She’s probably not allowed to tell you.’ Maggie giggled again. ‘But I can.’
‘Maggie, no,’ Robert said quietly.
‘Why not? I’m proud of my daughter, even if you’re not.’
Marion looked down at her clenched hands. Robert gave his wife a warning stare. Maggie ignored him.
‘Marion is governess to Princess Elizabeth and Princess Margaret.’
‘And who are they?’ George asked, as if he had no idea.
‘The King’s granddaughters, of course. She works for the Duke and Duchess of York!’
George’s mouth dropped open. ‘You’re having me on.’
‘No, no. It’s the truth. Tell him, Marion.’
Marion shifted slightly then said, ‘It’s true.’
‘My word.’ George sat back in his chair, then sat forward, saying earnestly, ‘I would never have pressed you if I had known. Well, you have surprised me, in a good way.’
Robert pushed his chair back. ‘I think we need another drink.’ He stood and went to the drinks trolley. ‘Whisky, George?’
George smiled. ‘It is Christmas.’
Robert brought over two whiskies and two sherries for his wife and stepdaughter. ‘A toast, I think. To Christmas.’
‘To Christmas … and the King,’ George said.
All four glasses were raised. ‘To Christmas and the King.’
The atmosphere had shifted into something rather uncomfortable.
Robert made the first move. ‘Right, then.’ He rubbed his hands together. ‘How about we open some presents?’ He headed to the tree. ‘And yes, Maggie, I know it’s not teatime but today it’s my rules.’
George’s presents were thoughtful and generous. A bottle of five-year-old malt for Robert, a box of violet creams for Maggie and a pair of Fair Isle gloves for Marion.
‘Oh, George, these are just what I wanted. I was only telling Mother the other day when we were shopping—’ She stopped, seeing the conspiratorial wink between George and her mother. ‘Have you two been talking?’
‘A wee bird may have dropped a hint, aye.’ George grinned.
Marion was touched. ‘And you remembered? That’s so kind, thank you.’ She suddenly wanted to kiss him, to feel the warmth of his skin.
She looked away, and the moment passed.
Maggie, the effects of the sherry now evident, had opened her chocolates and was offering them around gleefully. ‘George, you really shouldn’t have. We don’t have anything to give you.’
He looked around at all of them, resting his eyes on Marion. ‘Your hospitality and company are the only gift I need. Since my parents have been gone … Well, let’s just say Christmas has not been my favourite time of year.’ His words, spoken in a soft voice, touched Marion. His eyes were still searching hers. ‘Until now.’
As she searched for some words of comfort, Maggie’s giggly cackle stopped her. ‘You will come again, won’t you, George? Marion is here for the whole of January, aren’t you, Marion?
‘Mother, please. I am sure George will be busy. He won’t want me foisted on him.’
George smiled broadly. ‘There is nothing I would like more. Come to think of it, I have been offered tickets for a Hogmanay dinner dance; we could see the New Year in together, if you have no other plans?’
‘Oh, she never has social plans, do you, Marion?’ Maggie squawked.
Marion blushed with anger. ‘Please, Mother.’
George got up. ‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked.’ He checked his watch. ‘I’ve overstayed my welcome. High time I should be going. Snow is forecast and my little motor might struggle a bit. Thank you all for a splendid day.’
In the hall, Maggie took his coat from the bannister and helped him in to it. ‘Such a beautiful coat.’ She stood back and admired it. ‘Robert, this is exactly the sort of coat I have always wanted you to have. It reeks of quality and will last for years.’
George laughed. ‘This old thing? It’s done me for the last ten years and will do another ten for sure.’ He took Maggie’s hand and shook it. ‘I really have had a wonderful time.’
Robert opened the front door and a wintry gust blew in a cupful of snowflakes.
Maggie gave Marion her coat from the hallstand. ‘Go and see dear George off while your dad and I clear the kitchen.’
Marion’s cheeks were burning. ‘Mother!’
‘Off you go.’ Maggie pushed them both out onto the doorstep and shut the door behind them.
Out in the light snow, shame made Marion shiver. ‘I am so sorry about my mother. It’s the sherry. She’s not used to it.’
‘Och, she’s a lovely woman, but you don’t have to stay out here. Go on in, it’s cold.’
Marion shivered again and pulled her coat over her shoulders. ‘I should be wearing the lovely gloves you gave me.’
‘I’m glad you like them. Well, goodnight.’ He took the few steps to his car. ‘This snow is settling.’ He reached out and brushed a frosty layer from the cars windscreen. ‘Another reason for me to remember such a special day.’ He brushed his hands against his coat and opened the car door. ‘Well, goodbye then.’
‘George?’
‘Yes, Marion?’
‘It’s not that I can’t tell people about my job. It’s just that …’
‘Are you asking me to be discreet?’
‘Would you do that?’
‘Of course. I completely understand.’
‘Thank you.’
George pulled his coat collar to his ears. ‘I admire your loyalty.’
‘Thank you again for my gloves.’
‘My pleasure. And, look … if you do find yourself free on New Year’s Eve …’
‘I—’ she began, but he stopped her.
‘Think about it. I’ll ring you up.’ He looked at her and smiled, his eyes warm, his deep voice gentle. ‘It would be my honour to escort you.’
She watched as he climbed into his car, his headlamps lighting the snowflakes as he drove away.
And in that moment, she knew she trusted him. He had bought her a thoughtful but not overly expensive gift. He seemed to like her but was gentle in his invitation. She knew he wouldn’t tell anyone about her work, and there was just something about him that made her feel secure. She hoped he would ring.
Two days later he did. Her parents were out so there was no one to overhear their conversation. She had made her mind up to spend New Year’s Eve with him, so when she picked up the receiver on the hall table and tugged it so that she could sit on the stairs and watch herself in the small hall mirror, she felt no nervousness.
‘Hello, Marion Crawford speaking.’
‘Hello, Marion?’
‘Hello, George.’
‘How are you?’
‘Very well, thank you. And you?’
‘Good, thanks. Erm, I was telephoning about New Year’s Eve …’
‘Yes?’ She cradled the phone a little closer, his voice purring in her ear.
‘Well, if you are not doing anything else, it would be my honour to take you out.’
‘I would love to.’
She heard him draw breath, then his laugh of relief. ‘Wonderful. I can pick you up at about six thirty?’
‘That will be fine. Where are we going?’
‘The Glen Mule. They are having a Hogmanay dinner dance. Can you dance the eightsome reel?’
‘Of course. First dance my mother taught me.’
‘I’ll have to brush up then. By the way, I had better warn you, apart from two left feet, I’ll be in my kilt.’
‘Oh goodness, you will outshine me. I only have one long dress and I haven’t worn it since goodness knows when.’
‘I think so. Yes, please.’
‘Sit down. P-T,’ he called, ‘whisky please.’
She came in moments. She kept a bottle under her desk with glasses and soda, just in case. ‘Here we are, sir.’
Lord Dawson took the glass with a shaky hand. ‘Thank you.’
Tommy looked at his loyal secretary. ‘P-T, would you care to join us?’
‘Thank you, sir.’ She looked anxiously at both men. ‘How is the Queen?’
‘Steadfast. Sitting with him,’ Lord Dawson answered. ‘With all her children around her.’
‘Oh golly.’ P-T paled and sat down on a wooden upright chair. ‘Oh dear.’
‘Indeed.’ Tommy raised his glass. ‘The King is dead. Long live the King.’
P-T gulped her whisky.
‘Come along, P-T,’ said Tommy when she had finished, ‘you need to sleep. We shall be busy tomorrow.’
‘Yes, sir,’ she replied. ‘I am so sorry. For all of us.’
When she had left, Tommy poured himself and Lord Dawson another glass.
‘He did not suffer?’
‘No,’ said Dawson. ‘At least I could help him with that.’
‘Thank God.’
‘Indeed, but’ – Dawson faltered – ‘I have done something, and I hope God may forgive me.’
Tommy looked at the man. He seemed to be suffering some inner turmoil. ‘What have you done?’
‘If I tell you, would you promise to keep it within these four walls? Please?’
Tommy sat forward. ‘If this is a confession, I am no priest.’
‘I need to tell someone I trust and that is you.’
‘All right.’
‘Earlier this evening, I injected 750mg of morphine and a gram of cocaine, into the King’s veins. I hastened his death.’
Tommy’s tired brain was in overdrive. ‘What? Why?’
‘I thought it suitable that his death should be announced before the presses of The Times newspaper rolled at midnight. This way the country will wake to the news at breakfast. If he had passed away any later, the solemnity of his death would be reported by the lesser evening papers.’
Tommy was stunned. ‘Good God!’
‘The Queen and the family can sleep tonight and be stronger tomorrow as they face the agony of grief and burial and succession.’
Tommy twisted the glass in his hand taking all this in, then he said, ‘You will not speak of this again. As for me, I shall wipe this conversation from my mind. You did what you felt was right. Let us leave it at that.’
21st January 1936
Darling,
He has gone. At five to midnight.
All the family were with him as he breathed his last.
I am told that the Queen, who has maintained a long vigil at his bedside, instantly turned to her eldest son and, bowing, took his hand in hers and kissed it. ‘God Save the King,’ she said unfalteringly before stepping back with a small curtsey.
The King is dead.
The house is now brimming with the quiet efficiency of state.
It is two o’clock in the morning now. I have just returned from visiting the old King in his room to pay my respects and thank him for his life of duty. Like all our generation, I have seen too many dead men, but none has ever had a more peaceful face.
The new King will return to London tomorrow to present himself to privy councillors who, no matter how they judge him, must swear allegiance to him.
He is taking his own aeroplane to do so, apparently creating a kingly precedent. His father never flew in his life.
I will write again tomorrow, but for now I am going to get some sleep.
Thank you for the clothes parcel. Tomorrow will be all hands to the pump.
With grateful love,
Tommy
Chapter Fifteen
Dunfermline, 21st January 1936
Maggie’s eyes were swollen with tears. Whether they were for the dead King or Marion’s insistence on returning to Windsor and Royal Lodge, she couldn’t have told you.
‘Surely they can do without you for another day?’
Marion had reached the end of her forbearance. She had been awake since Alah had telephoned in the early hours. The poor woman had sobbed down the telephone, hardly able to get her words out. And now, dealing with her mother’s bleating was the last straw.
‘Mother!’ she snapped. ‘This is not about me staying here to comfort you! It’s my job to go to London and comfort two little girls who have lost their grandfather! Read the telegram if you don’t believe me.’ She handed the flimsy piece of paper to her mother. ‘The Duchess isn’t well. She has flu. The Duke is in mourning. The girls need me and that’s that.’
‘What about me? I need you.’
‘Stop it!’
‘You’ve changed, Marion. You used to be a loving daughter but now …’
‘Pass me my cardigan, would you?’
Pathetically, Maggie looked around her. Her daughter’s rumpled single bed was a mess of discarded hangers and clothes.
‘Which one?’
‘The blue one. You’re sitting on it.’
Marion was in no mood to bend to her mother’s neediness. Her head and heart were aching with the enormity of the King’s death. She desperately wanted to be back in London, to bring reassurance to the Princesses and to the household. So much must be happening and it was vital that the girls were protected from all the emotional upset. The Duchess would need to know that life around her would carry on, to give her the time to soothe her husband in his grief and pick up the threads of public duty and royal continuance.
Her mother pulled the cardigan from under her and lifted it to her cheek, rubbing the soft wool on her skin.
‘One of the nicest things I ever knitted for you.’ She sighed and put her nose to it. ‘It smells of you.’
Marion gritted her teeth in furious despair.
Maggie shot her an angry look. ‘Can I not say anything to you? Do you speak to the Duchess the way you speak to me?’
Her stepfather came in bearing a tray of tea. ‘I’ve put some sausages under the grill.’
Maggie wiped her eyes ostentatiously. ‘The last thing I want is food. I couldn’t keep it down.’
‘Ah.’ He put the tray down, assessing the situation. ‘You two squabbling?’
Maggie sighed. ‘I just don’t know why she has to go back so soon.’
Robert took charge. ‘Let’s leave Marion to her packing. This is a very difficult time for her. Come downstairs with me.’
With space to herself, Marion collected herself and continued to pack, making a mental list of everything she had to do and would need to do once back in London. She also had to tell someone else that she was leaving today.
George.
George had spent Christmas day with them. Maggie’s determination to matchmake was ironclad.
Marion had been dreading it.
At midday on Christmas day, George’s car had driven onto the frosty drive, the boot laden with presents.
Maggie had made all sorts of fuss, welcoming him as if he were already a son-in-law.
‘Marion, pour our guest a sherry. George, settle yourself on the sofa with Marion. Robert, I need your help in the kitchen.’
Excruciating.
Sitting next to each other, as decreed, George had admired the decorated tree in the corner and the cooking smells from the kitchen.
Marion was impelled to continue a conversation.
‘Are you still helping your friend with the motor sales?’
‘I am indeed. We met during the war. In France. Gordon Highlanders. The kind of friendship that is forged in battle. Brothers-in-arms, if you like.’
‘Where were you in France?’
‘Anywhere they needed us. We saw a lot of action. Lost good friends. Dreadful time.’ He drained his sherry.
‘And that’s where you were given the rank of major?’
She saw embarrassment and modesty in his eyes before she asked, ‘Would you like another?’
‘No. No.’ He smiled at her and she saw how his eyes crinkled at the edges. ‘I want to appreciate your mother’s lunch. So kind of her. It’s a long time since I had a Christmas lunch with friends. Or indeed family.’ He rubbed his moustache. ‘Sorry. You don’t want to hear my woes.’
Marion found that she actually did want to hear more, but as if on cue, her parents appeared.
‘Marion.’ Her mother smiled at her. ‘Would you help me for a moment? And Robert, would you take George into the dining room? Luncheon is ready.’
‘Well?’ In the kitchen, Maggie whispered conspiratorially, ‘How have you two been getting on?’
Marion refused to be drawn. ‘Shall I take the dish of potatoes in?’
‘Marion!’ Maggie would not be shaken as she caught Marion’s elbow. ‘George is so nice, isn’t he?’
Marion managed a brief smile, picked up the bowl of roast potatoes, and whispered, ‘Mother, he’s too old for me.’
George had brought with him a box of six crackers, and although his other gifts were stowed under the tree – not to be opened until teatime, a custom ordered by her mother years before – she did relent where the crackers were concerned and had laid one on each place setting, with the remaining two in the centre of the table.
‘George!’ She twinkled as she said, ‘You are spoiling us.’
Robert picked his up and shook it. ‘I didn’t think you liked crackers, old girl.’
‘She doesn’t,’ Marion added.
‘It’s not that I don’t like them.’ Her mother rubbed her hands nervously. ‘It’s just that the bang can be a bit unnerving.’
‘Well, I tell you what’ – George smiled at Marion sitting opposite him – ‘you cover your ears, Maggie, while Marion and I pull the first one.’
He offered up the cracker to a hesitant Marion.
‘Come on,’ he said, waggling it in front of her. ‘A cracker for a cracker.’
‘Oh dear.’ Maggie put her hands over her ears and squeezed her eyes shut.
Marion held the cracker and pulled hard. It snapped, leaving George with the winning end.
Marion tapped her mother’s arm. ‘It’s done. George has won.’
George found the party hat inside the cracker and placed it on Maggie’s head.
‘I now pronounce you: Queen Maggie.’
‘Oh!’ Maggie giggled. ‘You are a card. A real tonic.’ She turned to Marion. ‘Tell George about the Duchess’s diamond tiara.’
George raised his eyebrows. ‘What Duchess is this, then? I am intrigued. Do tell?’
Marion, mortified, remained silent.
‘She’s probably not allowed to tell you.’ Maggie giggled again. ‘But I can.’
‘Maggie, no,’ Robert said quietly.
‘Why not? I’m proud of my daughter, even if you’re not.’
Marion looked down at her clenched hands. Robert gave his wife a warning stare. Maggie ignored him.
‘Marion is governess to Princess Elizabeth and Princess Margaret.’
‘And who are they?’ George asked, as if he had no idea.
‘The King’s granddaughters, of course. She works for the Duke and Duchess of York!’
George’s mouth dropped open. ‘You’re having me on.’
‘No, no. It’s the truth. Tell him, Marion.’
Marion shifted slightly then said, ‘It’s true.’
‘My word.’ George sat back in his chair, then sat forward, saying earnestly, ‘I would never have pressed you if I had known. Well, you have surprised me, in a good way.’
Robert pushed his chair back. ‘I think we need another drink.’ He stood and went to the drinks trolley. ‘Whisky, George?’
George smiled. ‘It is Christmas.’
Robert brought over two whiskies and two sherries for his wife and stepdaughter. ‘A toast, I think. To Christmas.’
‘To Christmas … and the King,’ George said.
All four glasses were raised. ‘To Christmas and the King.’
The atmosphere had shifted into something rather uncomfortable.
Robert made the first move. ‘Right, then.’ He rubbed his hands together. ‘How about we open some presents?’ He headed to the tree. ‘And yes, Maggie, I know it’s not teatime but today it’s my rules.’
George’s presents were thoughtful and generous. A bottle of five-year-old malt for Robert, a box of violet creams for Maggie and a pair of Fair Isle gloves for Marion.
‘Oh, George, these are just what I wanted. I was only telling Mother the other day when we were shopping—’ She stopped, seeing the conspiratorial wink between George and her mother. ‘Have you two been talking?’
‘A wee bird may have dropped a hint, aye.’ George grinned.
Marion was touched. ‘And you remembered? That’s so kind, thank you.’ She suddenly wanted to kiss him, to feel the warmth of his skin.
She looked away, and the moment passed.
Maggie, the effects of the sherry now evident, had opened her chocolates and was offering them around gleefully. ‘George, you really shouldn’t have. We don’t have anything to give you.’
He looked around at all of them, resting his eyes on Marion. ‘Your hospitality and company are the only gift I need. Since my parents have been gone … Well, let’s just say Christmas has not been my favourite time of year.’ His words, spoken in a soft voice, touched Marion. His eyes were still searching hers. ‘Until now.’
As she searched for some words of comfort, Maggie’s giggly cackle stopped her. ‘You will come again, won’t you, George? Marion is here for the whole of January, aren’t you, Marion?
‘Mother, please. I am sure George will be busy. He won’t want me foisted on him.’
George smiled broadly. ‘There is nothing I would like more. Come to think of it, I have been offered tickets for a Hogmanay dinner dance; we could see the New Year in together, if you have no other plans?’
‘Oh, she never has social plans, do you, Marion?’ Maggie squawked.
Marion blushed with anger. ‘Please, Mother.’
George got up. ‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked.’ He checked his watch. ‘I’ve overstayed my welcome. High time I should be going. Snow is forecast and my little motor might struggle a bit. Thank you all for a splendid day.’
In the hall, Maggie took his coat from the bannister and helped him in to it. ‘Such a beautiful coat.’ She stood back and admired it. ‘Robert, this is exactly the sort of coat I have always wanted you to have. It reeks of quality and will last for years.’
George laughed. ‘This old thing? It’s done me for the last ten years and will do another ten for sure.’ He took Maggie’s hand and shook it. ‘I really have had a wonderful time.’
Robert opened the front door and a wintry gust blew in a cupful of snowflakes.
Maggie gave Marion her coat from the hallstand. ‘Go and see dear George off while your dad and I clear the kitchen.’
Marion’s cheeks were burning. ‘Mother!’
‘Off you go.’ Maggie pushed them both out onto the doorstep and shut the door behind them.
Out in the light snow, shame made Marion shiver. ‘I am so sorry about my mother. It’s the sherry. She’s not used to it.’
‘Och, she’s a lovely woman, but you don’t have to stay out here. Go on in, it’s cold.’
Marion shivered again and pulled her coat over her shoulders. ‘I should be wearing the lovely gloves you gave me.’
‘I’m glad you like them. Well, goodnight.’ He took the few steps to his car. ‘This snow is settling.’ He reached out and brushed a frosty layer from the cars windscreen. ‘Another reason for me to remember such a special day.’ He brushed his hands against his coat and opened the car door. ‘Well, goodbye then.’
‘George?’
‘Yes, Marion?’
‘It’s not that I can’t tell people about my job. It’s just that …’
‘Are you asking me to be discreet?’
‘Would you do that?’
‘Of course. I completely understand.’
‘Thank you.’
George pulled his coat collar to his ears. ‘I admire your loyalty.’
‘Thank you again for my gloves.’
‘My pleasure. And, look … if you do find yourself free on New Year’s Eve …’
‘I—’ she began, but he stopped her.
‘Think about it. I’ll ring you up.’ He looked at her and smiled, his eyes warm, his deep voice gentle. ‘It would be my honour to escort you.’
She watched as he climbed into his car, his headlamps lighting the snowflakes as he drove away.
And in that moment, she knew she trusted him. He had bought her a thoughtful but not overly expensive gift. He seemed to like her but was gentle in his invitation. She knew he wouldn’t tell anyone about her work, and there was just something about him that made her feel secure. She hoped he would ring.
Two days later he did. Her parents were out so there was no one to overhear their conversation. She had made her mind up to spend New Year’s Eve with him, so when she picked up the receiver on the hall table and tugged it so that she could sit on the stairs and watch herself in the small hall mirror, she felt no nervousness.
‘Hello, Marion Crawford speaking.’
‘Hello, Marion?’
‘Hello, George.’
‘How are you?’
‘Very well, thank you. And you?’
‘Good, thanks. Erm, I was telephoning about New Year’s Eve …’
‘Yes?’ She cradled the phone a little closer, his voice purring in her ear.
‘Well, if you are not doing anything else, it would be my honour to take you out.’
‘I would love to.’
She heard him draw breath, then his laugh of relief. ‘Wonderful. I can pick you up at about six thirty?’
‘That will be fine. Where are we going?’
‘The Glen Mule. They are having a Hogmanay dinner dance. Can you dance the eightsome reel?’
‘Of course. First dance my mother taught me.’
‘I’ll have to brush up then. By the way, I had better warn you, apart from two left feet, I’ll be in my kilt.’
‘Oh goodness, you will outshine me. I only have one long dress and I haven’t worn it since goodness knows when.’
