The Good Servant, page 15
If this was love, it hurt like a burn.
‘Are you expecting something important?’ asked Ainslie.
Marion brought herself back from her thoughts. ‘I haven’t heard from my parents for a while,’ she fibbed. ‘That’s all.’
‘I thought you received a letter from them two days ago?’
Crawfie flushed. ‘Oh yes, but, you know how it is.’
Ainslie knew exactly how it was. He’d seen Crawfie’s reaction to envelopes written in a hand that was not her mother’s. ‘If anything arrives for you from your family or … a friend, I shall have it delivered upstairs immediately.’
She smiled at him. ‘Thank you.’
He got up and went to the range. ‘I’m making some coffee, if you have time.’
‘Thank you.’ Marion reached across the table and picked up the discarded Times. ‘They won’t miss me for ten minutes.’ She flicked through the pages. ‘Very nice photograph of the Duke and Duchess here. Did you see it?’
‘Yes.’ Ainslie reached for two coffee cups as the kettle boiled. ‘Dinner at the Ritz, wasn’t it?’
‘I’d love to dance at the Ritz.’ Crawfie leant her chin on her hand. ‘The last time I danced was Hogmanay. It was such fun.’
‘Then you’ll love the Ghillies Ball if you ever get to Balmoral.’
Crawfie began reading aloud the short paragraph beneath the photograph: ‘Their Royal Highnesses the Duke and Duchess of York attended a private dinner in Mayfair last evening. The Ritz Hotel is one of the Duchess’s favourite places to dine. Looking splendid in rose satin and diamonds, the Duchess charmed everyone she met. The Duke thanked all those who had made their evening so entertaining.
‘They are wonderful people, aren’t they?’ Crawfie said affectionately.
Ainslie brought the coffee and sat down beside her. ‘Well, let’s put it this way, I would rather work for the Yorks than his brother the King.’
Crawfie put the paper down. ‘Poor man. He must be feeling so lonely and wretched. Bereaved and preparing for his coronation and the rest of his life in service to the country.’
‘That’s not in question.’ Ainslie pursed his lips. ‘It’s his private behaviour he needs to be careful with …’
Marion stared at him. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Come, come, Miss Crawford, you aren’t deaf. You must have heard the gossip.’
She had, but she was trying not to listen to it. ‘Well, of course he has close friends, and some are married women,’ Crawfie scoffed.
‘Exactly. A married woman is safe.’ He raised his eyebrows pointedly. ‘One would assume.’
Crawfie shook her head. ‘He is not that sort of man.’
‘I fear he is exactly that sort of man, Miss Crawford. And some men are the sort who would lay down their wives for their King.’
‘That is a shocking thing to say!’ Crawfie’s mind was still fresh with the idea that George might have forgotten her for some other woman, and Ainslie’s words stung her.
Ainslie’s chin tucked itself into his neck. ‘I hear that the King is bringing his special friend, Mrs Simpson, to dine with the Duke and Duchess at the Royal Lodge this Saturday.’ He paused. ‘Without Mr Simpson.’
Marion was stout in her reply. ‘Perhaps Mr Simpson is busy.’ She stood and headed for the door, adding, ‘One o’clock luncheon in the nursery, please. Do have a footman bring it up.’
Crawfie was very aware of the household gossip surrounding the King and Mrs Simpson. Her schoolgirl crush on him had never really waned, and she was still deeply embarrassed to think about her fainting fit in the hall at 145 Piccadilly. He had been very kind about it, but what must he have thought of her privately?
Of course, she reminded herself, he probably thought nothing of her at all.
He hardly visited his brother and sister-in-law at 145 Piccadilly nowadays, and she did her best to disappear when she knew he was coming. She knew the girls missed their uncle very much. But, she told herself, his absence was due to his great responsibilities and not because he was louche.
Whispers and rumours were often reported by Bobo, who had a couple of housemaid friends in the palace. Alah and Crawfie listened with distaste.
In the past week, Mrs Simpson’s name had appeared in the Court Circular, as attending a West End theatre play with the King.
The thought of the King having a love affair with a married woman was beyond Crawfie’s comprehension. Only the worst kind of men did that, surely? And the King was so handsome and amusing – why should he seek the unattainable when so many beautiful young, single women, were there for his choosing?
No, it was ridiculous. Really, people had more time than sense to be gossiping about such things.
On Friday afternoon, as was their custom, the Duke, Duchess, and Princesses left London and headed to Windsor, to spend the weekend at Royal Lodge. Crawfie, Bobo and Alah travelled together in a car full of all the essentials that could be required by the girls.
By Saturday morning, the Royal Lodge was humming with nervous excitement. The King and his guest, Mrs Simpson, were to arrive at 7.00 p.m. They were staying at Windsor Castle, of course, but were coming to the Royal Lodge for dinner that evening, and for Sunday lunch the following day.
Crawfie kept herself very much away from anything that was not part of her duties. She was still keeping her distance from Ainslie, irritated by his words the other day.
Over breakfast with the girls, she suggested an outing into Windsor Great Park. ‘It’s going to be a beautiful day. Who would like to cycle up to the Copper Horse and have a picnic?’
‘Me!’ and ‘Me!’ came the replies.
Crawfie sent Bobo down to the kitchen to order the picnic, so that she could avoid Ainslie. Then she made sure that the two detectives allotted to the Princesses would be free to accompany them.
Towards lunchtime, with sunhats on and bicycles ready, the party of five set off for the short ride into the park.
The Princesses always enjoyed seeing other children playing, and today there were many – some running, others skipping or playing catch and all with beaming smiles.
‘Did you bring a ball, Crawfie?’ asked Lilibet, who was cycling beside her.
‘I did,’ said one of the detectives. ‘Can’t have fun without a ball!’
‘Well done, Mr Brown,’ Lilibet said with approval.
‘Can I play?’ asked Margaret.
Lilibet frowned. ‘But you still can’t catch very well.’
‘But how can I practise if you don’t let me play?’ At this, Margaret looked as if she were on the brink of a tantrum, so the second detective, Mr Williams, nipped her tears in the bud. ‘You and I can be a team and we’ll beat the others.’
‘Hooray! We’re going to beat them, we’re going to beat them,’ Margaret sang.
Crawfie laughed.
‘In that case,’ said Mr Brown, pedalling harder, ‘last one to the Copper Horse gets a tickle!’
It was less than two miles to the statue of George III upon his Copper Horse, and they arrived panting and laughing with Mr Williams at the rear. The girls hopped off their bicycles and dropped them to the grass. Shouting ‘You are last!’ they jumped on top of the defenceless detective and began tickling him.
‘Help me, help me!’ he cried, laughing while Crawfie and Mr Brown got on with spreading two blankets and setting up the picnic.
‘Come on now, you three. Lunch is ready.’ Crawfie watched fondly as the girls peeled themselves off poor Mr Williams and wiped their sweaty hands on their dresses. ‘I expect you’re thirsty. Let’s all catch our breath for a minute.’
It didn’t take long before the two young girls, chatting away together, had abandoned their lemonades and meat paste sandwiches and were sitting amongst the grass in deep concentration, creating long daisy chains.
Crawfie sat a little apart from the detectives, who were keeping an eye on the girls from a distance and chatting quietly together.
‘So, Mrs Simpson is visiting tonight, then,’ Brown said, through a blade of grass he was chewing.
Crawfie, despite herself, pricked up her ears and listened.
‘Poor blighter doesn’t know what he’s getting into there, does he?’ replied Williams.
‘What do you make of her?’
‘I shouldn’t like to use the word my missus does, but with all those women he could choose, why has he gone for her?’
‘Maybe he feels sorry for her.’
‘I feel sorry for her husband.’
‘Which one? She’s had two.’ They sniggered like schoolboys.
‘The first one took her to China with him. He liked to take her to the bawdy houses to watch him with the, er …’ Williams looked up to check that Crawfie wasn’t listening and she sipped her lemonade, pretending to be occupied watching the girls as he lowered his voice. ‘With the working girls.’
‘Blimey.’
‘Rumour says she learned a few party tricks in the bedroom department.’ Both men chuckled.
‘No wonder she’s hooked the King.’ The two men laughed again. Then Brown said with fondness, ‘I liked Mrs Dudley Ward, though. She was always pleasant. Without her, Fort Belvedere would still be a broken-down ruin. She was the one who got the work in the house and garden done. She must kick herself now, introducing Mrs S to the King like she did.’
Crawfie had heard enough. She got up and brushed the grass from her skirt. ‘Lilibet, Margaret, who’s for a game of catch?’
The detectives glanced at each other quickly, hoping she hadn’t overheard anything. Both scrabbled for the tennis ball. ‘Come on, ladies,’ Williams shouted, ‘who’s going to play catch?’
The girls darted and shrieked and tumbled as Williams threw the ball high and let the Princesses run for it.
Crawfie, watching them, began to fold the blankets and collect up the greaseproof-paper wrappings that the sandwiches had come in. She emptied the beakers onto the grass and tucked them around the napkins, then stowed everything between the five bicycle baskets.
She was working as an automaton, still shocked by what she had heard. Her body did what it knew it had to do, while her brain was filled with the disgusting conversation she had listened to. She only knew the theory of the sexual act, and that rather patchily, but had always imagined it as loving, precious and private. She had always liked Mr Brown and Mr Williams, but what sort of men would idly discuss it and laugh?
She thought of George and the unformed fantasies she had about him. And why hadn’t he written for so long? Had she done something wrong? Perhaps he was ill, or something terrible had happened.
She made up her mind to write to him tonight once all her work was finished. This thought alone made her feel a little better.
Above her, a blanket of clouds was moving over the sun, and she shivered in the light breeze.
‘Ladies,’ she called. ‘Time to go home, before it rains.’
‘Can we cycle down the Long Walk and find conkers?’ Lilibet asked. ‘Please?’
Crawfie checked the sky and her watch. ‘All right, but just for ten minutes or they’ll be wondering where we are.’
They got back to Royal Lodge just as the rain was starting. Williams and Brown took charge of the bikes and wheeled them back to the stables and Crawfie was relieved to see them go.
The Duchess was waiting for them in the hall. ‘My darlings.’ She hugged them. ‘Have you been good girls for Crawfie?’
They looked at Crawfie for the answer. ‘Have we?’
She smiled. ‘Yes. Very good.’
‘Excellent.’ The Duchess turned back to her daughters. ‘Guess who is coming to dinner tonight?’
Margaret was thinking. ‘Hmm.’
Lilibet put her hand up. ‘I know.’
Margaret, desperate to answer first, started jumping up and down. ‘I know! It’s Peter Pan and Wendy.’
Lilibet frowned. ‘You’re being silly.’
‘Now, now, darlings.’ The Duchess intervened. ‘It’s Uncle David. And he’s bringing his friend, Mrs Simpson.’ She looked at Crawfie. ‘Would you ask Alah to bring them downstairs after their dinner? At quarter past seven, just for a few minutes. In their nightclothes will be fine.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
Up in the nursery, Alah was fighting a summer cold. She was wrapped up by the fire, while Bobo made her warm lemon and honey.
‘You look tired, Alah,’ Crawfie said with concern.
‘She’s quite poorly,’ Bobo answered, handing over the steaming beaker. ‘I think she should go to bed as soon as the girls do.’
‘Alah, the Duchess has just asked if you would take the Princesses down at quarter past seven, to say goodnight to the King and … Mrs Simpson,’ Crawfie told her. ‘Would you rather not?’
‘To be truthful, I don’t think I can.’ Alah coughed. ‘I wouldn’t want to give this to the rest of the household.’
Bobo looked up. ‘I can feed and bathe the girls if you would take them down, Crawfie?’
Crawfie frowned. She did not want to put herself in the position of seeing the woman of whom she did not approve. ‘Oh but Bobo, don’t you want to see the King? We haven’t seen him here for a long time.’
‘Oh, I couldn’t.’ Bobo nervously twisted her hands in her apron pockets. ‘I wouldn’t know what to say.’
‘You’ll take them, won’t you, Crawfie dear?’ Alah said limply.
How could Crawfie refuse? As much as she didn’t want to see the King with Mrs Simpson, her very human curiosity was fighting back. To see first-hand how close their relationship was, and to decide for herself what she thought of Mrs Simpson, was too tempting. It would only be for a few minutes, after all.
‘Of course I will. You rest, Alah.’
Chapter Twenty
Royal Lodge, August 1936
While the Princesses were being readied to greet the King and Mrs Simpson, Crawfie used her free time to start a letter to George. The wastepaper basket under her neat writing table already contained two discarded drafts. She was having difficulty in getting the tone right; it must not come across as hectoring, hurt, demanding or emotional. She had fallen in love with him – she could not deny that – and she was almost sure that he had feelings for her. But it would be a terrible mistake for her to confess her own feelings or question his. The letter must be friendly but dignified and light, neither asking too much or too little about what he had been doing – or, and this would be hard, why he hadn’t written.
She stared out of her window above the garden. The sun was slowly setting and the rain showers had given way to a beautiful evening.
There was a knock at her door. ‘Come in.’
The Princesses, clean and shining in their dressing gowns, rushed in, with Bobo behind.
Crawfie smiled at them. ‘Hello! And who are these two little rascals?’
‘It’s us, silly Crawfie,’ giggled Margaret spinning round on the spot. ‘Look at me!’
‘And what did you have for your dinner?’
‘Cottage pie,’ Lilibet answered, while trying to catch her dizzied sister, ‘and if Margaret doesn’t stop spinning, she’ll be sick!’
A grey-faced Alah appeared at the door. ‘I have just received a message from downstairs. The King is running late. Cook is worried about her soufflés and Ainslie is concerned his wine is being left to breathe too long. The Duchess would like you to take the girls down now to say goodnight.’
‘Will we not see Uncle David, then?’ asked Lilibet.
‘I think not,’ Crawfie replied. ‘But never mind. When we come back upstairs you can hop into bed and we can start the new Agatha Christie you have. How does that sound?’ She took in the girls’ smiles. ‘Now, let’s go downstairs.’
The drawing room was looking very beautiful. Vases of cut delphiniums, peonies and roses scented the air. The mirrored cocktail trolley, with its ice bucket, glasses and bottles, twinkled in the last rays of the sun as it crept through the large windows.
Looking out on to the golden parkland were the Duke, smoking, and the Duchess, with a glass of Dubonnet and gin her hand.
‘I really don’t see what he sees in’ – the Duchess dropped her voice – ‘a certain person.’
The Duke sighed. ‘We must give her a chance.’
‘But I cannot like her.’ The Duchess shook her head. ‘She is so very superior to us mere mortals.’
‘Darling, we must make the effort.’
‘But why?’ She sipped at her gin, the ice clinking as she tipped the glass to her mouth, ‘He makes no effort for you. Or me. We three used to be so close.’ She lifted her gloved left hand to her forehead, remembering happier times. ‘Lady Furness was much better for him. We all had so much fun.’
‘He does seem to be enchanted by married American women.’
‘But she was so very different. Remember how she got David and us together as a working party for the gardens at Fort Belvedere? It was a jungle before she tackled it.’ She paused, thinking. ‘And the Fort itself – it was in a dreadful state until she took it in hand. I don’t think anyone had touched it for two hundred years. Goodness knows why he had to have it. Like a small boy wanting his own toy castle to play with, I suppose.’
The Duke put his cigarette to his lips and inhaled deeply. ‘I felt rather badly for him. I mean, you and I have this glorious house, much more fitting for the heir to the throne.’
The Duchess put her hand on her husband’s arm. ‘But darling, he has York House, too – perfect for his tailor in St James’s.’ She laughed wickedly. ‘I don’t mean to poke fun at him but sometimes he needs it. A certain person will be soothing his sensibilities at every turn. Thelma Furness would have been different. She could laugh at herself and him, and he enjoyed it. She was one of us. She knew the score and she had perfect manners. So did her husband, bless him. But look how David treated her when a certain person arrived on the scene – and how Thelma backed off graciously. I do miss her.’
