The Good Servant, page 32
Marion gasped, her eyes gleaming. ‘Have you really?’
‘I wouldn’t joke about something so important. Would midday be all right?’
‘Yes. Yes, please.’ Marion gripped his hand. ‘Oh George, you are so good.’
He gave a modest shrug. ‘I have wanted to tell you for the last week, and now to be able to tell you in front of your friends seems the right moment.’
Princess Margaret jumped up to call for a footman. ‘We need champagne!’ she declared.
Chapter Forty-Eight
Buckingham Palace, August 1947
‘It is very kind of you to share your car with me, sir.’ Crawfie relaxed into her seat and put her gloves on her lap.
‘My pleasure,’ Tommy said. ‘Thank you, Jackson.’
The chauffeur shut the door on his two passengers and stepped smartly into the driving seat. The engine purred and the large heavy car moved through the Palace courtyard and out towards the gates. They were on their way to Windsor.
‘It is such a treat not to have to carry my bags.’ Marion waved at the policeman on duty before they turned right up Constitution Hill, heading for Park Lane and the west.
Tommy hoped that he looked outwardly calm, because inside he was in knots. He had engineered this journey for them both in order to tell Miss Crawford the unpalatable truth about her fiancé.
He slipped a finger between his collar and neck and eased the restriction in his throat. He had already asked Jackson to make sure the glass partition between the front and back of the car was in place, in order that the difficult conversation would not be overheard.
He coughed, fiddled with his pocket watch, straightened his trouser creases and dived in.
‘My dear …’
‘Yes?’
‘I wonder if I might speak about a matter of some delicacy?’
Marion was worried immediately. ‘Oh, have I done something wrong?’
‘No, no. But it is about something that might be wrong.’
Marion frowned. ‘Go on.’
‘It’s Mr Buthlay.’
She smiled. ‘Major Buthlay, you mean.’
‘Ah, yes. Perhaps we could start with that.’
The following five minutes were most uncomfortable. Crawfie was in turns disbelieving, defensive and angry. When Tommy finished his demolishment of George’s character – which included a suspected fondness for alcohol and women – Marion erupted.
‘How dare you say such things about Major Buthlay? Have you ever actually spoken to him? Got to know him? Because I have. I have known him for many years. He is the man I love! Why are you making up such lies? I can’t understand it.’ She stopped for a moment, realization dawning. ‘Oh, I see what you are up to. The Queen has spoken to you, I suppose – told you to say anything at all to stop me from marrying, from leaving? We can’t possibly have the royal family inconvenienced by such a small thing as a good servant getting married! Is that what this is about?’
Tommy was appalled. ‘Absolutely not! Everything I have said is entirely true. You know that the family have given you their blessing to marry.’
‘I know how you do their dirty work for them.’ Marion’s voice cracked. ‘Smoothing the way, ironing the awkward problems, always loyal. But the truth is, you are just like the rest of us. Just another servant. You might eat at smart gentlemen’s clubs, enjoy the opera and keep your family in the country, but beneath it all, Tommy, you are just another hired hand. And for all your pomposity, you have not a shred of respect for the royal family. They are just pawns that you shunt around the board of diplomacy. They do not love you as they love me. And I love them! You are envious that I am part of the family while you are not.’
Tommy sighed. ‘You may not believe this, Miss Crawford, but I care for you and I worry about your future happiness. I am trying to help you.’
‘By trying to blacken my fiancé’s name? By making me miserable?’
Tommy had made a hash of this. And he knew it. ‘I am sorry to have caused such distress. I have explained my very real concerns, and it is up to you whether you wish to believe, or act on them. I cannot let you walk into a marriage without knowing the real facts.’
Marion was completely thrown. Her breathing was rapid and she was hot. Unwinding the car window, she drank in the cool air, her mind whirling.
How dare Sir Tommy Lascelles say that Major George Buthlay was a liar.
A fraud.
She turned back to Tommy. ‘I shall be telling George exactly what you have said about him. He will be appalled that you should say such things to me. You’ll be lucky if he doesn’t have you for slander. He is a better man than you could ever be.’
Tommy looked her straight in the eye. ‘I understand that you are upset and I applaud your defence. Loyalty like yours should be rewarded but, Miss Crawford, in this instance, I fear you will find only disappointment. I tell you this with the best and kindest of intentions.’
‘Pah.’ Crawfie’s fury was white hot. Her voice low and not without threat. ‘You will assure me that you will never peddle these false accusations to anyone. If you do, I shall make sure that the King and your colleagues and your family knows that you are the liar.’
She turned away to the open window again. Her hands in knots on her lap. Her face pinched.
‘As you wish,’ he answered tersely.
Chapter Forty-Nine
Dunfermline, September 1947
A week after Tommy’s sickening attempt to put Marion off marrying George, she had returned home for the happiest of reasons. She had told no one about the conversation. The only possible rationale for Tommy’s behaviour was that he was jealous of her close ties to the family. She was needed by them, while he was just a cipher in a suit, there to do their bidding, to quell any storms brewing that might breach the royal walls. He was sick.
Here, sitting in the kitchen of her family home, she could put all her worries to one side. She would soon be Mrs George Buthlay and would be blissfully and supremely happy. The best revenge was a dish best served cold. Sir Tommy Lascelles would have to eat his words.
‘You really had champagne with the Princesses? George told me all about it.’ Maggie was frantic with joy.
Marion smiled. ‘Yes. It was so special, and they loved George straight away.’
‘Who wouldn’t! You have done so well. Your first boyfriend, and he’s been so patiently waiting all this time. You’re lucky he did wait. I thought you’d never find anyone!’
Marion winced and tried to ignore her mother. She always managed to hurt her, somehow or other. Did she do it on purpose or was it simply thoughtlessness? She got up. ‘Shall I make a start on the tea?’
‘Yes, please, dear. I am awful tired. It’s the hours your wedding dress has taken me. Your dad says I do too much.’
In the kitchen, Marion turned on the small radio on the windowsill and tried to quell her irritation. George and her father would be home soon. She hoped they had had a good day on the golf course.
She had decided against telling George about the horrible conversation with Tommy. It would be too upsetting and would spoil the happiness of the approaching wedding day. She didn’t want anything to ruin this perfect time. Besides, George hadn’t liked Tommy much when they had met briefly at Buckingham Palace. George was a very good judge of character.
Marion washed the potatoes and began peeling them, before putting the mince in the frying pan for the shepherd’s pie.
She closed her eyes and imagined herself this time next week, cooking for George as Mrs Buthlay. The wedding was going to be small but perfect – only extended family, old friends and neighbours.
She would never again be referred to as ‘Maggie’s spinster daughter’.
Now her mother had a different refrain: ‘You have left it very late to make me a grandmother.’
Marion wanted to slap her. But she didn’t. With a smile she answered, ‘Mother, I am only thirty-eight and there is nothing you can say to suffocate my happiness.’
‘I am only just saying it for your own good. I don’t want you to be disappointed when it doesn’t happen.’
‘Mother! For goodness’ sake – I am a grown women who has lived in London these past fifteen years. I have lived through the war and kept the Princesses safe from the bombings that tore London apart.’
‘You are not the only person to have seen the bombs, you know. We had two nights of it. Your father and I saw the bombers coming in – we heard them drop fifty miles away on Clydebank. The sky was scarlet. Don’t think we don’t know about the horrors of war.’
‘Mother, that’s not what I am saying – you know that.’
Maggie went into one of her sulks, bottom lip sticking out.
Marion ignored it. She shut her eyes. Soon she’d be snug in her own little home.
She got up. ‘Shall I make you a tea?’
The King and Queen had offered her a grace-and-favour house, a red-brick cottage in the grounds of Kensington Palace called Nottingham Cottage. She had been to look at it on her own and reported back to George. It was such a dear little place – and designed by Sir Christopher Wren! It needed some attention, but it had a small garden, with a little white fence and roses round the door. Inside there was a tiny but dear little kitchen, a dining room and sitting room and two bedrooms. Marion had agreed to sleep Monday to Thursday nights at the Palace until Lilibet was married, and to spend her weekends with George. His bank had finally agreed to transfer him to the London branch.
She couldn’t wait to have her own front door.
She could have a cat if she wanted. Or a little dog. Pets are good for young children.
A baby of her own.
She longed for a baby.
Or two.
A boy first, followed by a baby girl.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of the men, back from their day of golf. George came straight to the kitchen to kiss her. ‘Mmm. Something smells good.’
‘Shepherd’s pie.’ Marion smiled.
‘I mean you. You smell good.’
Marion’s heart melted. ‘Don’t be so silly.’
‘I can’t wait to be married.’ He slipped his hand from her hip to her bottom.
‘George, don’t. Mother and Dad might come in.’
‘I can’t wait for our wedding night,’ he murmured, squeezing her buttock a little harder.
She wriggled away from him, and began mashing the boiled potatoes for the shepherd’s pie topping. Marion was completely unversed in the physical side of love and had never had a close enough female friend to share the essential information. The only thing her mother had ever told her was, ‘Men can get overexcited. You have to be careful.’ Well George had been very excited on several occasions but she had never seen him naked and she had always, very definitely, kept all her clothes on. Her only preparation for her wedding night was to buy a pretty cotton nightdress with small buttons down the back which the saleslady had told her would be ‘tantalizing’. Marion’s word for it was ‘terrifying’.
She looked at George, smiling at her across the kitchen and found the fear ebbing away.
Yes, her wedding day was going to be very exciting.
The only upset was that the royal family would not be attending. Engagements at Balmoral prevented them but the Queen had penned a lovely note and so had the Princesses.
Crawfie had popped the letters into a large biscuit tin, a souvenir for the upcoming royal wedding that she couldn’t resist. As soon as it was empty, she had begun filling it with all the small notes and childhood paintings that she hadn’t wanted to part with over the years – mementos from her life with the Princesses.
Chapter Fifty
Buckingham Palace, 19th September 1947
‘Good morning, sir.’ P-T, juggling an overflowing letter tray and a cup of tea, welcomed her boss as he arrived for work. ‘Good weekend?’
‘Very good, thank you.’ He hung his jacket on the hat stand. ‘Those for me?’
‘Yes, sir, plus a letter from Crawfie to all the girls in the office. I thought you might like to read it.’
He took his cup from her and sat at his desk. ‘Why would I wish to read a letter that wasn’t mine to read?’
P-T put the letter tray down and stared at him. ‘She’s got married.’
Tommy ignored P-T and the letter, and rifled through the post beneath.
P-T stood her ground. ‘You aren’t happy for her?’
‘Women get married every day. Do you expect me to do a cartwheel?’
P-T took the chair opposite his desk and sat down. ‘What happened?’
‘What on earth can you mean?’ He sipped his tea. ‘Stone cold.’
‘I have only just made it.’
‘Well, make me another.’
‘Someone got out of the wrong side of the bed this morning, sir.’ P-T remained where she was. ‘I thought you and Miss Crawford were friends.’
Tommy sighed in exasperation. ‘She’s a colleague. That’s all.’
‘No, she is more than that. You have been good friends.’
He lifted his eyebrows and stared. ‘What are you insinuating?’
‘Nothing like that, sir, obviously not – but you have helped to guide her through and around royal tripwires, and she sees you as her … mentor, I suppose.’
He pushed his cup away. ‘Poppycock.’
P-T reached for the cup and said, ‘The master has fallen out with his pupil and it will do neither of you any good.’
‘I could have you sacked for insubordination.’
P-T smiled. ‘You can’t sack your own goddaughter. Daddy would never speak to you again.’
Tommy watched her go. She really was getting a little chippy. Perhaps P-T needed to get married herself; a husband would sort the chippiness out of her.
Tommy drummed his fingers on his desk and slid Crawfie’s letter from the top of his mail pile to the bottom. For the next two hours he worked his way through the rest, taking telephone calls or dictating notes to and from a decidedly cool P-T.
Finally, his desk was cleared and Crawfie’s letter sitting starkly in front of him. There was nothing to do but read it.
Dear all,
George and I are finally married. It was a wonderful day. Even the Dunfermline sun shone on us. The minister’s ceremony was beautiful and, you may think this nonsense, but I felt my heart fly to the roof of the Abbey. Silly, really. George was very handsome in his full highland dress and my parents looked so happy. I think they thought I would never marry, but they adore George as much as I do. George’s oldest friend, Christopher, was best man and he made a most amusing speech.
We are now on our honeymoon! George booked a week in a little guest house near Loch Lomond. A whole week of getting used to being Mr and Mrs Buthlay.
By the time you read this, I hope George and I shall be back in London. We have the long weekend, a glorious few days to settle ourselves into Nottingham Cottage before my lessons with Margaret resume. I am so looking forward to George and I building our home together. Mother has given me some beautiful linen that she got when she first married, and George has bought me a sewing machine to make curtains! I have never made curtains before, but I am determined to try my best!
I do hope you will all come and visit us.
See you very soon,
Mrs George Buthlay AKA Crawfie x
Tommy folded the letter and pushed it back into its envelope. Mrs George Buthlay, eh? Good luck to her. Typical woman – impulsive, and strong-willed. Wouldn’t listen, and now she’s got herself married to a spiv. She’d regret it, that was for sure. If she were Tommy’s daughter, he would have thrown Buthlay out by his lying ears.
Still, she had her job to rely on. The royal family might be built on self-preservation and duty, but they knew a good servant when they had one. Even now she was married she was to continue to teach Margaret and, if she played her cards right, she could continue her role to the next generation of royal children, exactly as Alah had.
Alah would have had something to say about all this. Funny how one could only see how important a person was when they died. Alah was the smooth hand on the tiller throughout the Queen’s childhood and then the Queen’s children’s childhood. That was the proper way of things. Miss Crawford might still have a chance to emulate her.
Comforted by the thought, Tommy left his desk and went for an early lunch at his club. A pleasant hour of sensible, like-minded male company was exactly what he needed.
Nottingham Cottage, 19th September 1947
Marion carried her case into her new sitting room. ‘Oh, George! Do come and look. The sun coming in through the window is so beautiful.’
George entered, carrying a large box which he put down on a carpet that had seen better days. ‘This room is a bit on the small side,’ he said slowly.
‘It’s big enough for us. We are lucky to have it, and furnished too.’
George looked at the ancient chintz sofa and armchair. ‘If you can call it furniture.’
‘In time we shall afford our own.’ Nothing was going to burst Marion’s happiness today. Putting her case down, she went to the window which faced the cottage garden. ‘Our own little paradise. I am going to fill those flower beds with snapdragons and scented carnations.’ She turned to her new husband. ‘George, I am so happy.’
He smiled at her, a beam of love that made her heart glow. ‘I’m glad.’ He hooked his hand into hers and pulled her to him. ‘I only want you to be happy.’
‘And I want to make you happy.’
‘What’s it like upstairs?’ He grinned a wolfish grin and pinched her bottom.
Marion flushed, more with apprehension than passion. She was finding the physical side of marriage rather awkward and uncomfortable. George was keen to teach her the ways in which both of them could enjoy it but he was definitely finding it more pleasant than she was. She pulled herself away from him gently.
‘I will have to find the sheets first.’
