On Her Majesty's Frightfully Secret Service (Her Royal Spyness #11)(10)
“I’m glad to know all is well then,” she said. “Do sit down. You are looking well. I expect the Irish country air agrees with you.”
I thought she was looking rather tired and drawn, but didn’t say so as she led me across to a small brocade sofa and sat beside me.
“I trust you and His Majesty are both in good health?” I said.
She shook her head sadly. “I regret that His Majesty’s health continues to decline,” she said. “I believe it was the war that took so much out of him that he has never recovered. That and worry about David. He has said several times, ‘That boy will be the death of me.’”
“I’m sorry to hear that, ma’am,” I replied.
“His one aim seems to be to stay healthy enough for the upcoming jubilee,” she said. “And he is determined to remain on the throne until David tires of that woman and marries someone suitable.”
“Can you really see that happening, ma’am?” I asked. “When I last saw the Prince of Wales he appeared to be completely under her thumb.”
Her Majesty sniffed. “The boy is weak. Always was. Strangely it is Bertie who appears to be the weak one, but he has a core of iron compared to his brother. If it weren’t for his stammer he’d make a good king. And he already has heirs, unlike David.”
“But he can never marry Mrs. Simpson, can he?” I asked. “She’s married to someone else, for one thing, and as head of the church he could never marry a divorced woman.”
She leaned slightly closer to me. “From what one hears, the American woman whose name I will not even pronounce seems to believe that when he is king he can rewrite the rules and pronounce her queen against all opposition.”
“How silly,” I said. “Parliament would never allow it.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised if she should think he can dismiss Parliament,” the queen said with a sad smile. “And speaking of royal marriages . . .” She broke off as the door opened and a tea tray was wheeled in. It was laden as usual with all sorts of delicious foods—shortbreads and slices of rich fruitcake and lemon curd tarts and thin malt bread. I looked at the latter with a sigh of despair. Protocol demands that one eat only what Her Majesty eats and too often the queen selects just a slice of malt bread for herself. So I was overjoyed to hear her say as the dishes were placed on the low table before us, “Ah, shortbread. My favorite.” She leaned forward to take a piece. “Do help yourself, Georgiana. And will you have Assam or Lapsang souchong?”
“Assam, please,” I said, tentatively putting a piece of shortbread onto a Wedgwood plate.
A maid poured tea. “Will that be all for the moment, ma’am?” she asked. Then she curtsied and departed, leaving us alone.
“About my marriage,” I dared to say. “We haven’t heard anything more from the king’s private secretary so I wondered if there was any problem with granting my request.”
She looked up from her teacup, giving me the sort of haughtily severe look usually reserved for the Prince of Wales’s friend. “Abandoning one’s destiny and obligation is not a matter to be taken lightly,” she said.
“I understand that, ma’am. And if I were closer to the throne of course I would think differently. But you have four healthy sons. You already have grandchildren and I’m sure they will produce many more. My own brother has two heirs. Before long I shall find myself fortieth or even fiftieth in the line of succession. So unless the Bolsheviks invade and behead the entire royal family or there is an even more virulent flu epidemic than the last one, I cannot foresee myself being called upon to ascend the throne.”
A brief smile crossed her lips. “I do see your point,” she said. “It should be a relatively simple matter, but for one thing. The British Parliament does not harbor kindly feelings toward the Republic of Ireland. Their former campaign of bombings and hostile acts has not endeared that nation to us, has it?”
“Darcy might have been born in Ireland. His father is an Irish peer and he is Catholic, but he is also a British subject, working, if I am not mistaken, for our government from time to time.” I was amazed how passionately I was able to speak to her. No mumblings or stumblings. Thus emboldened, I decided to deliver the crowning blow, although that was probably an unwise choice of words. “And may I remind Your Majesty that my future husband saved your life and that of the king, taking a bullet in your defense when a communist agitator planned to assassinate you?”
She nodded. “Quite true.” I could see she was looking almost amused. “Georgiana,” she went on, “I have never seen you so eloquent or so forceful. Well done. I can see now how much this means to you. Of course I am aware that Mr. O’Mara chose to retain his British citizenship after the republic was established. In fact, the only stumbling block to your marriage seems to be his Catholic religion. I take it he is not prepared to renounce it?”
“He has said he would, as a last resort if all else failed. But I would not force him to do that. His religion means a great deal to him. And if you remember, Princess Marina was married at the abbey but also had a Greek Orthodox ceremony later. She was not forced to renounce her religion.”
The queen nodded again. “Quite true. But for some reason our country does not harbor such hostile thoughts toward the orthodox religion. The Reformation and subsequent struggles have embedded a deep hatred of Rome into the British consciousness.” She took a sip of tea while I held my breath and waited for what might come next. She put down the cup and saucer. “But in the end sanity will prevail, I am sure. To be honest with you I only wanted to hear from your own lips that this marriage was what you wanted. I would have preferred it if you had come to the palace yourself and asked the king and myself in person, rather than having your betrothed do it with a secretary on your behalf.”