On Her Majesty's Frightfully Secret Service (Her Royal Spyness #11)(16)
“Wonders will never cease,” Mrs. Huggins said. “So you’ve got yourself a new maid now, have you?”
“I have an Irish girl when I’m at the castle, but I’ll be traveling alone,” I replied.
“You want to get yourself one of them French maids,” she said. “That’s what the other toffs have, isn’t it? Although maybe she wouldn’t want to let Darcy loose in a house with a French maid, eh, Albert? Know what they say about them French? Hot-blooded, eh?” And she gave him a dig in the ribs.
Granddad was looking at me. “You go inside, Hettie. I’ll walk her down to the corner,” he said.
“Make sure you’re back for the wedding,” Mrs. Huggins said. “We’ll have a good old blowout on the back lawn.”
As soon as we were suitably away from the house Granddad took my arm. “You’re not too happy about this, are you?”
“It’s not what I want,” I replied. “If you think she’ll make you happy then I will try to be happy for you.”
“I don’t know, it seemed like a good idea,” he said. “And when I heard they wanted to raise her rent or throw her out she was in such a state that I thought this might solve things all around.”
“But you don’t love her?”
He chuckled. “At my age love don’t come into it, ducks. She’s a decent old stick and she’s a good cook. I don’t think I can ask for much more.”
I kissed his cheek. “I’ll miss you. I wish you were coming with me to Italy.”
He put his hands on my shoulders. “You’ll be all right on your own? I don’t like the thought of you traveling to foreign parts all by yourself.”
“It’s only one train journey. I’ll be fine,” I said.
He nodded. “And I look forward to coming to your wedding. It will be lucky I have to get a new suit for mine, won’t it?”
He hugged me then and I hugged him back. I sensed him watching me as I walked down the hill. It was only when I was halfway down that I remembered something awful. When they married I’d actually be related to Queenie!
Chapter 6
MONDAY, APRIL 15, 1935
On a train, heading to Italy, alone. Trying not to worry about this.
I left for Italy days later. I had considered writing to Belinda to tell her I was coming, but then I thought it might be a nice surprise for her to open her door and find me on her doorstep (better than Mrs. Huggins in her curlers, anyway!). I borrowed Fig’s maid to clean and press my clothes. Fig was remarkably accommodating as I suspect she was anxious to get rid of me. I wrote to Darcy’s father, letting him know where I’d be for the next few weeks, in case Darcy returned home. I went to Eaton Square to see if there was any news on Princess Zamanska, but there wasn’t. Her haughty French maid said that there had been no news recently and pointed out that it took a good while to fly around the world. I was tempted to ask her if she’d like to come to Italy with me until her mistress returned, but then I thought of that face looking at my clothes with horror and decided against it.
So I set off alone, with one suitcase and one train case in a taxi to Victoria Station on a blustery afternoon in April. Now that I was actually undertaking this journey I wasn’t quite as confident. When I had traveled before at least I had Queenie to take care of my luggage. I supposed there would be porters everywhere, but it did seem a little daunting. The first part of the journey went smoothly enough. A porter found my compartment and loaded my cases onto the rack. The Golden Arrow pulled out of Victoria at 10:30. I was sharing my first-class compartment for this leg of the journey with a French couple who were far too chummy for British taste, gazing at each other, whispering and exchanging kisses. The other occupant was a Church of England vicar, who stared at them in horrified fascination. Luckily I had bought a copy of The Lady in the station and occupied myself by reading until we were passing through the Kent countryside, now awash in apple blossom. It took an hour and a half to reach Dover. I found a porter to carry my luggage onto the ferry across the Channel and the matching Fleche d’Or was waiting at the platform in Calais. Such a civilized way to travel. Before five we had pulled into the Gare du Nord.
From there I had to take a taxi to the Gare de Lyon, from which station I was to travel to Milan. So far so good, I thought. I was feeling rather pleased with myself as I went down the corridor to the dining car as the train left the city behind and night fell over the French countryside. I was a seasoned world traveler. A sophisticated woman at last. At the entrance to the dining car I ran into my first hitch.
“You have no reservation? I regret all the tables are occupied, madame,” the ma?tre d’ said. “Perhaps you should return later?”
I hadn’t realized one needed reservations.
“Could some food be delivered to my berth?” I asked.
He looked horrified. “But no, madame. This is a dining car, for dining. The sleeping car, it is for sleeping.”
I was about to turn away when I saw a man waving to catch the attention of the ma?tre d’.
“The young lady is welcome to share my table,” he said.
He was rather an attractive man, with aristocratic bearing, blond hair and a neat little blond mustache. He rose to his feet. “If the Fr?ulein would care to join me it would be an honor. I dislike eating alone and enjoy good company.”