On Her Majesty's Frightfully Secret Service (Her Royal Spyness #11)(3)

We all had a splendid time at Foggy and Ducky’s villa—well, not exactly splendid. It was a trifle crowded. The term “villa” is actually somewhat of an overstatement. It’s an ordinary small house on a backstreet in Nice, but is within walking distance of the sea. The water was too cold for bathing, but we took some nice walks. Podge was disgusted that the beach was not sandy, but he’s a good little chap and amused himself well.

We’ll be in London for a couple of weeks before we head back to Scotland and look forward to hearing from you.

Your affectionate brother,

Binky

I looked up. Mrs. McCarthy had now deposited the haddock on its warming tray and had returned to hover behind me.

“All is well, I trust, your ladyship?” she asked.

I folded the letter. “Thank you, Mrs. McCarthy. All is indeed well. And I think I’ll leave the other letters until I’ve enjoyed your delicious smoked haddock.”

I think I heard her sigh as she admitted defeat and went back to the kitchen.

When I had finished my breakfast I retreated to my bedroom and opened the other letters. The royal one first, naturally. It was from the queen, not dictated to a secretary but written with her own hand.

My dear Georgiana,

I trust you are well. I understand from the king’s secretary that your young man has indicated that you wish to marry him and, given his Catholic faith, have expressed yourself willing to abandon your place in the line of succession.

This is indeed a big step, Georgiana, and one not to be undertaken without a great deal of thought. I would expect to hear from your lips that this is indeed your intention and that you are quite sure of the ramifications. To that end I hope you will come to the palace and we can discuss your situation over tea. Please let my secretary know when might be a convenient date for you.

His Majesty sends you his warmest wishes, as do I,

Mary R.

(You’ll notice that even in an informal letter to a cousin she was still Mary Regina. One never stops being a queen.)

I stared at the letter for a long time while my stomach twisted itself into knots. Did this mean that they might not approve the marriage, nor give me permission to abandon my claim to the throne? It all seemed so silly. They had four healthy sons and already two granddaughters, with the promise of many more grandchildren to come. I should go to London immediately and sort things out with her. Let her know that I intended to marry Darcy no matter what. I felt my stomach give an extra little twist when that thought popped into my mind. Queen Mary was a rather terrifying person. I had never crossed her in my life before. I don’t believe many people have dared to do so. The only exception being her son and heir, the Prince of Wales. She had let him know quite clearly that she did not approve of his friendship with the American woman Mrs. Simpson. Not only was that lady currently married to someone else, but she had already been divorced once. The Church of England, of which the king is the head, does not countenance divorce. I don’t think the queen ever believed that her son would contemplate marriage to such a person. She trusted that he would do the right thing when the time came and make a suitable match, like his younger brother George, whose wedding to the Greek princess Marina I had just attended.

I put that letter on my dressing table, then opened the other. It bore Italian stamps and I noticed the date on the postmark. January 21, 1935. Poor Belinda—she had written to me in January and I hadn’t replied.

My dear Georgie,

Well, I have done it! I have fled to Italy as I promised and have rented an adorable little cottage on the shore of Lake Maggiore, just outside the town of Stresa. The views are spectacular. I have oranges growing on my back terrace. I have engaged Francesca, who comes in daily to cook and clean. She is determined to fatten me up and cooks the most divine pastas and cakes. So everything is going as smoothly as one could hope at this moment. Except for the loneliness. You know me—I like to be in the middle of things, out dancing, having fun. And here I am shut away from my own kind, reading books and even knitting during the long evenings. I’m not a very good knitter, I have to confess, and the poor child would be naked were it not for Francesca and her sisters, who have knitted little garments with lightning speed for me.

As to the question of the poor child—I am still in an agony of indecision. I cannot be saddled with a baby. How could I? If word got out I should be spoiled goods for life with no hope of ever marrying well. To be honest, with my past I have little hope of securing the son of a duke or earl, but an American millionaire would do quite well! But what to do with the baby? At least I have made inquiries about a clinic where I can give birth. Not in Italy, definitely. All those Francescas fussing around me!

Fortunately Lake Maggiore lies half in Italy and half in Switzerland. So all I have to do is take the steamer to the top end of the lake and admit myself to a lovely clean, sterile and efficient Swiss clinic in good time for the birth. Golly, when I write that word I feel most apprehensive. One hears such horror stories.

I sit here on my terrace, watching the ships going up and down the lake, and I think of you. I hope you are with your dear Darcy and all is finally well. I did read in an English newspaper that his father was found to be innocent. Jolly good for you and Darcy, finding out the truth. I’m glad one of us is going to be happy. Do let me know when the wedding will be, won’t you?

Or better yet come over to stay for a while, if Darcy can spare you. You’d love my sweet little house and we’d pick oranges and gossip and laugh just like we did when we were in school together. Please say yes, even if it’s only for a week or two. I will happily pay your fare. To be completely honest I wish you could be with me around the time of the birth. It’s rather frightening to know that I’ll be alone with no relative to hold my hand. Of course my family cannot be told under any circumstances. Can you imagine my stepmother crowing with delight over my downfall and shame? She would probably try to stop me from inheriting Grandmama’s money if she knew.