On Her Majesty's Frightfully Secret Service (Her Royal Spyness #11)(8)

“And a very good evening to you too, Fig,” I said. “Thank you for the warm welcome and no, I haven’t come for long.”

“I suppose you’d better come in,” she said and stood aside so that I could step into the front hall.

“You look like a drowned rat,” she commented.

“It is raining rather hard and I didn’t have a spare hand for an umbrella.” I started to unbutton my raincoat.

“You don’t have a maid with you?”

“Remember that you told me to get rid of Queenie? Well, I have.”

“But I meant you should find a more suitable replacement. One does not travel without a maid. It reflects poorly on the family.”

“As I’ve pointed out to you before, servants cost money and I have very little.” I took my raincoat and hung it on the hall stand. “Shouldn’t Hamilton be answering the front door? Don’t tell me you’ve got rid of him? Doors should be answered by a butler, you know. Otherwise it reflects poorly on the family.”

I saw a spasm of annoyance cross her face and tried not to grin. “Hamilton had to go home for a death in the family,” she said. “He should be back in a few days. And we only brought a skeleton staff down from Scotland so we’re muddling through. You’d better come into the drawing room. Did you dine on the train?”

“Yes, thank you, but I wouldn’t say no to a cup of coffee.”

She rang the bell and a maid was dispatched to bring coffee. “The house is all at sixes and sevens without Hamilton,” she said. “I don’t know what servants are coming to these days. You notice we don’t even have a footman here. Jamie refused to leave his ailing mother. A servant, refusing to follow his masters. My mother would have a fit if she saw a maid serving at the dinner table.”

The maid came in at this point with a tray of coffee and poured two cups. I thought she did it rather well.

“So what brings you back to London?” Fig asked. “I take it you have been in Ireland with that Darcy person.”

“That Darcy person is the son of Lord Kilhenny, thus of the same social level as you,” I said. “You too are the daughter of a baron, are you not? You only rose in the world when you married a duke.”

Another flash of annoyance crossed her face. I decided that I was learning to stand up for myself rather well and decided to strike a crowning blow. “You asked why I am here. Queen Mary wants to have a chat with me about my wedding.”

It was infuriating to Fig that I was related to the royal family and she wasn’t, at least not by blood. It annoyed her even more that the queen seemed to be fond of me and was often inviting me for little chats. There was a frosty silence while I suspected she searched for something crushing to say.

“Where is Binky?” I asked.

“Went to bed early. Not feeling too perky. Actually he caught a cold as soon as he came back to this abysmal climate.” She gave a dramatic sigh. “Oh, how one misses the Riviera. The flowers. The blue sea. The sunshine.” She gave me a triumphant little smirk. “I suppose it rained a lot in Ireland? From what one hears it rains all the time.”

“Pretty much the same as in Scotland,” I said. “I should have thought you were used to rain by now, after all these years of living at Castle Rannoch.”

“Just because one puts up with it doesn’t mean one enjoys it,” she said. “It’s only when one sees how pleasant life could be elsewhere that one becomes a little discontent—especially with a husband who is coughing and sneezing all night.”

I finished my coffee and assured her that I could carry my own suitcase up to my bedroom.

“Will you be going straight back to Ireland after your tête-à-tête with the queen?” she asked.

“No, actually I thought I might go and stay with a friend who is living in Italy,” I said and was rewarded with an absolutely venomous glare.

? ? ?

IN THE MORNING I was greeted warmly by Binky, then received an equally warm greeting when I went up to the nursery to see my nephew and niece. Little Adelaide hung back shyly, having forgotten who I was but six year old Podge gave me a frank and accurate account of life on the Riviera with Fig’s sister and brother-in-law, the cramped conditions, the spartan meals and how dreadfully boring his cousin Maude was. “And do you know, Auntie Georgie,” he said, frowning, “they took me down to the beach every day, but there’s no sand and the water was too cold to swim. It was a very boring beach.”

I was still chuckling as I left them and went to Binky’s study to write a letter to the queen. I apologized for not answering her sooner, telling her the letter had just been forwarded to me in Ireland. But I had come immediately to London and looked forward to visiting Buckingham Palace whenever might be convenient for her. I sealed the letter, walked through the rain to the postbox, came back and waited.

I didn’t have to wait long. The next morning there was a telephone call. Fig answered it herself, in the absence of Hamilton, and came into the breakfast room looking distinctly put out.

“You’re wanted on the telephone,” she said. “It’s the palace.”

I jumped up. “Oh good.” I gave her a bright smile as I hurried out of the room.

It was the queen’s secretary on the line and he informed me that Her Majesty would be free that afternoon if I would like to come to tea. I accepted, naturally, and spent the rest of the morning trying to find something suitable to wear. The weather was so miserable that I didn’t think even Her Majesty would be in a tea dress. I examined my meager wardrobe. I had never had the money to be fashionable and now my clothes seemed hopelessly dowdy and old-fashioned. I had taken my stout winter items with me to Ireland and they now looked a little the worse for wear. I did have my mother’s cast-off silver fox coat, but it was raining cats and dogs and I didn’t want to arrive looking like a drowned English setter. I settled on a gray jersey skirt, another pass-on from my mother, and added a peach cashmere cardigan, also from her. I should point out, for those who don’t know, that my mother had been a famous actress before she married my father and had worked her way through a long line of rich men ever since. She had the most fabulous clothes, looked absolutely stunning, even now that she was over forty. However, she was several inches shorter than I and had a waist that men could still span with their hands (and I expect a good many of them had tried it!). So hand-me-downs were few and far between—not that I bumped into her often. She spent most of her time in Germany with the man she planned to marry, industrialist Max von Strohheim.