On Her Majesty's Frightfully Secret Service (Her Royal Spyness #11)(9)
I sighed and tried on the skirt and cardigan over a cream chiffon blouse. Acceptable if not fashionable, I decided and paused, examining my five-foot-six frame in the mirror, wondering whether my mother might be persuaded to buy me a trousseau and what my wedding dress should look like. I had these sorts of fantasies quite often these days. It still seemed like something of a fantasy to me that a handsome, dashing man of the world like Darcy would want to marry a shy, slightly awkward and hopelessly na?ve girl like me. But he had proposed. I proudly wore his late mother’s engagement diamond on my ring finger and if the king and queen and Parliament said yes to the marriage today I could start planning a summer wedding. If Darcy came home in time from his latest assignment, that is!
Chapter 4
THURSDAY, APRIL 11, 1935
Off to Buckingham Palace to have tea with the queen in a few minutes. How grand that sounds and how easy it is to write it! But golly, I’m always a bundle of nerves, even if she is a relative. Please don’t let me knock over any statues or priceless Ming vases!
At three o’clock it was still raining hard and a fierce wind was driving the rain almost horizontally. I decided I simply couldn’t arrive looking as if I’d been dragged from the nearest lake so I decided to throw caution to the winds and hail a taxicab.
“Where to, love?” he asked as I climbed into the backseat.
“Buckingham Palace, please,” I said.
He chuckled, a deep throaty chuckle that turned into a cough the way it did with many Londoners who had lived with years of smoky fog. “Cor blimey. You going to have tea with the queen, are yer?”
“Actually I am,” I said.
There was a silence, then he burst out laughing. “Go on, pull the other one! You nearly had me for a moment there.”
“No, honestly,” I said. “I am going to tea there.”
“What—are you going to be presented with a medal or something?”
“No,” I replied. “The king is my cousin.”
“Blimey!” he said, turning to look at me as if he expected me to have grown a crown on my head. “Begging your pardon, Your Royal ’ighness. You don’t expect a toff like you to be riding in a cab driven by the likes of me, do you? I thought your lot went around in Daimlers and Bentleys and coach and ’orses.”
“Not all of us live that way,” I said. “I’m rather a poor relation, I’m afraid. Even taxicabs are a luxury for me.”
We drove around Hyde Park Corner and down Constitution Hill.
“So where do you want to be dropped off, Yer Highness?” he asked.
“Outside the front gates, please. I’m afraid they won’t let you drive up to the doors and I’m going to get rather wet.”
“What, one of their own family? We’ll see about that,” he said and turned into the front entrance, between those imposing gilded gates. Guards stood on either side, with rain streaming down their faces and running down their bearskins while they looked stoically straight ahead. Until we pulled up, that is.
“I’ve got a member of the royal family ’ere.” The cabby leaned across. “And we don’t want ’er getting wet when she comes to see the queen, do we?”
The guard bent to peer at me. “And you are, miss?” he asked.
“Lady Georgiana, the king’s cousin, and of course I understand that you can’t let a cabby drive into the courtyard.”
“Who says we can’t?” he said, giving me an unguardlike grin. “Go on, then, cabby, but make sure you come straight out again.”
“Thank you!” I beamed at the guard. He stood back at attention, but allowed himself a hint of smugness in his expression.
So we swept into the central courtyard and a footman came out to open the door for me. He looked surprised at the cab.
“Lady Georgiana to see Her Majesty,” I said.
He opened the door for me and I went to give the cabby a large tip. He pushed it back at me. “That’s all right, love,” he said, forgetting the “Royal Highness” this time. “I’ll be able to boast about this in the pub all year.”
So I was dry and feeling happy as I was escorted up the staircase to the queen’s private sitting room. I was so relieved when we turned right for the private quarters and not left, which might have indicated one of the grander rooms—the Chinese Chippendale being my absolute nightmare, decorated as it was with lots of antique statues and vases. The footman knocked, opened a door and announced, “Lady Georgiana, Your Majesty.”
The queen had been standing looking out of the window. The view was at the side of the palace, over the garden, which looked awfully bleak and desolate in this weather. She turned as I was announced. “So many days of rain recently,” she said. “The king really misses his walks in the garden and one can’t even see the daffodils from here. We’ll have tea in a few minutes, Frederick.”
“Very good, ma’am.” He backed out.
She smiled and held out her hand to me. “Georgiana, at last,” she said. “I was quite worried when I didn’t hear from you.”
I went over, curtsied and kissed her cheek, all without tripping, bumping noses or committing any other sort of faux pas. I really must be improving with age!
“I must apologize, ma’am, but nobody was in residence at Rannoch House. My brother and his family were in the south of France for the winter. They only returned a few days ago and forwarded the post to me. I came from Ireland right away.” I should point out that my royal relatives expected to be addressed as ma’am and sir.