The Queen's Secret Page 8

  “More of the same, yet worse. Thank God His Majesty rules here, not his elder brother, whom I was much misguided to champion for a while, though I never would have let him share the throne with Mrs. Simpson. I helped him write his now famous abdication speech, you know.”

  “I did not know, but tell me what you have learned now.”

  He cleared his throat and produced a piece of paper from his coat pocket. “I wanted to be sure I repeated it all correctly, ma’am. This is from, let us say, someone who serves in their abbreviated household there.”

  I must remember this man was not above using spies, domestic ones at that. I nodded and gripped my hands in my lap around my pistol.

  “The duchess has called the Bahamas ‘a sweltering dump and a hellhole hotter than the hinges of Hades.’ And upon first seeing the shores there, as beautiful as I hear they are, she said loudly, ‘We have been sent to the island of Elba and you, my darling, are far better than Napoleon.’”

  “At least she knows some European history.”

  He stifled a grin. His jowls hardened as he frowned. “But more seriously, and you may tell the king this if you do not think it will hurt or anger him overmuch, the duke has been heard to say that if Britain can be heavily bombed, at least peace will come sooner. To which his wife added, ‘I feel I’ve already been bombed by Buckingham Palace. Yes, I’ve suffered worse than their Blitzkrieg bombings.’”

  “What traitors they have become. I will tell the king that—in time, at the right time.”

  “So there they are for the duration, partying with the rich if not the famous. But I have another bit of intelligence I must share with you, a quote about you not by the exiles but from the mustached mouth of our enemy, Herr Hitler,” he said, pointing at my target, which was riddled with bullet holes.

  “Really? He said something about me?”

  “Indeed, and I would take it as the highest order of compliment if I were you. Perhaps he even meant it that way.”

  I realized I was holding my breath as he said, “I have it on the best authority that he has said you are propping up the king, perhaps something he got from the Duke of Windsor or even his wife. I have decided not to tell the king that, but, of course, you may if you must.”

  “Perhaps someday. It’s not true, of course—propping up—although we comfort each other and are a team. The king has come a long way in the three-plus years he has had the burden of the throne thrust upon him, then the war—and he will see it through.”

  “I agree. I see he and I have a great deal in common and I value the partnership we are building. But that is not all from Herr Hitler. My sources tell me that after viewing film footage of your and the king’s successful Canada–United States tour, he said—more than once, I believe—that you are the most dangerous woman in Europe, making allies, rallying others to England’s cause. And, again I say, I would take that as the highest compliment.”

  “I hope that is true and will be more true—and not just because I would shoot him with my revolver—as soon as I can control it.”

  We shared a smile. I thought he might take his leave, but he went on, “Now to other news I am sure you will share with His Majesty. I believe I have heard that you do not care for my friend and ally Lord Beaverbrook, nor does the king. Ma’am, it is essential for the war effort that I place Beaverbrook in charge of aircraft production, which must be accelerated, obviously, even though our RAF boys are becoming more skilled at knocking the damned Messerschmitts out of the sky. If I were to present to you a dossier on Beaverbrook, I am certain you would determine he is the best man for that essential task and would share that with the king.”

  However had he learned I, as well as the king, did not favor “The Beaver,” as his rivals called him? I had not trusted that man since I’d heard he was the one who had ferreted out that I was behind the China Dossier—and had, no doubt, shared that with Winston. I had tried to move beyond that, but had this man, the only one in the kingdom more powerful than my own husband, done so? I was no fool and I’d picked up on Winston’s smooth sliding in of the word dossier.

  “If you judge him necessary for the war effort, I would certainly understand, and I am sure the king would second that,” I managed, fighting to keep my voice steady.

  “Ah, then, after we rise and I bow and back away, I will not fear that a stray shot will hit me in the posterior,” he said with an impish grin.

  Despite how this man could rattle me—and perhaps control me—I had to smile. “As you can see, I am not the best of shots yet, but I will be. And I’m going to see that the princess Elizabeth learns to shoot too. The king says he’ll not have his eldest daughter in uniform whether she is serving the wounded or bucking up spirits, but I say she should learn to shoot and to serve.”

  “Then I would wager, Your Majesty,” he said as he bowed and took several steps backing away, “that the princess Elizabeth will in due time be a boon and a boost to our war effort.”

  “Winston, one more thing,” I said as I stood and went a few steps closer. “These bad feelings of the East Enders toward those of us who have not been bombed these weeks of the Blitz—these social class difficulties—do you think another visit by their king and queen could patch that over or make the feelings worse? Bessie, my East End staffer, and indeed my friend, has told me the people there feel as if day-trippers come in to gape at their ruined homes, rather like visitors to a zoo, then go back to their nice, comfy homes. She says the gawkers often eat up what foods the restaurants there have to offer, when food is scarce in bombed-out areas.”

  “I think you and His Majesty should go yet again—and again, everywhere and anywhere in the kingdom. Eyes and feet on the devastation, hands pressing the flesh there. Forgive me for being so blunt, ma’am, but I have seen your presence alone, your smile, your kind words, work wonders and, God knows, we need wonders here—and there—if we are to survive as a city and a nation. Only a united citizenship and victory will do.”

  I nodded and waved to him as he disappeared with his faithful watchdog right behind him.

  For a moment a shaft of fear shot through me, that if Hitler thought all that of me, I might be somehow targeted.

  Then I steadied my hands and went back to shooting my pistol at the target of the man who thought I was the most dangerous woman in Europe. I vowed that, somehow, I would show him that was true.

  Chapter Nine

  More Bombs

  Fear not only of bombing but of invasion ran rampant. Churchill had told us in private that there was classified information about a German Operation Sea Lion to take our beaches whilst pounding us with more bombs, concentrated on port cities, some of which had already been hit, and, of course, London, home to nine million people, nearly one-fifth of Britain’s population.

  Our prime minister had broadcast to the nation in his usual ringing, defiant tones. We had agreed with him that one large contribution the king and I could make was to see and be seen, so we were endeavoring to make trips out to other cities and the countryside, together or separately, to boost morale. But today we were heading for the second time to survey the devastated East End of London, to the neighborhood called West Ham, from which Bessie hailed. It had been pounded especially hard last night so I had let her go there today ahead of us with the promise that, unless her family really needed her, she would be back at the palace by dark.

  I told Bertie in the motorcar, “I actually pondered possibly dressing down today, but Winston said they want to see their queen, not another gawker, so I’m dressed to the nines again. I fear I shall stand out like a sore thumb.”

  “More like a lovely entire hand reaching out to everyone. Wouldn’t do to go down there any other way. I approve that you look every inch a queen, for it will lift spirits.”

  “And I look every kilogram of weight, I fear.”

  “My dearest,” he said, reaching his hand over to cover my knee, “you are beautiful to me—ravishing—and ever will be.”

  Ravi
shing? An interesting word since we had been more physically affectionate than usual lately. But with the military discipline that governed his entire life, he kept holding back from taking the lead or pushing for more. Oh, of course, my wanting a platonic marriage had wounded his pride and self-esteem, but I had built him up in other ways.

  I sensed he wanted me to make more of the first steps, but who had time for that in this chaos? Besides, a royal marriage and lovely honeymoon aside, I did not find physical love exalting but . . . a bit messy. Yet one thing this war had done, was that Bertie had no time for or interest in the few women I had tolerated as his “special friends” off and on over the years.

  The closer we drove to the East End this time, the more we both grasped the extent and impact of German bombs. Barricades and detours had kept our earlier tours out of the most heavily bombed area. I saw clearly the single hit we had suffered at Buck House in the garden three days ago, which caved in a few walls and landed in the garden—thank heavens—was nothing next to this, even though what the police thought was a dud had detonated hours later and terrified us all. But we had been assured by the local bomb mechanics that this area was safe with all ordnance exploded.

  We saw such large craters in some of the streets that our driver had to take a most circuitous route. We might not be gawkers but we both gawked. Even poor Bessie’s dramatic descriptions and the newspapers’ photographs could not convey this. At least we had to smile at the black humor of some people when we saw a man on the sidewalk holding a hand-printed sign as if he were picketing: At least Jack’s safe in the Army!!!!

  Everywhere in West Ham we saw dust, mounds of yellow rubble, and collapsed walls. A clock without hands reminded me of the daily statistics of human injuries and death. A filling station had been completely gutted by fire and explosions from petrol reserves that had blown out nearby buildings. I pointed at a storefront that was devastated, yet sported the crudely printed, cheeky words on a poster: More Open Than Usual. Ah, our beloved Londoners did have backbone and wit.

  As we pulled up to our disembarkation point, I saw crowds had gathered. Oh my, but we would be walking round and through piles of rubble here too. Should I not have worn pumps and this light-colored suit and big brimmed hat? And Bertie wore his dark blue dress uniform, which would show every hint of dust. But, I prayed, getting dirty might show them we were with them, of them.

  The moment we stepped from the motorcar, we scented a rank odor, coal gas and ash, I expect. And too, the smell of wet plaster from all the fire hoses that had shot water for hours on the flames of burning buildings.

  We were greeted with curtsies and bows by the local aldermen and their wives. As we turned to walk with them, the king remarked on the devastation, but, for one moment, I startled as my feet crunched through a glitter of shattered glass. Nor did it help that at that very moment, several newspaper cameramen appeared and popped those bright lights in our faces—but then, at least, those who could get a paper would know we cared and dared.

  A three-story house—I wondered if it could belong to Bessie’s family—looked every bit like a dollhouse I had once, that is, with open fronts to all the rooms. Pictures and a calendar hung askew on walls, some furniture tottered there, and curtains fluttered as if some giant had ripped off the front of the place to expose its people to prying eyes—and to utter devastation. Saddest of all, on the second story was a bathtub and lavatory with a roll of toilet paper blowing in the breeze as if waving forlornly down at us. It hit me then with stunning force as it had not before: Not only people’s homes, but their intimate lives and bodies had been ripped open.

  “Everyone salvages what they can, Your Majesty,” an alderman told us, seeing where I was looking.

  “Salvage what the savages don’t destroy,” I said and everyone in earshot, even the king, nodded or murmured agreement.

  We continued to pick our way through and around the rubble. The king made observations. I spoke to people in the crowd and shook hand after hand. I was tempted to take off my beige gloves, not to save them but to, as Winston had said, press the flesh of our people.

  “You are all being so very brave,” I told a cluster of women. “I admire your courage greatly.”

  “Will you be leavin’ London, then, ma’am?” a woman asked.

  “Except for visiting our daughters who are at Windsor, we are staying in London. The king won’t leave his people, and I won’t leave the king. And I was born in London, you know, so I consider myself a Londoner too.”

  Actually, I knew that was not quite true, but my “mother” Cecilia had been in London when I was born in St. Paul’s Walden Bury in Hertfordshire, so I had never changed her story of a London birth. My parents’ claim I was delivered here was to avoid any questions about where—and to whom—I was actually born. And once, when questioned closely, I did say that my mother delivered me here in our city home, then went immediately to our English country home to convalesce.

  A few people applauded my comments that “the king won’t leave” and “I am a Londoner.” A man back in the crowd called out, “The Jerries, they don’t like the blackout, at least. Do their dirty business daytime, so you’s brave to come here now. And thankee for the gov’ment opening up the tube stops, gov’nor—Your Majesty, I mean,” he called to the king.

  “We hope to have even more RAF planes in the sky soon to help protect all of you, and we will rebuild when victory is ours,” the king told them, raising his voice. “The queen and I deeply regret that you, the backbone of our city and nation, have taken the brunt of these attacks so far.”

  “They come here, we’ll fight them in the streets!” a man called out.

  “And I with you!” the king shouted.

  Tears filled my eyes as the crowd did a hip-hip-hooray for us, and someone started to sing “For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow,” though that soon petered out.

  As we headed back to the motorcade, still stopping to encourage and praise individual East Enders, I saw Bessie in the crowd near our escort vehicle. When I walked nearer, I motioned her over. She came, leading a bent-over, grey-haired woman by the hand. Could her mother look that old?

  Bessie curtsied, and the woman nearly went off balance trying the same, but Bessie held her up.

  “Your Majesty, this is my gran, because my mum’s having more trouble today. Bombs hurt her ears something awful, and she’s having nightmares, even in daytime like this.”

  “I am so sorry to hear that but very pleased to meet your gran,” I said and exchanged a few words, asking about her life.

  “Been through worse, Majesty, lost two sons in the Great War. But this one’s just turned bloomin’ bad too.”

  “With strong women like you and your neighbors, we will make do and make it through. I am sure everyone will do their bit. Bessie, are you planning to stay here longer? Do you need more time with your mother? I worry about your going back across town alone in this chaos. Some of the omnibuses have been lost and had their routes changed or halted, you know, and you mustn’t be out in the blackout.”

  “Just got to get Gran back to my cousins in the crowd,” she said, craning her neck. “Then I’ll be setting out on foot.”

  “Not walking. And there are many potholes and roundabout ways. You take care of your dear gran and meet me at the motorcar straightaway. I insist,” I added, when I sensed she would dare to argue.

  She did as I said and stood nervously by the big Rolls Royce when I had said my farewells and the door was held open for me.

  “Bessie’s going too,” I told Bertie under my breath. “I will not leave her here to walk home alone. Get in with us,” I told her, “because the detective needs to sit in front with the driver.”

  Blushing madly, she did as I said. Bertie climbed in after me so I sat in the middle.

  “Put her over here, so you can wave on our way out,” he told me.

  And so, my dear East End girl rode away with us, sitting between her king and queen. She and I had a good laugh th
e next day and Bertie just rolled his eyes when one of the newspapers reported that Princess Elizabeth was seen with her royal parents in their motorcar returning from the East End.

  Indeed, we needed things to smile at and laugh over, and I had that snippet of newspaper framed for Bessie. It made me miss my own girls again, though I believed they were safe, so that was the very least of my worries.

  * * *

  One of my arranged trips into the countryside to see and be seen, while the king went elsewhere to assure our people, was to St. Paul’s Walden Bury, which had been my English country home whilst I grew up, when I was not in Scotland. Distant relatives lived there now but were away. I was happy to see the big, old house again, yet nervous too, since I was a jumble of emotions about the place.

  Such happy memories. Yet as I walked through the familiar rooms preparing to mingle with the crowd outside, I could not but help think that this was where my real—that is, my biological—mother had worked and lived for many years. And conceived and bore a girl child, and then my dear brother David shortly after.

  How I loved the large, redbrick house with its grey slate roof and gardens stretching to woodlands. It was where I had finally accepted Bertie’s proposal to be his wife. It seemed so lovely here, so peaceful compared to bustling, beleaguered London.

  Outside, through windows blessedly not covered with wire netting and glue and beyond walls that had not been bombed to oblivion, I saw the clusters of waiting townsfolk had been augmented by farmers from the nearby town of Welwyn and surrounding areas. I was deeply moved as I went out to a lovely welcome with applause and gave my usual speech about all of us British hanging on in perilous times. I then moved through the crowd to speak to people individually.

  “So special you are here,” one rosy-cheeked woman said. She bobbed me a curtsy, and I took her hand. “You being born here and all, I mean.”

  “Actually, I was often here as a child, but born in London,” I told her with a smile. “My nickname in my toddling days was ‘Merry Mischief.’”