The Golden Prince (19 page)

Despite all the problems Queen Mary had with her mother-in-law—her refusal, after King Edward’s death, to move out of Buckingham Palace and into Marlborough House, for instance, and her perpetual lateness for absolutely everything—she was fair enough to give credit where it was due. Her mother-in-law had been an exceedingly popular Queen Consort and, despite her deafness and increasing lack of mobility, was just as popular with the general public now that she was Dowager Queen Consort.

“However,” May went on, “there are things to take into consideration that didn’t have to be taken into consideration in 1863 when Motherdear’s marriage to your father was arranged. The political situation was far less complicated then. Willy is so belligerent and his navy is growing at such speed that Mr. Asquith thinks it will soon be comparable to ours.”

George made a noise in his throat that indicated just what he thought of his cousin’s efforts to bring the German navy into anything approaching parity with the British navy. Ever since he had become kaiser, Willy had been a thorn in everyone’s flesh, plunging his stubby finger into every diplomatic pie he could find.

“A marriage between David and his daughter will unite Germany and Great Britain in a way no amount of treaties will ever do. Princess Victoria Louise is just the right age,” May continued, “only a year older than David and I think David likes her. They got on very well together when she came with Willy and Dona to the unveiling of Grandmama’s memorial monument.”

They were in the small sitting room that linked their bedrooms. Irritably, George ran the tasseled end of his dressing-gown cord through his fingers. Princess Victoria Louise was a pleasant enough girl and there was a lot to be said for uniting Germany and Britain in such a way. Nicky wouldn’t like it, though. Nicky, tsar of Russia and his and Willy’s first cousin, had just as fretful a relationship with Willy as George had.

Between the three of them they ruled over half the population of the world. It was something that had to be taken into account when it came to deciding on a politically advantageous marriage for
Great Britain. The question was: Which would be more advantageous? A marriage uniting Britain more closely with Germany—which at the moment was in close cahoots with Austria-Hungary and Italy—or a marriage drawing Britain even closer to Russia?

May, reading his thoughts, said, “You’re thinking of the Romanovs, aren’t you? You’re thinking of Nicky’s eldest daughter, Olga.”

He nodded. “She’s the right age, only a year younger than David, and if we want her as a future bride for him, we’ll have to act fast. Nicky has told me he is already considering Prince Carol as a future husband for her.”

Prince Carol’s mother was a granddaughter of Queen Victoria through the paternal side of her family, and on the maternal side she was a granddaughter of Tsar Alexander II. With such a strong Russian link, May could well understand why the eighteen-year-old prince had been singled out by Nicky as a suitable husband for Olga.

David, though, would be far more suitable, for there could be no comparison between the throne he would inherit and the throne Carol would one day inherit. As for family ties—always an important consideration in a royal marriage—Olga’s paternal grandmother and Queen Alexandra were sisters. It was the reason George and Nicky looked so alike.

A disadvantage, though, was Olga’s mother. German-born Alix would hate the thought of Olga ever leaving Russia. That any woman could be as possessive a mother as Alix was something May—who hadn’t a maternal bone in her body—failed to understand. She said doubtfully, “There’s always unrest in Russia, George. We don’t want to be linked to that unrest any more than we can help, and that might happen if the next Queen of England was Russian. That dear Olga has barely a drop of Russian blood in her veins is neither here nor there. She’s a Romanov and the public will always remember it.”

George, who didn’t like to be reminded, however obliquely, that his own blood was far more German than English, made another noncommittal sound in his throat.

Aware that she had inadvertently touched a sensitive nerve, May moved swiftly on. “What about the House of Mecklenburg-Strelitz?” She threw her personal preference into the ring as if it were an afterthought. “The small courts of Germany have never failed Britain when it has come to the question of future Queen Consorts.”

“Nor have they.” George stopped running tassels through his fingers and looked at her fondly. Though May had been brought up at Kensington Palace, by birth she was a member of the German House of Teck and her connections to Germany were strong.

“Too minor,” he said regretfully. “A minor royal house will no longer suffice, May. Not in this day and age. David will one day be a king-emperor, and his bride should be the daughter of one—and apart from myself there are only two king-emperors. Willy and Nicky.”

“So David’s future wife is to be either the kaiser’s daughter or the tsar’s?”

George nodded. Whether, when a decision was made, the girl in question would be happy about the future arranged for her wasn’t something that even crossed his mind. Royal marriages had always been arranged marriages. And what girl wouldn’t want to be the future Queen Consort of Great Britain and Ireland and of all her Dominions over the Seas?

“I think,” May said, abandoning all hope of a Mecklenburg-Strelitz marital match, “that when the choice is put to David, he may well consider dear Nicky a more agreeable father-in-law than Willy.”

“David’s preferences are immaterial, May. The question is: Will a marital alliance with Germany be more beneficial, or less beneficial, than a marital alliance with Russia? And it is the prime minister’s and the foreign secretary’s opinions that will have to be taken into consideration, not David’s.”

He walked away from her toward the door leading to his bedroom, saying, “David will do as he’s always done, May.”

“And that is?”

He paused, one hand on the doorknob. “He’ll do as he’s told,” he said. “Goodnight, dear May. God bless.”

In a separate wing of Buckingham Palace, David, like his father, was in his dressing gown. He wasn’t about to go to bed, though. He was at his desk, writing to Lily, a glass of whiskey and soda handily within reach.

He paused, his pen hovering over the paper. He wanted to sign off by writing,
Tons and tons of my very best love, David
, but knew he couldn’t. Not yet. But soon he would be able to do so. Soon he would let everyone know how he felt about Lily, for he had decided the last thing he wanted was for there to be anything furtive about his love for her. With his heart in every word, he wrote,

In the bedroom that was always assigned to her whenever she stayed at her great-aunt’s, Rose, too, was wide awake. The day had seemed endless. First had been the long wait to see the coronation procession pass down St. James’s Street—and the very odd experience of seeing David, looking so very regal in his Garter robes and coronet. Then there had been her visit to the Harburys. Neither of Daphne’s parents had been home. As an earl and countess they had been among the eight thousand or so guests jam-packed into Westminster Abbey.

Daphne had looked shockingly gaunt, but her spirit had been as strong as ever. “I wish I hadn’t been given a special release because
of the coronation,” she’d said fiercely. “The home secretary only gave the order because he was frightened of the repercussions if I were to die—and I don’t think he would have been worried about my dying if it wasn’t for the fact that my father is an earl.”

Rose had taken hold of her hand, noticing how yellow Daphne’s skin had become during the weeks of her imprisonment. “When you were in Holloway,” she’d said, “I spoke to Lord Jethney about the conditions in which you—and other suffragettes—were being kept. I told him that force-feeding—especially under the unhygienic and brutal conditions in which it is applied—was certain to end in a suffragette’s death. He agreed with me that the general public have to become aware that force-feeding isn’t some kind of a joke but a form of torture no country calling itself civilized should tolerate. He gave me an introduction to Hal Green, the editor of the
Daily Despatch
, who was pretty dubious at first, but I think he’s going to help us.”

“What, come out publicly in support of the cause?” The amazement in Daphne’s voice had been total.

“Yes,” she’d said, “and with banner headlines if I can keep him to his word.”

There, she thought, as she tried in vain to sleep, was the crunch. Would Hal Green keep his word?

He was the most unsettling person she had ever met. She had expected him to be a contemporary of Lord Jethney’s—in his midforties or possibly older. She had also expected him to be—in manners at least—a gentleman.

He’d proved to be neither.

When she had arrived at the
Daily Despatch
’s offices in Fleet Street for her meeting with him, he hadn’t been there.

“Mr. Green won’t be long, Miss Houghton,” said a forbidding-looking secretary who had been seated outside a large glass-fronted office. She had then risen to her feet and said, “If you follow me, you can wait for Mr. Green in his office. It will be more comfortable for you.”

When Rose had looked through the large glass windows and
seen Hal Green striding into the outer room, she had assumed he was an employee. For one thing, he looked to be in his early thirties, not his midforties. Tall and lean, he had the easy loose-limbed walk of an athlete. Dark hair fell low over his forehead. He was in shirtsleeves and waistcoat, his jacket slung casually over one shoulder as a workingman might carry it. When, to her amazement, he strolled into the office, she had said helpfully, “Mr. Green isn’t here.”

“No problem.” He’d grinned at her, rounded the desk, flung his jacket over the chair behind it, and sat down. “Hal Green,” he’d said. “I take it that you are Rose?”