The Granville Sisters (18 page)

‘Give me that bill.’ Her manner was imperious. ‘
I’ll
pay the rent out of my dress allowance. We can’t risk being thrown into the street, especially now I’m going to have a baby.’

Charles groaned theatrically. ‘For Christ’s sake …! Now you’re playing the martyr. Look, I work jolly hard at Lloyd’s, in spite of the fact I hate the bloody place …’

‘I’m not being a martyr. I just wish …’ Rosie felt like saying that she wished he’d told her he had no money before they got married; but what would she have done if he had? Broken off their engagement? How would that have made her look?

‘I just wish,’ she repeated, ‘that you’d told me the rent needed paying. If it helps, I’ll pay it in future. And I’ll try and cut the food and drink bills as well.’

Charles didn’t look as pleased as she’d expected. ‘Now you’re trying to make me feel I’ve let you down. I hope you’re not going to tell anyone we can’t manage on my salary.’

He needn’t worry, Rosie reflected angrily. Pride would prevent her from telling anyone for as long as she lived.

Even her family, especially Juliet, must remain unaware that, after all her mother’s efforts, she’d ended up with a penniless peer.

‘But you’ll never be able to go out in the evenings if you don’t have a nanny,’ Liza was saying in shocked tones.

‘Charles doesn’t like going out much, now that we’re married,’ Rosie said casually. ‘Anyway, I don’t feel up to it at the moment.’

Liza’s eyes narrowed. ‘Is everything all right, darling?’

‘Fine, Mummy. Fine.’ What was her mother going to say when she found out that she probably wasn’t ever going to be able to socialize on a grand scale again? No Royal Ascot. No Eton and Harrow match at Lord’s? No racing at Goodwood. No cocktail parties, dinner parties, or dances? And no money to buy clothes, because she’d promised Charles she’d pay the rent for the horrid little house in future.

Whirlpools of laughter kept coming from the table in a corner of the Café de Paris. People craned their necks to see who was among the glamorous diners, and saw Juliet Granville, in the white halter-neck dress.

It was December 3rd, 1936 and she was celebrating her nineteenth birthday. Old friends, like Colin Armstrong and Edward Courtney, had come back into her life again, unable to resist being in her company. Andrew Stevens sat next to her, and someone she’d met the previous week, called Luke Harmon, was on her other side. Three girls, of no importance to Juliet, but who were necessary to make up the numbers, had also been invited.

‘Here’s to the Birthday Girl!’ Andrew said, holding his glass of champagne aloft.

‘The Birthday Girl!’ everyone chorused.

‘I think I’ll stay nineteen for the next ten years,’ Juliet announced, waving her cigarette about in its long holder. Her slender arms, bronzed from the long summer at Hartley, moved with the grace of a ballet dancer. ‘Then when I’m twenty-nine, I’ll start going backwards!’

‘And your
derrière
will still enchant us all!’ cried her new friend, Luke.

‘Here’s to Juliet’s
derrière
!’ Edward chortled, raising his glass.

The group drank another toast, and fell about laughing.

‘Here’s to …’ Colin began, a wicked twinkle in his eyes.

‘That’s enough,’ Juliet commanded, thoroughly enjoying herself. The other girls in the party looked at her enviously, mesmerized by her wit and confidence, and the way the men were obviously fascinated by her.

In between courses, she danced with each of the young men, teasing them, flirting with them, making them feel so good about themselves that they became half in love with her. The champagne flowed. It was the first time she’d had a party that wasn’t shared with Rosie, and she revelled in it.

Shortly after midnight, for no apparent reason, the atmosphere in the restaurant changed. It became charged with tension, as if something extraordinary had happened. The younger groups started chattering excitedly, the older ones looked grave and shocked.

‘What’s going on?’ Juliet asked. ‘What’s happening?’

A man came running down the stairs from the balcony, brandishing the first edition of the
Daily Mail
. He rushed over to the rest of his party, and they all made a grab for it. A middle-aged woman burst into tears. A man swore loudly, his face purple with rage.

‘Colin, quickly! Go and buy a newspaper,’ Juliet urged him nervously. She’d begun to fear the gossip columns, in case she was mentioned again. These days journalists who dealt in the depravity of the rich upper classes watched her closely. She’d managed to rise above two scandals, but her name was already tarnished; she couldn’t afford another debacle.

The band played quietly, almost drowned out by the cacophony of voices raised in a mixture of shocked titillation and absolute horror, as more newspapers appeared and were snatched up and devoured.

Juliet heard a man exclaim, ‘This is a tragedy!’

‘That dreadful woman,’ an elderly lady sobbed.

Colin came hurrying back, breathless. ‘I got the last copy. It’s mayhem in Leicester Square.’

The headlines were black and heavy.

THE KING TO MARRY WALLIS SIMPSON
. A photograph of her in evening dress was on the centre of the front page.

‘So at last the press has broken the story,’ Juliet observed.

‘Did you know about it?’ asked one of the girls, looking impressed.

Juliet gave her a quick smile. ‘It’s been going on for years, but the British press, out of respect for the monarchy, have kept quiet. Until now.’

‘Good God!’ Edward exclaimed. ‘Are we to have Queen Wallis on the throne? What is this country coming to?’

Juliet shrugged calmly. ‘By the sound of her, she’ll make a good job of being the King’s wife,’ she remarked. ‘She’s a very modern woman. No doubt she’ll regard her marriage as a career. And one thing is certain; they’ll have to stick together for ever.’

A man at the next table, who had been intrigued by Juliet throughout the evening, heard what she’d said. He watched her now with renewed interest, as she scanned the news-sheet. Of course, he’d immediately recognized her from photographs in the glossy magazines. His interest quickened.

She could be just the woman he’d been looking for.

The man was a Scottish lawyer called Hector Mackenzie. Small, thin and with sparse grey hair, he had the manner of an inquisitive little bird. His wire-framed glasses were always perched on his beaky nose. He had a habit of tilting his head to the side, when pontificating with a slight Scottish accent.

The day after he’d spotted Juliet at the Café de Paris, where he’d been dining with clients, he took the train up to Inverness, where he was met by a car which drove him to Glenmally Castle.

His most important client lived here, and his duties to Cameron Kincardine stretched far beyond the usual brief of a lawyer. He was also his financial advisor, mentor, and had originally been a close friend of Cameron’s father.

On arrival, a manservant showed him into the study, where Cameron was writing letters. After the usual exchange of greetings, Hector described Juliet, and repeated what he’d overheard her say about Wallis Simpson.

‘The girl’s got her head screwed on, Cameron,’ he said. ‘She’s not the usual type of shallow débutante. She’s also very beautiful.’

‘You think she’d be interested?’ Cameron asked.

‘I tell you, if the new King had only been fifteen years younger, she’d have made a perfect royal bride for him. Instead of the shameless hussy he’s gone after,’ he added heatedly. ‘The Granvilles are a good family. They have wealth and breeding. I’ve read that Juliet’s been a bit of a naughty wee girl … but mightn’t that be a good thing, in the circumstances? I could tell she liked the good things in life, too. I think …’ He paused, small head cocked to one side. ‘I think she’d understand the meaning of
quid pro quo
… which, let’s face it, most society girls wouldn’t.’

Cameron’s piercing brown eyes skewered Hector’s. ‘To begin with, we let her think …?’

‘Of course. Of course,’ Hector tutted gently.

Cameron rose from the desk, and went to the window, gazing at the rugged wildness of the surrounding mountains. Tall, thickly built, and with a thatch of dark hair, he remained standing there, deep in thought. There was something wild about him too, this son of the Scottish soil; this man who hated towns, was distrustful of foreigners, and preferred to have a very private existence.

Eventually, and with a certain reluctance, he turned round to face Hector. ‘So how do I get to meet this girl?’

‘On her own territory,’ Hector replied instantly.

‘You mean …?’

‘You should give a cocktail party at a smart London hotel, and invite her and her parents. I’ll make up a guest list for you, and it must include people she knows. You should also invite some of your late father’s more distinguished friends, to set the right tone.’

Cameron sank wearily into the chair behind his desk again. His bland but kindly face was puckered anxiously. ‘I suppose I have to go through with this?’

‘Absolutely. It’s essential.’

In due course, invitations arrived at 48 Green Street for Henry and Liza, and one for Juliet. A few streets away, another arrived for Rosie and Charles.

Juliet looked blankly at the stiff white engraved card. ‘Why have we been invited? I’ve never heard of him, have you?’ she asked her mother.

Liza was flushed with pleasure. ‘Yes, of course I’ve heard of him, but I don’t know why we’ve been asked; we’ve never met.’

Juliet read again. ‘The Duke of Kincardine, At Home. Tuesday, twenty-eighth January, 1937. At Claridge’s. Cocktails: six thirty – eight thirty p.m. RSVP Glenmally Castle. The Highlands. Scotland.’

Liza had already reached for
Debrett’s Peerage
. Her expression was serious, as if she was researching a grave matter of state. Finally she spoke.

‘He’s the fifth Duke, Juliet. He’s thirty-three, and unmarried. The title will become extinct if he doesn’t produce an heir. I’ve heard he owns nearly as much land as the Duke of Buccleuch.’ She looked into Juliet’s face, while her mind spun in circles. ‘I wonder if he’s invited any other young women to this party.’

‘I don’t know who the hell he is, and I’ve no intention of going, looking like this,’ Rosie grumbled, throwing the invitation down on the breakfast table.

Charles picked it up and studied it. ‘It might be a good party,’ he pointed out.

‘Then you go.’

‘But you’d enjoy it. I thought you loved socializing.’

‘Not any more.’ She knew she’d become a slattern, using the discomfort of her pregnancy as an excuse for lounging around the house in her dressing gown all day, nursing her unhappiness as if it was a tangible presence. She was tired, disillusioned and longed to be back in the luxurious surroundings of Green Street, yet was too proud to admit it.

‘I’m suffering from terrible sickness,’ she’d say, if even her mother invited her to lunch. ‘My back’s killing me,’ or, ‘I keep getting dizzy spells,’ were her other reasons for avoiding seeing other people.

‘Please yourself,’ Charles snapped nastily. ‘I’m going. Anything for a bit of fun.’

‘You might even meet another heiress,’ she taunted, slamming out of the dining room.

The thought of that little packed suitcase was never far from Rosie’s mind. But how could she possibly walk away from her marriage after only five months? And pregnant at that? What a fool she’d look, apart from anything else. And how humiliating; everyone would guess Charles had married her for her money.

But was she going to ruin the rest of her life, married to someone who made her deeply unhappy?

A week ago something had happened that had rocked the establishment, shaken Britain to its roots, and sent a message around the world that personal happiness comes before responsibility, and romantic love is all.

King Edward VIII, as yet uncrowned, and determined to marry Mrs Simpson, had been forced to abdicate because of the government’s objections to a twice-divorced woman taking her place beside him as his Queen. So he’d given up his throne, his family, his country, and his duty, for ‘the woman he loved’, as he described her.

Unlike the rest of her family, Rosie was inspired, and felt deep sympathy for the King, as she’d listened to his speech on the wireless. Edward VIII hated his life, and wasn’t afraid to run away from all his obligations. If a King could do it – why couldn’t she? Who would really care if she did? Only Charles, her family, and a bunch of shallow socialites. She’d actually started composing a letter to Charles when Liza phoned. Rosie could tell her mother was crying.

‘Isn’t this a terrible calamity? Did you hear his farewell speech?’ Liza wept.

‘He didn’t want to be King, Mummy. He’s in love with Mrs Simpson.’

‘
Love?
’ Liza stopped crying, she was so horrified. ‘What’s love got to do with it? It was his duty to stay. Rosie, don’t be so naive, darling. That woman is a dominatrix, and their’s is a sadomasochistic relationship. No good can come of it.’

But Rosie wasn’t listening. The way her mother put it did make the new King’s action seem very selfish; but does anyone deserve to be unhappy? Even if it is in the line of duty?

Later though, Rosie started reading about the new King and his sweet Scottish wife, and how they were going to have to leave their own lovely home and move into Buckingham Palace for a life devoted to the country.

Gradually Rosie began to see that there was something very noble in doing one’s duty. She felt inspired. As much as it was their duty to take their places on the throne, so was it her duty to stand by Charles, and bring up their child.

Like the new King and Queen, she must somehow make the best of it, she told herself.

Juliet arrived at Claridge’s with her parents for the Duke of Kincardine’s cocktail party. The lobby leading to the ballroom, where it was being held, was already filled with people, milling around and talking to each other, whilst a long line of guests waited to be received.

‘
Everyone’s
here,’ Liza murmured, adjusting the folds of her sable-edged wrap.

Henry nodded. He’d already seen several members of parliament and the lords that he knew, and some of his old cronies from White’s.