The Royal Nanny (21 page)

“They are going in circles but they want to be in the sea. They want sand and shells.”

“Ah, there are my lads!” a familiar voice boomed out as King Edward approached. I curtsied as the boys, Johnnie too, swarmed him, hugging his legs, nearly knocking him over. I was amazed at how much he had aged since I'd seen him but two months ago.
Heavier, fleshy jowls and a bit bent at the spine. A cigar in one hand, of course. “All right,” he said, “before we have any more of this grown-up chitchat folderol, let's have a butter pat race on Grandpapa's pant legs, and you can all bet on the winner. Now, don't you worry, Mrs. Lala, they'll be fine with me!”

As Finch and I backed off, he told me, “I'll keep an eye on the lads from over there in the corner.”

“I'm going back by the door. It's closer if Johnnie needs me.”

Off the boys went to the head table while I held my breath, but it did give me a chance to look around. Princess May's gown was stunning, and I'd tell Rose so, but the queen herself, sitting at the head table, dripping in diamonds and greeting guests, had outdone herself with the decorations in the vast room. She always loved ornate displays and, although it was December first, the room had a harvest theme with swags of grape leaves and pheasant feathers decorating windows, tables, and the massive picture frames on the walls. I supposed the feathers were from Chad's birds, ones maybe the king, prince, and their cronies had shot. I scolded myself for thinking of such far too much lately—that lovely things had to die so that the royal and rich set could live this way.

Under a burst of wheat stalks tied with a gold velvet ribbon on the wall, I sat in a tiny jade-green silk upholstered chair and kept my eye on the boys, praying Johnnie would not act up or say something outrageous. But I blessed his grandfather from afar for taking time to play with them, even in the midst of all this.

I could see one of the beautifully scripted dinner menus, propped up against the array of goblets next to each silver table setting. I squinted a bit to read it. Oh, my, eight courses. First Course, Oysters and Stewed Trout; Second Course, Green Pea
Soup or Grouse Soup. I thought of that agate figure of the grouse David had filched so long ago on my first visit to this house. I'd seen it in the lighted case tonight. I sighed. As spectacular as was this grand display, as much as I admired it all, I no longer felt in awe of these people and places. Instead, I saw the excess here as well as the excellence.

The Third Course was Poached Salmon with Mousseline Sauce—whatever that was—and Cucumber. The glasshouses out back always grew summer vegetables in the winter. And where were those fish coming from with the ponds newly frozen over? You'd think they should serve Prince George's daily lunch fish called Bombay Duck. Not duck at all, but crisp-fried and highly seasoned fish imported from India. And I had seen he was quite out of sorts if something else was served to him at York Cottage promptly at one.

The Fourth Course had a variety of choices, or did they eat them all? Roast Saddle of Mutton, Roast Duckling with Apple Sauce, something called Parmentier Potatoes or Broiled Rice and Creamed Carrots. The Fifth Course was shorter: Roast Partridge Squab with Cress. I was glad Johnnie couldn't read yet. Those just as well could be some of his pet peeps.

The Sixth Course was Cold Asparagus Vinaigrette, though I could not fathom why they didn't just have that with the main Fourth Course. The Seventh was Pâté de Foie Gras—how the king loved French food—and Celery, no less. Finally—and here my mouth started to water—Cheese Tarts. Also Peaches in Chartreuse Jelly. Did that mean they would be colored green? And, with the cake, French Ice Cream.

My stomach rumbled at the mere thought of cake and ice cream, though I had already supped back at York Cottage with
Johnnie on mutton, potatoes, and, for dessert, custard. I was quite used to nursery fare, though I did occasionally eat what the downstairs staff were having.

As I glanced up from that amazing menu, I saw Chad, dressed in his hunt master uniform, looking so handsome. It was almost as if I'd imagined him. He was indeed standing in the doorway nearest me, frowning, looking over the crowd. When his gaze snagged mine, he smiled and walked over as if he'd been searching for me alone.

S
hall we dance?” Chad asked, his voice teasing as he took my hand, kissed the back of it, then let go. “Or shall we just stare into the fishbowl—the entire room, not the ones holding up that huge cake.”

“Johnnie was entranced. Forgive me for being surprised, why are you here and in your formal hunt garb?”

“The king is going to have a few of the queen's borzois paraded in with gifts in leather pouches they will wear and he wanted each dog collar—I mean, Lady Knollys thought that up—to have a feather in it to go with the room. I was asked—told—to bring nearly a hundred feathers for this. Frankly,” he said, not glancing around but still staring at me, “I would have used fir boughs and pinecones in December.”

I had to laugh at that. As if he were some sort of interior decorator instead of an outdoorsman. But he was right: some sort of solid simplicity would have moved me more than all this gleam and glitter I had now become so used to. It was so good to see him, as those times were few and far between,
though he did materialize sometimes with a new pet chick for Johnnie when the others got too old.

“But I couldn't say no to the feathers,” he added. “The king's already out of sorts that it's going to rain and ruin the hunting tomorrow, so he'll have to entertain the men inside all day. I think Johnnie looks good.”

“Speaking of the Imp,” I said, “I'd better check on him.” I leaned slightly to the side to be sure things were going well with the king and the boys. Just in time, for the king was evidently scanning the crowd for me and Chad was blocking his view. I excused myself and hurried over, into the little circle of guests who were cheering on three melting butter pats running down the sharp crease of His Majesty's black silk pant leg.

Pointing at a pouting Johnnie, the king told me, “The boy says he doesn't like butter but jam, and we're not racing jam tonight, Mrs. Lala. It's set him off a bit. Best take him back for now, eh?”

I decided a walk out in the hall was in order. I didn't see Chad where I'd left him, but he was in the corridor. Six elegant-looking borzoi hounds—the queen owned more than I could count—were lined up with little ribboned saddlebags on their backs. One of the king's equerries was sliding wrapped gifts into each bag, more Fabergé animals I surmised. At each holiday, birthdays too, gifts seemed to proliferate as if they were breeding under the huge tables.

I held on to Johnnie's hand so he wouldn't charge the dogs and upset things. But, as Chad looked up at us, winked at Johnnie—or me—and began stuffing pheasant feathers in each collar, the king's fox terrier Caesar appeared from somewhere and ran yipping at the waiting, larger dogs.

They ran, scattering feathers and gifts along the corridor, barking madly, while Johnnie laughed and clapped and Chad swore. Then the boy seemed to go very still amidst the noise and chaos. His eyes took on that dull, dead look I had seen only once before. Oh, no, not here amidst all these people!

The king came out into the hall with an entourage and shouted, “You bad, bad boy!”

For one moment, I thought he meant Johnnie, but Chad rushed to retrieve Caesar for the king as more people spilled out into the hall to see what the ruckus was.

Johnnie wavered on his feet, then seemed to come to attention, standing stiff. Panicked, I pulled him against me. With him pinned to my side, I half-lifted, half-dragged him down the corridor away from the growing crowd, searching for a place to shelter him before the horror began.

Panting, my pulse pounding, I tried the knobs of several locked doors beyond those for the Grand Saloon before one opened on a small, narrow room with floor-to-ceiling empty shelves, perhaps ones for the silver and china now on the dinner tables. I prayed my boy would not go into another convulsion. However grand the day and great the people, everything could be ruined, and it was Johnnie who mattered above all else.

I had no choice but to lay him on the floor. I searched for a light, saw no pull cord or switch, but when I closed the door, a light overhead came on. My heart thudded as hard as the rhythm my poor boy beat on the wooden floor as his limbs convulsed. I held his head steady, horrified at the dazed, contorted expression on his face. Tears coursed down my cheeks and dropped on his.

The noise in the hall quieted, even as Johnnie eventually did.
How long had this seizure lasted? Endless. He opened his eyes, though he didn't seem to see me. Dazed. Not quite there.

I heard the door handle turn, felt the whoosh of air. I tried to block whoever was there from seeing, but—

“Charlotte? Is he all right? What happened?”

Thank God, it was Chad.

“He had a sort of seizure. Convulsions.”

“Should I get a doctor? I think there's one always near the king lately.”

“If you do, then maybe they won't say it's nothing this time.”

He closed the door and kneeled beside me. I leaned against his strength. He put one arm around my shaking shoulders.

“He's had this before?”

“Once, months ago. August, on the royal yacht. They decided it was a onetime event, but I feared it wasn't.”

“They'll have to face it now.”

Johnnie's eyes flickered open. “Chad,” he said. “My head hurts. But can we play with the new peeps?”

“Not right now, my boy. I think we need to get you home in bed, right, Charlotte?”

“Her name is Lala.”

“Yes, all right. You two stay here for a moment, and I'll tell Prince George, see what he says. I have a cart, but we'll need the omnibus to get him back home. It's here too.”

“I want to stay for the party!” The sudden volume of Johnnie's voice startled me. “Ice cream and fish cake. I want to put them in the sea.”

Chad and I exchanged swift glances. At least Johnnie was talking, remembering. He was slick with sweat and seemed to keep drifting off, no doubt exhausted.

“We'll be sure you get ice cream and cake later,” Chad told him with a squeeze of his shoulder and then a squeeze of mine. “I'll be right back.”

“Chad,” I called after him. “Tell only Prince George. They don't want people to know.”

He frowned, nodded, and closed the door.

I wiped Johnnie's face with my skirt as I had that day on the yacht. I hummed to him, thinking how many times Chad had helped me over the years. He was, no doubt, partly doing this for Johnnie and the royal family, yet I was so deeply moved, comforted and grateful.

But the horror of something I'd overheard Dr. Laking tell Prince George outside the door months ago when they no doubt thought I couldn't hear them had haunted me like no ghost ever could: “If it's only one incident, Your Highness, we can just be watchful, and he's fine with such a dedicated nanny. But if there are more convulsions, we will have to consider epilepsy, and that's a whole different kettle of fish.”

“Epilepsy!” the prince had cried. “But if Johnnie gets worse, that . . . that doesn't mean he's an imbecile, does it? I know he's different, a bit slow, but we can't have that sort of stigma for the royal family on view or even whispered about.”

“I can imagine, sir, what effect this might have on the public—and on your other children. We could isolate him, send him away somewhere. Indeed, time will tell.”

C
HAD CARRIED
J
OHNNIE
on his back, horsie style, as the older boys had always called it. I held the side door of Sandringham House open for them, and, wrapped in rainwear, we went out where the omnibus had been brought round and left for us. Chad
was going to drive it himself, as we needed no others to talk about Johnnie taking ill. The team of two horses waited there, stamping impatiently. It was starting to sprinkle, and thunder rumbled nearby. The coming storm made the blackness of the night even darker.

Chad laid Johnnie inside on the seat closest to the front with his head on my lap. The child was exhausted, drifting in and out of sleep, fighting that because he loved being with Chad, and rides in any vehicle around the estate were one of his favorite things. Chad said he had talked to Prince George, and we were doing the right thing. In the morning he would summon the doctor again. I dreaded that. I would fight to the end for Johnnie to stay with his family—with me.

Chad patted Johnnie's head and squeezed my shoulder again, but before he could climb out to go round to drive, Prince George appeared up the back steps of the omnibus and climbed in.

“He's quite all right now?” he asked me. Or he might be asking Chad.

“Papa,” Johnnie said, his voice sounding weak now. “I want ice cream and cake.”

“And you shall have some tomorrow, my boy,” he said and, despite his elegant evening suit, bent down to look closely into Johnnie's face. It almost seemed he was bowing to us. In the muted glow from the house windows, I could tell his coat and stiff white waistcoat were raindrop-spattered.

He looked up and asked me, “Like the other one on the yacht?”

“Similar, Your Highness.”

“What other one?” Johnnie asked. “Harry and Georgie get to stay at the party, and I don't.”

“We'll have our own special party later,” I told him, and the prince, bless him, nodded.

“I will tell Princess May that things are under control,” he told me. “You are both in good hands with Chad. Now I'd best get back before I'm missed.”

His feet sounded on the floorboards as he made a hasty exit out into the quickening rain. I remembered the day I had protected Mary when the rabble-rousers led by Barker Lee had stopped us on the road in this very vehicle. Afterward, Prince George had thanked me and said he owed me a favor. Queen Alexandra had said much the same to Chad—that he should be rewarded—when he had saved the picture of her dead son from the fire. If the doctor diagnosed that Johnnie had epilepsy and must be sent away, could we call in those favors so that he could stay? Would Chad agree to help with that?

His voice jolted me from my agonizing: “Hang on! Before the rain gets worse, we're on our way.”

Off we went into the storm. Away from the protection of the Big House, rain thudded harder on the omnibus roof. Thunder rolled, and lightning lit the sky. I held tighter to Johnnie. A huge crack sounded nearby and then some sort of gigantic crunching noise.

“Tree went down on the road ahead!” Chad shouted, his voice barely discernible over the thunder. “Prince George said the guests and their servants have taken most of the rooms back there, so we'd best go on! I'm turning off, away from the forest, across the football field.”

I was amazed he could even see, but he must know every inch of these fields and forests. How long ago that football game seemed when Chad had helped David and Bertie play with the village boys.

“Can we take shelter somewhere?” I shouted to him, not certain he could hear me in the drumming of rain on the roof.

“My house 'til it lets up!”

M
y house.
Simply words. The place he had lived with Millie. The house—the home—that could have been mine with him. I wasn't even sure which one it was across the field with its front on the village green of West Newton and its garden gate on the field. Would his daughter Penny be there or was she with his sister, who was helping to raise her?

“Lala.” Johnnie's shrill voice pierced the din. “If we get wet, I won't have to take a bath.”

Tears burned my eyes, but I had to smile at that. Thunder echoed again like mad applause at the way this child's mind worked. A “brain disturbance,” Prince George had called the earlier seizure, but it seemed Johnnie's brain was slightly disturbed all the time. I felt the same in all sorts of ways, and not only because I feared for Johnnie's future.

I did not know whether to laugh or cry at the fact that, twelve years after I had first met Chad Reaver, though now under wretched circumstances, I was finally going to his home.