A Royal Pain (24 page)

“I’ll try harder in future,” I reassured her.

“I have not yet kissed a boy,” she went on. “Is this very pleasurable?”

“Oh yes, very, with the right boy.”

“You have found right boy?” she asked. “You know a hot and sexy guy?”

I stared out of the window, watching a stream meander through a meadow while cattle stood in dappled shade. “Obviously not yet, or I’d be married.”

“You want to be married?” she asked.

“Yes, I suppose so. It’s what every woman wants. Don’t you?”

“Not before I have known what it is to live my own life,” she said, seriously for her. “I have things I want to do. Things that married women cannot do, especially not married queens and princesses. I have dreams.”

“Such as what?” I asked, intrigued.

“Silly things. Go to the shops. Eat in a café.” She turned abruptly away and stared out of the window.

Only the baroness’s rhythmic rumblings broke our silence. I found myself thinking things over. Everything had been so confused for the past few days. First Tubby plunging to his death and then the horrible episode in the bookshop with poor Sidney Roberts lying there, blood spreading across his white shirt. Granddad seemed to think there had to be a connection. Personally I couldn’t think what it was, unless it had something to with the cocaine I saw in Gussie’s kitchen. I knew little about drugs but I had heard that they were bought and sold by ruthless people. If Tubby and Sidney had been involved with them, and perhaps had not paid their bills, then maybe they had been taught the ultimate lesson. But by whom?

The flatlands of East Anglia opened up before us—a landscape that seemed nearly all sky. White clouds hung like cotton wool, sending patches of shadow over the fields. In the distance a church spire betrayed the presence of a village among trees. We passed through Little Dippings, and then Much Dippings, a similar village with a cluster of thatched pink and white cottages around a church and pub (the Cromer-Strode Arms), before driving along a high brick wall and turning in at an impressive gateway. The first part of the estate was wild parkland, with lots of trees and what looked like rhododendrons, although they had already finished blooming. A pheasant took off with a clatter of wings. A small herd of ornamental deer moved away as they heard the car approaching. Then Hanni said, “Look. What kind of animal is that over there in those bushes? It is pink, but I do not think it is a pig.”

I stared hard at the pink thing among the foliage. It seemed to have an awful lot of limbs. “I really don’t know,” I said, but then suddenly I did. It seemed to me that it was two people, without clothes, wrapped around each other in the grass and doing what I could only guess at. Our driver, on the other side of his glass partition, coughed discreetly and put his foot down on the accelerator. As the couple heard the approaching car, a head was raised in surprise. I caught a glimpse of a shocked face before we passed.

Chapter 24

Then we came around a bend and there was Dippings before us in all its glory. Like most houses in the area, it was built of red brick, which had mellowed over hundreds of years into a lovely muted rose pink. The Elizabethan chimneys were striped in white and red brick and a classical portico and flight of marble steps had been added to the front of the house in Georgian times. There was an ornamental pond with fountain playing in the forecourt. A flight of white doves wheeled overhead. All in all a most pleasing aspect. We drove between well-kept lawns and shaded drives until we came to a halt at those front steps.

The baroness stirred.

“We have arrived,” Hanni said. The baroness hastily adjusted her hat as the door was opened by footmen.

“Welcome to Dippings, my lady,” one of them said as he helped me out.

We had barely set foot on the gravel forecourt than a figure came flying down the steps to greet us. She was tall, angular and almost painfully thin. Her face was a perfect mask of makeup, from the plucked eyebrows to the startling red lips (though not executed quite as perfectly as my mother’s). Her mauve dress had panels that flew out around her as she hurtled toward us, arms outstretched.

“Welcome, welcome to Dippings,” she called in a southern American drawl. “You must be Lady Georgiana, and this is the princess. Welcome, Your Highness.” She attempted a jerky bob of curtsy. “How lovely to have you here with us. I can’t tell you how excited I was when the queen called and suggested you join our little gathering. I know you’ll just love it here. Everyone does. My husband is such a wonderful host. He always takes care of everyone so well and makes sure they have a good time. Come on in. Come on in.”

Hanni and I glanced at each other, feeling somewhat breathless, as she went ahead back up the steps, still talking away. “We’ve quite a jolly little group here. Some young people your age. You probably know most of them, I’m sure, but my nieces are here from America. Such dear girls. You’re going to love them, I just know it.”

We entered a wood-paneled foyer, hung with family portraits and the occasional, obligatory pair of crossed swords and frayed standard from some long-ago battle.

“I’m afraid you’re too late for lunch,” she went on, “and tea won’t be for another hour. But I expect you’re starving. How about some sandwiches and lemonade out on the back lawn? Or do you want to see your rooms first? We’ve sent someone to meet the train with your luggage so you should be able to change as soon as it arrives.”

She paused for breath. I realized she had asked about a dozen questions and hadn’t waited for a single answer. I tried to remember what the choices had been.

“There’s not much point in going up to our rooms before our maids and our luggage arrive,” I said, “so some lemonade on the lawn would be lovely.”

“I don’t know where everyone else has got to,” she said.

“They may be playing tennis, although it’s rather hot for it today, wouldn’t you say? I expect Fiona is with her American cousins. You remember my daughter, Fiona, don’t you? I know you two girls were at that fearfully expensive school together.”

It’s funny how outsiders always give themselves away as being “not one of us.” People I knew would never consider whether a school was expensive or not. If it was the right school and the rest of the family had been there, one bit the bullet and paid for it somehow.

Lady Cromer-Strode (I presume it was she although there had never been proper introductions) now led us through a series of dark paneled rooms and galleries until we came to a charming drawing room with lots of low, comfortable armchairs and French doors opening onto lawns. Chairs and tables had been set up in the shade of an enormous copper beech in the middle of the lawn and several people were sitting there. They looked up as we came out onto the terrace and down the steps to the lawn.

“Here they are. They have arrived,” Lady Cromer-Strode announced to the world.

The young men rose awkwardly from their deck chairs. It is never easy to get out of a deck chair gracefully. “Every-body, this is Lady Georgiana and Princess Hannelore. They’re going to be joining our jolly little gathering. Won’t that be fun?”

“And may I present Baroness Rottenmeister, who is accompanying the princess,” I said, since she had been ignored by our hostess until now and was hovering behind us, looking decidedly out of sorts.

“What-ho, Georgie. Good to see you again.” One of the young men revealed himself to be Gussie Gormsley. “And you, Your Highness.”

“Please, call me Hanni. We are among friends,” she said.

Fiona Cromer-Strode, large and pink, came to embrace me. She was carrying a tennis racquet and looked revoltingly hearty. “How absolutely lovely to see you again, Georgie. Doesn’t it seem simply ages since we were at Les Oiseaux? Wasn’t it simply ripping fun?”

“Yes, it was.” Fiona and I had scarcely known each other at Les Oiseaux, but now I remembered she had always been annoying.

“This my cousin Jensen Hedley,” she said. “She’s visiting from Baltimore. Her two sisters are away for the day, visiting Cambridge, but you’ll meet them at dinner tonight.”

The pale, elegant young American, wearing a dress that could only have come from Paris, smiled charmingly. “Gee, I’ve always wanted to meet a real princess,” she said and shook Hanni’s hand.

“I thought you were more interested in meeting a prince,” Fiona teased.

“All the princes around here seem to be otherwise occupied,” Jensen said and gave a quick glance over her shoulder.

Mrs. Simpson was lounging in the shade behind us, wearing white shorts and a bright red halter top and apparently reading a magazine. She hadn’t bothered to move when we arrived. Now she felt eyes on her and looked up.

“Why, it’s the actress’s daughter,” she said, in feigned surprise. “Fancy seeing you here.”

“The queen suggested it so that she could keep an eye on us from Sandringham,” I said. “We are apparently close to Sandringham, as you probably know.” I smiled sweetly.

Her eyes narrowed, then focused on Hanni. “And who is the pretty little blond girl?”

“Her Royal Highness Princess Hannelore of Bavaria,” I said, stiffly. “Highness, this lady is Mrs. Simpson, also visiting from America.”

“I love America.” Hanni was beaming. “Do you have gangsters in your town?”

“I sincerely hope not,” Mrs. Simpson said. “Baltimore is a refined and old city. Our hostess and I went to the ladies’ seminary together there. The very same school that the Misses Hedley also attended. Isn’t that right, Jensen honey?”

“Reagan and I attended the seminary,” Jensen said. “Danika was educated at home, on account of her delicate health.”

Reagan, Jensen, Danika, Wallis—was nobody in America called plain Jane or Mary?

“Such interesting names,” I commented.

“We also have a brother, Homer,” Jensen said.

“Ah, so you have a parent interested in the classics?” I asked.

She wrinkled that button of a nose, frowning. “No. Daddy likes baseball.”

“So how is your dear mother?” Mrs. Simpson asked me. “Still keeping herself busy in Germany?”

“She comes and goes,” I said. “I saw her recently in good health, thank you.”

“She has staying power, I’ll say that for her. Still, I suppose that tough upbringing on the streets has given her resilience.”

“Surviving Castle Rannoch would have given her more resilience,” I said, not willing to be drawn into a spat. “The rooms there are much colder and bleaker than my grandparents’ house.” I went to move away, then couldn’t resist asking, “Are you here with Mr. Simpson?”

A frown crossed the perfectly made up face. “Regrettably, he has been called back to America on business.”

“Dear me. What a pity.” I gave her a sweet smile and realized that she no longer intimidated me. At least adversity does have some advantages.

Lemonade and sandwiches arrived. Jensen Hedley dragged off Gussie to play tennis. The baroness parked herself in one of the deck chairs and promptly tucked into the sandwiches. They looked so tempting—egg and cress, crab and cucumber and even smoked salmon, my favorite—that I was about to join her when a man in wrinkled cricket whites came sauntering across the lawns. He had a red, weathered face surrounded by a halo of wispy white hair and childishly innocent eyes. What’s more, I recognized him. His was the face that had peered over the bush when we arrived.

Chapter 25

The elderly man gave no indication of having recognized us, however, and came toward us with a big smile on his face. “Well, well. Here they are. Spendid. Splendid. Cromer-Strode.” He shook our hands heartily. “And I met you when you were a little girl,” he added to me. “At Hubert Anstruther’s. I believe your mother was—”

“Married to him at the time,” I finished for him, still not quite able to look him in the eye. I couldn’t stop wondering who had provided those other pink arms and legs in the bushes and whether Lady Cromer-Strode knew anything about it.