The Golden Prince (35 page)

“And so I think I
would
like to be Princess Marigold Yurenev—but only if Maxim promises to spend at least six months of the year in England. I think that’s a quite reasonable demand, don’t you?”

Lily and Marigold were alone in the drawing room. Lily was stretched out on a sofa, a cushion behind her head, a book in her hands. Marigold was leaning against the mantelpiece, one foot balanced on the fender, the line of her thigh effortlessly provocative. Since there wasn’t a male within miles, Lily felt the pose just went to show that Marigold was never
deliberately
sexually alluring. She just was, and that was all there was to it.

“I don’t know, Marigold.” Lily put the book facedown on her lap. “It all depends on how much he loves Russia. What did he say about where you would live when he asked you to marry him?”

“He hasn’t asked me yet—but he will. He’s crazy for me. So crazy I can wind him round my little finger.”

She was smoking in a defensive,
noli me tangere
way, one arm held loosely against her waist and the other—the one with the hand holding the cigarette—slanted across her breast.

Lily regarded her thoughtfully. It wasn’t like Marigold to be tense, and she wondered what was troubling her.

“What’s the matter, Marigold? If he loves you, and you love him, what is the problem?”

“There isn’t any problem.” Marigold thought of the Persephone painting, and her arm pressed a little harder against her waist. Maxim was a passionate Slav, not a buttoned-up Englishman. Even if the painting were to become public knowledge, it was something he would take in his stride.

Aware that Marigold was protesting just a little too much, Lily frowned, wondering if Marigold was as much in love as she wanted everyone to believe.

“I know that Prince Yurenev’s family is fabulously wealthy,” she said, troubled, “but that isn’t why you are considering marrying him, is it?”

“Well, naturally it’s one of the reasons! I would hardly be considering marrying him if he was an out-of-work docker, would I?” There were times when Marigold could hardly believe Lily’s naïveté. “Don’t come over all goody-goody on me, Lily. Not when
you’re living in the hope of marrying David who, as Prince of Wales, will be showering you with a king’s ransom of jewels.”

Lily rarely lost her temper, but her eyes flashed fire. “I’m not marrying David because of who he is, Marigold. Who he is, is a detriment, not an inducement! I’m certainly not marrying him in the hope of being drowned in jewels. I don’t even
like
costly jewelry. I’m marrying him because he needs me and because I love him. I would still be in love with him if he was a … a …” She was about to say docker, but David didn’t have the build of a docker. “I would still love him if he was a gardener!”

Crossly aware that Lily was speaking the literal truth, Marigold moved away from the fireplace and ground out her cigarette in an onyx ashtray, saying, “Whether you like expensive jewelry or not, you’re going to have to get used to being draped in it.”

Next to the ashtray on the occasional table was a copy of
Tatler
, and she slewed it around so that Lily could see the picture of Queen Mary on its front cover.

“
That
is how you will be expected to wear jewels, Lily. No matter what the occasion, day or evening, Queen Mary is always simply
drowned
in them!”

After Marigold had left the room, Lily walked across to the small table and looked down at the picture of Queen Mary. She was as festooned with jewels as a Christmas tree. A pearl and diamond tiara graced her wheat-colored hair. Long diamond and ruby earrings fell from her ears. Around her neck were several ropes of waist-length pearls. A magnificent ruby and diamond brooch was pinned to her breast, as was the Garter and several other Stars and Orders. A cluster of diamond bracelets circled her wrists. She should have looked ridiculous; instead she looked breathtakingly majestic.

It was how a queen was expected to look. It was how, if she and David were given permission to marry, she would one day be expected to look.

The thought was daunting, so daunting she felt something close to despair.

Even though it was mid-September, the heat that had blistered the country throughout the summer continued with temperatures far higher than normal. Reading the
Times
Court Circular page beneath the shade of Snowberry’s cedar tree, Lily learned that King George, who had been grouse shooting in Yorkshire on the estate of his friend, Lord Ripon, had now moved his shooting party across the moors to the Duke of Devonshire’s estate at Bolton Abbey; Queen Mary was in residence at Windsor; and the
Hindustan
, on which the Prince of Wales was currently serving, had left southern coastal waters for Scotland and the Firth of Forth.

“Will David be accompanying the King and Queen when they go to India for their durbar?” Rose asked Lily a few days later on one of her fleeting visits to Snowberry from London.

“No. I’m not sure where he will be, but wherever it is, Windsor, or Buckingham Palace, or perhaps even Sandringham, he’ll be working hard preparing for his entrance exam to Oxford.”

They were in the studio and Rose regarded the clay sculpture of David’s head thoughtfully.

“Even though he doesn’t want to go there?”

“Yes, even though he doesn’t want to go there.”

Turning away from the sculpture, Rose looked toward her. “And when is it he goes to France?”

Lily, who was still dissatisfied with her tern-in-flight sculpture, took fresh clay from her clay bin.

“I’m not sure of the exact date,” she said, spraying the clay with water, “but the King and Queen return from India on the fifth of February, and he’s to go almost immediately afterward.”

“And while he is there, you are going to be there also—staying with Mama?”

Lily nodded, trying—and failing—to concentrate on what she was doing.

Rose pursed her lips and Lily, sensing how strong Rose’s disapproval was of what she and David intended, put the clay back in the bin.

“This is perhaps the only time we’ll
ever
be able to spend time together as an ordinary couple in love,” she said defensively. “It is King George’s wish that David travels to France incognito as the Earl of Chester and he’ll be staying in a private home. It is a circumstance that is never likely to happen again. It’s a heaven-sent chance for us to be together and one we can’t possibly not take advantage of it. Surely you can see that, Rose?”

Her eyes pleaded for Rose to be understanding—and Rose
was
understanding. She was also extremely worried. David had already spoken to the King about his wish to marry Lily—and though neither she nor, she suspected, Lily knew exactly what the King’s response had been, they did know he hadn’t given such a marriage his royal consent. The outcome hadn’t come as a surprise to anyone apart from Lily and David, it seemed; they were still behaving as if it was only a matter of time before King George changed his mind and a public announcement was made. Their distress when they were forced to face reality was, Rose knew, going to be colossal.

Concern for Lily’s future happiness wasn’t Rose’s only worry. She was now spending far more time in London than she was at Snowberry. At first this had been because of her renewed commitment to her suffragette activities. David’s proposal to Lily had meant these had been curtailed to behind-the-scenes activities to avoid the risk of arrest and notoriety, but they still took up a good deal of her time, and now, as well as doing everything she could
to further the work of the WSPU at 4 Clement’s Inn, she was also writing regularly for the
Daily Despatch
.

It was a way of life she was reveling in, but she was only able to enjoy it because Iris had taken over all her responsibilities at Snowberry—which was something she had long wanted Iris to do. What was concerning her was that since Iris’s engagement to Toby, it was Toby who seemed to be taking over the running of Snowberry. It was a situation her grandfather was very happy with, but Rose knew it had only come about because she had begun spending so much time in London—and for that, she couldn’t help feeling a certain amount of guilt.

She was also concerned about Marigold, who, having decided she could overlook the inconvenience of spending part of every year in Russia, was behaving as if Prince Maxim Yurenev had already proposed.

“Let’s hope he does so soon,” Rory had said to Rose the last time he had visited St. James’s Street, “because gossip is that Marigold’s relationship with Maxim has become red-hot.”

She’d blanched, knowing the term “red-hot” meant Marigold’s virginity was in question.

“But how,” she’d asked unsteadily, “would anyone know how intimate their relationship has become? Has Maxim been talking?”

“Not to me,” Rory had said grimly. “But you need to tell her to cool things down, Rose. Remind her that virginity matters and that as yet she isn’t even wearing an engagement ring.”