The Summer Queen Page 3

  ‘A kindred spirit is someone with whom you share an experience that no one else shares with you, or truly understands and feels about as you do.’

  ‘Then I’m a kindred spirit, too.’

  ‘And why is that?’

  ‘Because even though Ella, Irène, Vicky and Ernie miss Mama dreadfully, they don’t feel about her dying the way I do. That’s because I sometimes see her, and even though I was a baby when my little brother Frittie died, I sometimes used to see him, too. When I said so, everyone apart from Mama said I was weird.’

  From the expression on Willy’s face, May could see that Willie also thought seeing dead people was weird.

  ‘And that is why I’m not like anyone else in the family,’ Alicky continued, ‘and if I’m not, then I’m a kindred spirit with you and Cousin May.’

  Afraid that Willy was about to disillusion Alicky, May said swiftly, ‘Of course you are.’

  ‘Then if the three of us are kindred spirits, we should make a pact so that we never ever forget it.’

  Willy, who loved anything theatrical, said, ‘And how would we do that, little Alicky?’

  ‘I’ll show you, if you let me hold the medal you are wearing.’

  Intrigued, Willy obligingly unpinned a beribboned gilt eagle from his jacket and handed it to her.

  With her pale face set in concentration, Alicky drew the medal’s brooch-pin so hard against the side of her wrist that drops of blood appeared.

  Then she handed the medal to a horrified May.

  ‘Now you have to do the same, May, and so does Cousin Willy. Then we rub our wrists together to make the blood mix, and that makes a solemn pact of kindred-spiritness that can never be broken, not ever.’

  ‘No, Alicky. Absolutely not.’ Filled with revulsion, May tried to hand the medal back to her and, when Alicky refused to take it, she turned to Willy for help.

  Instead of backing her up and telling Alicky she was behaving very badly, he was staring at the blood in riveted fascination.

  ‘I think,’ he said slowly, ‘I think a blood-pact is a very good idea, but as I am one-handed I will need help.’ Taking the medal from Alicky, he handed it to May. ‘If you please, May.’

  He was eight years older than her and an adult. Wanting to refuse and yet not seeing how she could, without destroying the closeness that had been forged between the three of them, May unhappily – and feeling a little sick − drew the medal’s pin across the side of his wrist.

  ‘And now you, May,’ Alicky said. ‘You have to do it as well.’

  Wishing herself a million miles away, and with extreme reluctance, May scratched her wrist deep enough to draw a line of gleaming blood. Then she joined with Alicky and Willy in rubbing their wrists together.

  It was a shockingly primeval, intimate sensation.

  ‘What happens,’ she said unsteadily when the deed was done, ‘if the pact is broken?’

  ‘It can’t be broken. To break it would be to bring about something more terrible than you can ever imagine; something so terrible it would be like the end of the world.’

  It was such childish superstition that, as they walked back across the beach to the woods, May was already pushing the unpleasant little ceremony as far to the back of her mind as it could possibly go.

  Not for decades would it resurface and, when it did, she was to know with bitter grief that Alicky hadn’t been exaggerating. For their pact had broken and, for all three of them, their worlds had ended – and in ways far more terrible than could have been dreamed, on that long-ago, innocent summer day.

  Chapter Three

  JANUARY 1883, WHITE LODGE

  It was 5 January, and May was helping her father dismantle the drawing room’s Christmas tree and was wondering, as she did so, how her family was going to get out of the dire financial pickle it had got itself into over the last four years. That they had a roof over their heads was due only to the Queen’s kindness, for when May’s parents had married, she had allowed them the use of a large apartment in Kensington Palace. A few years later and at her mother’s request, the Queen had granted permission for them to occupy, as a second home, White Lodge, a Crown property in Richmond Park.

  May knew that White Lodge had only come about as their country pied-à-terre after her mother had pestered the Queen for it, in a manner no one else but a close first cousin would have had the temerity to do. The problem was that they still retained their Kensington Palace apartment and, as the running cost and staffing of one home had been beyond their means, the cost of running and staffing two had plunged them into a level of debt there was no obvious way of getting out of.

  ‘Mama simply doesn’t understand money,’ her father said gravely as, from a stepladder, he handed May a delicate papier-mâché angel with gauze wings. ‘God knows, I have tried hard enough to make her understand that we must live within our means – as have the Queen, the Prime Minister, Baroness Burdett-Coutts of Coutts Bank and the friends who so repeatedly and generously lend her money, but it falls on deaf ears. She simply will not rein in her expenditure, and soon bailiffs will be knocking on our door.’

  May knew it wasn’t an idle threat. She had grown up with the knowledge that her loving, carefree, generous mother was also heedlessly extravagant. Her favourite charities always received huge and regular donations. No one coming to her in need ever went away empty-handed. As Mama was a great party-lover, no one – not even the Waleses – could equal her in the lavishness of her hospitality, and there was nothing she liked better than entertaining and throwing grand dinner parties for her royal relations, especially relations visiting from Germany.

  When it came to clothes, too, only the best would do and, as she had tried to explain when her husband chastised her for the enormous expenditure on ‘only the best’, because of her size – at a cautious estimate, her weight was close to eighteen stone – all her gowns needed double material, and so she had to pay double the price.

  Having wrapped the angel in cotton wadding, May said with a troubled frown, ‘Perhaps if Mama spoke to Aunt Queen . . .?’

  The Duke of Teck removed a silver star from the top of the tree. ‘The Queen is as exasperated as I am at Mama’s inability to live within any kind of a budget and, fond as she is of Mama, she has refused to loan her any more money.’

  May hadn’t known that the Queen had loaned her mother money – money that had obviously not been repaid – and her cheeks burned with mortification. She took the star from him and placed it carefully with the other decorations in a large box that was thick with more wadding. ‘What will happen when tradesmen refuse us any more credit, Papa?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Her father climbed down from the ladder, his face haggard with worry. ‘A solution has been suggested, but it is not one Mama will be happy with.’

  ‘But if it gets us out of this hideous debt, surely it will be worth trying?’

  There was such hope in her voice that her father, knowing what May’s reaction was going to be when he told her what the suggestion was, could hardly bear it. He fumbled in his trouser pocket for the pipe that he was seldom without and at last said reluctantly, ‘It has been suggested that we remove ourselves to the continent, where it is possible to live much more cheaply than we do here.’

  May’s jaw dropped. ‘But if we were to do that, Papa, everyone will know why!’ The horror of such humiliation made her feel faint. ‘It would be too shaming. It would be mortifying beyond belief.’

  She thought of the Waleses knowing it; of Vicky, Ella and Alicky knowing it; of everyone at the Prussian court – especially Willy − knowing it. Hard though she was trying not to show the depth of her distress, tears stung the back of her eyes. ‘It is a nonsensical suggestion, Papa. You must tell whoever made it how stupid they have been.’

  ‘I’m afraid that is not possible, Pussy-cat.’

  ‘Dear Papa, of course it is!’ Panic rose in May’s throat. ‘How can we possibly leave England? How can we leave White Lodge and Kensington Pal
ace? The person who suggested that we do so deserves to have their ears boxed!’

  Looking old beyond his years, the Duke of Teck sat down heavily at the room’s vast dining table.

  May’s heart caught in her throat. She loved her temperamental father dearly. Although he frequently erupted with exasperation at the annoyances of daily life, and when dealing with her brothers, Dolly, Alge and Frank, he never did so with her. Something else she liked about him was that, unlike other men in the family, he far preferred artistic pursuits to the eternal round of long weekends hunting, shooting and fishing. No one could create a garden as spectacularly as her father, or tend one as lovingly. No one could choose and arrange furniture with such an unerring eye, or know which of his wife’s hats went best with which of her dresses. She had long sensed that these admirable qualities were sniggered at by some male members of the family, and particularly by her Uncle Wales.

  As soon as Uncle Wales came into her mind, May was certain she knew where the offensive suggestion of exile had come from.

  ‘Exile is Uncle Wales’s idea, isn’t it? And it’s one of his cruel teases, Papa. It isn’t something to be taken seriously.’ She was so relieved it was a tease that she could have cried.

  Instead of sharing her relief, her father winced. Fiddling with his still-unlit pipe, he hesitated and then, knowing the moment could be put off no longer, said, ‘The suggestion wasn’t made by Uncle Wales, May. It came from the palace.’

  She stared at him, still not understanding.

  ‘The suggestion was made by the Queen, so now you understand how impossible it is to for me to take no notice of it or,’ he added, in a bleak attempt at humour, ‘for me to box her ears.’

  May didn’t respond with even a glimmer of a smile. She felt as if she’d been hit by a sledgehammer. Coming from Aunt Queen, the suggestion had all the force of a royal command. Slowly she sat down at the table next to him.

  He put his pipe down and took her hands in his. ‘I have still to tell Mama, and intend doing so this evening. I am telling you now because I want you with me when I break the news to her. Perhaps a couple of years abroad will not be so bad. We could stay with Mama’s relatives at Neu Strelitz, or with my relatives in Stuttgart.’

  May shuddered. Fond as she was of her mother’s Mecklenburg-Strelitz relatives and her father’s Württemberg relatives, she had always been glad that visits to their very stiff and formal courts had never lasted too long. The thought of spending the next couple of years, or perhaps even more, as guests in one of them was a prospect that chilled her to the bone.

  ‘And so,’ her father continued, ‘this evening I must break the news to your mama and I would like you and Adolphus with me when I do so.’

  ‘And Frank as well?’

  ‘I think not. At fourteen, Adolphus is old enough – and, like yourself, sensible enough − to be a support to me.’

  ‘Frank is only a year younger, Papa.’

  ‘There is a big difference between being nearly thirteen and being fourteen – and besides, like you, Dolly has a sensible head on his shoulders. Francis hasn’t. Francis would see exile as an adventure, not a disaster.’

  Ten hours later, bolstered by the presence of May and Dolly and fortified by brandy, the Duke of Teck told his wife of Queen Victoria’s remedy for their financial difficulties.

  Her reaction was neither shock nor horror. Instead, seated on two chairs, for one chair was never wide enough for her to sit comfortably, she laughed it merrily away as if it was all the greatest joke.

  May’s father, always ineffectual when dealing with his wife, looked towards May for help.

  May said in deep concern, ‘It isn’t a joke, Mama. Papa says bailiffs will soon be at the door and, unless we come up with another solution as to how to live more cheaply, there is going to be no alternative but to do as Aunt Queen suggests.’

  Her mother patted her daughter reassuringly on the hand. ‘Nonsense, sweetheart. You forget how close my relationship to Victoria is. I am her closest cousin and I have known her far longer, and far better, than anyone else – be they in or out of the family. The suggestion would have been made when she was temporarily out of sorts, and by now she will have forgotten all about it − as I shall do.’ She beamed sunnily. ‘And I have news that will cheer us all up, for I have come from arranging a lavish redecoration of White Lodge. Just think of it, my darlings. When it is complete we will be as grand as the Waleses are at Marlborough House!’

  Facing such blatant disregard of all that had just been said, her husband dropped his head into his hands. Dolly looked disbelieving. May was horrified.

  Unperturbed by their reactions, the Duchess said happily, ‘And now, pet lambs, I think it’s time for a late-night snack. Hot chocolate with cream, cheese on toast and Abernethy biscuits, I think. May sweetheart, will you ring the bell?’

  For six months it seemed to May as if her mother was right that the word ‘exile’ would not be mentioned again. Then, in mid-July, as the anxiety was beginning to fade, her mother received a note from the Queen saying that she would like to receive a visit from her at Windsor.

  ‘How delightful,’ May’s mother said blithely, not fearing the worst. ‘And you must come with me, May. I know the Hessians are there on a summer visit, and I believe the Edinburghs are at the castle as well. It will be so nice for you, May, meeting up with your little Edinburgh cousins, and with Ella. At eighteen, it’s high time Ella was married. I wonder if that is why she and her family are now at Windsor? I wonder if an announcement is about to be made?’

  ‘An announcement?’ Ella asked, after she and May had found an unoccupied room in one of Windsor Castle’s turrets and were sitting opposite each other on a cushioned window-seat, their knees pulled up to their chests, their feet toe-to-toe. ‘Absolutely not – although Granny Queen living in the hope of one is why I’m here.’

  ‘And is her bridegroom of choice still Eddy?’ May asked tentatively, trying to disguise in her voice the hope that it wasn’t.

  ‘Yes. He was here when I arrived. Granny Queen’s idea was that the two of us could spend time acclimatizing ourselves to the prospect of spending the rest of our lives together and that, when we had, an announcement would be made. Only it isn’t going to be made because – unlike so many of our aunts and cousins – I am not going to be bullied by Granny Queen into a marriage I don’t want. I’m not going to marry Eddy. He’s far too unreadable and we just don’t suit each other. I’m going to marry Sergei.’

  Hard on the heels of relief that she wouldn’t have to attend Ella and Eddy’s wedding came complete bewilderment. Sergei? May’s mind raced. Who on earth was Sergei?

  As if May had put her thoughts into words, Ella said, ‘Sergei is a younger brother of Tsar Uncle Sasha. His mother is a princess of Hesse, and so he’s been visiting my family all his life.’ She giggled. ‘He tells me he once bathed me when I was a baby, but I don’t think I believe him. He’s twenty-six, so he would only have been seven or eight at the time.’

  May tried to get her head around the idea of a little boy of seven or eight bathing a baby and couldn’t. To her, it all sounded most odd.

  Something else seemed even odder, for if Sergei was a brother of Uncle Sasha, who had inherited the Russian throne two years ago after his father’s assassination, then he was the brother of her Aunt Marie. And that Ella was contemplating marriage to someone she had grown up referring to as ‘uncle’ was, to say the very least, bizarre. Not letting her thoughts show, she asked, ‘And has Sergei asked you to marry him?’

  Ella shot her a happy smile. ‘No, but I know he’s going to soon.’

  May had never before been so aware of the age difference between them. At sixteen, she hadn’t as yet officially ‘come out’, but Ella, only two years older, had twice been offered the opportunity to one day be both a queen and an empress, for if she hadn’t rejected Willy, she would one day have been the German Empress and Queen Consort of Prussia; and if she hadn’t rejected Eddy, s
he would one day have been the Queen Consort of England and Empress Consort of India. And now, almost unbelievably, she was looking forward to receiving a third proposal of marriage – one that this time she intended accepting.

  Aware that her own chances of receiving even one proposal were so slight as to be not worth thinking about, May returned her thoughts to Eddy. With Ella unshakeable about not marrying him, had Aunt Queen already got another prospective bride in mind? And if so, who? And where was Eddy? Was he still at Windsor, or had he already left? The last time she had seen him had been four years ago, for immediately after the family party at Osborne he and Georgie had left the country aboard a Royal Navy ship.

  ‘And as naval cadets, they are going to be away for three years,’ her mother had said at the time. ‘Aunt Alix is distraught about such a long separation from her darling boys, but Bertie is adamant. He believes that living under strict naval discipline will be to Eddy and Georgie’s advantage, although never having lived under it himself, I fail to see how he can possibly know.’

  Bertie was Uncle Wales and, as Eddy and Georgie’s father, his word had been law. Almost immediately after the boys’ return – and without it becoming known whether the hopes of the voyage had been achieved – they had been sent to Lausanne for six months in order to improve their French.

  When they had returned a month ago, only Eddy had remained in England, for it had been decided that the Navy was to be Georgie’s career. ‘And he’s now aboard a ship called a corvette, heading for the West Indies,’ her mother had said, on returning from afternoon tea at Marlborough House. ‘Poor dear Alix is prostrate.’

  Not wanting to betray her interest in Eddy to her mother, May hadn’t asked where Eddy was, or what it was that he was doing.

  Just as she was about to casually ask Ella if he was still at Windsor, Ella said, ‘Eddy left for Sandringham yesterday. He wasn’t happy about it, as he is to spend the next couple of months holed up there, cramming in preparation for Trinity College in October.’