The Lily in the Snow Read online

  ‘Nigel would say that one’s duty continues till one dies,’ said Green.

  ‘And what would Miss Lily say?’

  ‘The same,’ said Green, who had known Nigel and Miss Lily for far longer than Sophie had, a fact Sophie only sometimes resented. ‘Noblesse oblige.’

  ‘I am not noble, even if Nigel has given me his title. I am an Australian of working-class stock and my factories feed the Empire. I’ve done enough duty for one lifetime.’

  Green eyed her shrewdly. ‘But you are bored.’

  ‘Oh, dear. Greenie, darling, do I show it?’

  ‘I don’t think Nigel has noticed, or Jones. Jones is happy with a quiet life at last. And Nigel . . .’

  Green grew silent. Both women knew Nigel had hoped to win political influence when he finally took up his seat in the House of Lords after the war. But while Miss Lily had quietly commanded the respect of most of the most influential women — and some of the men — of the great houses of Europe, Nigel was . . . unremarkable. Not a bad speaker; a sound man, but not compelling.

  Nigel had not been sorry when increasing illness had forced an end to an unspectacular career. He showed no signs of wanting to resume it. Perhaps he had accepted he had neither the charisma nor the connections to influence government policy. Perhaps he simply no longer had the stamina.

  Did he wish for more? Sophie had never asked him. Nor had he asked her.

  ‘I can tell because I’m bored too,’ said Green, her blue eyes frank and friendly under her bobbed hair. As a lady’s maid, Green did not wear a maid’s cap, just a black dress — a subtly more glamorous one than other ladies’ maids, created by a Paris fashion house to be unobtrusive, but fit her still most excellent body in the most flattering way possible.

  Green had been Miss Lily’s maid and companion in adventure for decades, often in the service of their country. She had left only when Miss Lily had been forced to vanish during the war, but returned to Shillings at Jones’s request to support Sophie’s rescue of Hannelore from the rebels after the war. Green had shared Sophie’s life in Australia as her maid there too, as Sophie tripled the vast business empire her father had left her then campaigned for her ‘almost’ success in the election.

  ‘Back at Thuringa you’d have seduced a handsome young stockman.’

  ‘I can’t do that here,’ said Green regretfully. Like nearly all the Shillings servants and tenants, except for Jones, she had been born on the estate, and was related to almost every household. ‘I’m not even sure I’d want a young stockman any more.’ She hesitated. ‘I miss Lily. I thought I wanted routine after the war. But life with Lily was . . . eventful. I miss that too.’

  ‘But Miss Lily has gone,’ said Sophie softly, trying to ignore her own pang of loss for the woman she loved. So Green was bored too. ‘We both know why.’ She put down her teacup. ‘At least we have a royal prince to entertain us this morning. That will be diverting, at least. And I will wear the claret silk.’

  ‘With pearls,’ said Green. ‘The long ones, in a double drape.’

  ‘And pearls. Or maybe I will call Ethel’s nephew and have him whisk us off to Paris or Istanbul in his aircraft.’

  ‘Not in a snowstorm,’ said Green practically.

  ‘Bother the snow,’ said Sophie.

  Twenty minutes later, clad in the low-waisted claret silk and looped pearls, her hair shining, her make-up light and perfect, Sophie emerged into the corridor just as the Prince of Wales, on all fours, thudded past with her not quite two-and-a-half-year-old daughter on his back, followed by Jones bearing Danny.

  ‘Gee-gee!’ yelled Rose, who had not yet achieved much intelligible vocabulary, one hand clinging to his shoulders, the other waving in triumph as she and the prince reached the end of the corridor first. A Ming vase threatened to topple off its console table.

  ‘We racing, Mama!’ announced Danny.

  Sophie steadied the still rocking vase. She smiled at the prince, a slow meeting of eyes, an even slower moistening of her lips, just as Miss Lily had taught her all those years back, so that for three long seconds the prince knew he was the only person in her world. ‘Should I curtsey, Your Royal Highness, or present you with a rosette and a nosebag of hay?’ Sophie offered her cheek for a kiss, swan-like, graceful. Impossible after Miss Lily’s lessons to be less.

  The prince smelled of something spicy. His lips were cool. ‘Coffee?’

  ‘I think we can manage that. Rose, darling, go with Nanny now.’

  Rose met her mother’s eyes. ‘More gee-gee!’ she demanded.

  ‘Breakfast.’

  ‘Gee-gee!’

  Sophie’s hazel eyes met her daughter’s defiant green ones. Gum-tree green. Danny had already obediently taken Nanny’s hand. ‘Breakfast,’ stated Sophie.

  Rose accepted the inevitable. ‘Bye-bye.’ She patted the prince’s immaculately trousered leg and toddled after her brother, carefully ignoring her mother.

  ‘She’ll have forgiven me by mid-morning,’ said Sophie, taking the prince’s arm. ‘Breakfast for you, too.’

  ‘I’m banting.’

  ‘You are doing no such thing. You are positively skinny, David. Stop all this too fat business immediately.’

  ‘Yes, Sophie.’

  ‘And don’t “Yes, Sophie” me like that. I’m serious.’

  ‘Yes, Sophie.’

  Sophie grinned at him, then sobered. ‘What’s wrong? Nigel said you were supposed to be launching something or other this morning.’

  ‘A useless job for a useless prince.’

  ‘David —’ She stopped at the sudden despair in his voice.

  ‘You know it’s true. My father only allowed me to even see cabinet documents last year because the doctors told him he was dying. Now I am useful for display purposes only.’

  ‘And you want more?’

  ‘By Jove I do. I need more. The country needs more. Sophie, last month, up in Wales, seeing those families starving — men working twelve-hour days in the pits and yet their families can’t buy enough bread to eat. I cried,’ he said simply. ‘Twelve years ago I saw men like that die for their country in a stupid, useless war. Now the warmongers rise again and my people starve and I can do nothing.’

  It was true. She had no comfort to give him. ‘I’m sorry, David. One day . . .’ It was scarcely tactful to say his life would change when his father died. That might be forty years away, now that the king had recovered. And how much power could a king wield these days?

  ‘Yes,’ David said quietly. ‘One day. But by then there may be no monarchy to inherit. My grandfather once told me that kings are no doubt important people, but they can all too easily lose their thrones. And they are too apt to think of themselves and not other people.’

  ‘Your grandfather was wise man.’

  ‘A wise king, though my mother did all she could to stop our chats in case he gave me ideas about being a truly effective king one day. I am supposed to be a puppet prince, good for opening bazaars and mouthing platitudes. But the old man was right. The people shot my godfather, the tsar of all the Russias. It could happen here. Remember the English soviets proclaimed by the troops during the ceasefire?’

  ‘The English soviets only lasted a few days before the men all went home. The people love you, David. The newspapers adore you.’ And you should still do your duty and launch that thingummy, she thought.

  But just now it was more important that he eat, and be comforted with all the charm a student of Miss Lily could provide. Hereward appeared to open the breakfast-room door for them, just as the footmen carried in the silver chafing dishes of kedgeree, devilled kidneys, bacon on fried bread, eggs coddled and eggs scrambled with smoked salmon, the silver porringer, and set them on the sideboard next to the ham, the cold game pie, the piles of apples, tangerines, grapes.

  ‘David, old chap,’ said Nigel, appearing in sombre tweed. ‘So good to see you, sir.’

  The day had formally begun.

  Chapter 3

&nb
sp; Duty is such a simple word. You will meet it often, I hope, if your lives are to be rich ones. And each time it will have a different meaning.

  Miss Lily, 1913

  David ate his porridge almost without noticing, as Sophie told him yet another story from her wild impossible flight across Australia and north to India. ‘Miss Morrison was extraordinary. Her face had been burned off when she rescued a pilot from wreckage at the Somme, but she flew her aircraft like an eagle.’

  David absent-mindedly took a bite of the parsley-dotted scrambled eggs Sophie had placed in front of him. ‘I think I will learn to fly.’

  ‘They’ll tell you it’s too dangerous,’ warned Nigel, forking kedgeree.

  David shrugged. ‘My father still has two other sons.’

  One of whom was addicted to morphine, fast women, the occasional fast man, and even faster cars, and the other crippled by shyness and a stammer, thought Sophie. ‘Toast?’

  ‘Far too fattening.’

  ‘David, for the fiftieth time, you are not fat. Eat up your toast and marmalade then we can go for a nice fitness-enhancing walk. Unless of course you intend to go to your launch.’

  ‘Terribly bad manners to be late,’ the prince said lightly. ‘Best not go at all. What have you to show me? A fascinating new enterprise to breed zebras?’

  Sophie laughed. ‘Only a few new pigsties. But a walk in the snow will be . . . bracing.’

  ‘I’d rather ride.’

  It was a command from a man used to his every wish being granted, except the ones that mattered most. It hurt Nigel to ride these days, but nonetheless Sophie rang for Hereward to ask Billson to bring the horses round.

  The good sweet smell of hot horse droppings on fresh snow almost reconciled Sophie to the English winter. She and David raced along the road to the cottages. Nigel would follow sedately in the car, thus allowing the prince an illusion of flirtation. David won the race by leaping the stone wall — foolhardy when one didn’t know what might be behind it — but one could not say that to a prince, especially one who needed reassurance.

  They slowed the horses to a walk after that. Word of the prince’s arrival had flowed from manor house to estate cottages. The doorways were crammed with women curtseying, girls trying to look both demure and enticing in what was obviously their Sunday best, hair hurriedly loosened from plaits, or adorned with ribands for those who had dared their parents and ‘bobbed’. One of the men called out, ‘God save His Highness!’ The cry echoed along the line of houses, each with its post-war tiled roof, modern plumbing — water piped to a tap indoors, with another pipe to remove it — and new plaster. Each had its vegetable gardens of cabbages and leeks poking green heads out of the snow, and brambles that would be roses come summer.

  ‘A model estate,’ remarked the prince, as Nigel parked the Rolls and joined them. And an extremely damp one, thought Sophie as the horses walked slowly past the last cottage, Nigel at her side. If the grey sky was any lower she’d be able to poke a hole in it with her umbrella.

  ‘We do our best, sir.’ Nigel looked at a crop of winter wheat with satisfaction. ‘Sophie found the perfect estate agent after the war. It’s a pity he’s at a sale today — he’ll be wrecked at missing the Prince of Wales. The estate runs like clockwork. Or better.’ Nigel grinned at her. ‘It doesn’t need winding up every eight days.’

  ‘No,’ said Sophie slightly regretfully. ‘It doesn’t need much managing at all.’

  ‘If only England was as well run and prosperous,’ said David lightly.

  This was her cue to say, ‘It will be when you are king, sir.’ Sophie was silent. As a successful businesswoman, as well as a graduate of Miss Lily’s teaching, which encompassed as much politics as charm, she knew how fragile the peace was with Germany. That country was still suffering under the unjust reparations France had suddenly imposed once the German army had been disbanded in good faith.

  The stock market boom in the United States worried Sophie too. Too many fools were making fortunes in what was essentially no more than a gamble that stock prices would keep rising. Her father used to say to be wary when fools could make fortunes . . .

  Her horse tossed its head as two cars proceeded carefully down the snowy Shillings driveway, breaking her from her thoughts.

  ‘Oh, dear. David, I’m so sorry, I forgot. The Prinzessin von Arnenberg and James Lorrimer are coming to luncheon.’ She smiled at him. ‘And I need to change out of my riding clothes. It is all your fault, David darling. You make me forget everything else.’

  ‘Except, I hope your husband,’ said Nigel.

  ‘I never lunch,’ said the prince. ‘And I would prefer not to meet Lorrimer. Always talking about duty — and you know about his first wife?’

  Sophie shook her head.

  ‘Jewish,’ the prince said shortly. ‘Wealthy, of course, like all that kind, but a good thing for Lorrimer’s career that she died.’

  Sophie stared, speechless, as the Prince of Wales turned his horse’s head for the stables.

  Too late. The second of the cars stopped. A furred and elegant hand waved. David sighed audibly and reined in his horse as the chauffeur opened the rear door.

  Two perfect shoes, clear stockings on the best legs of European royalty, glimpsed beneath a coat of pure white Arctic fox. A sparkle of diamonds at her throat and at the edge of the neat fur hat — Sophie might wear pearls, but diamonds were suitable for royalty at any time of day.

  Sophie wasn’t sure how Hannelore afforded dresses and gems now that her and Dolphie’s estates were in Bolshevik hands, but today she was fairy princess meets Theda Bara. Sophie tried to remember how one presented royalty to royalty, especially now Germany had abolished royal titles. Luckily the chore was taken from her.

  ‘Cousin Hanne!’ The prince’s tones were truly warm. ‘It has been far too long.’

  Hannelore paused before she spoke, the ‘Miss Lily pause’ that made the audience focus on whatever was said next. ‘But you did not come to Sandringham when my Uncle Dolphie and I were there,’ said Hannelore, reproachfully, slowly letting her eyes rise to meet his and hold his gaze. ‘We missed you so.’

  Queen Mary had invited her German relatives to visit again as soon as the war ended. They were there often now, although of course these meetings were never mentioned in court circulars.

  David dismounted, removed his riding gloves, then lifted Hannelore’s hand to his lips. ‘My mother had you on my list of brides before the war. I should have spoken then.’

  Hannelore laughed. ‘And now it is impossible. The handsome English prince must wed one of his subjects: your father says so.’ She kept her hand in his. ‘But perhaps instead of marriage you might . . . come to tea?’ The words and tone were almost innocent.

  ‘I would love to come to . . . tea.’ The prince kissed her hand again.

  Hannelore is gathering him in as her protégé, thought Sophie. It might be good for the Prince of Wales to learn more of real politics than just weeping when he visited a mining village and saying, ‘Something must be done.’ Hannelore would be an excellent teacher, despite her foible about her almost-known German political protégé.

  But Hannelore would not marry David. An English prince must not marry a former enemy. Nor would Hannelore become his lover. Hannelore would never have a lover now.

  A hurried half-hour later, Green had removed Sophie’s riding dress and boots, quickly restyled her hair, carefully fastened yet another dress, this one with panels of green lace between panels of gold silk, hooked the pearls back around her neck, and reapplied the powder and lipstick. Green was a miracle. Sophie descended the stairs.

  ‘Hannelore, darling, you look beautiful. James, it is so good to see you.’ She presented her cheek to James to be kissed, and kissed Hannelore’s cold skin in turn. ‘Where is His Highness?’

  ‘David has departed already,’ said Hannelore. ‘He says he will adore you forever, and left two very large stuffed toy zebras for Rose and Danny. I must see your twins t
oo, Sophie.’

  ‘Of course.’ Hannelore looked tired now that she was no longer charming the Prince of Wales, and far older than when they had been students of Miss Lily’s. ‘Though I hope they have had their lunch already,’ Sophie added, ‘and are down for their nap. But we can peer in at them.’

  Sophie smiled at James. Step one, Miss Lily had taught her, back in those magic months before the war. Smile, and almost everyone will smile with you. ‘James, do excuse my tardiness. You know what it’s like with HRH. One has to drop everything! You’d love a brandy snifter, wouldn’t you, after that cold drive? Or do you think whisky is a better warmer?’

  Ask a question to which they will answer ‘yes’ to forge a link between you. Ask questions to which they know the answer.

  Hannelore, Nigel and James knew exactly what she was doing. Charm was as automatic to her now as the swan-like glide, the slight pause on entering a room, the grace with which she moved her hands. Nonetheless, James smiled as expected.

  ‘Whisky,’ he said. ‘The Shillings whisky is superb.’

  Nigel laughed. ‘I can’t take any credit. My father put down the barrels before I was born.’

  The two men moved towards the library. Sophie had a sudden nostalgic pang for the quiet winter days in Miss Lily’s private drawing room along the corridor, toasting crumpets by the fire with Hannelore, Emily and dearest Mouse, laughing as they dripped butter and honey.

  Mouse had died in childbirth; Emily was Mrs Colonel Sevenoaks, corpulent and envious of Sophie’s more prestigious — and far happier — marriage. Hannelore had lost her estates to the Russians in the war and had been captured and tortured by Munich revolutionaries, but she now seemed to be reestablished in society, though Sophie had seen little of her since she’d returned to England, wary of meeting the uncle Hannelore regarded as a brother, who had tried just a little too forcibly to convince Sophie to marry him.

  Such long journeys we have all made, she thought, as she led the way upstairs, except for Mouse, her travels through life so tragically cut short.