The Royal Governess Read online

  BERKLEY

  An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

  penguinrandomhouse.com

  Copyright © 2020 by Wendy Holden

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Holden, Wendy, 1965- author.

  Title: The royal governess: a novel of Queen Elizabeth II’s childhood / Wendy Holden.

  Description: First edition. | New York: Berkley, 2020.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2019055515 (print) | LCCN 2019055516 (ebook) |

  ISBN 9780593101322 (hardcover) | ISBN 9780593101346 (ebook)

  Subjects: LCSH: Elizabeth II, Queen of Great Britain, 1926—Fiction. |

  Crawford, Marion, 1909-1988—Fiction. | GSAFD: Biographical fiction.

  Classification: LCC PR6058.O436 R69 2020 (print) | LCC PR6058.O436 (ebook) | DDC 823/.914—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019055515

  LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019055516

  Jacket art: woman embracing child © Mark Owen/Arcangel; Buckingham Palace, The Werner Company of Chicago, 1894 © Print Collector/Heritage/The Image Works

  This is a work of fiction. Apart from the well-known historical figures and actual people, events, and locales that figure in the narrative, all other characters are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Where real-life historical persons appear, the situations, incidents, and dialogues concerning those persons are not intended to change the entirely fictional nature of the work.

  pid_prh_5.5.0_c0_r0

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  House of Windsor

  Prologue

  Part One

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Part Two

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Part Three

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  Chapter Sixty

  Chapter Sixty-One

  Part Four

  Chapter Sixty-Two

  Chapter Sixty-Three

  Chapter Sixty-Four

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  To Noj, Andrew and Isabella

  PROLOGUE

  Aberdeen, Scotland

  JULY 1987

  Everything was ready. The mahogany table in the dining room was spread with a white lace cloth. Sunlight streaming through the wide bay window set the gold rims of the china cups ablaze. Plates had been set out with little white linen napkins. Silver cake-forks had been removed from boxes and polished. Sugar tongs, a silver cream jug and silver spoons all shone brilliantly.

  In the cool of the kitchen, sandwiches waited on best plates. Smoked salmon, chicken, ham and cucumber, all with the crusts removed. There were the circular jam sandwiches, “jam pennies,” that had always been a favorite. There were scones and muffins and a magnificent chocolate cake.

  There were flowers everywhere, bought specially for the occasion. Vases and jugs rescued from dark cupboards had been washed and restored to use. Pastel summer petals foamed on every surface and the rich scent of roses mingled with that of beeswax polish.

  On the other side of the hall, in the high-ceilinged drawing room, a tall old woman in a pale pink dress stood straight-backed at the window. Pearls glowed at her neck and on the decoration pinned to her bosom. On either side of her nose, large, sloping eyes burned with anticipation. She was breathing rapidly and her knuckles were clamped to the sill. Her entire being was focused on the end of the street, where it met the busy main road. It was along there that her visitors would come.

  They had not been here before, to her fine big villa on one of the city’s best streets, built of the local gray granite. In dark weather it looked somber, but in sunshine, against a blue sky, it glittered. Today, the end of July, was one of those beautiful, glittering days.

  The light through the drawing room’s big window fell on the elegant stone mantelpiece. On it stood a row of silver-framed photographs. One was of two smiling little girls, dressed identically in red tartan kilts and jerseys. The elder held a brown dog with pointed ears, which the younger was petting. They stood against a tulip border, and behind them were castle towers.

  The photograph next to this one showed the same girls in coronets. They looked immensely serious in long white dresses, fur-edged cloaks flowing round like a velvet river. Behind them stood a man and woman, also in cloaks and in crowns heavy with jewels. The man looked apprehensive but the woman’s gaze had a steely strength.

  In the quiet of the drawing room, the old lady continued to wait. From time to time she gave an excited sigh, as if a long-held dream was to be realized. Perhaps this year, finally it would be fulfilled. She never ceased to hope. It was hope that, annually, led her to polish the silver, select the flowers with care, cut the sandwiches.

  The only other sound was the tick of a grandfather clock. Flames danced in the fireplace between the arched alcoves. Summer it may be, but big Scottish houses cou
ld be cool, Scottish castles even cooler. Few people knew that better than she did.

  Now, the woman held her breath. The moment had arrived. Along the main road from the airport a limousine had glided into view. That would be the police escort. Her guests would be in the one directly behind. The old hands gripped the sill harder. She thought she could see, in the rear, the pale flash of a familiar face.

  * * *

  • • •

  IN THE FRONT of the second car, a fogyish young man opened an attaché case. He was new to the job, and his movements betrayed his nervousness. He took out a piece of paper and twisted his pin-striped body to the rear. Here sat two dark-haired middle-aged women between whom there was a strong sisterly resemblance.

  One was heavily made-up, deeply tanned and wearing a bright coral frock with theatrical white jewelry. The other, more conservative, wore a fawn twinset, a kilt and a double string of pearls. Her hair rose from her forehead in a dark wave.

  The new equerry respectfully cleared his throat. “If I might mention it, ma’am. We are about to pass the road where a former employee of the Royal Household lives.”

  The woman in the twinset had been gazing out the window. Now she looked at the equerry.

  “Her name is Marion Crawford. She says she was Your Majesty’s governess for seventeen years. I’m told she writes every year, offering Your Majesty the opportunity to take tea with her on the way to Balmoral.” The equerry paused. “I thought perhaps . . .”

  The woman with the tan burst in, shrilly. “Letters from Marion Crawford should be handled with a very long pair of forceps!” She looked agitatedly at her sister. “Lilibet?”

  There was no reply. The chauffeur gently pressed the brake. A blue street sign signaled the end of the old woman’s road.

  Up in the house, behind the gleaming drawing-room window, the wrinkled hand was waving frantically. The cars had slowed! Finally, after all these years, they would turn up the avenue and into her drive! She had opened the gates, as she always did.

  “Lilibet!” demanded the woman in the bright coral frock.

  PART ONE

  Edinburgh, 1932

  CHAPTER ONE

  The classroom was gloomy. Everything was brown, from the desks with their lids and inkwells to the wooden forms and floorboards. Brown was the heavy Bakelite clock and brown the picture frame surrounding a bulge-eyed King George V and a flint-faced Queen Mary. A brown leather strap, or tawse, jiggled in the schoolmaster’s bony hand. It looked well-worn, as if often used.

  The sight of it made Marion wince. Corporal punishment, in her view, had no place in modern classrooms. Nor, for that matter, had Dr. Stone, the gaunt and black-gowned schoolmaster whose lesson she was sitting in on. “I was expecting someone much older,” he had growled at her in greeting. “And male.”

  Marion could not imagine why Miss Golspie, the college principal, had sent her to observe such an establishment. Glenlorne was Edinburgh’s most expensive private prep school. It was for the sons of the city’s wealthy citizens, who would go on afterward to the major public schools. As Miss Golspie well knew, none of this appealed to Marion. Her interests were at the other end of the social scale.

  It didn’t help that Dr. Stone kept staring at her hair, and addressed all his remarks to it, as if making some satirical point. The new short crop was supposed to look chic, fashionable and emancipated. But did she actually resemble a skinned rabbit?

  “Sit at the back,” Dr. Stone told her hair.

  Marion rallied. She had had enough of this. At least she had hair, short though it was. His ghoulish yellow cranium, on the other hand, had a mere few greasy strands plastered across it. “If you don’t mind,” she crisply informed him, “I’d prefer to observe from the front.”

  Looking for an unoccupied chair, she spotted one in the shadowy corner, seat turned to the wall. Through the wooden struts of the chair-back a tall white cone was visible. As she approached, she saw a letter “D.” She blinked. Was it possible? In this day and age?

  “You are proposing to sit on the dunce’s chair?” The master’s tone dripped acid amusement.

  Marion did not reply. She picked up the humiliating headgear with her fingertips and dropped it lightly on the floor. Then she took the chair, sat down calmly and gave the class a smile. Two rows of boys stared back, round-eyed.

  There was a sharp crack as Dr. Stone slapped the tawse on his palm. The boys jumped slightly in their seats. “This,” he said with obvious reluctance, “is Miss Crawley.”

  “Good morning, Miss Crawley,” chorused the boys.

  “Crawford,” she corrected gently. She had fully expected to loathe them, these little Scottish Fauntleroys. Instead she felt sorry for them. They looked so sweet, in their little gray blazers. They deserved better than this old sadist.

  Another slap of tawse on palm. Another jump. “Miss Crawley is studying to be a teacher and is observing our geography lesson as part of her training.” There was a contemptuous emphasis on “teacher” and “training.”

  From beneath their crested caps, the boys continued to stare at her curiously. Marion continued to smile brightly back. Take no notice of that rude old fossil, said the smile. Women can take degrees now, they can train for the professions. Tell your sisters! Tell your mothers!

  Dr. Stone, having temporarily laid aside the tawse, was writing something on the blackboard. The chalk screeched with the movement of his bony yellow hand. The British Empire, announced the untidy scrawl. From the desk below the blackboard, a long thin stick was now produced. A collective intake of breath suggested this too had dispensed painful punishment in its time.

  The cane rapped the glass covering a large map of the world. “Can you,” Stone snarled, “see a color that appears everywhere?”

  Several hands went up. “Is it pink, sir?”

  There was a triumphant glint about the steel spectacles. “Indeed it is! Pink is the color of the British Empire! There is no continent on earth in which our great and glorious nation does not own territories!”

  Marion shifted in her seat. Old-fashioned jingoism of this sort made her uncomfortable.

  “So even if you are here”—the cane landed on the west side of Africa—“you are a British subject.”

  “They’re the same as us, then, sir?” ventured a small boy. He flinched as the master rounded on him furiously.

  “Not at all the same as us! They are colonial subjects!”

  “But what’s the difference, sir?”

  “They,” snarled Dr. Stone, “are uncivilized.”

  * * *

  • • •

  BACK AT MORAY House Teacher Training College, she hurried straight to the principal, heart pounding with indignation, heels clattering down the beeswax-scented corridors.

  “Come in.”

  Miss Golspie’s office was light and modern, paneled with pale oak, lined with close-packed bookshelves and lively with colorful rugs, pictures and vases. The principal, as contemporary as her surroundings in a floaty frock of bright abstract print, looked up from her desk. From within a well-cut gray bob, her handsome, intelligent face expressed surprise. “My dear Marion. You look pale.” She raised a brightly patterned cup. “Tea?”

  “Yes please.”

  Miss Golspie poured another cup from her Clarice Cliff teapot, handed it over then gestured to the large tangerine sofa in the window bay. “Sit down and tell me all about it.”

  Marion sat down and told her all about it. She had been appalled by everything, but the uncivilized remark most of all. “It’s so wrong to talk about people like that,” she fumed. “We’re all equal—or should be. How many other teachers are telling children such old-fashioned, prejudiced things?”

  “Quite a few, I daresay,” Miss Golspie said dryly. “In those kinds of schools anyway.”

  Marion’s large eyes blazed. “I’d ne
ver work anywhere like that!”

  The principal replaced her teacup in its saucer. “My dear, you can’t ignore certain attitudes because you don’t like them. Otherwise those attitudes prevail. If you want to change things you must stand up and defend the right.”

  “You make it sound like a war,” Marion muttered.

  “What else is the fight against ignorance?”

  In the silence that followed, Marion sipped her tea. It had an unusual, smoky scent. “Lapsang souchong,” the principal said with a smile, seeing the question on her face. “I grew very fond of it when I taught in China.”

  Miss Golspie’s previous life had clearly been full of adventure, which in turn had informed her exotic tastes and engaged personality. She was the most interested and interesting person Marion knew, full of energy and ideas, a constant inspiration to her students. She was probably the same age as Dr. Stone, but there the resemblance ended. It was amazing to think they were on the same planet, let alone in the same city and profession.

  “Why did you send me to Glenlorne?” she was calm enough now to ask. “It’s hardly my kind of place.”

  The principal regarded her with bright dark eyes over the patterned rim of her teacup. “No, your kind of place is the slums.”

  Marion looked at her quickly. Miss Golspie had always supported her ambition to teach there. “Yes,” she said firmly. “Someone has to.”

  Three years after the Wall Street Crash and the economic hardships that had followed, the belief endured that the condition of the poor was largely their own fault. But even if that were true, which Marion doubted, it certainly wasn’t the fault of the children. Sheer professional curiosity had first led her into the stinking passages of Grassmarket, one of Edinburgh’s most notorious slums, but pity and outrage had sent her back every Saturday ever since. The squalor and stink were bad enough, but it was what poverty did to the mind that took her breath away. Slum children had difficulty concentrating, their comprehension was slow and a near-starvation diet led to bad eyesight and impaired hearing. It took them ages to get through one simple book. The literacy rate was near nil, meaning that their chances of ever emerging from Grassmarket, getting a job and having anything resembling a rewarding life were near nil too. Unless she did something about it.