Chapter 2
MIRANDA
AS SHE GAZED AT THE VAST HEFT OF BUCKINGHAM PALACE, Miranda decided that perhaps it wasn’t such a bad plan after all.
Aunt Betty had secured her a job and promised her a room, and the New York Gazette had splashed out on an open-return air ticket.
All she had to do was keep her eyes and ears open, make connections, and do a little digging around.
She pulled out the latest letter from her father, skipping to the paragraph about the job.
Betty wrote to say that your position is in the new coronation office. Use the staff door on the left of the palace, and tell the desk that a Mr Sinclair has been asked to collect you. She says you can stay at her house for as long as you like.
As promised, I didn’t mention that you work at a newspaper. No one wants journalists snooping around, do they! I’m sure the change will do you good.
With a satisfied gleam in her eyes, Miranda refolded the letter. Being an undercover reporter suited her. It was twisted and chancy pretending to be someone you’re not. Just what she needed.
Putting on her most biddable smile, Miranda made her way to the side entrance, where a woman at a desk in the foyer told her to wait for Mr Sinclair.
Solemn men in stiff suits came and went, and Miranda turned to inspect an especially vile oil painting of an ugly old aristocrat and his young, nubile wife. How could anyone think this was right?
Then a man’s voice came from the door. ‘I’m here to collect someone by the name of Miller.’
That would be her guide, no doubt, and she turned to see a tall, suited man with dark hair and a long, narrow face. With his suntanned complexion, he might have looked Italian or Greek, but there was an English diffidence about him, as if he didn’t care for this particular role.
As the receptionist looked down the list, the man glanced around at Miranda.
He took in her red lipstick and the dramatic black suit and an amused half-smile came across his face.
Miranda was accustomed to men looking at her as if she were a trophy or a prize – she loathed the implication that she was an object they thought they could possess.
But ridicule was a reaction she could hardly prefer.
‘Oh, my mistake,’ the receptionist said. ‘It’s Miss Miller.’ She gestured over to Miranda.
A frown gathered on his forehead, and as he introduced himself, she matched his little put-down by saying, ‘Were you expecting a man?’ She let out a small laugh. ‘I hope I’m not too much of a disappointment.’
‘Not at all,’ he said with a courteous bow.
‘Would you come this way? We’re in a bit of a hurry.
It’s not usually my job to collect new staff from reception.
’ The flatness of his voice bespoke his annoyance at being asked to do something so trivial.
‘I have to deliver these documents for a meeting, and it can’t wait. ’
With a precise tap on his folder, he turned and led the way to the door.
It opened into a grand, wide corridor. Along the wall, gilded portraits were interspersed with velvet upholstered chairs laced with gold brocade.
The air was fresh with cut flowers and lemon cleaning fluids, and she imagined Edwardian-era maids rising before dawn to throw open windows and dust every crevice, lest it meet with the monarch’s disapproval.
‘What a place to work! When was it built?’ Her American accent sounded loud and informal in the upright surroundings. She didn’t want to stand out – her New York job was on the line if they decided she didn’t belong in a palace.
In the manner of an impatient tour guide, he replied, ‘The original house was built in 1624, and it was expanded over the centuries. It became the monarch’s seat of power in 1837, when Queen Victoria acceded to the throne.’
‘Queen Victoria,’ she mused. ‘One of the great British queens, along with Elizabeth I. Do you think this one will be any good?’
Abruptly, he turned to her, pausing his sharp pace to lower his voice. ‘Queen Elizabeth II will be the very greatest of monarchs, and you’d be better following that line.’ Then he added, ‘You’ll have to learn to be more circumspect if you’re to get on here.’
Miranda kicked herself for revealing her real thoughts. It didn’t come naturally to hold her tongue.
The corridor opened up into a vast, radiant atrium, a double staircase sweeping through the centre. From the high, domed ceiling plunged a great crystal chandelier, throwing a dazzling vibrancy around the space, the sacred silence reminiscent of a cathedral or an abbey.
It mesmerized her. How elegance blended seamlessly with tradition and power to produce such a spectacle. It would make anyone appear special if they lived in such a palace, even an average woman who by accident of birth was now the queen.
‘I hate to rush you.’ Mr Sinclair stood ahead and she followed him up the stairs, entering into a long, ornate picture gallery that sprawled in front of them.
Manhattan felt a long way away, both in place and time. Tailcoated footmen walked noiselessly across the thick carpets while two small, brown dogs rounded a far corner, chasing each other into a nearby room.
As she passed the open doorways, she peered inside lavish drawing rooms and even a great banqueting hall, a long table heaving with crystal glasses and silverware ready for a grand event.
‘Where are the thrones?’ she asked, wondering if these things still existed – surely they only did in medieval kingdoms.
Mr Sinclair didn’t even look at her, merely indicating a room to the right. ‘That’s the Throne Room, but I must urge you to hurry.’
Never given to following orders, Miranda paused at the door, gaping at the red, womb-like interior. Long red and gold curtains hung from the ceiling on either side of a raised platform with a hefty gold throne, the pomp and ceremony so effective in its authority.
‘I don’t like to press you,’ the man appeared by her side, ‘but I need to hand out the reports before the Privy Council convenes.’ His tone was sarcastic. ‘We’re used to doing things in an orderly manner, not making our own rules willy-nilly.’
‘Willy-nilly?’ She laughed. ‘That’s a funny expression.’
‘Whatever it takes to get you to hurry,’ he insisted, although a crook of his eyebrow showed a hint of amusement.
Halfway down the picture gallery, they turned into a light, grand drawing room, a long table placed in the centre, ready for the meeting.
‘This is the 1844 Room,’ he said as he strode around the table, placing some sheets at each chair.
As she waited, three suited middle-aged men entered, pausing at the door as they saw them. Alarmingly, all of them had clipped moustaches.
‘A little late for reports, don’t you think, Sinclair?’ one of them said, picking up the papers and taking a look.
‘I was waylaid.’ He splayed an open hand towards Miranda, as if to say, Told you we had to hurry! ‘I had to collect a new recruit from reception.’
Turning his head towards her, the man frowned. ‘And you are . . .?’
‘Miranda Miller.’ She stepped forward to shake hands.
At once, all three men – plus another two who had arrived at the door – looked at her, horrified.
‘Mr Miller?’ the first one demanded, although surely the question was rhetorical – anyone could see that!
‘There must have been a mistake when she was hired,’ Sinclair replied rapidly. ‘I came down expecting a man, and it was, well, her.’
They looked at her curiously, one of them muttering, ‘That’s all we need!’
‘I do have a lot of experience in organization, getting things done,’ she said quickly, panicking internally lest her entire plan be ruined for want of being a man.
One of them coughed. ‘I don’t know what the minister’s going to say about it.’
Dolefully, the others agreed, a shorter man muttering, ‘Someone’s head will be on the block.’
They looked at Sinclair, who quickly said, ‘It’s nothing to do with me. I’m on loan from the Foreign Office. I just got a memo to say that I had to collect him – I mean, her.’
Extraordinarily, one of the older ones guided her to the door sympathetically. ‘There, there, my dear girl, it’s just a misunderstanding. Not your fault at all. Now why don’t you toddle down to the offices, and I’m sure someone will get you a nice cup of tea while we sort this mess out.’
Trying to stop herself from laughing, she muttered, ‘Th-thank you.’ What a patronizing buffoon!
Having finished with the documents, Sinclair opened the door for her. ‘This way, Miss Miller,’ he said, leading her back to the corridor.
Once they were alone, she stifled a laugh. ‘What a to-do, don’t you think?’
He ignored her, evidently perturbed about who would be taking the blame. ‘I have no idea what the minister will say about your being a girl.’
‘But I’m not a girl. I’m over the age of sixteen, and that makes me a woman – a self-sufficient woman who is capable of organizing the entire coronation, if need be.’
Against his efforts to remain stern, he smirked.
‘The whole coronation? We have a team of over forty already, and we still have another four months to go. It’s not just a few fancy carriages being wheeled out to take the queen to Westminster Abbey.
It’s a mammoth operation. Millions of people will be flooding into the capital, many setting up tents, and thousands of foreign dignitaries and their entourages need to be housed, fed and entertained.
That’s not to mention the military procession, the outfits, the coaches, the rehearsals and the banquets. ’
‘All right, so what part of it am I supposed to be organizing?’
Sinclair led her back down the staircase.
‘You’re to be in charge of the stands on the procession route, including deciding who will be sitting there.
It’s no easy task. The Ministry of Works has a team constructing the stands as we speak.
There’ll be space for around six thousand, and there’s a lot of politics around who goes where. ’
‘That doesn’t sound too taxing,’ she said nonchalantly.