Chapter 2 #3
But Betty took Miranda’s hands in her own. ‘Your life was turned upside down. And then your poor husband gone, too.’
There was that word again.
Miranda nodded at the old woman, waiting patiently for her to finish.
‘So many people gone in your life.’ Betty patted her hand like it was a small dog. ‘It’s no wonder you’re, well, a bit different.’
At that, Miranda chuckled, the release of pressure inside making it hard to stop.
Unsure, Betty joined in. ‘I’m sorry, love. But you aren’t quite like the other women working in the palace.’
‘Perhaps there’s just a bit more to me than the others.’ A teasing smile lifted one side of her mouth. ‘A little more cleverness.’
‘We all know you’re a bright one, dear. But that doesn’t take the place of having someone on your side.
’ The kettle boiled, and Betty got up to pour the water into an old green teapot, covering it in a fraying crocheted tea cosy, like the ones her father regularly received and Rae no doubt discarded.
‘Do you have friends back in New York, people you can rely on?’
‘Some.’ How very quaint her aunt had become, with her little ideas about family and friends. ‘I don’t have much time for friends, and a lot of them left the city when they married. And those remaining, well’ – she thought of the matching coasters – ‘we don’t have a lot in common.’
‘That’s a shame. But perhaps there’s a young man?’ Her lively dark eyes glistened with hope.
Miranda laughed. ‘Do you think my life is incomplete without one?’
In reality, there had been boyfriends after Jack, but why bring them up when none of them had been serious?
Her last beau, a fellow journalist, had married a friend of hers after Miranda had introduced them.
She’d been genuinely happy for them, given them her blessing.
After all, he hadn’t touched her heart at all.
No one ever could.
After Jack’s death, she couldn’t risk loving someone like that again. The weight of grief hadn’t just engulfed her; it had almost destroyed her.
But more than that, she couldn’t even begin to imagine what kind of man could take his place. How could she ever feel anything remotely like that again?
So, Miranda put on her brightest smile. ‘I’m more than happy by myself, and look, it gives me the freedom to come here and work in your lovely palace. Thank you for getting the job for me.’
‘They always prefer family members of reliable staff. The queen has to be able to rely on her staff, make sure we can keep secrets.’
‘Absolutely.’ Miranda nodded, surprised at how guileless these people were, to let a New York journalist in under their noses.
It didn’t appear that anyone had looked into her past at all – perhaps America was too far away, or maybe their faith in Betty was absolute.
Looking at her dear aunt, she couldn’t imagine anyone not trusting her word.
Any sliver of guilt was quickly pushed away. Miranda, after all, wasn’t prone to human feelings like ordinary people. Her grief had set her apart, made her independent, resilient.
Detachment was her special aptitude, her power.
‘You’ll love working in the palace.’ Betty beamed. ‘Helping behind the scenes, seeing how much preparation goes into making it look seamless. And the queen is lovely, very gracious, but just like an ordinary person, so friendly and cheerful.’
Miranda shrugged. ‘Shouldn’t she act like a proper queen, lofty and dignified?’
But Betty shook her head, shocked, as if Miranda had it all wrong.
‘What I meant was that she has none of the pride and selfishness that the position might bring. I think it must have been her time living in Malta, when she was an everyday naval officer’s wife.
She’d have coffee mornings with the other wives, go to the hairdresser and shops, just like normal women.
I’ve heard her say that it was the best time of her life, being free for once, invisible.
’ She chuckled. ‘Can you imagine, the queen, normal?’
To Betty, the queen was imbued with majesty and power.
To Miranda, however, Elizabeth II had always been a distant royal, someone who, by accident of birth, had inherited a lot of money and, quite randomly, power.
Miranda had worked hard for everything she’d achieved, from getting a scholarship to breaking into journalism.
The queen had done absolutely nothing to get to where she was.
‘In the States, we have an elected president,’ she said. ‘Isn’t that more egalitarian?’
‘There’s parliament and the prime minister to do that over here.
’ Betty cut a few slices off a giant fruitcake, setting them on a plate in front of Miranda.
‘The monarchy is a figurehead, the guardian of our heritage, of all we hold dear. We’re the lucky ones, working in the palace, seeing her every day.
You’ll change your tune once you realize how marvellous she is. ’
A sound came from the hallway.
‘That’ll be Lucy, my lodger. She’s just arrived from Cornwall.
’ Her smile faded, and she leaned across to whisper, ‘I’m a bit worried about her.
She seems to be a bit lost here in London, and she’s spending more money than she has.
If you get the chance, have a word with her, ask if she needs any help. ’
Betty pulled herself upright in time for a young woman – barely more than a girl – to appear at the kitchen door. Her wavy light-brown hair was long, bearing the kinks of having been pinned up all day, but beneath the drab uniform, she was a beauty, with large blue-grey eyes and a full, wide mouth.
‘Ah, Lucy, dear!’ Betty beckoned her in. ‘This is my niece, Miranda.’
‘Hello.’ Lucy wavered at the door until Betty pulled out a chair. Reluctantly, she took a seat.
‘Why don’t you tell me about yourself, Lucy,’ Miranda began. ‘You’re not from the city, are you?’
With Miranda’s careful questioning, Lucy explained how she wanted to be a singer.
‘I hope you’re ready to stick your neck out,’ Miranda warned as she noted Lucy’s timidity. ‘It’s a ruthless business, if it’s anything like New York.’
But instead of cowering, Lucy sat up straighter, brightening at the challenge. ‘It’s what I’m meant to be, a great singer.’ Her eyes opened wide, emphatically. ‘And I’ll do whatever I can.’
‘You need to get your foot in the door, befriend anyone who has connections, make yourself stand out from the rest.’
Lucy looked from Miranda to Betty. ‘Do either of you know anyone who can help me?’
‘I can’t help you there, love,’ Betty said. ‘And Miranda’s only just arrived, so I can’t imagine she’ll know anyone yet.’
‘I’ll tell you if I meet anyone useful.’ Miranda met her eyes. ‘But let me know if you need any other help.’
‘Well – oh, I shouldn’t ask . . .’ She blushed prettily. ‘I wonder, do you have any dresses I can borrow? I need to start auditioning, and my clothes aren’t the right style.’
Miranda laughed, looking down at her own perfectly ironed trousers. ‘I don’t tend to wear dresses, but you’re very welcome to borrow the ones I have.’
‘Why don’t we see if Caroline can run something up for you,’ Betty said. ‘She’s an excellent tailor, and it’ll cost a fraction of what you’d get in the shops.’
‘Wouldn’t she mind? She seems so busy.’
‘Give her a few shillings, and she’d be happy to help.’ Betty glanced at Miranda. ‘And perhaps she can run up a nice skirt for you, too, dear.’ She chuckled. ‘You’re probably used to more racy offices, but I’m afraid Buckingham Palace is just about as traditional as it gets.’
Scoffing, Miranda reluctantly agreed. Just as she’d urged Lucy, Miranda also needed to throw herself into the task at hand.
Even if that meant dressing like the natives.
After dinner, Betty showed Miranda to her room, a smallish box of a place with a sagging green bed.
‘No one’s been in it since Harry left.’ She pulled the bedcovers straight, letting her hand linger on the pillow for a few moments. ‘I’ve aired it, blown the cobwebs away.’
Miranda could only feel glad of it, as the room looked as if it hadn’t been touched for years. There was a row of old board games on the shelf, a model plane, and some books about war. She couldn’t quite remember what had happened to Harry.
Glad to be alone, she began to unpack, holding the photograph of Jack against her chest before setting it on the bedside table.
Then she pulled out her trusty notebook and began to make notes for her coronation articles.
It was decided that for the weekly articles, she would focus on behind-the-scenes news: affairs, arguments, sabotage, or an uncle with links to the Nazis trying to get back onto the throne – a juicy morsel O’Hara would adore.
Deciding to call him, she went downstairs, finding Betty wedged into an armchair with a battered copy of Little Dorrit.
‘Do you have a telephone I can use? I need to call a friend back home, explain that I got here safely.’ She put on her nice-girl smile.
‘A telephone? Why no, dear. All your society friends probably have them coming out of their ears, but there’s a good way to go before I can afford one here.
We use the telephone box, back toward the Underground.
’ She pointed up the road. ‘There’s a shortcut, an alleyway opposite here, but we don’t take it once it gets dark.
You never know who’s lurking in the shadows.
’ She started rummaging inside her handbag.
‘I have some spare change – you’ll need it for a call to America. ’
But Miranda waved for her to put it away, heading for the door.
The night was chilly, the road empty but for a few young men at the entrance to the alleyway, far away from the lone streetlight. They watched her as she walked past, one of them giving a wolf whistle, another jeering, ‘Looking for business, darlin’?’
Miranda ignored them. She’d been an investigative journalist in New York far too long to be intimidated by such things.
A handgun and a few karate moves had provided a good means of repelling trouble, and she’d become adept at using threats and bribes, too.
Once, she’d convinced a drug dealer in Queens that she’d print his name and a sketch of him all over the New York press, so he decided it best to step down.
But tonight she opted not to take the alleyway, especially since they hadn’t let her take her gun on the plane.
The red telephone box stood empty on the second corner, and she slipped inside, slotting in some coins and listening as O’Hara picked up the phone.
‘Have you met the queen yet?’ he demanded.
‘Well, it’s only my first day, and the palace is vast. But don’t worry, I’ll find a way to get to her soon. In any case, I’ve already dug up something juicy, an article on Edward, Elizabeth’s evil uncle.’
‘Go on.’
She told him what she’d overheard, plus a few more of the details from Hilda.
‘But is he a serious threat to the queen’s reign?’ O’Hara lit a cigarette.
‘Give me a chance to poke around,’ Miranda said. ‘I knew it wouldn’t be long before I discovered some man or another trying to undermine a weak new queen.’ Even as she said it, Miranda felt stung by what she was intimating, that a young woman didn’t have as much force as a man.
And that an article she might write could further undermine the queen – women on the whole, in fact.
But she’d do whatever it took to get her story, wouldn’t she?
Wouldn’t she?
‘Well, get a move on! We need that first article here by next week. Everyone’s talking about the gown. I need that photograph. And what about the security? I want a map and a list of all possible threats.’
‘I’ll be onto it, sir.’
‘Don’t let me down again, Miranda.’ His voice was gruff and threatening as he hung up the phone.
Grimacing at these last words, she let her hand linger on the receiver as she thought through what she had to do to get to the gown – it was the one thing she’d always promised him.
But getting closer to those in charge of the coronation was risky in itself, let alone getting a photograph of the gown.
It could expose her undercover position.
And whatever happened, Miranda couldn’t throw her bigger plan into jeopardy.