MIRANDA
Meanwhile, they’d brought in a new manager to preside above her, although as she eyed Mr Villiers, she couldn’t help wondering if they’d simply found the first man who was available at short notice.
‘The minister told me that you’d only just begun,’ he continued. ‘But these seem pretty extensive.’ He glanced up at her, his eyes narrowing in thought. ‘Tell me, does he know how far you’ve progressed?’
Around her age, Villiers looked the part in his dark suit, but his poorly concealed boredom indicated that he’d be happier at a gala event or on a luxury yacht.
At first, she was only too thankful that he wasn’t old and stuffy, but it wasn’t long before she began wishing he could be a little more on top of things.
She was hoping he might have access to more records, inside gossip.
But as he leaned back in his chair, his entire demeanour indicated that coronations were there to be enjoyed rather than organized.
‘Mostly I’ve been working on my own as the manager, but now’ – Miranda pursed her lips – ‘here you are.’
‘Here I am!’ he repeated, his smile akin to that of a lion assessing its prey.
With a curt nod, she got up to leave, putting a hand out to take her report back from him. ‘Will that be all?’
His hand firmly on the file, he said, ‘Leave this with me. I can take it to the minister later. We’ll be shipshape before you know it.’ His eyes travelled appreciatively over her body. ‘Lovely to have you on board, Miranda.’
What an idiot! she thought as she closed the door soundlessly behind her. Yet, with a sigh, she acknowledged that a useless boss was better than someone breathing down her neck, especially when she needed information about the coronation gown for O’Hara.
With this in mind, she took a seat beside Caroline at morning break, hoping to befriend her.
‘What a morning!’ Miranda began. ‘I have a new boss. Do you know a Mr Villiers?’
‘Villiers, eh?’ A smirk crept over Caroline’s face. ‘He’s one of the royal aides – not the most reliable man in court.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Let’s just say he’s not very keen on hard work. He’s friends with Philip’s equerry and knows how to provide the kind of good time they used to have in the navy – you know, excessive drinking, feasting, debauching, half-naked girls on tap, that kind of thing.’
Miranda recalled his lingering glances over her body. ‘Nauseating!’
‘Absolutely. But better to have him as a boss than working for one of the sticklers.’
‘Sticklers?’
‘Sticklers for rules and tradition. They’re the men trying to impress the chief stickler of them all, the queen’s private secretary, Mr Lascelles.
’ She pronounced the name to rhyme with tassels, like he was a feathery ornament and not a curmudgeon who drove fear into every crevice of palace life.
‘He controls everything behind the scenes, like a glowering puppet master. He advised the old king, and together with Churchill and the Queen Mother, he aims for total control over the young queen.’
‘I heard that Elizabeth didn’t even have a say in her own coronation gown.’ Miranda carefully manoeuvred the conversation. ‘Have you seen it?’
‘I’m there at every fitting, and I have to say that it’s magnificent!’
‘What colour is it? What kind of fabric?’
Caroline lowered her voice. ‘It’s pure white silk – the Queen Mother wants all the women to be in white, you see.
There’s more than a dozen ladies involved, if you include the maids of honour, the canopy bearers, and the Queen Mother and Princess Margaret.
’ Caroline frowned, suddenly uncertain. ‘You won’t tell anyone, will you? It’s supposed to be completely secret.’
‘Of course not,’ Miranda quickly assured her.
Then she said the one thing Miranda had been dreading. ‘There’s a rumour one of the staff is talking to the press. One of the American papers is reporting all kinds of things.’
Controlling a fluster of nerves, Miranda pasted a look of shock on her face. ‘How awful! I can’t imagine who would do that.’ She put on her nicest smile. ‘But you don’t need to worry about me. I’m the soul of discretion.’
For a moment, Caroline seemed to think about it, but then she glanced at Betty, holding court at the other end of the table, and leaned forward to whisper, ‘There’ll be a fitting next week. I’ll see if I can sneak you in.’
Miranda could hardly believe her ears! Tempering her enthusiasm, she replied, ‘That’ll be wonderful, just the thing to get me away from my dismal office and the procession.’
‘Talking of which,’ Caroline said, ‘there’s a carriage rehearsal in Hyde Park on Saturday, if you’d like to come along with me and my daughter. You can get to see the carriages close up before the big day.’
Eager to please, Miranda replied, ‘What a lovely idea!’
What better way to secure Caroline’s offer for her to get a peek at the most-talked-about gown in the world.
BACK AT HER DESK and fuelled by her progress with seeing the gown, Miranda decided to tackle O’Hara’s other requests: a security map of the coronation route and a list of groups who could potentially sabotage the coronation.
From Hilda, she’d discovered that these were kept in a large cabinet in the minister’s boardroom – too risky to sneak inside, as the room was busy with meetings.
Which is why Miranda decided that there was nothing for it but to work late. Once everyone had left, she’d only have to bypass the cleaners to get inside. Another job would be completed, and just think how she could make O’Hara eat his words.
But she had to tread carefully.
She’d overheard the men in her office talking about an infiltrator. Somehow the British press had picked up on J. Marshall’s article in the New York Gazette, and Miranda’s next article about the queen’s daily routine was bound to up the search for the perpetrator.
She hadn’t realized quite how quickly the pressure would begin.
As evening fell, the main office began to empty, and Miranda waited for the last of the men to leave before slowly putting her files away.
It should be easy. If the minister’s door was locked, well, every self-respecting journalist in Manhattan knew how to pick a lock, Miranda included. The maids cleaned the offices in the evening, but they’d be easy to avoid, wouldn’t they?
Just as she got up, a sound came from the door, and there was Sinclair, looking smart in a black evening suit.
That was all she needed.
‘Miss Miller?’ He stopped abruptly as he saw her. ‘What are you doing here?’
Her heart jumped a beat as she nonchalantly put her notebook back into her bag.
‘I had things to finish before leaving.’ She tapped a random folder on her desk before collecting her jacket from the coat stand.
‘But you shouldn’t be in the offices at this time of night on your own.’
Breezily, she shoved an arm into her jacket sleeve.
‘The coronation won’t organize itself,’ she said, smiling sweetly.
Niceness was the way to get out of this, she reasoned.
Niceness, dedication to work, and perhaps a little light flirtation.
It wouldn’t hurt to have Sinclair on her side. He might even be helpful.
Sinclair followed her back to her desk. ‘But people might think you’re up to no good. Every year the palace boots out staff for stealing royal memorabilia.’
‘Stealing?’ Of all the things she expected – poking around for news stories, to name but one – stealing was not among them.
‘What on earth would I do with an original Rembrandt? Even the dodgiest of dealers would know where I’d found it.
’ Her laugh faltered as she watched his eyes crease with curiosity, and she wondered if her quip were a little too knowing for a coronation assistant.
‘It’s more like silver spoons and royal photographs than actual art, but anything from cigarette lighters to medals vanish from time to time. The butlers are told to keep an eye out, so it’s safest not to be the last to leave.’
‘What are you doing here so late, then?’ she teased. ‘Collecting royal china to sell on the black market?’
‘Nothing as thrilling. I had to attend a state banquet.’
Puzzled, she looked at him. ‘I thought we were here to organize the coronation. Can I expect an invitation to a banquet, too?’
He laughed. ‘Hardly. I was there as a diplomatic aide,’ and he added with less enthusiasm, ‘for my translation skills.’
‘Do you speak another language?’
‘Well, a few, actually.’ He paused, tucking his hands into his pockets as if it weren’t important, but then added, ‘Eight reasonably well, and then there are several where I can get by. This evening was a getting-by one.’
‘Eight! Wow, that’s quite something.’ She was sure he blushed beneath his suntanned skin. ‘And modest, too. How British of you! What language were you translating tonight?’
‘Swahili. I was lucky it was the right dialect or I might have caused a serious diplomatic situation.’
He made a small laugh, and she relaxed. Evidently he didn’t seriously suspect her of anything. Thank goodness he had more of a sense of humour than she’d thought. And quirkily, he was a polyglot, too. Did that make him an oddball, someone who didn’t quite fit in, someone who could help her?
As she went back to organizing her papers, she took the conversation on to more everyday subjects. ‘I’m surprised they don’t send you abroad with all those languages.’
‘I wish they would! I’ve been based in London far too long.’ He heaved a sigh as he collected his briefcase from one of the cordoned-off desks on the far side of the room.
‘Why’s that?’
‘They need my linguistic skills for postwar diplomacy. Some days I think my languages are more of a curse, especially now that they have me working for the coronation. They promised me Rome, for heaven’s sake. I should be sitting beside the Trevi Fountain, enjoying the sunshine.’
‘That sounds a lot better than being stuck here.’ Then she lowered her voice to say, ‘It’s like being back in the eighteenth century.’