Miranda
Since the queen and senior advisors are in Windsor Castle, today’s coronation meeting has been moved there. As such, I won’t be able to attend, so you’ll have to go in my place.
The cars leave the main entrance at two o’clock.
R. G. F. Villiers
Instead of Villiers presenting her ideas as his own, she’d be there, taking the glory for her own work. But not only that, she’d get to meet the main characters, hear the gossip, and best of all, see the plans.
In addition, she’d get to visit Windsor Castle. It was one of the queen’s favourite palaces, with its own Royal Lodge, where she kept her horses. There had to be a news story in that.
She gathered her notes and hurried to the entrance.
Unsurprisingly, Miranda was the only woman in the group leaving for Windsor. There wasn’t space in the first car with the moustaches – Miranda’s name for the suited managers – and she was left to take the second on her own.
‘Perfect,’ she murmured to herself as she settled into the back seat.
But just as the car was about to leave, the door was yanked open. There was Sinclair, plumping himself onto the seat beside her as the chauffeur pulled away, heading out of the palace gates and into the city.
‘How delightful!’ he said, folding his jacket onto the seat beside him. ‘A journey with Miss Self-Sufficient.’
She gave him her withering look. ‘I need to be self-sufficient with a boss like Villiers. How the man was given the position, I have no idea – nor why he took it. He has absolutely no intention of doing a thing. He stole my report and called it his own and blames me for everything he hasn’t done.’
‘That’s Villiers for you.’ He laughed. ‘He’ll do anything to get ahead, not to mention the money.’
‘Money? He acts as if he’s lord of the manor.’
‘His family are gentry but broke. He married money, but his wife’s father won’t let him near the family fortune. She owns a country estate and a London flat, and he’s allowed to live there, but he has to make his own living. As a result, he’s become a bit of a wheeler-dealer in the royal world.’
‘And I’ve been landed with him.’ Miranda huffed.
‘What have you done to your hand?’ Sinclair peered down at her paper cut, which had reopened, a trickle of blood coming down her wrist. He took out a clean, ironed handkerchief. ‘Let me have a look. I’m pretty good with first aid.’
‘Don’t be silly. It’ll be fine,’ she snapped, but he insisted, pulling up her hand, wrapping the handkerchief around it.
‘That’ll stop the bleeding.’ He tied a very efficient-looking knot and held it up in the air. ‘Keep it above your head for a few minutes.’
‘You’re quite the nurse. Where did you learn first aid?’
‘Another thing I picked up in the war.’
Again, his mysterious war work.
‘What did you do?’ she asked, but he swerved around the subject, explaining how he’d once performed the Heimlich manoeuvre on an old man in a Viennese café.
‘So you were dropped behind enemy lines – a spy, perhaps, with all your languages?’ Her eyes narrowed on him. ‘How much more interesting you are than you appear, Sinclair.’
He neither agreed nor disagreed, just mumbled something about going where he had to, doing his bit for the war. How boringly modest of him. She’d like him far more if he’d give her racy tales of poisoning Nazis’ drinks and smuggling Allied airmen across occupied Europe.
Outside, the city became the suburbs, London’s mass barely dwindling into countryside before they entered the cobbled lanes of Windsor, heading up to the great castle.
As they got out of the car in the central quadrangle, she gazed at the grey medieval fortress. ‘This place looks like it was built hundreds of years ago.’
‘More like a thousand.’ Sinclair led her to the great double doors. ‘The Normans built it after they invaded in 1066.’
Gothic, square-topped towers were capped with battlements and lookout points. Around the central green, arched leaded windows lined the lengthy walls, above them a series of long horizontal openings.
‘What are they for?’ Miranda asked.
‘Archers,’ he said simply. ‘Shall we go in?’
Inside was a vaulted vestibule. Dark beams held up a ceiling painted with cherubs among the clouds; the walls were covered with red silk, dotted with portraits of kings and queens from eras long past.
‘Don’t you think it’s all a bit ridiculous?’ Miranda mused. ‘Someone wears a crown and has all this power?’
He shrugged, grimacing at a particularly grumpy Tudor.
‘It makes more sense if you’ve grown up with it.
These days, the royals are largely ceremonial.
The monarchy gives us an extra person to do all the woolly stuff, you know, entertaining foreign royals, visiting charities and factories, patting people on the back.
I gather they’re also very good with Americans. ’ He gave her a sidelong grin.
Chuckling, they walked on through various dark, richly decorated rooms into a large hallway, and Sinclair led the way up a grand staircase.
When they reached the upper part of the stairs, voices could be heard, and as they turned onto the great landing, a group of three or four people headed towards them.
And the woman in the centre was the queen.
Miranda felt herself jerk to a halt.
But Sinclair gently took her arm and guided her to the side of the corridor.
Smaller than she appeared on the television, Elizabeth was dressed in a moss-green jacket and matching skirt, fitted perfectly. Over one forearm, she carried a well-made handbag.
Yet there seemed a lot more to her than just that. She was pretty – beautiful even. In this courtly setting, away from the informality that Miranda had seen in the dressing room, the queen had a sense of gravity: careful, contained, confident.
And then, to Miranda’s utter surprise, she stopped right in front of them. ‘It’s Mr Sinclair, isn’t it?’
They’d obviously met a few times, and they exchanged smiles as he bent his head in a simple bow, saying the words Your Majesty, making it sound perfect for the occasion – not overly decorous, yet simple and correct. How easy he made it look.
Without warning, he gestured to Miranda and said, ‘And this is Miss Miranda Miller. She’s part of the Coronation Office, working on the procession route.’
That’s when everything seemed to slow down, as Queen Elizabeth II of Great Britain turned to Miranda and smiled. For a moment, Miranda felt thrown. The young queen exuded a quietude, a stillness, that was disarming.
But then she realized that she was expected to bow or curtsy even – did people still do that? So she took a simple bow and said, ‘Your Majesty’ under her breath, hoping she was getting it right.
‘And how are the preparations coming along? I can’t imagine it’s an easy task.’ The queen’s gaze was direct and friendly, her voice clipped – exactly as it was on the radio. How odd that it was now directed at her.
‘It’s quite a task, but we have it in hand,’ Miranda said with a smile.
The queen’s eyes pierced Miranda’s, and she saw a glint of steel behind the beautiful exterior. ‘Thank you for all that you’re doing,’ she said.
Unsure how to respond, Miranda dipped her head in a bow once again.
The queen nodded to Sinclair, and the group continued on its way to the stairs, one of the men carrying on where he left off.
Once they were alone, heading down the corridor, Miranda said ponderously, ‘Does she always remember people? She knew you immediately.’
‘I’m very memorable, don’t you know.’ He smiled.
‘But truth be told, she remembers everyone. She takes the role incredibly seriously, does everything with precision and politeness. And she never, ever complains. After the coronation, she has a few weeks packed with coronation events – driving through London, visiting parks and buildings and schools and so forth – and after that she’s off on a six-month Coronation Tour.
As far as she is concerned, she is the monarch. That is what she has to do.’
As they passed various rooms, Sinclair popped his head inside before showing her into some of the most lavish rooms she’d ever seen.
‘The Crimson Drawing Room,’ Sinclair declared, taking her into the infamous, red-cloaked room, richly adorned with gold and red.
But Miranda was still thinking about their meeting with the queen. ‘How does the queen know you so well?’
‘I was sent to Kenya to help with the royal trip last year.’
‘Was that when her father died?’
He nodded solemnly. ‘It was awful. Radios everywhere were announcing his death, and no one could find her because she was on a safari. Then we had to organize a quick departure to get her home. It wasn’t easy.’
‘No wonder she remembers you.’
‘And now I’m on the coronation committee, and she’s come to a few of our meetings.
She’s very astute, you know, on top of politics and world affairs.
When she was young, tutors gave her a complete understanding of the constitution and her duties as the monarch.
She truly is just what the country needs. ’
‘But,’ Miranda said, her voice reduced to a whisper, ‘is anyone unhappy about having a young woman on the throne? Surely the men around here would have preferred a king?’
He laughed. ‘On the contrary, they see it as an opportunity to tell her what to do.’
Miranda grimaced. ‘Let’s hope she doesn’t let them.’
They were the first to arrive in the large, wood-panelled room. A long table ran down the centre, and arched windows overlooked the quadrangle. Miranda peered out to see an array of people preparing for some kind of ceremony.
Hundreds of children of different ages were lined up, adults and nurses dotted among them. A band was playing a rousing rendition of ‘God Save the Queen’ as a gusty wind had picked up, fat drops of rain starting to fall.
But the ceremony went on regardless.
Miranda had been in London long enough to know that there had to be a veritable storm before the British would roll up the red carpets and call it a day.