Miranda
GOTHIC AND IMMENSE, WESTMINSTER ABBEY STOOD IMPERIOUS yet spiritual, its colossal pillars towering towards the heavens. There was something unsettling about it, with tombs lining the floors and walls, the living juxtaposed with the dead.
Dressed in a plain skirt and blouse, the queen looked solemnly ahead, focusing on her pace.
She had a curtain attached to her shoulders to mimic her train, held by the six maids of honour.
Walking ahead of her, the archbishop murmured a beat under his breath for the queen and her entourage to follow, a form of regal choreography.
Stained-glass windows threw red, gold and blue shafts of light over the columns, all rich with intricate stonework.
But the most extraordinary part of the abbey was the ornate inner altar, where a square raised platform had been constructed in the central apex, a red carpet over it, the area where the coronation would take place.
‘Annabel is quite the exception. I can take or leave a lot of the others. My New York friends were always trying to get me to engage with their offspring, to little avail. They think their little darlings are so adorable that it would magically induce me to want a brood of my own.’ She chuckled. ‘Foolish beyond belief!’
Caroline laughed along with her. ‘But why not, if that’s what you want?’
‘My job, for one!’ she exclaimed, as if the answer was obvious.
‘I have a job and a child, and let me tell you that if anyone asked me what is the best part of my life, it would be a very easy answer.’
Miranda laughed. Since she’d become friends with Caroline, she’d tuned in to her gentle humour.
When she’d first arrived, she would have considered Caroline dull, but now they often chatted, and Miranda found herself worrying about Caroline’s new predicament.
The coronation was getting closer, and it wouldn’t be long before she’d be back in New York, leaving Caroline and Betty to get along by themselves.
In the very back of her mind, she wondered what they would think of her if they found out that Miranda was J. Marshall. Hiding things from Betty and her friends was harder than she imagined.
‘Look, this is the main part.’ Caroline pointed to the procession, which had reached the platform. Two of the maids of honour stepped forward and unpinned the makeshift train.
‘On the day, they’ll help her into a plain white overdress,’ Caroline explained as the queen sat on the great wooden throne. ‘Then the four Knights of the Garter carry a gold silk canopy to cover her for the Anointing Ceremony – the most spiritual moment of all, where God anoints the monarch.’
‘Don’t tell me you believe that jiggery-pokery about special powers invested by anointing with holy oil. It’s nothing but a medieval superstition invented to keep the people in check.’
‘You’ll see. Once the queen’s been anointed by God, she’ll be ready to rule the country.’
‘But what does the British monarchy have to do with God?’ Miranda let out a laugh. ‘How can anyone be expected to believe it?’
‘Isn’t that part of it, though? Can’t you see how much stability the monarchy gives us, the certainty of the traditions – that they are steeped in history alone proves that this is an institution that works.’
For a moment, Miranda wondered, unsure. ‘Perhaps you’re right. Perhaps it’s the blending of the spiritual with the humanity that makes it work. But it takes the right monarch, that’s for sure.’
‘And Elizabeth is perfect,’ Caroline concluded. ‘She’ll be steady and capable.’
‘I gather that they’ve agreed to let the coronation be televised – bravo to Elizabeth for forcing her advisors to agree to that.’
‘It’s not easy to take a stand.’ Caroline smiled. ‘I’m rather proud of her, actually.’
Miranda chuckled. ‘Now all she needs to do is stand up to her husband.’
‘A few months ago, that American journalist, J. Marshall, was very scathing about the couple, wasn’t he?’ Caroline said.
‘Oh, I didn’t read that,’ Miranda said blithely. How flippant she’d been in her earlier reports.
‘I would have thought you’d have seen it. Everyone in the palace is talking about J. Marshall. They’re trying to find clues as to who it could be.’
Miranda shrugged. ‘It’s a bit silly, reading too much into a few trivial articles, isn’t it?’
‘Not if they’re undermining Elizabeth. She’s a young woman taking on a big role. She needs all the help she can get, not some dreadful man spreading rumours around the world.’
A discomfort came over Miranda. In her desperation to promote herself, was she taking down another woman?
The queen and her entourage had returned to the beginning of the aisle to rehearse once again, and across from Miranda, a group of men had arrived to watch, Sinclair among them. He was looking especially prim, his hair trimmed since the last time she’d seen him.
After her chat with Betty, Miranda couldn’t help thinking about how she’d pushed him away. After all, they were colleagues, friends even – although after the closet fiasco and their subsequent row, could they ever be friends again?
However, there were two pressing reasons why it might be beneficial to befriend Sinclair. First, he was very useful in supplying her with royal titbits for her articles, and second, because with the palace searching for J. Marshall, she needed allies.
There was a third reason, of course, which was that she missed his company, but she pushed that aside, muttering to herself, ‘Rational objectives only, please.’
As her eyes flickered across the abbey to him, she wondered if he, too, were thinking about her. Every so often, she thought he looked over at her, but then his eyes seemed to focus on the queen’s entourage passing between them.
It wasn’t until the queen was on the throne, everyone watching around the edge of the platform, that he looked straight at her. It was impossible to pretend she hadn’t seen him as she was gazing directly back at him.
At first his face looked pensive, but after a few moments, the side of his mouth lifted into a half-smile of sorts.
‘It looks like Sinclair’s keen to get your attention,’ Caroline whispered.
Miranda gave him a limp smile back, an unusual self-consciousness mixed with a kind of relief.
Soon, the procession stopped for a break, and the queen stood alone for a moment, glaring at the floor in a trance, as if trying to reconnect with who she was, the incredible job that she was there to do.
How extraordinary it must feel.
But then, as if sensing her unrest, Philip strode down from the door, putting a hand on her elbow as he said a few words to make her laugh. She replied to him, and their heads seemed to lock together in intimacy as she let him draw her away from the others.
And Miranda found herself wondering what it might feel like to be so very close to someone, to depend on someone.
‘Why don’t you talk to Sinclair?’ Caroline whispered. ‘It’ll be easy once you’ve broken the ice.’
With a huff, Miranda made her way over, and he pulled away from the others.
‘It’s quite a sight, isn’t it?’ His tone was polite. ‘I didn’t think you’d have time to be here.’
‘Villiers isn’t around, and I convinced the minister’s men that someone from the procession needed to be here in case of any hiccoughs.’
‘You’re good at that, aren’t you, working undercover behind the scenes’ – he made a small laugh – ‘like a spy, using every channel to get your information.’
Her eyes shot to his, but she saw that he was joking.
He laughed. ‘You don’t have to look so alarmed.’
And quickly, she laughed, too, stepping haphazardly away. ‘I’m sorry about the other week. I was . . . well, let’s just say I can fly off the handle a little too easily sometimes.’
He looked into her eyes. ‘I know, but I don’t mean any harm, Miranda. Sometimes it feels like we’re both on the same side, and then you just veer away from me.’
‘No, not at all.’ She glanced around to avoid his eyes. ‘It’s complicated, but you have to understand that it doesn’t need to stop us from being friends.’
‘Well, if that’s the case, then I’d like to invite you to see my narrow boat on Saturday evening. I’ve just repainted Nessy’s stern, so she’d be delighted to have visitors.’
‘That would be lovely,’ she said, adding, ‘as friends, of course.’
He nodded. ‘I think we’re both agreed on that after the other day.’
Her relief was only minutely tainted by the fact that he’d made a point of adding that it was he, too, who wanted to be just friends.
Had her reactions been so off-putting? Or had he simply decided she was too much work?
Next time a more appropriate response would be to smile and explain that she wasn’t interested.
Because she wasn’t, was she?
Together, they watched as the queen retook her place on the throne, the maids of honour at her side.
Miranda mused, ‘Who got to choose those lucky young ladies?’
‘I gather the Queen Mother picked most of them. They come from aristocratic families.’ He looked over at them.
‘Lady Anne Glenconner is a friend from Sandringham, and Lady Mary Russell’s father is a childhood friend of the Queen Mother.
The others are ladies whose families have garnered special favours, like Henrietta Villiers. ’
‘Villiers?’ Miranda smirked. ‘Any relation to my boss?’
To Miranda’s great surprise, Sinclair replied, ‘He’s her husband.’
‘I forgot he was married! He’s still after every good-looking woman in the building.’
‘Not to mention the girls he organizes for the Thursday Lunch Club and so forth. Quite the party man, in more ways than one.’
‘That poor woman, married to that vile man.’ Miranda thought of the way he took every opportunity to brush her arm, her waist and, more than once, her behind.
Sinclair nodded. ‘Henrietta dotes on him, apparently, ignoring the rumours, or pretending to, at least. It’s always “Richard this and Richard that.”’ But Sinclair stopped as he saw Miranda’s face. ‘What is it?’