THE GOVERNESS

Dragged away from her mission helping slum children, Marion found herself with a dif ferent yet vital task…

Marion awoke with a start in an unfamiliar bed, staring at a strange white ceiling. This was not her mother’s little house in Dunfermline. Where was she?

In a flash, it all came back. She was in London, at the home of the Duke and Duchess of York. She was starting work as Princess Elizabeth’s governess.

She rubbed her eyes in disbelief. Working for royalty was the last thing she had intended. Her vocation had been at society’s other extreme, in the slums of Edinburgh. During her teacher training, seeing the effects of poverty on children’s ability to learn, she had so wanted to help.

But then Fate had led her to the summer teaching job at the school run by Lady

Rose, wife of the Admiral at Edinburgh’s Rosyth docks. Then Lady Rose’s sister had come to visit, a small woman with soft dark hair and very bright blue eyes. The Duchess of York, mother of the nation’s darlings, the world-famous Little Princesses.

Possessed of a very firm charm, she had been impossible to resist. Marion had practically been forced to come to London for a month’s trial, “to see whether you like us and we like you.”

Marion was sure she wouldn’t like them. She had met Princess Elizabeth only briefly, but it had been enough. Piercing blue eyes, exactly like her mother’s, had swept Marion up and down from beneath a mop of gold curls. For six, she seemed inordinately self-possessed, but this was the child who appeared almost daily in every newspaper, who had her statue in Madame Tussauds, after whom hospital wards and provinces of Canada were named. A further cry from the slum children could hardly be imagined.

Marion shook her head. For now, she had to get on with it. She sat up and swung her long legs out of the bed. Her feet met hard lino; no carpets in this narrow, brown servant’s room. But elsewhere, this six-storeyed slice of Piccadilly was a palace with twenty-three guest bedrooms, an electric lift, even a ballroom.

Marion thought again of the slums and felt a surge of anger. Those children imprisoned in their poverty. The sooner she got back to them, the better.

An hour later, she was staring at the Yorks’ butler in disbelief.

“There isn’t a schoolroom?” Having hired a teacher, had the duchess not thought where the teaching would take place? “We’ll go in the garden, then.”

It was summer after all, and using the outdoors as a classroom was one of the new teaching methods she had been trained in. And outdoor games, fresh air and running about were crucial for children. Fun, in other words.

The butler cleared his throat.

“Her Royal Highness the Duchess would prefer that you used her boudoir.”

This turned out to be a fussy groundfloor room, full of silk-upholstered furniture, lacquered screens, mirrors and clocks. The only remotely desk-like item rioted with gold carving and inlaid marquetry. It was ridiculous – but it wouldn’t be for long, Marion reminded herself. And they could go in the garden at break time.

Lessons were supposed to start at nine. At half past, something tall and black appeared in the doorway.

Marion recognised the royal nanny, Mrs Knight, who had been in the nursery when she met Elizabeth. The resentful glint in her gimlet eyes had told Marion all she needed to know. Without speaking, she stalked off. The princess remained, a vision in frills.

Marion stared at the white dress. The frills looked as if they all been hand-pressed – goffered, even, with special irons. There was a sash, and fiddly buttons. How was Elizabeth going to play outside in this?

“Do you have any play clothes?” Marion asked her charge.

“Play clothes?” the princess repeated in her high, haughty little voice. “You mean for the theatre?”

Marion laughed. “To hide in the bushes in. Play ball in. Get dirty in.”

Alarm flashed across Elizabeth’s face. “I’m not allowed to get dirty. Mrs Knight says I must stay on the path.”

We’ll see about that, Marion thought. She motioned Elizabeth towards the ornate desk. Cushions had to be piled in a chair for the proper height to be reached. The princess’s feet, in buttoned satin slippers, swung between the carved gold legs.

Marion stared at them, remembering the bare feet of the slum children.

“Let’s play a game,” she began.

“I don’t know any games,” the princess countered immediately.

Marion was startled. No games? Even the slum children had their hopscotch.

“Well, this game is easy. I name a subject and you tell me what you’ve learned about it.”

The golden curls nodded.

“So let’s start. Do you know anything about geography?”

The small chin raised. “Quite a lot. My grandfather rules half the world, after all.”

Marion glanced at the window and counted a beat or two. “I see. Well, how about books? Do you like fairy tales?”

“No. They’re silly. They’re all about princesses. I’m a princess and they’re nothing like me.”

After an hour of this, Marion said, “Let’s go in the garden.”

“Play clothes?” the princess repeated. “You mean for the theatre?”

“But Mrs Knight will be cross.”

This was hopeless. Marion decided to go to the duchess about it and caught her just as she hurried out towards a waiting car. “Play clothes?” A vague hand waved, glittering with diamonds. “Ask Mrs Knight.”

Back to square one, Marion thought. But something had to be done. She was here for a month, and Elizabeth could not spend four whole weeks in goffered ruffles.

Inspiration struck, and she wrote to her mother. Mrs Crawford was clever with her needles, both knitting and sewing machine. Running up a hardwearing tartan skirt on the Singer and producing a warm red jersey in the armchair were done in double-quick time. Marion unpacked them in delight. Finally the princess could go outside and play like other children.

She hurried to hand them over to Mrs Knight. It could not be helped; the princesses’ wardrobes were her kingdom. The exchange was done on the nursery threshold, over whose boundary, Marion had learned, no representative of the schoolroom could cross.

Mrs Knight took the parcel and began to wrench it open with her thick fingers.

“What might these be, Miss Crawford?” Against the unrelieved black of the nanny’s uniform, the little red outfit struck an optimistic note.

“Play clothes, Mrs Knight,” Marion said pleasantly. “If you could dress Lilibet in them for lessons, that would be lovely.”

Lilibet was the nickname the family used; Marion saw no reason not to use it too. Saying “Your Royal Highness” all the time was ridiculous.

The gimlet eyes flashed and the nursery door swung closed.

Lilibet appeared at the boudoir door in the satin shoes and lace ruffles, as usual. “What happened to the play clothes?” Marion asked, as calmly as she could. That the nanny would simply ignore the little skirt and jersey never crossed her mind.

There was an impassive shrug from the broad, black-clad shoulders.

“In the laundry, possibly?”

“But, Mrs Knight, they’ve only just arrived. They’re not dirty. Lilibet hasn’t even worn them…” Marion stopped. Summoning her self-control, she forced a smile. “Perhaps you could look again, Mrs. Knight? Or I could look for you?”

The gimlet eyes narrowed. Marion dropped her gaze. She was beaten. Everyone was against her. But so what?

She had never intended to stay.

During the break in lessons, they went into the sunny garden. Even dressed in frills Lilibet had quickly got the hang of games. Her catching was now expert and her double skipping of salt, mustard, vinegar, pepper, with a rope tied to a tree, dazzlingly fast. She jumped the hopscotch course with the grace of a Highland dancer.

“This is such fun!” she exclaimed, with a huge monkey grin. It made something twist within Marion. “No one’s ever played with me like this,” Lilibet added happily. “I’m so glad you came!”

Later, Marion found herself in the lift with a young woman. She knew her by sight as a housemaid called Ivy. But along with her below-stairs colleagues, she had never said a single friendly word. Accordingly, Marion avoided looking at her. As the girl was a good foot shorter, she fixed her gaze high and abandoned herself to her troubled thoughts. Her resolve to leave after a month was weakening. She had grown fond of Lilibet. But how could she fight the dark forces of Mrs Knight?

“You all right?” came an unexpected voice. “If yer don’t mind me sayin’ so, yer look in a right two and eight.”

Marion looked down. “A what?”

The girl grinned, showing small wonky teeth. “State. Condition of considerable agitation.” “You could say that.”

“That old bat Knight upset you?”

Should she tell her, Marion wondered? On the other hand, why not?

“She says she doesn’t know where Lilibet’s playclothes are.”

Ivy put out a narrow finger and pressed a button in the gleaming brass panel. The lift juddered to a stop immediately.

“She bleedin’ well does. Saw ’er shove ’em in the Mother ’Ubbard meself.” “Mother ’Ubbard… Hubbard?” “Cupboard. She’s ’idden ’em, the old cow. Want me to get ’em back for you?” Marion stared at Ivy. “Could you?” “Reckon so. I’ll just wait for ’er to spend a penny. She always takes ages.”

“Why are you helping me?” Marion said. “No one’s as much as spoken to me.”

Ivy shrugged. “You don’t seem a bad sort. And you’ve made all the difference to Princess Elizabeth. Fair bounds round the ‘ouse, she does now.”

Later, there was a knock on Marion’s door. Ivy stood there, flushed with triumph, red jumper and tartan skirt in her arms.

“Thank you!” Marion gasped. “Er… want to come in?”

It suddenly felt like a long time since she had talked to someone her own age.

“I’d love to,” said Ivy. “But I’m serving on in the dining room. I’ll be up later. After all, don’t suppose you’re goin’ anywhere?”

Marion smiled back, her plans to leave dissolving. “Don’t suppose I am.”

Turn to page 84 for the best books of the month – plus a chat with our big name author, Wendy Holden.