The Intrigues of Jennie Lee Page 5

  “How old are you?”

  The girl answered, “I’ll be twelve in a month or so.”

  “No.” Elizabeth spoke in disbelief. She put out her hand. “I’m Elizabeth Bowes-Lyons. What’s your name?”

  The girl smiled and reached for the hand, shaking it firmly, as between victorious teammates. “Jennie Lee. I’m visiting my cousin, Corporal Pollock. He’s one of the wounded.” The name Bowes-Lyons evidently meant nothing to the girl.

  “Did you come alone?”

  “Yes, I did.” She paused to explain. “I was here with my mum last month. She couldn’t come today, but I wanted to.”

  “She let you travel all this way alone?”

  “I guess she couldn’t really stop me. I had the fare.”

  “But you’ll never get home tonight. Last train to Edinburgh was at four. Your parents will worry themselves sick. Do they have a telephone?”

  “No, they don’t.”

  “Can you send a telegram?”

  “I suppose, but the station in town must be closed, and besides, I can’t afford it.”

  “We’ll see to it in the morning. Meanwhile, you’ll stay as my guest.”

  “Your guest?” Jennie looked at the older girl, as wet and bedraggled as herself. “Who are you?”

  * * *

  So began an unlikely friendship: the earl’s ninth child and the miner’s daughter. Jennie came back to Glamis several more times that autumn. Once her cousin was sent back to his regiment in October of 1916, she assumed her welcome to Glamis had expired. But early the next summer came the summons:

  Dear Jennie,

  Come, do your patriotic duty! Help me deal with the hoards of wounded at the castle.

  Elizabeth

  She’d enclosed return railway tickets, first class.

  And Jennie went, spending weeks at Glamis each of the next two years. Often out of doors in the rainy, windswept Scottish summers, the two girls, Jennie and Elizabeth, keeping soldiers walking the grounds, talking, about their wars, their lives, their futures.

  By the summer of 1918, they both felt as if the Great War had been going on all their lives. Jennie was now fourteen and Elizabeth seventeen, a gulf that should have been much larger than the gap that had been between them at twelve and fifteen, but wasn’t.

  Right from the start, the friends had argued about things—to begin with the war, then politics, and finally, when they were older, men. Jennie was eager to convince, and Elizabeth glad to find someone prepared to disagree. From the first, Elizabeth was struck at how much more she envied her friend’s life than Jennie coveted hers. She couldn’t even bring herself to believe Jennie’s indifference to the castle’s comforts. When, at eighteen, Jennie left home for university in Edinburgh, Elizabeth tried briefly to live the younger girl’s life vicariously. But within a year she was betrothed to a Royal and sustained contact with Jennie was no longer feasible. In 1923 Elizabeth Bowes-Lyons had married the King’s younger son, Albert, and became the Duchess of York. Meetings would now be noticed by equerries and ladies in waiting. Both understood. Even their correspondence, once steady, had dwindled to Christmas greetings. Now Elizabeth—no, not Elizabeth, but the Duchess of York, had begun writing again.

  * * *

  It was a surprisingly modest teashop up Kensington Church Street Elizabeth had suggested. As Jennie walked up from the Notting Hill tube stop, she was on the lookout for the Duchess’s Daimler. It had to be a Daimler, she told herself. She’s the King’s daughter-in-law. She’ll be expecting a curtsy, won’t she? Surely not in a teashop! The large car was impossible to miss. Someone had tried to park it discreetly round the corner on Bedford Gardens. The chauffer was standing beside the black behemoth at the kerb, smoking, not a dozen yards down the side street from the teashop’s entry. He smiled and touched his cap as she passed. Somehow, he knew Jennie was the person the Duchess was waiting for.

  The bell on the door made a noise loud enough for the half dozen ladies taking tea to look up at Jennie. The lace curtains of the shop window prevented the daylight from illuminating the room, except where direct sun lit up the drab green walls. Tall, thin, unsmiling women in grey smocks and white servant’s caps were gliding silently between the tables, at which sat ladies distinctly older than Jennie. Watching them, Jennie couldn’t help wondering how many unemployed men each was supporting.

  Her friend rose from a small table in a half-hidden alcove as Jennie entered the shop, signalling to her. Elizabeth reached out to hold her by both arms, preventing any incipient curtsy. “At last!” she sighed.

  Jennie looked her up and down. She was glad to see her friend not yet looking matronly. At 30, perhaps her face was a little rounder, but the slight cleft in the chin was still just visible. Her small eyes remained mischievous and there was no visible tracery of small veins across Elizabeth’s still fine complexion.

  Jennie was about to reply, almost despite herself, “Your grace,” but the Duchess was shaking her head.

  “Elizabeth.” She whispered the command.

  Was it informality she craved, or did she not wish to be recognised? The Duchess of York was trying hard to look like Mrs Elizabeth Windsor, just an affluent Scottish lady, cloche hat, shingled hairstyle, and the still fashionable woman’s version of the Great War trench coat. Was she too cold, even in the shop, to take it off, Jennie wondered, or was she dressed underneath for another occasion? Never mind. Jennie would keep her coat on too.

  Elizabeth looked towards the table. “I’ve ordered a cream tea, if that’s alright.”

  Next to the table stood a three-foot-high serving stand, holding two plates of small sandwiches and pastries at each of its levels. Glancing at them, Jennie realised she was hungry. The teapot on the table was covered with a cosy. Plainly, Elizabeth had been waiting for Jennie. The women sat and Elizabeth took off the cosy.

  “I’ll be mum.” Jennie nodded a smile and reached for one of the crustless sandwiches on the stand.

  Elizabeth began. “Will you speak again soon...in the House?”

  “Not likely. The whole new intake will have to give their maiden speeches. I’m already an old member, since I was seated in last parliament.”

  “Now your side is the government, I expect you’ll get a chance to speak more.”

  “Less, I fear. My leader certainly doesn’t want to hear what I have to say.”

  “Why ever not, Jennie?”

  “Because I believe in socialism and he doesn’t.”

  “That’s not the King’s opinion.” She looked round subversively. “Hates MacDonald. Thinks he’s a raving Bolshie.” They both smiled at the idea. “I expect it’s the war.”

  MacDonald had given up the Labour leadership in 1914 because he’d opposed the Great War from the outset—his finest hour, Jennie’s family had agreed.

  Jennie enjoyed the thought of the King’s discomfiture.

  “Well, he’s stuck with old Ramshackle Mac now.” It was the left’s disobliging nickname for their party’s leader.

  Elizabeth looked round before continuing. She was evidently anxious not to be overheard.

  “He didn’t want MacDonald as PM in the worst way. Tried to get the Tories to do a deal with the Liberals to keep your lot out.”

  “But that’s outrageous. Labour won the most seats.”

  “Well, he thought that since between them Conservatives and Liberals had a majority, they could keep MacDonald from becoming PM again.”

  Jennie’s eyes widened. “It’s quite unconstitutional, Elizabeth.”

  “Just what Mr Baldwin said.” Elizabeth continued in a whisper. “Told the King shutting Labour out wasn’t ‘fair play.’”

  Stanley Baldwin, the outgoing Conservative, had done this once before, in 1924, letting Labour govern with only a plurality in the House of Commons.

  “It was good politics the last time he did it,” Jennie observed. “MacDonald didn’t last six months. Tories brought down his government and won the next election on a monstrou
s fraud.”

  Elizabeth nodded. “Yes, I do remember. That Zinoviev letter forgery.”

  Days before that election, a Tory newspaper had published a forged letter from Russia to British communists, supporting Labour policies.

  Speaking quietly, Jennie wondered aloud, “How did you hear any of this? It would have been between the King and Stanley Baldwin.”

  “The King was so upset after his audience with Baldwin he couldn’t help talking about it with David and Albert.”

  These were the King’s sons, the Prince of Wales and the Duke of York, Elizabeth’s husband. “And then at dinner that evening the King was still livid.” Jennie said nothing, not wanting to staunch her flow of court gossip. “The Prince said giving Labour another chance was fair-play. The King interrupted him and said ‘To devil with fair-play. That was Baldwin’s argument when he insisted I send for MacDonald and his lot.’”

  “Baldwin would have had to do a deal with Lloyd George, if he was to keep out Labour.” Lloyd George, the wartime prime minister, had been forced from office after selling knighthoods to finance his party. It had been the great scandal of the early ‘20s.

  “Well, I’m only glad they kept out that randy old goat...” Both women knew about the wartime prime minister’s reputation as a womaniser.

  Jennie nodded her head. “They’re all like that. I was seated next one at a dinner in May, mauled me under the table, he did.”

  Elizabeth nodded. “I’ve a cousin who’s like that. MP, married, got two kids. Keeps a flat in Ebury Street just for his...trysts. Terrifically good-looking. I can see how he manages it.”

  Jennie replied knowingly, “All those political wives in London hanging about with nothing to do.”

  Elizabeth’s voice rose, her eyebrow lifted. She knew she was going to shock.

  “But this one also sleeps with his sister-in-law and his mother-in-law!”

  “How the blazes do you know this, Elizabeth?”

  “No one in that family seems to make much of a secret of it. It’s that randy Oswald Mosley: married to Lord Curzon’s daughter, sleeps with the rest of the family.”

  “But that’s the very man who tried to seduce me at that dinner party last spring!” Jennie’s tone was a combination of amusement and anger. “Trouble is, now MacDonald has put him in the cabinet. He’s the only one in government with any idea what to do about unemployment. If it came out about the wife and her mother, he’d be ruined in the party...and his policies too.”

  “Somehow I doubt it ever will come out.”

  “Why not?” Jennie wondered. “Double standard?”

  “No, no, wrong end of the stick. Wives do it too. Won’t ever come out. Conspiracy of silence among the press lords. Private lives off limits. They won’t publish a word. Besides, they carry on the same way, many of them.”

  Both women fell silent. Well, one less thing for a politician to worry about, Jennie found herself thinking.

  Elizabeth was introspective. After a moment, she spoke, almost wistfully. “Nothing like that at the palace anymore, not since naughty old Edward VII.” Then she turned back to Jennie. “What I wouldn’t give for a little bad behaviour. Jennie, court life’s so boring. It’s killing me.”

  “Looks pretty glamorous in the papers.” Jennie wanted to comfort her friend.

  “Endlessly standing round at wreath-layings? Unveiling cornerstones? Try holding yourself motionless in a receiving line with a smile painted on your face while a thousand people pump your wrist.” She stopped, her frown turned to a brief sob. “I’m going to be doing this for the next thirty years. I don’t think I can face it!”

  She pulled a hankie from her sleeve and wiped at the two tears that had run down each cheek.

  Jennie knew what she wanted to say. They’d covered this ground in their last meetings five years before, when Elizabeth’s engagement was announced. She hadn’t needed to warn her friend what she was giving up, marrying the King’s second son. Elizabeth knew perfectly well. She’d already declined the Duke’s proposals a half dozen times when she finally gave way. The words she wouldn’t say formed themselves, Going to give up being Duchess of York, going to run away, ducky? Her friend deserved the sarcastic, admonitory, recriminating, belligerent question. She should never have sold herself into Royal bondage. But Jennie couldn’t, wouldn’t make her feel worse. Instead she reached out her hand to her friend in an unvoiced apology for the unkind thought.

  “What about your baby?” The Duchess’ daughter was three years old. “She gives pleasure, no?”

  “Yes, yes. I love Lilibet.” It was her pet name for her daughter. “And Albert too.” Was that addition something she had to say, Jennie wondered?

  “What can I do to help—” Jennie had again almost said, “Your grace” before stopping herself. Her hand had remained covering her friend’s.

  “Well, you could start by meeting me a little more often.” Regaining her composure, Elizabeth smiled. “I just need someone to talk to, confide in, share the way I feel about things.”

  Surely there’s someone in your circle? Why me? Jennie thought. Elizabeth seemed to read her mind as she went on.

  “All those years I listened to you prattle on against the war, when we were kids, later when you were in university arguing for socialism, I couldn’t quite take it seriously. I don’t know what I thought...it was just you being contrary to everything everyone else was saying. But now I don’t wonder you were right all a long, or at least mostly...well, partly right.”

  “I’ll be happy to fill your head with contrary thoughts.”

  “In return I may be able to offer the odd titbit or two, a scrap of intelligence here and there.”

  Nothing that might interest me, surely, Jennie couldn’t help thinking. The British Royal family hadn’t wielded real political power for a century or so.

  “What do you mean, Elizabeth?”

  “There’s a good deal of loose talk at the palace. Lots of angry voices at table, usually about matters of state. Besides, the King is ill, and when he dies,” she gulped at the lèse-majesté, “David’s to become King, and he’s terrifically indiscreet.”

  David was Albert’s older brother, the Prince of Wales.

  “King tried to teach the Prince his job, giving him the boxes.” The locked red boxes with royal crests came to the palace daily from Downing Street, filled with dispatches, state papers, communications to and from the Prime Minister. But David just leaves them open with the secret papers spread about. Can’t be bothered.”

  Now, this is interesting. Jennie drew her breath. “Well, Elizabeth, palace life doesn’t sound quite so dull after all.”

  “So the King’s stopped doing it. Doesn’t think David is,” she paused, looking for the right word, “sound.” Jennie was silent. This was intoxicating.

  “Steady on, Elizabeth. I’m thrilled to be in on your little... secrets. But I’m not going to ask you to spy on anyone for me.”

  “Humour me, ducky!” The words were spoken in mock cockney.

  * * *

  Afterwards Jennie didn’t know quite what to think. She felt slightly sorry for her friend, for the choices she’d been fated, by birth, class, formation, to make, saddened about the life she now led in consequence. Funny that, your feeling sorry for a duchess. Poor Elizabeth Bowes-Lyons had never really been allowed to be anything but frivolous. Jennie had a hard time blaming her. But the girl wasn’t foolish or feckless. She has a mind of her own. Must have! She’s still seeing you, Jennie.

  Walking away down the narrow street, back to the Notting Hill Gate tube station, Jennie asked herself why she was still keeping up with Elizabeth. What is she to you, girl? Why haven’t you dropped her in all these years? It was rather simple, Jennie realised. Despite her own reverse snobbery, she rather liked Elizabeth. They shared enough of a past to remain friends.

  Chapter Six

  Tom Mosley hadn’t expected to be dropped from Nancy Astor’s circle just because he’d joined the Labour
Party, or even when he joined the Labour cabinet. Still, he wouldn’t have minded much if he had been excluded. This latest invitation for a weekend at Cliveden, her vast estate twenty-five miles west of London, wasn’t really welcome at all. It would be hard to find a drink. Lady Astor was teetotal. And she’d invited Tom’s wife, Lady Cynthia—Cimmie. That’s what everyone called Lady Mosley.

  He’d tried to discourage her from going, but Cimmie wouldn’t hear of it. She’d been in the Astor circle since before the war, when her father, Lord Curzon, was Viceroy of India, and her late mother, an American heiress like Lady Nancy, had been Vicereine. Besides, now that Cimmie too was an MP—yet another woman in parliament, albeit a Labour member—she had even more in common with Lady Astor: politics.

  Still, it was damned inconvenient Cimmie coming along, Tom couldn’t help thinking. There’d be no bed-hopping for him, not even with a willing chambermaid.

  * * *

  Early Saturday morning Mosley rose and dressed to ride. Cimmie would sleep in and take a tray in her bedroom.

  Striding out beyond the deep shadows of the building, the silence of the world was broken only by the crunch of the fine white gravel beneath his riding boots.

  Who should be saddling up when he got to the stables but Nancy Astor? In unvoiced agreement, they rode into the lush park of the estate and down the slope to the Thames. There they stopped, held by the sparkle of the water reflecting a low morning sun as it moved slowly under trees still in leaf. Turning, their eyes traced the track back up beyond the copse to the vast palace at the brow of the hill. It stood there, the façade still in a purple shade, on its pedestal throne, overawing the woods that surrounded it.

  Lady Astor broke the silence. “So, now you’re in that damned socialist government.”

  Tom Mosley nodded, satisfaction on his smile.

  Gazing round, surveying her domain, she continued, “Will your lot try to take all this away from me?”

  Mosley laughed. “Not bloody likely. Too frightened to do much of anything, MacDonald is.” She nodded in agreement. “Doesn’t have the votes to begin with. Doesn’t have the taste for it either.”