Page 38 of The Gathering Storm (Morland Dynasty #36)

‘That’s he’s an alcoholic Irishman with a police record and a history of mad antics. He claims he’s working for the Nazi government and was ordered to kill the King, but Sir Philip says that’s nonsense.’

They had the story over again from the King himself when everyone gathered for drinks before luncheon.

‘You were terribly brave, sir, carrying on as if nothing had happened,’ Wally prompted him, when he had got to the policeman’s horse’s rump.

‘Oddly enough,’ he said, ‘I don’t remember feeling afraid.

I remember seeing something black go flying through the air, and wondering quite calmly to myself whether it was a bomb.

I’d have dismounted and got hold of the gun to keep it from anyone else, but my overalls are so tight I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to mount again. ’

‘They caught the madman, at any rate,’ Wally said. ‘A Communist, or a Fascist – one of the two. London seems to be full of radicals these days.’

‘It’s lucky that I wasn’t hurt,’ the King went on, ‘because I have a busy week ahead. Buckingham Palace garden parties, then off to France to dedicate the Canadian war memorial at Vimy Ridge. We’d hoped to have a few days on the Riviera after that, but apparently the South of France is a hotbed of Communism, and they’re afraid there might be an attempt on my life.

’ He gave a brave little laugh. ‘Another attempt, I should say.’

* * *

After luncheon, the Kents and the Mountbattens called in.

It was a hot day, and the King and Wally had decided on a party by the swimming-pool, but the newcomers had not brought bathing-things, and seemed happier to distance themselves from the noisy group at the water and sit sedately in the shade to talk.

The discussion at first was about the situation in Spain, where an insurgent army under a General Franco had marched on Madrid to overturn the Communist government that had been elected in February.

News was that the Spanish government had armed the factory workers, and so far the insurgents were being held at bay.

But it was plain that it was not all going to be over quickly.

‘I’ve heard that the Germans are supplying arms to Franco,’ Louis Mountbatten said. ‘If the Russians do the same for the Republican side, we may have a dress rehearsal of the coming European war.’

‘We’re surely not going to get involved,’ Oliver said.

‘We and the French have agreed to keep out of it,’ said Mountbatten. ‘But these things have a habit of spreading. Any group with a grudge takes it as encouragement to do likewise.’

By the pool, the King was much more interested in discussing his upcoming holiday.

‘I’ve chartered the Nahlin from Lady Yule for the whole of August, and we’re going to cruise the Mediterranean.

But I really am annoyed with the Foreign Office.

We were going to join the ship at Venice, but Eden insists we mustn’t have any contact with Italy because it would embarrass the government.

So we shall have to start from Yugoslavia.

Such nonsense! These ridiculous sanctions against Italy will do nothing but drive Mussolini into the arms of Hitler.

I’ve told Eden as much more than once. The FO simply doesn’t understand foreign affairs.

I have relatives all over Europe. I can accomplish more through family connections than ministers ever can.

I shall call on Crown Prince Paul, of course.

And see what I can do in Greece and Turkey. ’

Eddie rolled his eyes at Kit. One intervention by the King could lead to weeks of untangling for the Foreign Secretary.

At a little distance, under an umbrella, Wally was talking to Emma in a low voice about the divorce. ‘It’s definitely going ahead,’ she said. ‘Ernest is booked into the H?tel de Paris in Bray on Tuesday, with someone called Buttercup Kennedy.’

‘That surely can’t be her real name?’ Emma protested.

‘It could be if she’s an actress – and by actress, I mean dance-hall floozy. But I suspect it’s an alias,’ she lowered her voice even further, ‘for that snake-in-the-grass Mary Raffray.’

‘Surely she wouldn’t put herself through that?’ Emma said.

‘She’d do anything to get Ernest. At any rate, once it’s done I’m to send him a letter saying that I cannot overlook his behaviour, and he’ll move out of Bryanston Court to the Guards’ Club.’

She looked gloomy and discontented, and Emma said, ‘I suppose none of this is pleasant for you.’

Wally shook herself. ‘At least I know I’m making a difference to David. He said to me the other day that he’s quite enjoying the kinging, and he never thought he would. I’m just trying not to think too far ahead.’

‘You’ve got the cruise to come.’

‘Yes, it will be good to get away from the Bertie York faction for a bit, though I don’t relish being shut up on a tiny yacht day after day with David not having anything to do. There’s only so much einem-meinem talk I can stand, and David playing itsy-bitsy-spider up my arm. I sometimes wish—’

She stopped. ‘Yes?’ Emma prompted.

‘Oh, nothing,’ she said.

Emma thought she had been going to say something about wishing she and Ernest had never met David. Exciting though the association with the Prince of Wales had been, now he was King it was all too complicated.

Emma remembered that Kit had seen Ernest in the Aldwych the week before.

Kit had been to see Fred Astaire in Rise and Shine at the Theatre Royal – Emma had been otherwise engaged – and had bumped into him, walking along twirling his rolled umbrella, a slightly wilted flower in his buttonhole, his hat tipped back on his head.

‘He looked as though he hadn’t a care in the world,’ Kit had told Emma later that evening. ‘Between you and me, darling, I don’t believe he’s really all that heartbroken over Wally. I suspect he’s decided that it’s all working out for the best.’

Emma didn’t tell Wally any of that.

James woke thinking he had cried out, though as the sleep fog cleared he realised it could only have been a grunt at most. He had been dreaming about Tata again – the dream in which he saw her walking into danger and tried to run to her, but was unable to move.

It was still early, but he was too wide awake now to go back to sleep. He got up, washed his face and hands in the cold water in his basin, dressed and went downstairs.

The dogs were not in the Great Hall, so he knew someone was before him – most likely Polly.

He headed for the small dining room, where indeed he found her addressing a bowl of porridge, with the entire pack gazing at her adoringly.

There was a restorative smell of coffee on the air.

She looked up and said, ‘You’re early. Help yourself to coffee.

’ Then she noticed his face. ‘You look tired. What’s up? ’

‘I was dreaming again,’ he said, slumping into the chair nearest her and receiving Helmy’s chin on his knee. He caressed his ears automatically.

‘The same one – about Tata?’

‘I can’t get away from the idea that it was my fault.’

Polly poured him some coffee. ‘I remember Papa once said that people always feel guilty when someone close to them dies. Doesn’t mean they were.

’ He gave her a look that said she wasn’t helping.

‘Ring the bell if you want some breakfast. I’m going out for a ride while it’s cool – it’s going to be hot later. D’you want to come with me?’

At that moment Barlow came in, followed by William, both carrying trays.

Somehow the butler had known James was down.

Barlow always knew everything. William put the hot dishes under the covers and lit the heaters, while Barlow placed the toast rack and the fresh coffee-pot on the table, and laid a small stack of post beside Polly’s place and one envelope beside James’s.

When they had gone, Polly got up to get herself eggs and bacon.

‘Oh, mushrooms!’ she exclaimed. ‘Someone must have been out early. I expect one of the milkers dropped them off on their way in.’ Turning with her plate, she saw her brother still sitting in the same attitude of dejection, his mouth a grim line of endurance.

She wished she could help him. She knew that iron feeling.

The helplessness was the worst thing: you could not make it not to have happened; you could not escape it.

‘Have some breakfast,’ she said gently. ‘Food really does make things seem better.’

He gave her a grim sort of smile. ‘Nice try, Pol.’

She sat down and reached for the toast. ‘Read your letter, anyway,’ she said.

He picked up the envelope, and recognised Charlie’s handwriting on the typically heavy, expensive paper.

Urging him to come back, he supposed. The man had no tact, no understanding of what he was feeling.

In his mind, in one of those vivid flashes, he saw Tata laughing, her eyes bright, her loosened hair a living thing around her face.

‘Do I see a foreign stamp?’ Polly went on. ‘Don’t forget to save it for Alec. Oh, do open it, James! You can’t read it through the envelope.’

So he opened it. Inside was a single sheet with Charlie’s forceful-spiky writing, and a slender, printed booklet.

The letter said: Sometimes poetry helps.

Come back to us soon. We both miss you. The kindness of the simple words moved James, and he felt a prickling behind his eyes, almost as if he might cry – but he never had yet. Men didn’t.

On the cover of the booklet it said: ‘ Black Marigolds , translated from the Sanskrit by E. Powys Mathers’.

He opened it, and saw two or three pages of close-printed text.

A glance told him it was some explanation about the origins of the text.

Too boring to read. What was Charlie thinking?

Unpronounceable names exasperated him. He leafed past it all, and found beyond, in larger, better-spaced print, the verses of a long poem.

He was about to close the thing and throw it down, when some words caught his eye.

Even now