Page 8 of The Gathering Storm (Morland Dynasty #36)

Wally sat back, her interest lost where she could not prevail. ‘Oh, yes, your flats for the lower classes. You should talk to David about that. He’s very keen on welfare for the poor.’

‘Weston Trust flats are not for the poor, they’re for decent working people: clerks, teachers, nurses, people like that.’

Wally wasn’t listening. ‘And, frankly, he needs something to keep him busy. He’s all too inclined to lounge about, smoking too much and complaining he’s bored. I’ll get Elsie Mendl to do Buckingham Palace, if you’re really not interested. She’ll jump at it.’

‘You’ll ruffle a lot of feathers if you change things too much.’

‘I intend to ruffle feathers! They need ruffling. All those old palace servants and officials, they’re like stuffed dummies.

Everything has to be done the same way it’s been done since 1066 or the sky will fall.

David’s not going to be that sort of king.

We’re going to drag this whole show into the twentieth century.

Can you imagine,’ she said, leaning forward, ‘they insist that lunch be served at one p.m., whether anyone wants it or not? And why? Because it’s always been served at one p.m..

’ She sat back, and the waiters seized the opportunity to put her lunch before her.

She picked up the champagne glass, but put it down again untasted as she went on speaking.

‘I told them, you need to figure out who’s in charge around here.

If the King wants luncheon at two p.m., that’s when it’s served.

And if he wants a sandwich at eleven p.m. or scrambled eggs at four in the morning, the kitchen’s got to be damn well ready to rustle it up.

They should remember who pays their wages.

’ She changed tack. ‘He hardly eats anything as it is. He’ll eat a lettuce leaf and five grapes and say he’s done.

I do my best to tempt his appetite when we’re at home, but of course I can’t always be there. ’

She picked up her fork and broke a small piece off the edge of the omelette, speared it, then put the fork down again.

‘You don’t seem to be eating much yourself,’ Emma remarked.

‘It’s my insides playing up again,’ Wally sighed. ‘All this conflict is hell on my ulcers. I’m sick of palace officials saying such and such can’t be done because it’s never been done that way. And looking at me like I’m something the cat dragged in.’

‘People don’t like change,’ Emma said mildly. ‘They like to know where they stand.’

‘They’ll be standing in the dole queue if they don’t shape up,’ she said.

‘I told Alec Hardinge, “The King wants people around him with fresh ideas. If you’re going to be his private secretary you’re going to have to change the way you think.

” He’s only forty-two, you know, Hardinge.

You’d think he was eighty -two! They should ask themselves,’ she went on pointedly, ‘why the King gets on better with Americans than with his own people. It’s because we ’re not hide-bound.

We’re not afraid of change. We embrace the future.

’ She paused for breath, and actually ate the corner of her omelette.

‘I understand Ernest had dinner with David last night,’ Emma said tentatively.

Wally looked up. ‘How do you know about it?’

‘Kit told me.’

Wally grimaced. ‘Kit always knows everything.’

‘Apparently David talked about marriage?’

‘It’s sheer fantasy,’ Wally said sharply. ‘He knows it can’t happen.’

‘Of course it can’t. But – wouldn’t you like to be Queen?’ Emma asked mischievously.

‘I’ve never asked for that,’ she said. ‘I’m quite happy as I am, in the background, pulling the strings.

I just want to get things running smoothly, and put away a little nest egg, so Ernest and I can retire together, financially secure.

All I need is another year, maybe two, to consolidate, then I can step back.

What I don’t need,’ she went on, with fierce emphasis, ‘is Ernest getting himself involved and complicating things.’

‘Perhaps he feels a bit left out,’ Emma suggested.

‘I’m doing it for us ,’ she said indignantly. ‘I can manage David if everyone just leaves us alone. And the country will get a better king out of it.’

‘That’s what Kit said.’

‘Kit knows what he’s talking about,’ Wally said approvingly. ‘But we’ve got to scotch this talk of divorce. Ernest could put me in a very difficult position. He just has to trust me and not interfere.’ She put her fork down again, as though it was too heavy to hold.

‘You do look tired,’ Emma said. ‘Maybe you should do the stepping back now.’

‘David would go mad if I tried. All this kinging is new to him. He needs me too much.’ She didn’t say it as though it gave her pleasure.

She leaned closer. ‘Tell you the truth, Emma, I sometimes think he’s gone a little crazy since his father died.

He wants to be with me all the time . And when he’s not, it’s telephone calls every couple of hours, and letters, and little notes brought round with flowers.

I’m suffocating! He rings me up in the middle of the night .

I don’t sleep well anyway, and it’s dollars to doughnuts that as soon as I do manage to drop off, he’ll telephone and wake me up again. ’

‘They ought to find him a suitable princess,’ Emma said, interested to see what Wally would say.

Kit had explained to her his own idea about how things really stood between David and Mrs S: the King hadn’t been lying when he told Ernest his relationship was platonic.

‘He needs to get married and produce an heir.’

Wally gave a mirthless snort. ‘That won’t happen. David’s not what you’d call heir conditioned.’

Emma smiled at the joke, but said, ‘That’s hard luck on the country.’

‘Not at all. There’s Bertie York and his two little girls.

And the Kents have a boy already. There’s plenty of cover.

’ She sighed. ‘God, I have got to get away for a bit, have a break from all the strain. I’m thinking of going to Paris.

First week of March – David’s got engagements so he wouldn’t be able to follow me.

Why don’t you come? See the new collections. Do a little shopping. What do you say?’

Emma felt bad about refusing. For all Wally’s annoying ways, she couldn’t help feeling sorry for her. ‘I can’t. I’m up to my ears in work. I’m sorry.’

Wally shrugged. ‘No matter. I’ll ask Mipsy. She’s always got time for me.’

James had no idea how he might learn Russian.

It was true he had picked up French quickly enough, but one was exposed to a certain level of French all one’s life: Russian one never came across.

The only idea he came up with was the barman at a little place on the corner of the rue Girardon whose name was Igor, which he thought was a Russian name.

Igor was burly and swarthy and had a foreign accent – though in fairness you could say that about a lot of French barmen.

So he called in at the Chat Inquiet on his way home for a pastis and coffee and, having chatted to Igor for a few minutes, he asked, ‘Are you Russian, by any chance?’

Igor scowled. ‘Are you English, by any chance?’

James gave a placating smile. ‘I’m not being rude. You see, my boss wants me to learn a bit of Russian, and I don’t know where to go or who to ask.’

‘I was born in Russia,’ Igor said, without moving his lips, ‘but I don’t go around talking about it. You never know who’s listening.’ He swiped a cloth over the bar top while glancing cautiously to left and right.

‘Would you teach me?’ James asked. ‘I would pay you, of course.’

Igor shrugged. ‘I’ve forgotten most of it. Been speaking French for too long.’

‘Well, could you suggest anyone else? A friend, maybe?’

‘I’ve only got French friends,’ Igor snapped. ‘Russians are all bastards, or drunks, or crooks. Or all three.’ Then he seemed to relent. ‘You serious about this?’

‘Yes, I am. I really have to learn some Russian – or I might lose my job,’ he added with a hint of pathos.

‘Best place for you to go, then, is the Maison de l’évangile.’

‘What’s that? A convent?’

‘No, it’s a charity. An English lady set it up. They help Russian refugees find a place to live and give them money till they find a job, things like that. They’re bound to know someone who would give Russian lessons for money.’

‘Have you got the address?’

‘All I know is it’s over in the sixteenth, down by the river, past the Bois. Look it up.’ Igor swiped the rag over the bar top again. ‘You eating?’ he demanded.

Information had to be paid for, James thought. ‘I’ll have a croque monsieur ,’ he said. ‘And a pression .’

Igor shouted the order through to the back, and poured the beer. He slapped it down in front of James, then added another pastis he hadn’t ordered. For a warm instant James thought it was a gesture of friendship, then realised that the profit on pastis was greater than on beer.

A smart young woman in a tailor-made was manning the office.

She listened to James’s enquiry, then asked him a number of questions about himself, making a note of his name, address, and place of work.

She knew the name of Charles Bedaux, and that seemed to give James some status.

But it was his admission that he was English which finally thawed her.

She switched from French into English to ask him where he was from, and elicited a description of Yorkshire.

James could always wax lyrical over Morland Place, but he was rather wondering where all this was going, when she said at last, ‘We have to be very careful, you see, but I am satisfied now that you are not a Soviet agent.’

‘No, of course I’m not,’ he said, surprised. ‘I don’t look Russian, do I?’

‘I didn’t think you were. But we don’t get many people coming in off the street – mostly people come by recommendation. I can arrange with someone to teach you Russian. I’ll have to check with her first, so you must come back tomorrow.’