Chain Reaction (18 page)

‘The time has come to be firm, Dougal,’ says Sir Hugh Mountjoy, gazing over the mellow Palace lawns, steepling his fingers as he rests his head against the tall back of his leather-lined chair just as his father did before him. ‘This nonsense cannot be allowed to continue further. Time, after all, is moving on.’

Dougal Rathbone feels like a boy at school again confronting a cynical headmaster. He thoroughly enjoys the feeling although he knows that Sir Hugh is a respectable married man, straight as a die; his wife, Constance, is the daughter of a Count. Dougal pulls himself upright in an attempt to calm his fantasy. ‘It was the most remarkable coincidence…’

‘Quite a shock.’

‘Indeed, Sir Hugh.’

‘Although, of course, Miss Brightly-Smythe is just as likely to blab to any of her other friends, luckily this little reunion seems to have been nipped in the bud. But it’s the fact that the owners of The Grange now believe they know the identity of the purchaser…’

‘Which they would have done sooner or later,’ Dougal reminds him.

‘And the fact that the two young ladies seemed to be so close.’

‘But that is the nature of these old school friendships,’ says Dougal, who knows a thing or two about boarding-school relationships. ‘Personally I don’t see, at this stage, that any lasting damage has been done.’

‘You could be right,’ muses Sir Hugh. ‘And the girl did approve of the place.’

‘Very much so; she is a most effusive character and easily influenced. All she wants before she makes a final decision, and she is like a dog at a bone with this one, is an opportunity to talk to the Prince.’

‘Out of the question.’

‘That’s what I told her.’

‘Absolutely impossible at this delicate stage.’

‘She thinks about him constantly. She has given in her notice at Habitat as I advised her to do. The fewer people she meets at this stage, the better. But she is getting rather fractious.’

‘Let her. Let Miss Curie stew in her own juice.’

‘Perhaps if you spoke to her, sir.’

‘Heavens! Have you lost your senses, Dougal?’

‘What harm would a meeting with you do? You of all people, with your experience, would be most likely to influence the young lady. A fatherly influence, if you like.’

A silence now, as Sir Hugh moves into a deeper state of contemplation. And then, ‘It couldn’t be here. She mustn’t be allowed to set foot in the Palace.’

‘Naturally. I was thinking more in terms of a neutral rendezvous.’

‘London is far too dangerous.’

‘Actually, I was thinking of Brighton. I have an aunt who runs tea rooms there with a friend.’

‘A tea shop on the coast? Run by two old dykes?’ He has heard about Dougal’s eccentric family.

‘They are wonderfully discreet, Sir Hugh. I have had occasion to trust them with my own reputation more than once.’

‘I don’t doubt you have,’ says Sir Hugh, frowning. Time is not on Sir Hugh’s side. In under a week the announcement of the engagement of James Henry Albert, third son of the Monarch, to Lady Frances Loughborough, oldest daughter of the Earl and Countess of Weir, is to take place. All the relevant screening has been done, the in-depth probing into health, antecedents, reputation… The only surprising fact to emerge from all this research is that the Princess-to-be has the reputation for rather a foul mouth. Well, that can soon be curbed. The bride of a Prince must consider herself as a vessel, no more, no less. And in this particular situation a spare vessel, twice-removed, like a vase which will come out only if the first two smash. At the moment there are no heirs and troublemakers are suggesting that George, recently hitched to Princess Gunhilda, can’t get it up at all. What’s more, rumours are spreading from Denmark that Gunhilda is not remotely interested anyway. All frightfully worrying.

The second son, Rupert, a sprinter over 400 metres, is at the moment more interested in his athletics career than the lineage. The Palace recently had to deal with that nasty little publicity snarl-up when Rupert was caught in practice dropping the baton
again.
I mean, as the press pointed out, anyone else who kept constantly dropping the baton would have been sacked from the Olympic team by now… Fatal to be royal and involved in anything slightly competitive.

The Earl and Countess of Weir are suitably thrilled, as is Lady Frances herself. The Countess is an old friend of the Queen’s and holds tremendously successful charity balls at Portland Square. They have booked their daughter into their own private villa on the Island of Mustique for a month after the news comes out to avoid too much press harassment. The life of James Henry Albert must carry steadily on; he will be busy shooting grouse with his Mother in Scotland. Nobody can afford an hysterical reaction from the wretched Peaches. The great British Public is already fed up with forking out for the super-privileged, and there’s a dangerous air of Republicanism abroad in the land. Perhaps Dougal is right and Sir Hugh
should
see the hussy himself—warn her off for the last time, give her a taste of the Establishment’s most severe disapproval.

And so this is how Sir Hugh finds himself sitting waiting at a window table at the Blue Bird cafe, fiddling with the slender glass vase containing a small bunch of sweet peas, the centrepiece on the pristine cloth. The stone walls are covered in brasses, particularly those beside the chimney, along with bedpans, jugs, saucepans and horsebrasses; a little brass bell is perched on every table. The tea he ordered arrives in a metal pot which drips and the handle burns his fingers.

‘Oh, do let me be Mother!’

Great heavens above! Sir Hugh starts as the pretty young thing with the small clean hands introduces herself. ‘Call me Peaches—and you must be the dragon, Sir Hugh!’ She pours his tea with a casual style and sits herself down on the blue-painted Lloyd Loom chair directly opposite.

This is not a propitious way to start. She seems to have taken over completely as Sir Hugh is reduced to blowing desperately upon his smarting skin. ‘Butter,’ she cries with glee, and passes it over.

He’d felt foolish enough before Arabella arrived, sitting there reading the
Telegraph,
garbed like a spy in the navy Guernsey with the patches on the elbows recommended by Dougal as the sort of camouflage he would need to fit into his present role
incognito.
To cap it all, he is wearing a stylish pair of pumps. Suits predominate in Sir Hugh’s London wardrobe. He rarely has cause to slip into anything casual and his wife, Lady Constance, is far too busy with her social life in London to spend much time in the country. He was forced to allow young Dougal to go and choose him some suitable clothes for this most important expedition.

‘You don’t want to frighten her off,’ said Dougal. ‘You don’t want her clamming up on you.’

Sir Hugh rather thought that intimidation would be a good move, but Dougal argued otherwise. ‘She wants to be able to consider you as a friend,’ he insisted. ‘She wants to be able to trust you.’

It occurs to Sir Hugh that they are all bending rather too far backwards in order to accommodate this little madam.

Dougal drove him down to Brighton in the Merc, an unnecessarily hair-raising experience, and is at this moment in a car park nearby, tuned in to Radio Five, waiting to hear how Sir Hugh gets on.

‘Leave it now, please, I am perfectly all right,’ Sir Hugh insists, withdrawing his injured hand. ‘What would you like me to order for you? Tea? Coca Cola? A slice of chocolate gateau?’ In this imperious manner a man can regain control. He looks around. ‘Damn. I don’t believe the Blue Bird is licensed. How was the train journey?’

Arabella Brightly-Smythe, the thorn in the Establishment’s side who looks more like a rose this afternoon, considers the flowery hand-painted menu. ‘I think I would like a cream tea,’ she says, smiling timidly, ‘if that is all right with you.’

What on earth is the matter with him? He can’t take his eyes from her stomach. Does the little foetus growing inside realise what an almighty explosion its birth would be likely to cause? Ripples around the world? They exchange some small talk, and then at last the food arrives. He is forced to sit back and watch her spreading the thick layers of cream and jam, wasting valuable time. He could murder a gin and tonic.

Sir Hugh launches himself when he believes she has finally finished. ‘I hear you approved of The Grange, Arabella.’

‘I told you to call me Peaches. Please do. And did I hear you mention chocolate gateau?’

He has no intention of calling her Peaches. Can this be the helpless, waif-like creature that Dougal has described? She looks perfectly self-assured, not a worry in the world. She must be even more backward than she is given credit for.

Sir Hugh leans forward, and lowers his grey and ponderous eyebrows. His voice follows and becomes almost intimate. ‘You do understand, don’t you, Arabella, that your relationship with James has to finish.’

Arabella raises her delicate eyebrows. ‘I am waiting for Jamie to tell me that. I am not prepared to believe these things you are telling me. I know how the world manipulates poor Jamie and says things about him that are just not true. Why should I believe you or Dougal are any different?’

‘Because, my dear girl, we have his well-being at heart.’

She smiles at him thinly. ‘But how am I to know that? I only know what Jamie tells me, and he says that he loves me. He promised me he loved me. Even the last time I saw him, before you took him away from me!’

Drat the fellow and his abominable behaviour. ‘And I am sure he means it. But there are many variations on the theme of love, and love doesn’t always mean that those involved can be together. Jamie, as you know, is not free to pick and choose like any commoner.’

She is tucking into her chocolate cake, ignoring the polite little fork provided, as if she is on the point of starving. Does she always gulp her food like this?

‘When am I going to see him?’

‘My dear child, you are not going to see him.’

‘But I am carrying his child.’

‘So you say.’

‘I am not a liar.’

‘Look here, Arabella, in these circumstances it does not matter a jot whose child you carry. Jamie is aware of your predicament and is sorry if it is causing you grief. He gave his advice to you when you first informed him that you were pregnant. He now wants to end the relationship, and is only prepared to support the child from a distance provided you accept a home at The Grange and are prepared to say nothing to a soul regarding the paternity of your baby.’

Her answer is simple and straightforward. ‘I don’t believe you.’

‘It is my job, my dear, to act as spokesman for those who are not free to speak for themselves. I am sitting here this afternoon representing James.’

Her voice is soft, he has to lean forward to hear her. ‘Well, whose baby should I say it is?’

Aha, Sir Hugh is finally breaking through. He dabs his mouth with his napkin in a gesture of quiet satisfaction although it is quite clean. ‘That is entirely up to you.’

‘What, make somebody up?’

‘If that would be the simplest answer.’

‘And the baby would never know who she really was?’

‘Naturally. That would be the gravest mistake and not fair on the child.’

‘And Jamie would never want to see it, his own offspring?’

‘Jamie will go on to have other children, Royal children, children with a destiny to fulfil.’

‘And my child is to have no destiny?’

‘Not within the Royal Family, no.’

‘And there’s nothing I can do about this?’

‘My dear girl, don’t make it sound so dramatic. You knew who he was when you agreed to have intercourse with him. Presumably you also chose to take no contraceptive precautions. You made informed choices and must be prepared to accept the consequences. We all of us have to obey the rules; without rules the whole structure of society collapses. You wouldn’t like to live in a drab Republic, would you? You wouldn’t like to see our sense of history cut out of our lives like a core from an apple? Or our—’

‘I wouldn’t mind,’ says Arabella. ‘Why should I mind? The people in other countries seem quite happy without a Royal Family. I don’t notice them suffering particularly.’

‘Aha,’ says Sir Hugh with a mean smile. ‘Now we have it. Quite a little revolutionary at heart, aren’t we? So that is what this is all about. As I understand it, your parents are not particularly avid supporters of The Crown.’

‘I don’t understand what you are insinuating. I don’t think they care much either way, and neither did I until all this started.’

Damn. Damn. He has upset her! He sends a bright white handkerchief across the top of the table, scrunches it up in her hand and lets go. ‘Now then, now then. Come on, it’s not as bad as all that now, is it?’

Arabella sobs on. ‘You don’t know what you are saying! How do you expect me to behave faced with banishment to a strange house away from everyone I love and never to see my baby’s father again?’ Tears are streaming down her pretty face. ‘Don’t you realise, Jamie would be perfectly happy to give up all that rigmarole just to be with me. He’s not interested in The Family, why should he be? He’s never going to be King so why should he suffer so?’

He decides to be blunt, to be cruel to be kind. ‘Jamie is not suffering. Jamie has sensibly accepted the situation. He has sent me to see you today in order to tell you so.’

‘I refuse to listen to you any more.’

Sir Hugh struggles on. ‘But you don’t want to bring shame and disgrace upon your family…’

Arabella sniffs, no longer quite so daintily. ‘Shame and disgrace?’

‘You are unmarried, and soon to become a mother. A single parent giving birth to a fatherless child.’

Now it’s her turn to fiddle with the vase. Her hand is sticky and wet with her tears. ‘Only because you are making me! How can you be so horrid?’

‘It will get a lot worse than this, Arabella, if you continue with this futile resistance, and it is not I, dear child, whom you should blame. It is the whole unfortunate situation. You must try to be adult about this. You must acknowledge the fact that you are nothing but an embarrassment to Jamie and if, as you say, you truly love him, you should be prepared to release him and even, in time, forgive him.’