The Blood Royal (25 page)

She looked with dawning admiration at the lively man, determined to enjoy his evening come what may. He was preparing to join in the serious business of the evening. Before they went through to supper, the all-important money had to be raised from the well-heeled gathering. And Edward was fully aware, she was sure, of his role in this. On top of the already expensive ticket price, a series of auctions was to raise yet more cash. Everything from a glorious Fabergé ornament to a piece of bloodstained linen allegedly taken from the corpse of a long-dead Russian saint was on offer to the highest bidder. And what a coup – to be able to brag afterwards that one had just pipped the Prince of Wales to the post, outbidding him at the last moment.

Edward pitched his bids neatly, knowing exactly when to whip up interest and when to graciously withdraw. She noticed that he persisted sufficiently to acquire a jewel-encrusted Easter egg and a jade necklace. ‘For my mama,’ he confided.

The final two items caused a sensation. Neither of the lots had a real monetary value yet they raised approving smiles and nods.

The penultimate offering was – surprisingly – a painting. Two young girls in traditional Russian dress had been delegated to carry it around the tables for closer inspection. They paused for a longer interval by the Prince of Wales and his group and the hostess timed her explanation for this moment.

‘The painter, though of supreme talent, is largely unknown in the west. You may view other examples of his work, smuggled out of the motherland, in the Abercrombie gallery. This one is the most accomplished of the collection and is the only one for private sale. As you know, all photographic equipment has been banned from Russia.’ She paused to acknowledge the chorus of gasps and wails that ran through the audience. ‘The only means of recording the depredation that is occurring in our homeland is the medium of paint. It is at risk of his life that the artist has committed to canvas his view of the dismantling of a once-great land. These works have been brought to us safely here in London by the courage of many. It is impossible to put a price on this piece – the painter is without pedigree but his vision – dark and painful to our eyes – is, I believe, supremely original.’

Rupert, whose half-hourly duty rosta had brought him to Lily’s side, leaned to her and drawled: ‘Lord! You’ll never see that on a chocolate box! Touch of cubism, do I detect? How simply ghastly!’

Lady Katharine Rumbelow, whom he was plying with champagne, overheard, approved and added: ‘I’m bidding a month’s allowance
not
to have it! What on earth can it be? A gloomy fir forest and a Celtic cross? Is that Russia or Ross-shire? Could be either. Impenetrable forest in the background with – what’s that? – a volcano? And what’s that meant to be in the foreground …? Oh, gracious! I do believe it’s an open grave! And that cross is … can I be mistaken? … it’s made of bones!’ Lady Katharine shuddered delicately and the two Russian girls, still smiling sweetly, sensed the time had come to move on to the next table.

The prince turned to Lily. ‘Well, I thought it very striking. What d’you say, Lily?’

‘I’d say you were right, sir. Gloomy indeed but a brilliant vision, executed with skill and passion.’ She heard her father’s voice as she said the words. And she’d recognized the scrawled signature in the corner. She dared to add: ‘The world will hear more of this young man. A product of the St Petersburg school? Whoever acquires it will not regret his investment.’

The prince grinned and opened the bidding. A few others followed, more out of duty than interest perhaps, though the French ambassador, Lily noted, seemed genuinely keen. As the prince doggedly sent the price higher his competitors faded and retired one by one until Lily was hearing: ‘And the lot goes to His Royal Highness, the Prince of Wales. Congratulations, sir!’

Judging the moment, he rose to his feet and nodded affably to left and right.

And the evening moved on towards its climax. The princess herself announced that the last offering before supper would be a song. To the highest bidder was promised the song of his choice to be performed by the finest Russian soprano. Madame Vera Lavrova, who was at present appearing at the Alhambra, Leicester Square, had been released by her producer, Monsieur Diaghilev, for the evening to grace their gathering. Cecil Cardew’s drummer gave a roll on his drums and the singer herself emerged from a clump of potted palms to greet the audience, bow and curtsy and stand by, waiting for the winning song to be announced.

The prince leaned close and whispered to Lily, ‘Poor dear! She’s a baroness, you know, in her real life. Her husband was a cavalry officer in the White Army. Killed in action.’

Small and slender, Madame Lavrova was wearing an outfit that brought a tear to many a sentimental eye in the audience. A slim gown of richly embroidered gold satin reached down to a neat ankle, and a Russian headdress of the same stuff framed a round and girlish face, a face vivid with dark eyes and red lips, open and smiling with anticipation.

The bidding stopped, miraculously, it seemed to Lily, when one of the Russian princes got to his feet and raised it from three hundred pounds to a thousand pounds in one swoop. Beyond that no one would venture. Murmurs of approval ran around the room.

‘Then the song goes to His Royal Highness,’ the hostess announced. ‘And may we all hear your choice of song, Mikhail?’

Lily became conscious that she was witnessing a rehearsed scene and was mortified that she hadn’t realized it earlier. These people were elegant professionals, not ones to be caught out by an odd request unknown to singer or orchestra. And yet all were joining in the spirit of the performance, waiting with bated breath and sighing with satisfaction as the Russian prince announced: ‘There’s a sweet song of these islands where we now shelter. A song of exile. A song sung by men, like us, who wear the white cockade – the Jacobites, in mourning and far from their native land. The sentiment echoes our own: “When shall we see thee again, our homeland?” I wonder if Madame Lavrova has it in her repertoire?’

The exquisite Russian doll inclined her head graciously and confided that yes, indeed, she did know it. It was one of her favourite songs. Cecil Cardew with a twirl of his baton unleashed the string section of his orchestra and they swung into the introduction to a well-rehearsed rendition of the heart-breaking Scottish lament. A delicate compliment to the host country and obviously a favourite with the Russian contingent, who joined in soulfully with the last chorus.

‘Gracious!’ the prince confided, leaning close. ‘The Scots and the Russians caught in mutual lament? Really wrings the withers! Well, I don’t know about our hosts but that dirge has quite given me an appetite. Shall we prepare to lead the throng into the dining room? I think it’s expected. This, I’m told, may well be the tricky bit. Have your wits about you, Lily! It’s to be a sort of indoor picnic, if you can believe! Balancing plates and glasses and chatting to left and right. Always taxing! But it does, they say, enable people to circulate more freely. One is not pinned down with the same neighbours for hours on end. I can see their point. Oh, and someone may be planning, in the help-yourself skirmish they’ve got planned, to bean me with a ladle or fillet me with an oyster-knife.’

He helped her to her feet with a hand that gave the briefest quiver before being brought under control. His shoulders squared, his chin went up and he surveyed the throng with a merry blue eye. Lily remembered that his formative years had been spent in the tough, no-quarter-given-or-expected world of a Navy training ship. Bombs and bullets seemed not to impress him but the thought of an encounter with a knife at close quarters made him grit his teeth.

‘Now, let’s stay alert, Lily!’

Chapter Twenty

Charles Honeysett reckoned he had the most demanding job in the world. Steward-in-chief, as he styled himself, was one rung in the hierarchy below the manager (a gentleman whose position Charles had in his sights). He was standing, gold pocket watch in left hand, notes, which he was never observed to consult, in right, an ear ostentatiously cocked towards the double doors that communicated with the Grand Salon.

He listened to the God-awful piece of Scottish misery thrashing itself to a climax – he was glad he’d held out against the bagpipes – and with a flick of a finger dissuaded a flunkey from fiddling nervously with the door handle. The voice of his old sergeant rang in his head: ‘Wait for it! Wait for it, laddie!’

Timing. It was everything. He’d learned that much from the army. When to make an appearance and when to disappear. The day after his demob, he’d presented himself at the hotel where he’d worked before the war. And, with his luck, the incumbent steward had been on the point of retiring. It hadn’t taken much of an effort to gain the old boy’s support with the management. The usual persuasive mix of flattery and discreet financial arrangement. And the job had fallen into his lap.

And now the luck was theirs. With his early background of service in one of the grandest houses in the east of England and four war years’ experience at a rarefied level in the catering corps based in Paris, Honeysett offered them the best management in London. The bookings flooded in. London had taken off on an unstoppable wave of jubilation. Party followed party. The lights stayed on all night. ‘Brighten up London!’ the government had commanded and people leapt to obey. The vineyards of Champagne risked being drunk dry. And there must surely be a limit to the amount of roe you could squeeze from a sturgeon?

Honeysett eyed the gleaming silver tureens filled with caviar. All colours. From the ends of the earth. And obtained at vast expense. It had cost a hundred quid just to fill a small bowl with that special red stuff the princess had demanded. His lip curled at his memory of tasting it when it arrived on the refrigerated truck the day before. He wouldn’t offer it to his dog. Honeysett tasted everything in his quest for perfection. But he’d had to call in a second opinion on this one. Young Anna had been working for him for over a month now and had settled well. She claimed to be Russian and claimed to know her caviar when he asked. About 25 per cent of his staff were Russian. And they had a fast turnover. But this girl was different from the usual run of untrained chancers. Her references had been unimpeachable. And she knew her table placements seemingly by instinct. Most girls took a week to learn. And, above all, she was obliging. Didn’t object to working extra hours. Perfect English with just a trace of an accent – Scottish, he could have sworn. Was always at his elbow with a whispered suggestion or a sweetly termed correction.

She reminded him of himself at the same age, he thought, and decided she’d bear watching.

When consulted, she’d dipped the tip of a teaspoon into the red slime, delicately licked it with her cat’s tongue and closed those big dark eyes of hers. Silence followed. Honeysett was convinced his judgement was right and she was going to be sick until she sighed, opened her eyes again and, to his dismay, burst into tears. Lucky his handkerchief had been clean and crisp. Through the sniffling and gulping he’d managed to learn that the caviar was not only not off – it was wonderful. Supreme. A heavenly taste she’d not experienced for five years. He’d helped her get over her outburst of nostalgia, muttering: ‘There, there!’ and ‘Brace up now, dear.’ Emotional lot, these Russians. But five minutes later Anna was polishing the glasses and humming a jazzy tune under her breath, fully recovered from her emotional storm. He appreciated a woman who didn’t make an undue fuss. And his handkerchief had been returned this morning washed and ironed.

He’d promoted Anna to joint head of the serving squad for tonight’s shindig. Young Antonio, from Italy, would keep an eye on her. This high-stepping matched pair pleased him: Antonio and Anna, handsome and dark and just deferential enough. There they stood, uniform perfect, starched cuffs impeccable, napkin over left arm, at the ready. They’d been told to expect the guest of honour and his partner first in line and to take their time serving up their choice of dishes. After all, the glamour of the presentation was part of the entertainment. The guests should be allowed to feast their eyes on the shining display rising up in artistically arranged ranks on stepped buffets before choosing. Antonio and Anna would place samples of the dishes requested on china plates with a gold rim and heraldic double-headed eagle in the centre.

Some dishes were nestling in wreaths of crushed ice, others were being kept hot in chafing dishes – it seemed to Honeysett a strange and uncomfortable way of serving food and went against all his training and experience but that was what, increasingly, this informal world demanded. Experimentation. Novelty. And Honeysett was nothing if not supple. He rather liked to think that, in the most discreet way, he identified the trends and set the style. And young Anna had come up with some intriguing ideas. She was the right generation, after all. Buffet luncheons, short skirts, fast cars, picture houses – she was becoming a bridge between his Edwardian world and her modern one. He must find a way of retaining her services. By some means or other.

The doors rolled back and the crowd gasped. Several broke with tradition and sacrificed their dignity sufficiently to join the prince in a congratulatory clap of the hands at the sight of the buffet.

The prince leaned over and whispered to Lily, ‘Did I say picnic? No. Ali Baba’s feast, that’s what we’ve got. What fun! Let’s go in, shall we, and inspect it more closely? I don’t know whether we’re expected to eat it or paint it. Tell you what, where’s that photographer chappie? We’ll get him to record it for posterity … Ah, there he is!’