The Royal Nanny (10 page)

K
ing Edward did not die, but survived his operation with royal colors flying. I overheard the Prince of Wales tell his wife a few days after the good news came, “I tell you, May, he sat up in bed the next day, big as you please, smoking a cigar and driving his doctors to distraction.”

“As he does you at times, my dearest. Or rather as the thought of taking his place does to you.”

“I know David claims he does not want to be king, but, in truth, I'm not sure I do either. I swear, I'd rather live right here, even in little York Cottage instead of the Big House, overseeing those working with the land . . . and hunting.”

“But you know . . .” was the last of their words I caught as I hustled Mary past their door, which stood ajar into the hall. During the five years I had lived among the Yorks, now dubbed the Waleses, how much I had overheard of royal family secrets, of court life, of the wider world of politics. Right now, I had a moment's respite with little Harry balanced on my hip as I took him and Mary into the day nursery. But it was not five
minutes later when Finch gave a knock on the door that meant we were to present the children before their parents. As I opened the door, I saw he had both boys nattily attired in their usual sailor outfits.

“We must not keep your father waiting, right, boys?” I asked.

“You're right about that,” David said, tugging at his starched collar. “Lala, we're learning to salute just like we will in the navy when we first arrive and are called ‘snotties,' Father said.”

S
notties,
indeed, for they'd been that in their nursery years. My gaze snagged with Finch's as he tried to stifle a grin. Thank heavens, he had a good sense of humor, and we hoped that Henry Hansell, the older boys' new tutor, who was due today, would too. All I'd learned about Mister Hansell so far was that he was thirty-nine, very tall, and as good at sports as he was at teaching history. The trio of Helene Bricka, Finch, and Mrs. Lala was about to add a fourth leg to take care of these children of destiny, who only wanted to have fun and friends right now.

A
S
F
INCH AND
I stood behind the children in their mother's boudoir, their father clapped his hands and announced, “Good news all round! You already know that your grandfather's health has taken a turn for the best. His coronation has been rescheduled for the ninth of August, barely over a month away. We'll all go to London for it. You eldest three will be in the Abbey to see it all.”

“Yes, Papa. Thank you,” David said. I could tell he was trying hard not to fidget. He loved his grandfather so he was probably ready to explode in cheers.

Bertie blurted, “Yes, P-P-P- . . .”

“Well, get it out, boy! Stop that wretched stuttering right now!” the prince ordered. Bertie recoiled as if he'd been hit.

Mary, bless her, put her arm around Bertie's shaking shoulders and said, “You can tell we're all excited about it, Papa.”

Their mother put in a quick word as if to deflect the prince's attention from Bertie too. “We'll have kilts made for you boys, and Mary will have a new, lovely white frock with lace and ribbons. Harry will have to stay with you, Lala, but I believe you can see the parade and procession from the windows of Marlborough House.”

I was glad Harry was only fourteen months so that being closed out of the momentous event meant nothing to him, though he was old enough to keep quiet in his father's presence. But when the prince went out to his study, Harry said, “Mama! Mama!” and put out his arms toward her. Oh, how hard I'd worked on getting him to go to her. With another royal child coming, I prayed that baby would not be without his or her mother's love in the earliest years.

Princess May held little Harry while her lady-in-waiting played on the piano all sorts of tunes from a Scottish songbook. And then came some American folk tunes like “Camptown Races,” “Oh My Darling Clementine” and the Civil War song “When Johnny Comes Marching Home
,
” which was my favorite
.
Princess May had taught us the words, and I must admit I had a good voice and had always loved to sing.

Soon, apple cinnamon scones, cherry tarts—I knew we were in for messy faces with that—and tea with lots of milk in it appeared. It was a wonderful hour, and I noted well that Bertie never stuttered his
b
's or
d
's when he sang. I believe I cherished those times as much as the children. And it helped me to convince myself I'd made the right choice to remain among them.

But when we traipsed toward our back section of the hall, there stood the prince outside the boys' schoolroom door. We all
came to a quick halt. With him was a very tall, mustached man with a valise in his hands.

“David, Bertie,” the prince said, “this is your new tutor, Mister Hansell, you've been waiting for. Hansell and I have decided you must know your country's history when your grandfather is crowned, so get to it.”

“Mary. Mrs. Lala,” he said as he passed us and gave a single, gentle stroke to Harry's little head. He seemed to always like the babies at least. So here we stood with a stranger as the prince's feet thudded down the hall.

“Greetings all round,” Henry Hansell said, putting his fat valise down. “Boys, we'll start first thing tomorrow with facts about Westminster Abbey where your grandfather will be crowned, but I daresay we'll have time for football, cricket, and golf too, eh?”

“We don't know how to play those,” David told him. “But I want to learn to shoot and ride a bike, Midder Hansell.”

Well, I thought, the king had spit out Hansell's name quite fast, so David must have thought he said
M
idder
instead of
M
ister.

Hansell looked down over his broad mustache at Finch and me, and his thick eyebrows lifted. “Now don't correct the lad, for I'll be doing enough of that. I hear the children have named you Mrs. Lala, and I warrant they've just dubbed me ‘Midder,' eh?”

And Midder it was, ever after.

D
AVID AND
B
ERTIE
were soon reciting the kings of England and the histories of the Tower of London, the Abbey, and St. Paul's. It didn't surprise me that the prince had partly picked Hansell for his athletic prowess, for Finch told me he'd excelled in football at Oxford. I heard he could shoot with the best of them, but, sadly, had six handicaps in golf or something like that.

Everyone liked Midder Hansell except for Helene, who had
to compete with him for the boys' time and often lost, however much she tattled to Princess May. Best of all, when he was not drilling facts into the boys, Hansell—usually with Finch—took them outside to run off extra energy, playing with a football or using a golf club on the lawn, though I heard their father had ordered them not to “hack it to death.” When I told Hansell that the children never mingled with others their age and were quite lonely for that lack, he arranged a football game with some of the West Newton village youth.

“Mrs. Lala, leave the baby with an undernurse and come down to see how they do, in the field between here and the village,” Hansell called to me as the four of them set out, Finch carrying a hamper of drinks and food, the boys bursting with excitement.

So, when shouts and cheers reached my ears that late July day, I did just that, taking Mary to see her brothers play with the local lads. A crowd of villagers had gathered, mostly on the far side of the field nearest their houses. We sat on a bench to cheer our team on, but I soon saw there was a problem. The village boys ran way round David and Bertie so, I assumed, as not to hurt them. They never kicked the ball hard at them, almost fed it to them, even those on the opposite team.

“Here, sir,” a redheaded lad said to David, kicking the ball gently to his feet, then backing away. “Your turn again. You can have the ball if you want it.”

I could tell Hansell was frustrated. Finch, more than once, spoke to the local boys, I assume, telling them it was fine to really play a game and not mollycoddle the Waleses.

“A disaster,” Hansell told me when he jogged over to get a drink from the hamper at our feet. “The royal lads will get the idea it's a
game for sissies. But if David and Bertie are not going to so much as shake a leg, I can hardly scold the village lads.”

“I can,” a familiar voice behind me said. “Let's you and I and Finch go at it then. We'll give the lads the idea that all's fair in love, war, and games, righto?”

Chad. Standing close behind me for who knew how long. I felt frozen in place, afraid to look him full in the face when I'd longed to see him. But what did it matter now, our days together, his hopes and my ignorance, however much he still, strangely, meant to me. I felt naked. The entire universe was screaming at me. I found I could not so much as reply.

“Mrs. Lala,” Hansell said, “what do you think?”

I cleared my throat. Still looking off toward the waiting boys, I managed, “I think it's worth a try, and David and Bertie know and respect Chad.”

“Ah,” Hansell said, peering at me from under his tweed cap. “So you're all acquainted.”

“Come on then,” Finch said.

Without a glance or word my way, Chad went to the two leaders of the village team and shook their hands, then did the same with David and Bertie, who, evidently, had been named captains of the other group. Then Chad, Finch, and Hansell went at it: kicking, running, shouting, pointing, and ordering their opposing teams around.

David and Bertie at first just clapped and cheered—for Chad as well as the York Cottage men. Chad huddled with the village boys, and they started to treat the royals a bit more like real rivals. It seemed to me that Chad was especially hard on Finch, Hansell too. Mary shouted for Hansell and Finch, and David and Bertie began to catch on and not stand about like scarecrows. I kept
mostly quiet, but for clapping for goals. Earlier, I'd expected David and Bertie to win by default since the others did not dare to approach them, but they finally got into the fray with flying feet and a goal. But the village team and Chad won in a final rally of rough and ready.

After the game, Chad, sweating, rumpled, out of breath, walked past me. “Always problems, yes, Charlotte, taking the bad with the good?” His brown eyes bored into mine. “The differences sadly mean that ‘Never the twain shall meet.' But once, they almost did, they could have.” He doffed his rakish cap to me and kept on walking. At least he had spoken, used my name as no one else did anymore but in letters from my family. But his words had accused and condemned me again.

He looked so good that day, sun-browned with strong chest and arms none of the men I saw daily flaunted. His deep voice raced from my breasts to my belly, the latter managing a huge cartwheel. Again, he'd helped my beloved boys. Though Finch had kept up with Chad, and Hansell's size had dwarfed him, Chad Reaver seemed the top man in that game, the one truly in charge. All during the coming fuss and flutter of activity for the coronation, I crowned Chad in my heart as the best and dearest man I'd ever known.

H
OW HARD
I
tried to get into the excitement of coronation day in London, the ninth day of August 1902. It had been a strangely cold and cloudy morning, but then the sun burst forth as if to herald a heavenly blessing. From the third-floor window of Marlborough House, I held little Harry up to the window from which we could see the Mall and Buck House beyond Green Park. My family would be in that crowd somewhere, and here I was, looking down at it all.

We could see the parade route with swags of red bunting that nodded and bowed above the cheering crowds twenty deep. Troops, which had been camped in the city parks, paraded, row after row of dashing uniformed men afoot or mounted. The clip-clops of the horses' hooves mingled with shouts of
H
urrah
and
G
od save the king!

I told Harry, “Grandpapa and Grannie are in the first carriage leaving the palace. Papa and Mama are in the next one. See the Royal Horse Guards riding with them?”

“Horsies! Horsies!” the little lad shouted.

Well, I thought, so much for grasping what was going on down there. At least David and Bertie were not just learning about pomp and ceremony today but observing it up close, for they, and Mary, were to be in the royal box with their mother and aunts to see the great display, which would begin promptly at five minutes to twelve.

Since this was only early August and Princess May was not due to give birth to her next child until December, I thought it unfair that she was not seated near her husband on the main floor. But I'd overheard her tell Eva Dugdale that Queen Alexandra wanted “the stage all to herself.” So once again the stubborn queen was trying to shift her daughter-in-law off to the side. She was defying her husband again too, as he'd been adamant she wear a British-made gown today, but she had chosen one from Paris. Rose said it would be of glimmering gold, and the long train of her robe had been embroidered by some of India's finest dressmakers. She was to be absolutely ablaze with diamonds.

I knew more about Princess May's gown, though, since Rose was to dress her, and had described her coronation attire to the last silk rose garter on the lingerie. Unlike Alexandra's dress, May's was made entirely by British seamstresses. It was ivory satin,
embroidered with four shades of gold and studded with pearls. The bodice bore a corsage of pearls and diamonds, no less. Over this she was to wear a robe of heavy purple velvet and an ermine cape attached with huge bows of gold and pearls, which Rose had fretted might come loose, since the robe and cape were so heavy. Ah, well, at least all I had to fret for today was making sure Harry could see his “horsies.”

After the parade passed, I sang to him and put him down for his nap, then started pacing, not wishing so much I was there to see the splendor of it all, but thinking that the nation's shouts and huzzahs reminded me of how Chad had cheered on his village team of boys and yet supported the fumbling David and Bertie. I should have told Chad thanks for helping them when he walked by me. I should have told him I was truly sorry he had lost his child and what a good father I knew he would be someday. Or should I have told him he must come and take the feather picture back?