Malice at the Palace (The Royal Spyness Series Book 9)
By: Rhys Bowen
But my living grandfather was one of my favorite people. He always made me welcome, even though he had very little himself. Another thought crossed my mind: wouldn’t it be lovely if I could stay with him for a while? I pictured waking to the smell of bacon cooking, sitting drinking tea in his tiny kitchen, chatting with him by the fire. I sighed. Unfortunately I knew this would be frowned upon. It had been made quite clear to me that it would create great embarrassment to the family if the newspapers got wind of it. Royal in Reduced Circumstances. Her Highness Eats Down the Fish-and-Chip Shop. I could see the left-wing newspapers would have a field day.
Really my family was too tiresome. I couldn’t take a job that might embarrass them. I couldn’t stay with the one person who wanted my company. And yet they offered me no financial support. How on earth did they expect me to live? I knew the answer to that one immediately: I was expected to make the right sort of marriage to some half-mad, chinless European princeling—the sort who get assassinated with monotonous frequency. They had introduced me to a couple of candidates and I had turned them down, much to everyone’s annoyance. But there are some lengths a girl won’t go to to put a roof over her head.
There must be something I can do, I thought as I tiptoed downstairs and filled the kettle for tea. The trouble was that I wasn’t trained for anything except how to behave in the correct social circles. And in these days of depression there were people with real qualifications who were lining up for jobs. I sighed as I made the tea. If only I’d inherited my mother’s stunning looks, I could have followed her onto the stage. But alas I took after my father—tall, lanky, healthy Scottish outdoor looks.
I cheered myself with the thought of going to see Granddad and made boiled eggs and toast before I went to wake Belinda. She looked rather the worse for wear as she sat at the dining table, sipping her tea and nibbling on a piece of toast.
“I feel terrible turning you out now, darling,” she said. “If only I had a spare room . . .”
“I know. It’s quite all right,” I said. “Don’t worry, something will turn up. I’ll go and retrieve Queenie and she can pack up my things and if worse comes to worst I can stay with my grandfather for a few days.”
“I thought that was frowned upon by the family,” Belinda said.
“It is, but they aren’t exactly offering me an alternative, are they? I’ll pick up a copy of The Lady when I go out. There must be some job I could do.”
“Georgie, don’t be silly. The Lady has advertisements for governesses and ladies’ maids.”
“And things like companions and social secretaries. Anything’s better than Castle Rannoch.”
“I agree with that. But feel free to sleep on my sofa until you find something. I don’t want to turn you out into the storm.”
I smiled. “In case you haven’t noticed, it’s a lovely sunny morning.”
She glared blearily at the window. “Is it? I hadn’t noticed.” Then she turned back to me and smiled. “Sorry. You should know by now that I’m not at my best in the morning. I’ll cheer up as the day goes on. And I’ll be in top form by the time I go to Crockford’s.”
I thought about Belinda as I went upstairs to wash and dress. I had always envied her her confident worldliness, her savoir faire, her elegance and style. I had always thought if anyone knew how to survive, it was she. I put on my cashmere jumper—one of my mother’s castoffs—and tartan skirt, topped it with my old Harris tweed overcoat, and out I went into the cold, crisp morning. I loved walking on days like this. At home in Scotland it would have been a perfect day for a ride through the heather, with my horse’s breath coming like dragon’s fire and the sound of his hooves echoing from the crags.
As I walked I began to feel more optimistic. Maybe Castle Rannoch wouldn’t be that bad. I could go out riding and walking and play with my adorable nephew and niece. And even Fig couldn’t object to my visiting for a week or so—long enough to scan the Lady and send out letters of application. After all, I had helped out at a house party last Christmas. Maybe I could do the same sort of thing this year. Lady Hawse-Gorzley would give me a good reference. Or I could perhaps be someone’s social secretary. I might not be able to type properly but I could write a good letter and I did know the rules of polite society. Maybe someone newly rich would be tickled to have a secretary with royal connections who knew the ropes. And the family couldn’t frown at that sort of job, out of London, away from the prying eyes of the press.