‘Merci, monsieur,’ said Moiselle to the footman who had helped them off the train and onto the platform. As they exited the station, Flora grimaced at the heavy grey sky that threatened rain. In all the paintings and photographs she’d seen, the sun was always shining in the south of France. Today, it felt like England.
‘It is not far to the Villa Eugénie,’ said the footman as he assisted them into the back seat of a magnificent Rolls-Royce, before seating himself in the front next to the driver. Flora gazed out of the window and felt exhilarated by the thought of seeing the Atlantic Ocean. Rarely had she been out to the seaside, certainly not since she had been a small child. They drove through the sedate town; the wide promenades were quiet, perhaps due to the inclement weather, and she admired the tamarisk trees and hydrangeas that grew outside the chic cream and pink houses. Flora arched her neck to catch glimpses of the seafront, where the foaming waves crashed down on the sand.
The Rolls-Royce left the cobbled streets of the town centre and, shortly afterwards, turned into the driveway of a large villa. The footman helped them out of the motor car, and they were greeted by a butler as they moved up the steps to the grand white doors.
Feeling rather like an animal who had been transported from one zoo to another, Flora followed Moiselle across a vast palatial hall and up a wide flight of stairs. The only sound she could hear was that of shoes echoing on the tiled steps. Just as a maid was opening the door to her room, a small pair of arms wound themselves around her waist.
‘Flora! You’re here!’
‘Yes, I am.’ Flora smiled as she turned round to be greeted by Sonia’s delighted expression.
‘I am so glad,’ Sonia said as she followed Flora and the maid into the bedroom. The windows were open and the sea air at least smelt fresh and cleansing. Sonia jumped on the bed as the maid began unpacking Flora’s trunk. ‘It has been so dull since we arrived in France. Kingy has not been well, you see. Mama has been caring for him.’
‘Oh? What is wrong with him?’
‘Mama says he caught a chill when he was in Paris and since he arrived two nights ago, we haven’t seen him or Mama once and have been stuck here by ourselves.’ Sonia lay down on the large bed, its headboard a washed blue silk with gilded acorns atop each corner. ‘This has a very nice mattress,’ she remarked. ‘Can I sleep with you tonight?’
‘If Nannie will let you, of course you can.’
‘Nannie is so worried about Mama being worried about Kingy that I think she would let us go all day without even washing our hands!’
At this remark, Flora knew that the King must be seriously ill. ‘This is a beautiful house, isn’t it?’ Flora joined Sonia on the bed as the maid closed the door.
‘I suppose so, but it’s rained a lot since we’ve been here, and everyone seems rather gloomy.’
‘Well, I’m excited to be in France. I’ve never been here before.’
‘It’s not really much different,’ said the nine-year-old expert. ‘They just speak a different language and eat strange things like snails for supper.’
Nannie arrived in search of her charge and Sonia left the room. Flora lay back on the bed and felt her eyelids drooping.
She was awoken by a sharp tap-tapping at the door.
‘Entrez,’ she said as she sat up.
‘Mademoiselle Flora, I left you for as long as we could.’
It was Moiselle. ‘Thank you, I . . . what time is it?’
‘Past three o’clock. Madame Keppel has asked if you would join her at the H?tel du Palais at five. I wanted to give you enough time to change.’
‘Will it be for dinner?’
‘She didn’t say, but the King will almost certainly be joining you. I will send the maid up to help you dress.’
‘Thank you.’
As Flora closed the window and hastened to get ready, her stomach churned at the thought of dinner with the King. She hadn’t seen him since they’d taken tea together in October.
After being pushed and pulled into an emerald-green tea gown, she was ushered into the motor car and driven to the H?tel du Palais, which overlooked the sea. With its opulent red and white frontage and tall windows, it looked every bit the palace of its name. She was greeted at the entrance by a smartly dressed man.
‘Miss MacNichol?’
‘Yes.’
‘I am Sir Arthur Davidson, equerry to the King, and I will escort you up to his rooms.’
Flora was led swiftly through the palatial entrance hall and upstairs in a lift. They stepped out into a wide, sumptuously carpeted corridor and walked towards a uniformed butler who was standing outside a set of double doors.
‘Please tell Mrs Keppel that Miss MacNichol is here,’ said her escort.
The butler nodded and disappeared inside. Flora waited silently, not sure how one should converse with an equerry of the King.
‘Flora, my dear!’ Mrs Keppel appeared through the double doors and gave her a spontaneous hug. ‘Come in, come in,’ she said, closing the door on the equerry and leading Flora into an exquisitely furnished sitting room with long windows that gave a wonderful view of the ocean. ‘The King is sleeping at the moment, but will be up in time for dinner. He wishes to eat here in our private dining room. I must warn you that he is not at all well. I . . .’
At that Mrs Keppel’s words were drowned out by a dreadful, deep coughing sound from the next room.
‘Come and sit down and we shall take a glass of sherry each. I, for one, would certainly enjoy it.’
Mrs Keppel went to the array of decanters arranged on the sideboard and poured them both a glass. As she handed Flora hers, Mrs Keppel’s hands shook and Flora noticed there were dark rings under her eyes.
‘How sick is the King?’ Flora ventured nervously.
‘He took a chill in Paris and for the last two days has had a terrible attack of bronchitis. Dr Reid, his physician, and I have been nursing him but, thank goodness, Nurse Fletcher has now arrived from England; she has cared for him before.’ Mrs Keppel swiftly drained her glass.
‘Is he getting better?’
‘He is at least getting no worse, though, of course, the silly man refuses to help himself. He still insists on continuing with his routine rather than staying in bed, but at least we have managed to confine him to these rooms.’ Another bone-wracking cough emanated from next door and Flora too took a large gulp of her sherry.
‘Are you sure it’s appropriate for me to be here if he is so sick?’
‘My dear, as I said, the King refuses to surrender to his illness and I doubt he has dined alone a single night of his life. The Marquis de Soveral, the Portuguese ambassador, is also joining us, but, of course, the King would hardly be content with just the two of us and his doctor present at table. When I said you had arrived here earlier today, he was most eager that you join us.’
‘Then I am honoured.’
‘At least he has not been smoking those confounded cigars; Dr Reid is convinced they are the cause of his bronchial problems. No doubt the moment he is recovered, he will begin again. But what can one do? He is the King after all.’