Flora wanted to ask why, if the King was so sick, the Queen was not in attendance on her husband, but felt it was inappropriate to do so.
‘You must be weary if you have not slept for the past two nights,’ Flora said.
‘Indeed I am; I sat with him throughout the night, sponging him down as his fever was so high. To be honest, Flora, there were moments when I feared for his life. But now that Nurse Fletcher has arrived, he is in safe hands.’ There was yet another attack of coughing from next door. ‘Excuse me, Flora, I must go to him.’
For the following fifteen minutes, the doors to the suite opened and closed as steaming bowls and strange-smelling poultices made their way through to the King. Flora secreted herself in the farthest corner by the drawing room window, trying to make herself invisible.
Eventually, as the light was fading across the sea and the sun illuminated the clouds in a splendour of reds and oranges, Mrs Keppel and Dr Reid appeared, deep in conversation.
‘The question is, should we alert the Queen?’ Dr Reid asked.
‘The King has already stated that he does not want to alarm his wife,’ snapped Mrs Keppel. ‘Besides, she abhors Biarritz.’
‘That may be, but it would be most tragic if . . .’ Dr Reid wrung his hands in agitation. ‘Of course, he should be in a hospital, but he will not hear of it.’
‘I should think not. Can you imagine the furore if the newspapers hear of this?’
‘Madam, there are already a number of reporters downstairs, asking why the King is not taking his usual walks along the promenade and leaving the hotel to dine. I doubt we can keep them at bay for much longer.’
‘Then what are we to do?’
‘I will sit up with him tonight and monitor him hour by hour, but if his breathing does not seem easier by morning . . . whether the King wishes his wife and the rest of the world to know of his indisposition or not, we must contact the Palace.’
A knock at the door made them both turn around. Flora stood up to answer it.
‘Flora, my dear, I had forgotten you were here.’ A faint blush rose to Mrs Keppel’s cheeks as she realised their conversation had been overheard.
The equerry stepped into the suite. ‘The maids are here to lay the King’s table for dinner.’
‘Yes, yes, let them in,’ Mrs Keppel sighed, throwing a despairing glance at Flora. ‘He still insists that he rises to dine with us in here tonight.’
Mrs Keppel left for her own room to ready herself for dinner and Dr Reid disappeared into the King’s bedroom. Flora watched the dining table being laid by the three maids, the gold-rimmed china plates and the heavy silver cutlery carefully nudged into place at precise angles to the crystal wine glasses, before the maids removed themselves as quietly as they had arrived.
Flora was only thankful that the coughing from next door seemed to have abated; perhaps the King was finally sleeping. As the door to the bedroom opened, Flora turned anxiously, expecting Dr Reid. Instead, the King himself appeared in the room, fully dressed and breathing heavily.
‘Your Majesty.’ Flora hastily drew herself to standing and swept a deep and embarrassed curtsey. She felt the King’s eyes upon her, squinting across the vast drawing room.
‘Well, bless my soul! If it isn’t little Miss Flora MacNichol,’ he panted.
‘Yes, Your Majesty.’
‘Come and help me to a chair, will you? I’ve escaped while my jailors are busy in the bathroom, no doubt preparing some ghastly, foul-smelling poultice or injection.’
Flora walked towards him, listening to his irregular breathing and praying that he didn’t breathe his last with her. He held out his elbow to her and she took it shyly.
‘Where would you like to sit?’ she asked as they progressed slowly and painfully across the room, the effort of walking rendering him speechless and only able to point to his preferred chair. It took all of Flora’s strength to support him as he sat down heavily, and she watched him fight a further coughing fit. His eyes watered and his breathing increased apace.
‘Shall I call for Dr Reid, Your Majesty?’
‘No!’ he hissed. ‘Just pour me some brandy!’
Flora walked to the tray of decanters, only wishing the King would have a coughing fit and alert the doctor to his escape from the bedroom. Following the fat pointed finger with a nod, she picked up one of the decanters, poured a small glass and turned towards him.
‘More!’
Doing as instructed and filling it to the brim, Flora took the brandy back to him and watched as he took it and downed it in one.
‘Another,’ he whispered, and Flora had no choice but to repeat the exercise.
‘Now,’ the King said, passing the empty glass to her, ‘that’s what I call medicine. Shh.’ He put a shaking finger to his lips as Flora replaced the glass on the tray. ‘Sit.’ He pointed to the chair closest to him and she did so.
‘So, Miss MacNichol, Flora . . . I approve of that name. Scottish, you know.’
‘Yes, Your Majesty.’
‘It is odd, is it not?’
‘What is, Your Majesty?’
There was a long pause before the King was able to continue speaking.
‘That you and I find ourselves alone together. On an occasion where I might not see the sun tomorrow morning.’
‘Please, Your Majesty, do not say such a thing!’
‘I . . .’
Flora watched the vast man struggle for air and saw tears filling his eyes.
‘I have made many mistakes.’
‘I am sure you have not.’
‘I have . . . I have . . .’
Another lengthy pause ensued.
‘I am only human, you see. And I have loved . . .’
Flora decided the best thing to do was to avert her eyes as the King’s staccato soliloquy continued.
‘. . . women,’ he managed finally. ‘You are to be married soon?’
‘Yes, I am.’
‘A viscount, I hear?’ He smiled suddenly.
‘Yes, Your Majesty, Freddie Soames.’
‘And . . . you love him?’
‘I believe I will grow to do so, yes.’
At this, the King began to chuckle, then realising it was not possible given his condition, he brought his mirth under control.
‘You have spirit, like me. Come here.’
Flora went towards him, and took his outstretched hand, hearing the deathly rattle in his chest.
‘Wasn’t sure, you see.’
‘About what, Your Majesty?’
‘When Mrs George suggested it. Clever woman, Mrs George . . . always right.’
At that moment, the bedroom door opened and Dr Reid walked in, followed by a nurse.
‘We thought we had left you to sleep, Your Majesty.’ Dr Reid’s eyes fell accusingly on Flora. ‘You know it is by far the best medicine.’
‘So you tell me,’ rasped the King. ‘But so is . . . good company.’ The King then winked at Flora before the attack of coughing he had been suppressing could no longer be prevented.
Water and more steam were brought to him and Mrs Keppel appeared, looking refreshed and calm in a blue velvet evening gown.
‘Mrs George, where on earth have you been?’
‘Really, Bertie, you should be in bed,’ she chided.
‘Where is Soveral? He’s late to dine. And I am . . . starving.’