‘How is he?’ she whispered as they went together to the front door.
‘Dr Reid says he is extremely unwell. He is being administered oxygen and has requested I go to him. The Queen is still not home.’ She stepped into the brougham and Sonia and Flora continued on their way across to the park.
At five thirty, Flora saw the brougham draw up to the house and Mrs Keppel emerge. Later, she walked downstairs to dinner, but found only Mr George at the table. He greeted her with a weary smile as she sat down.
‘I’m afraid Mrs Keppel is indisposed tonight, and is eating in her room,’ he said. ‘I presume you have heard that the King is unwell?’
‘I have, yes.’
‘They have posted an announcement outside Buckingham Palace, saying that “His Majesty’s condition causes some anxiety”. My wife was with him there today, and confirms the King is seriously ill. Thank God, the Queen is returned from her cruise and is at the Palace now.’
‘All we can do is pray,’ she said eventually.
‘Yes.’ Mr George nodded sadly. ‘That is exactly what my wife said to me earlier tonight.’
‘Miss Flora, are you awake?’
Flora jumped into consciousness, having no idea what time it was. ‘What is it?’ she asked as she saw Barny standing in the half-light at her door.
‘It’s Mrs Keppel, she’s hysterical. If you could go to see her . . .’
‘Of course. Where is she?’
‘In her boudoir. See if you can calm her.’
In fact, Flora hadn’t needed to be told where Mrs Keppel was, for the pitiful sobbing emanating from behind the door would have led her there anyway. Feeling it was rather pointless to knock, she did so a couple of times for the sake of politeness, then opened it.
Mrs Keppel was pacing the room in her nightgown and silken robe. Her thick auburn hair fell wildly about her shoulders, mirroring her current state of mind.
‘What is it? Is it the King?’
‘No.’ Mrs Keppel paused to see who was asking, registered Flora and continued as she closed the door behind her. ‘It’s the Queen! Last night, she arrived home, having been away from Bertie all these weeks when he has been so ill, and she had me banished from the Palace! Now I am not allowed to see him in his dying hour! How can this be? How can it be?’
Mrs Keppel sank into a silken huddle on the rug and sobbed. Flora walked towards her and knelt down beside her. Eventually, Mrs Keppel calmed herself enough to speak again.
‘Flora, I love him. And he loves me! And needs me! I know he wants me there!’ Mrs Keppel fumbled in her robe pocket, drew out a letter and unfolded it. ‘See,’ she said, stabbing at it with her index finger, ‘you read it.’
Duly, Flora took the sheet of paper from her trembling hands.
My dear Mrs George,
Should I be taken very seriously ill I hope you will come and cheer me up but should there be no chance of my recovery you will I hope still come and see me – so that I may say farewell and thank you for all your kindness and friendship since it has been my good fortune to know you. I feel convinced that all those who have any affection for me will carry out the wishes which I have expressed in these lines.
‘I see,’ said Flora quietly.
‘What should I do?’
‘Well,’ she said slowly. ‘I think that he is the king, and you are his subject. And . . . this letter decrees that he wishes you to go to him.’
‘But can I show it to the Queen? His wife? Would it be an unseemly thing to do, to use this to beg to be in the presence of a man who has only a few hours left on earth, so that I may say goodbye? I just . . . want to say . . . goodbye.’
If ever Flora had felt the weight of the world on her shoulders, she felt it now. It wasn’t her place to tell the King’s mistress whether she should run to him on his deathbed, ignoring the displeasure of the Queen. She could only put herself in the position of a woman who loved a man and wanted to see him before he died.
‘I think,’ Flora said, taking a deep breath, ‘that I would go to the Palace. Yes, I would,’ she reiterated. ‘Merely because, even if you cannot gain entry to see the King, you will always know that you tried to do as your sovereign requested. Yes.’ Flora looked Mrs Keppel in the eyes. ‘That is what I would do.’
‘My dissenters inside the Palace will hate me all the more for it.’
‘Perhaps. But he will not.’
‘God knows what will become of me when he is gone . . . I dare not think.’
‘He is not gone yet.’
‘My dearest Flora.’ Mrs Keppel lifted her shaking arms towards her. ‘You are a joy to me. And to the King.’ She took Flora into her arms and held her. ‘I will send him your love.’
‘Please do. I am extremely fond of him.’
‘As he is of you.’ Mrs Keppel wiped her tears away and picked herself up off the floor. ‘I will go to the Palace, and if they do not let me see my love, then so be it. But at least I have tried. Thank you, Flora. Can you send in Barny to me to help me dress? I must not wear black’ – she shuddered – ‘but some gay colour that will cheer him.’
‘Of course. Good luck.’ Flora left the room.
For the rest of the day, the residents of 30 Portman Square held vigil, waiting for Mrs Keppel to return home. Nannie arrived with regular bulletins as to the King’s health, passed on from Mrs Stacey, who took the gossip on the street from the tradespeople who called at the kitchen door with the household deliveries.
Sonia came to sit by Flora in the day nursery.
‘Do you think Kingy’s off to heaven today? All the servants are saying he’s going to die.’
‘If he does, I am sure he will go to heaven,’ said Flora. ‘He is a very good man.’
‘I know some people are scared of him, but he always played games with me. He used to race bits of toast down his trouser leg for me, getting butter everywhere. And he is kind, even though I don’t much like his dog, so I think that Kingy will grow wings and go and live on a cloud with God. After all, He is a king too.’
‘Yes, He is,’ said Flora, as Sonia nestled into her and sucked her thumb.
Dusk was descending when Flora finally heard the brougham return to the front of the house beneath the window, then saw a figure being half carried out of it. She raced to the top of the stairs and leant over the banister, straining her ears to hear Mrs Keppel’s voice. All she heard was silence.
‘Mr and Mrs Keppel are taking supper in their rooms, Miss Flora. I’ll bring you up a tray to yours,’ said Mrs Stacey, who Flora saw was wearing black. Or maybe she always has and I never noticed, Flora thought.
At midnight, she still lay awake and listened to the nearby church bells chime midnight, sounding like a death knell. Shortly towards one o’clock, she heard bells tolling mournfully from all over London.