“He does write books,” I reminded him. “That is work in its way. And apparently he pays those old men well. The problem with being a servant is that you have nowhere to go when you leave. Most of them would not be given a pension.”

  “When the communists take over the government, all will be given a pension,” he said.

  “We’ve seen what communism did in Russia. It made things worse for everybody. I’m afraid most people are not good at sharing. Those in power always want more for themselves and take it at the expense of others, don’t they?”

  “I suppose that’s true,” he agreed. He turned to me. “I think you are a good person, even though you are a lady.”

  I had to laugh at this. “So you’ll spare me from the guillotine when the revolution comes?” I paused, watching his face. “I have to tell you, Pierre, that there will be no revolution in England. We British are far too sensible. We like a quiet life of moderation. So no communists and no Fascists. Most of us like things the way they are.”

  I thought about this conversation as I lay in bed that night. It was wrong that I had this big, beautiful house to myself while others lived in slums. But we were born to a certain situation, weren’t we? My cousin didn’t want to be king but was stuck with it. Only my grandfather seemed content with his little house in Essex and his gnomes in the front garden. But should I be doing more? Maybe like Sir Mordred I should take more interest in my kitchen garden and grow enough produce to share. After all, we were relying on Sir Hubert’s generosity and it would be nice to be doing our bit to keep Eynsleigh running. Not that I knew anything about gardening or farming, but I could learn. It would be a new challenge while I was staying home with a new baby. This thought reminded me of something I had tended to overlook. In a couple of weeks I’d have a baby to look after. I’d be a mother. Golly.

  * * *

  Preparations for the open house were in full swing. Pierre went up to London to buy ingredients he couldn’t find locally. He ordered fresh crab and plaice to be delivered directly from fishermen on the coast. Phipps drove him over to Blackheart for a consultation with Mr. Henman. All seemed to be going well until, the day before the big event, Mr. Henman was taken ill. Some kind of stomach upset, we were told. He felt too weak to be able to participate. It occurred to me that he had never approved of Pierre coming to cook in his kitchen and this was his way of making a statement. But it left Pierre in the lurch.

  “How am I to prepare all this food by myself?” he asked. “There is only the kitchen maid and she knows nothing.”

  “You can always bring Queenie with you,” I suggested.

  A look of horror flashed across his face. “Oh no. Not her, I implore you.”

  “But she does cook quite well, you’ve said so yourself. You can give her the simple tasks of preparation.”

  “But she also has the mishaps,” he said. “She knocks over the sauce I have prepared. She ruins my soufflés.”

  “I don’t think you have much choice, do you? It’s Queenie or the kitchen girl from Sir Mordred’s house, who you said knew nothing.”

  “Very well. If I must.” He gave an exaggerated sigh.

  Queenie was thrilled by the prospect. “Me cooking at a posh banquet, missus? Blimey. Fancy that. Wait till I write to my mum and tell her. And my dad. He was the one who thought I’d never amount to anything. He used to say I must be twins because one couldn’t be so daft.” A knowing look came over her face. “So Chef couldn’t do without me, eh? I knew he secretly fancied me, even though he won’t admit it. I’ll bring him round. You’ll see. I’ll be ever so helpful at the banquet.” She leaned closer to me. “He says there will be celebrities coming. Film stars.”

  “So I’ve been told.”

  “Blimey, missus. Do you think I can get their autograph? My cousin Florrie won’t half be jealous.”

  It seemed that everything Queenie did was designed to score points against her family. But at least she was excited and willing.

  “So you’ll have to promise me you’ll be extra careful and have no accidents. No setting the kitchen on fire.”

  “I don’t set no kitchens on fire! Well, only that one time and that was because the tea towel was hanging over the stove. Oh, and that other time when we was visiting that lady over Christmas…”

  “Promise me you’ll be extra careful this time, then,” I repeated. “It’s the reputation of this household that you are representing. Our good name.”

  “Bob’s yer uncle, missus,” she said and went away happily.

  * * *

  Luckily the day of the open house dawned gloriously warm and sunny. It had been a splendid summer so far and I was tanned and healthy-looking. I got out of bed and stood looking across the park, feeling quite hopeful and excited. I was going to have a lovely time with fabulous food, even if the baby was now so big that there was no room for food in my stomach. I’d just have to nibble at each of the courses.

  I was on my way down to the kitchen to see how preparations were going and find out what time Pierre wanted to be driven over to Sir Mordred’s when I heard the most horrifying and blood-curdling scream. It was so loud that it echoed up the stairwell. I ran down the last of the stairs and pushed open the kitchen door. Mrs. Holbrook was hot on my heels. I think even Granddad had heard it from the morning room and was coming too.

  “What on earth is happening?” I demanded.

  Queenie was standing at the kitchen table. A sack had spilled over onto it and the table was now alive with crabs, all scurrying to find shelter, bumping into each other and falling off the table. Queenie was pointing at them in horror.

  “Look what he wants me to do!” she exclaimed. “When he said prepare the crabs I never thought the ruddy things would still be alive. I opened the ruddy sack and the bloody thing nearly took my finger off and then they all came running out!” She waved the offended finger at Pierre.

  “Stop them, you silly girl!” Pierre shouted from across the kitchen, where he was stirring a pot on the stove. “Do not let them get away. Do not let those dogs eat them.”

  The puppies, I noticed, were certainly not going to eat any crabs that had fallen to the floor. They had backed away with a look of anxiety on their faces. Jolly was barking.

  “Pick them up. Immediately,” Pierre commanded.

  Queenie made a grab for one, then screamed again. “It won’t stop still.”

  “Oh, come on, Queenie,” Mrs. Holbrook said. “Just avoid the claws. See?” She bent and picked up a crab, holding it by the shell with claws waving violently before dropping it back into the sack. I was going to volunteer to help but realized that with my current shape I couldn’t bend down. So I watched in horrified fascination as they retrieved the runaways.

  “You dogs are supposed to be retrievers,” I said to the cowering puppies. “You were no help at all.”

  They looked at me with big helpless eyes. “We are trained to retrieve dead ducks,” those eyes were saying. “Not things like this with all those legs.”

  “Well, they’re back in the sack, but I ain’t cutting up no live crabs. Not for all the tea in China,” Queenie said defiantly.

  “Mon dieu. You do not cut them when they are alive, silly girl,” Pierre replied. “First you drop them in the boiling water.”

  “I don’t want to do that neither,” she said. “Poor things. What did they ever do to you?”

  Pierre looked as if he was about to explode. “How am I going to make my crab mousse if this stupid woman does not prepare the crabmeat for me?” he demanded in French, raising his hands in desperation.

  “Someone has to kill all of the meat and fish that we eat, Queenie,” Mrs. Holbrook said, coming over to comfort her. “These crabs would not live long out of the sea. A quick end is actually being kind to them.”

  “Oh, I see.” Queenie nodded. “Being kind, eh? Right, then.” And she placed a giant pot on the stove and started to fill it with water.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Holbrook. You saved the day,” I whispered as we crept back up the stairs.

  Mrs. Holbrook smiled. “She’s a simple soul, isn’t she? Good-hearted but not the brightest.”

  “I just hope that’s not an omen for the rest of the day. She doesn’t have to pluck the ducks, does she?”

  “Oh goodness, I hope not. They’re being delivered to the other gentleman’s house. Let’s just pray.”

  * * *

  Apparently the crab preparation went smoothly after that, as I watched Pierre and Queenie setting off with covered dishes, presumably containing the crab mousse. I went upstairs to get ready. It had been a challenge to know what to wear, not only because of my current bulbous state but also because we were to be given that tour of the grounds first, which would make walking in evening slippers impossible. I had confided in Zou Zou, who had arrived the day before.

  “Should it be evening wear, even though it starts late afternoon with a tour of the grounds?”

  “Darling, I’m going to wear my evening pajama, whatever happens,” she said. “One has to look right, and it is a banquet, after all.”

  She came up to examine my wardrobe, shaking her head over the pathetically few items. “Oh dear,” she said. “You do seem to be lacking in the evening department.”

  “It didn’t make sense to have a dress made for such a short time.”

  “Pity it’s not a daytime event or you could wear the dress Chanel designed for you. What a fashion coup that would be.”

  I gave a despairing chuckle. “Zou Zou, you saw that dress. I couldn’t walk in it.”

  “We could always cut the bottom off.”

  “Then it would be too short.”

  She frowned. “I wonder if I whisked my little dressmaker down from London whether she could whip up a simple evening dress for you. Let me try. May I use your telephone?”

  She was gone down the stairs before I could stop her. I heard her saying, “Yes. Sussex. We’ll pick you up at the station. I don’t know. I’ll ask her.” She looked up at me. “Do you have a sewing machine in the house?”

  “I don’t think so, but Maisie’s mother has one in the village. She’s done some alterations for me.” I came down the rest of the staircase. “But Zou Zou—you can’t ask…”

  “We’ll have a sewing machine for you, Natalia darling. All you have to do is bring yourself and some suitable evening fabric. Not too flashy. The lady is in the family way. Color?”

  She looked back at me. “Oh, green, I think. Or blue. She’s a blonde.”

  She put back the telephone. “She’ll be arriving later today. I hope you can put her up for the night.”

  “Zou Zou—how do you manage these things?” I asked.

  She smiled. “I pay well.”

  * * *

  By lunchtime on the next day I had a dress to wear—a simple sheath in a misty blue. Zou Zou eyed it critically as the little dressmaker lady made a final fitting. “Wear your most sparkling necklace, darling. It will take the eyes away from the bulge. And you do have a pretty shawl to wear when we go outside.”

  And so I was dressed respectably, if not glamorously. I put on a necklace of lapis and pearls and my shawl with the silver threads through it. Darcy nodded approvingly when he saw me.

  “You look nice.”

  “So do you.” He looked dashingly handsome in his evening suit.

  Granddad also said I looked a treat, so I was feeling excited and hopeful as Sir Hubert drove us to Blackheart Manor.

  Chapter 12

  July 25

  At Blackheart Manor

  I’m sure Pierre will do a splendid job this evening (although there is a sliver of worry at the back of my mind that Queenie will be in the kitchen with him). But I’m not sure I’m looking forward to eating dinner in that dark and rather creepy dining room.

  Blackheart was humming with activity as we drove through the gates. This time they were wide open, bunting was draped around them, and a big sign proclaimed Open House Today. 5 Shillings in Aid of South African Orphans. We encountered a steady stream of people now leaving, some on foot, some in cars. It seemed the public was being turned out so that we favored few could have the place to ourselves. There were already several cars parked outside the front entrance—Bentleys and Daimlers among them. We were welcomed by Edwin, dressed formally but not looking happy about it.

  “Jolly nice to see you again,” he said. “Ready for the bean feast, then? Let me escort you to the terrace, where things are kicking off.” I introduced Darcy, Zou Zou, and Sir Hubert.

  “I’ve read about you, sir.” Edwin seemed suddenly animated. “You were the one who climbed K2 recently, weren’t you?”

  “That’s right.” Sir Hubert smiled.

  Edwin had gone rather pink. “I’d love to try something like that. See the world. Do something that’s never been done before. Instead I’m stuck at Oxford studying useless subjects.”

  “I was at Cambridge myself,” Sir Hubert said. “Studying equally useless stuff. But we all have to do it before we can get out into the real world. Wasn’t your father once in South Africa? Maybe he could arrange for you to go out there, see what the rest of the world is like.”

  “I’ve asked him but he doesn’t seem very keen. He says he knows nobody there now. He has bad memories of the Boer War. And then his near-death experience didn’t make him feel any fonder of the place.”

  “Near death? During the war, you mean?”

  “No, after the war. He stayed on in the country for a while and tried his hand at prospecting, since he actually had no real prospects at home at that stage.” He grinned at his own play on words. “He was digging for diamonds and there was a cave-in. He was buried in soft sand. The friend he was digging with was killed,” he said.

  “I’ve had some narrow escapes myself,” Sir Hubert said. “One bad fall in the Alps. In hospital for months. But that doesn’t put me off wanting to try more.”

  We came around the house to see the terrace was now decorated with bunting and small tables had been set up, each adorned with roses from the garden. Several young men in smart white uniforms were serving champagne and canapés. Either Sir Mordred had hired extra help for the evening or he had a bigger staff than I had seen before.

  Even as I was considering this, Edwin leaned closer to me. “Some of my pals from Baliol, you know. Eager to make a few pounds.” He winked at one of them—a handsome youth with a decidedly upper-class air to him.

  “Champagne, my lady?” he asked.

  Edwin nudged me. “The Honorable Skewes-Clarke,” he said. “Loads of titles. Poor as a church mouse. And you’ll find a motley crew of guests too. Not what you would call top-drawer.”

  Zou Zou touched my arm. “Oh no. There’s that ghastly woman.”

  “Which one?” I scanned the crowd.

  “The one at your dinner party who complained about everything. I thought she was terribly anti–Sir Mordred. Didn’t she say his books were un-Christian and demons would accompany him to the dinner table?”

  I spotted Colonel and Mrs. Bancroft. She was already tucking into the canapés.

  “I expect curiosity won out over principles,” Darcy commented.

  “That’s right. Everyone has been dying to see inside this place,” Sir Hubert agreed. “Ah, there’s old Robson-Clough. I must go and say hello to him.”

  I followed where he was indicating and saw an older man, standing a little apart from the group, I now recognized from my dinner party. He was wearing an ill-fitting and well-worn dinner jacket and looked clearly ill at ease. Mr. Robson-Clough, the famous explorer.

  We followed Sir Hubert toward Mr. Robson-Clough.

  “I wouldn’t have thought this was his sort of event,” I muttered to Zou Zou.

  “Ah, but he’s curious, like everyone else, darling. And he is an absolute expert on the healing powers of plants. He’s written a book on the subject, you know. He claims he was cured of all sorts of horrid diseases when he was in remote places.”

  Before we could reach Mr. Robson-Clough Sir Mordred caught sight of us and came over, arms extended in welcome.

  “Lady Georgiana,” he said, a little too loudly. “What a delight. And Mr. O’Mara. Sir Hubert. Your Highness. Welcome, welcome. Do come and meet everybody.”

  As he led us into the group of people I thought again that he might have invited us to score points on the social scale. A bit of a social climber, then. One who was not born to a title and perhaps was still not comfortable with it.

  “See, Ethel, what did I tell you? There’s royalty present,” said a decidedly northern-accented voice right behind us. “Now aren’t you glad you came?”

  “Well, it’s not Princess Marina or the Duchess of York, I can tell you that much,” replied an equally northern female voice. I looked to see a middle-aged couple eyeing us. She was dressed in what was clearly an expensive gown, but it didn’t hang properly on a stout figure. They bore down on us.

  “Did I hear our host saying that one of you is royalty?” the man asked.

  “This is Her Highness, Princess Zamanska,” Sir Hubert said.

  “Oh. Foreign royalty.” From her expression, clearly this didn’t count.

  But then Sir Hubert went on. “And Lady Georgiana is the king’s cousin.”

  Two interested gazes were turned to me. “Really? Fancy that. You know our new king, then. What a lovely man he is. He came to tour our factory once,” the man said. He held out a meaty hand to me. “Percy Crump. I make motorcars. This is my wife, Ethel.”

  “He’s really giving those foreign cars a run for their money,” his wife said. “There is talk of a knighthood, isn’t there, Percy?”