‘Mummy!’
‘And Stephen Seymour is thinking of buying a castle on the west coast, so I was recommending a few I know of whose owners would be thrilled with the cash.’
‘Why does he want to live in Scotland?’
Her mother looked surprised. ‘I didn’t ask. Why wouldn’t he?’
The Queen smiled at this. As a daughter of the Earl of Strathmore, growing up in Glamis Castle, home to Macbeth, her mother found Scotland perfect in every way. She couldn’t imagine anyone not wanting to cut themselves off in a draughty, windswept medieval building overlooking nothing but moor and sea, and the foothills of rain-clad mountains.
‘Does Lord Seymour need to retreat from London?’ she asked.
‘Darling, I have no idea. He had a very romantic look in his eye, though. He and his wife know the Arisaig estate quite well. I think he was stationed there in the war. Lucy had a Scottish look about her today. She was wearing the most beautiful silk tartan two-piece and a clever little thistle hat that was quite the thing. Quite the best-dressed woman at the Oaks. Her husband must spend an absolute fortune on her.’
Margaret looked annoyed. ‘I was told I was the best-dressed woman at the Oaks.’
‘Well, yes, they would say that, wouldn’t they?’ her mother said, adding just in time, ‘And you look perfectly enchanting, darling.’ Then she returned to her theme. ‘Lucy really is very attractive. I can quite see why he bought it for her.’
‘What?’
‘The Zellendorf. It would have looked lovely in her hair. Lucy’s perhaps a little old for something so summery. Personally, I’d have recommended a bandeau, but taste in tiaras is very personal, isn’t it?’
‘I wouldn’t know,’ Margaret muttered.
‘It would have looked far better on you,’ her mother said gamely. ‘But it will be locked away now, won’t it? Or else it will be notorious and sell for a fortune, which would be dreadful. I must say, they seemed a devoted couple, if rather sad, but that’s understandable, in the circumstances. I wonder where he got his penchant for tarts and other men’s wives.’
‘Mummy!’
‘Everyone knows, Lilibet. He’s famously unfaithful. Men are so very complicated, aren’t they?’
‘I always thought they were rather simple,’ the Queen said.
‘Don’t underestimate them, darling. What would the world be without them? Oh, look, they’re lining up for the first race. Can somebody pass me my binoculars?’
Chapter 30
Carrozza won the Oaks, with a brilliant young jockey called Lester Piggott edging her over the finish line, and the rest of June rather paled by comparison, until Ascot brought more successes on the turf. July went by in a flurry of visits, from the Wirral in the north-west to Jersey in the Channel Islands, and all of them went off without a hitch.
There were times, especially when the Queen was reminded of her victories by the Racing Post, when she began to wonder whether she had imagined treachery and sabotage after all. Was the suspect face cream in Denmark just a faulty batch? Had she read too much into what happened in Paris? Until she remembered Ingrid Kern. That brief addition to Philip’s Danish schedule had been no accident. Somebody wished her, and her marriage, harm.
The start of August was marked by Philip heading south to the Isle of Wight to join Britannia again and participate in the sailing festival at Cowes. He was joined by Charles for the first time, as a special treat before he went away to school. The Queen and Anne meanwhile would travel north by train, spend a few days at Balmoral and meet up with the princes later.
The royal diaries had been full since Philip’s arrival in Portugal in February, and they were busy again from October. So the Queen was looking forward to high summer in Scotland, with islands to visit, grouse moors to walk on and rivers to fish in, and only the mizzle and midges to worry about.
But as she was preparing to leave for King’s Cross to board the royal train for the overnight journey, Sir Hugh appeared at her study door with the same sort of expression he’d had when her speech went missing in Paris. Only, this time it was worse.
‘There’s been an article about you in a magazine,’ he said.
This wasn’t at all unusual. In fact, it seemed rare for magazines to publish without including an article about her these days. The Queen frowned at him. ‘Which one?’
‘The National and English Review.’
‘Do we know it?’
‘I read it occasionally, ma’am. It’s generally quite sound. But I’m afraid this time the editor has had some sort of psychological episode. He’s written things that are . . . Well, I won’t bore you with them now, ma’am, but suffice it to say they are rude to the point of treachery, not just about you, but about the whole fabric of the court and . . .’
Pink with outrage, he struggled to finish the sentence. This was very unusual for her unflappable private secretary. The Queen was more curious than alarmed, though.
‘Does it matter? Does anyone read what’s in the National and English Review?’
‘Not normally, ma’am. But the problem is that the Daily Express has got hold of it and Lord Beaverbrook has published an article roundly defending your interests. And so now of course everyone will read it. By the time you get to Scotland, I’m afraid there will be talk of little else.’
‘Put a copy in my boxes. I’ll read it on the way up. I’m sure we’ll manage, Hugh. Who wrote it, by the way?’
‘John Grigg – Lord Altrincham – the editor. He’s a historian; an Oxford man, who should know better.’
‘I’ll read it with interest,’ the Queen promised, still amused at Sir Hugh’s pink-faced reaction.
She read it twice that evening, between Stevenage and Peterborough, and had to wait until morning, when she finally got to Balmoral, before she could commandeer a telephone to talk to Philip in Cowes. By that stage, he’d already been briefed by his private secretary. His rage reverberated down the line.
‘The treacherous bastard! He should be hung, drawn and quartered! Who is this weasel?’
The Queen agreed up to a point. The article in question was much worse than she had imagined. It contained some very personal attacks that were quite upsetting. Her style of speaking was ‘a pain in the neck’. The words ‘priggish schoolgirl’ lingered in her mind. Was she really like that? She’d always considered herself rather approachable and open-minded.
The author claimed to be on her side. She was a good person, he surmised, but surrounded herself with ‘tweedy sorts’ (no wonder Sir Hugh was apoplectic) and failed to connect with her people. The Daily Express, in coming to her defence with loyal outrage, had made a small problem infinitely worse. The trouble was, in August there was little real news to fill the front pages.
‘It’ll be all over the world by next week,’ Philip shouted. ‘It’s already in the New York Times. How dare he? Six thousand people came to wave flags for you in the Forest of Dean. Six thousand! Did they think you were priggish?’
She really wished he wouldn’t go on about that word. It smarted.
‘They seemed happy enough,’ she said.
‘Bloody Altrincham had better watch out. Mind you, he’s got a point about the men in moustaches. Tweedy sorts, was it? Ha! Spot on. You know my thoughts on Hugh and Miles. But . . . hire trade unionists and socialists to take over from them? What in damnation?’
‘I’m not sure he thinks I should really hire them.’