After their meeting, she asked Joan to stay behind.
‘I assume I’m right. Your aunt wouldn’t be appeased by cake?’
‘I think she’d be pretty insulted, ma’am. She can make her own cakes.’
‘Mmm.’
‘Although lots of her friends would be delighted.’
The Queen turned to the bigger question. ‘What did you think about this article? Could it be part of the campaign against me?’
‘I’ve been wondering about it, of course,’ Joan said. ‘It seemed so obvious to start with. I assumed it was the start of something more overt. But, when I got my aunt’s letter yesterday, I started to think . . .’
‘That in fact he’s being helpful?’
‘Yes, ma’am. Or trying to be. The article itself was very polite. It wasn’t a criticism of you, but more what my aunt said: that the monarchy needs to be less distant.’
Flattery shouldn’t always be laid on with a trowel, the Queen thought to herself. Sometimes, hard truths were what one needed.
‘So you don’t think Altrincham’s involved? I must say, neither do I.’
‘More the opposite, actually,’ Joan agreed.
‘And what about Sir Hugh? You saw him just now.’
‘He was trying, ma’am. Keen to do the right thing. He has been all week. I’m not convinced the answer’s a new cake, but . . .’
‘He seems to be acting in my best interests, as well as he can. And then there’s Jeremy . . .’
Joan nodded. ‘He wants you to do nothing, ma’am. And so does Miles Urquhart, by the way.’
‘When it seems that “nothing” might be a dangerous course of action. But it’s hard to tell excessive loyalty from a hidden wish to do harm.’
‘I’ll keep my eyes open,’ Joan promised. ‘If Sir Hugh is part of the plot it will be very hard to prove, but if it’s either of the others I’m sure I’ll get proof soon enough.’
‘I admire your confidence,’ the Queen said. ‘The prime minister has made it painfully clear how important my visit to America is. If they follow the pattern, they’ll do their damnedest to cause trouble in October. It only gives us a few weeks to stop them.’ She sighed. ‘And we still have to work out why.’
‘We will, ma’am,’ Joan assured her. ‘Thank goodness for their incompetence.’
The Queen pursed her lips. ‘But the face cream was too close for comfort. I can’t always rely on Bobo to save me. I hope you find what you need.’
Chapter 33
Taking advantage of a quiet afternoon, the Queen joined Philip on a ride into the hills. It was lovely to be out among the purple heather and rain wasn’t threatened for several hours.
‘What’s happening with Altrincham? Is he in the Tower yet?’ he asked.
‘Actually, we’ve been thinking quite a lot about everything he wrote,’ she said. ‘Joan’s going to have a quiet word.’
‘A warning?’
‘No. A thank you.’
‘A thank you? For all that rot about you?’
‘It wasn’t all rot,’ she admitted. ‘Apparently some members of the public agree.’ She didn’t mention Joan’s aunt. Sir Hugh had taken soundings and discovered, to his disappointment, that she wasn’t alone. ‘It’s lovely that so many people have leaped to my defence of course, but . . . one does have to learn. And change. A little.’
‘Oh?’
Philip was thoughtful for quite a while. They rode on in companionable silence. Below them, the River Dee glistened in a patch of sunlight. An eagle soared lazily overhead. There was nowhere she would rather be. Nobody she would rather be beside than this man, who was eager to help and already thinking of solutions, she could feel it. His brain was never at rest. Part of Philip’s rudeness – she knew he could be rude, even to her sometimes, though he fiercely berated anyone else who was – came from the fact that he was often two steps ahead of whoever he was talking to. He was a man who lived in the future, while she clung, a little too tightly sometimes, to the past.
‘Look!’
She pointed at the sky. The eagle had been joined by another. They swirled in graceful, complicated patterns. The couple rested in their saddles and watched.
Eventually, the birds flew out of sight behind the hilltops.
‘You’re right, Lilibet,’ Philip said firmly.
She had forgotten what they were talking about.
‘Oh? Good.’
‘An opportunity for change. This has come at the perfect time. Altrincham mentioned television. We should use it.’
Oh, gosh. Live television. Nothing more frightening. Her husband would pick on that. ‘He said you were very good on it,’ the Queen said tartly.
‘Did he? Well . . . You were a fuzzy figure during the coronation. But you’ve got your Christmas message coming up.’
‘Don’t remind me.’
‘You could practise when we’re in Canada. You’ve got that thing in front of their cameras too.’
‘I know! In French and English!’ To several million people. She was terrified at the thought.
Philip carried on. ‘There you are. It won’t be in French at Christmas. It’s the perfect opportunity. The technology’s come on in leaps and bounds since ’fifty-three. It’s much sharper now.’
‘Is that a good thing?’
‘Of course it is. You know how mad they go for you whenever they see you in the flesh. You could show off your new speaking prowess.’
‘If I have any by then.’
‘You will.’
‘I’m hardly Robin Day,’ she protested.
‘It’s not an interview – just a speech. But a decent speech – not one of those tweedy ones of Hugh’s. Something modern, for the modern man. And his modern wife,’ he added.
So, Philip did agree with Altrincham after all.
‘But if Hugh can’t help me write it, who can?’
‘I can,’ he offered, with a broad smile, before turning his horse to lead them both back towards Balmoral.
‘Yes, of course you can,’ she called after him quickly. ‘But . . . um, I’d need a proper professional, don’t you think?’
He turned round in the saddle. ‘What about if we get Daphne in?’
‘Daphne?’
‘You know Daphne. We’d have to get her up from Menabilly. But I’m sure she’d love it here.’
Daphne? It was certainly a thought. The Queen hadn’t considered working with a woman on something so important. But after all, why not?
Daphne was the wife of Philip’s much-loved head of household, General Sir Frederick Arthur Montague Browning – ‘Boy’ to friends and family – who was a hero of the First World War. In the second, he had helped found the First Airborne Division and led his men through the horrors at Arnhem in ’forty-four. He was sociable, organised, military to his core . . . perhaps the last person one would expect to be married to a sensitive novelist like Daphne. Nevertheless, they made an entertaining couple, both in London, where Boy worked with Philip at the palace, and in Cornwall, where Daphne had her domain.
‘We owe her the hospitality,’ Philip said. ‘We had such a day sailing with them on the Helford, do you remember? You almost fell in, but Daphne rescued you just in time.’
‘I was perfectly safe. Just surprised when you tacked too hard.’
‘I never tack too hard. Anyway, she’s a bloody good writer. Not my sort of thing, but the general public seem to approve. She’s probably deathly bored down in Cornwall. She’d appreciate the company, and do a damned good job.’
She probably would, the Queen agreed. Daphne was sharp, observant, quick-witted – another doer. She would certainly understand the problem, and be honest about what it would take to fix it.