“Win or lose next week, he daren’t then suggest it was all done without his approval,” said Alexander.
“I love it, I love it,” said Pimkin. “I am told that Princess Diana will be unveiling the portrait on behalf of the nation — and rest assured that when she performs the official ceremony, I shall be there to bear witness.”
“Ah, but will Charles?” asked Fiona.
On Monday morning Charles’s brother phoned from Somerset to ask why he had not been consulted about donating the Holbein to the nation.
“It was my picture to dispose of as I pleased,” Charles reminded him and slammed down the phone.
By nine o’clock on Tuesday morning, when the voting took place for the last time, the two contestants had spoken to nearly every member twice. Charles joined his colleagues in the Members’ Dining Room for lunch while Simon took Elizabeth to Locketts in Marsham Street. She showed him some colored brochures of a holiday on the Orient Express which would be the most perfect way to see Venice. She hoped that they wouldn’t have time to go on the trip. Simon hardly mentioned the vote that was simultaneously taking place in the Commons but it never was far from either of their minds.
The voting ended at three-fifty but once again the Chief Whip did not remove the black box until four o’clock. By four-fifteen he knew the winner but did not reveal his name until the 1922 Committee had assembled at five o’clock. He informed their chairman at one minute to five.
Once again, Sir Cranley Onslow stood on the small raised platform in the committee room fourteen to declare the result. There was no need to ask if the people at the back could hear.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, his words echoing round the room, “the result of the second ballot for the leadership of the Tory Party is as follows:
Charles Seymour 130
Simon Kerslake 158.”
Just over half the members present rose and cheered while Bill Travers ran all the way to Simon’s room to be the first to report the news. When he arrived Simon swung round and faced the open door.
“You look and sound as though you’d run a marathon.”
“Like Pheidippides, I bring great news of victory.”
“I hope that doesn’t mean you’re going to drop down dead,” said Simon, grinning.
The new leader of the Conservative party said nothing more for a few moments. It was obvious that Pimkin had come out in favor of him. Later that night, one or two other members also admitted that they had changed their minds during the second week because they hadn’t liked the blatant opportunism of Charles presenting a priceless portrait to the nation only a few days before the final vote.
The following morning Fiona phoned Pimkin to ask him why he had acted as he did. “My dear Fiona,” he replied, “like Sidney Carton I considered it would be good to go to my grave knowing I had done one honorable thing in my life.”
It took only a week for Simon’s little house in Beaufort Street to be transformed. He could not as much as turn his head without facing a camera. Everywhere he went he was followed by a platoon of press men. He was surprised how quickly the experience became part of his daily routine, although Elizabeth never found it an edifying experience. She was, however, as booked up as Simon and once again they seemed only to meet in the evenings. He spent his first two weeks selecting the Shadow Cabinet he wanted to take into the next general election. He was able to announce the composition of his new team to the press fourteen days after his election as leader of the Conservative party. He made one sentimental appointment: that of Bill Travers as Shadow Minister of Agriculture.
When asked at a press conference why his defeated rival would not be serving in the team Simon explained that he had offered Charles Seymour the deputy leadership and any portfolio of his choice, but Charles had turned the offer down, saying he preferred to return to the back benches for the present time.
Charles had left for Scotland the same morning for a few days’ rest by the river Spey, taking his son with him. Although he spent much of their short holiday feeling depressed about the final outcome of the leadership struggle, Harry’s original efforts at fishing helped deaden some of the pain. Harry even ended up with the biggest fish.
Amanda, on the other hand, realizing how slim her chances were of coaxing any more cash out of her husband, reopened negotiations over her life story with the News of the World.
When Nick Lloyd, the editor, read through Amanda’s notes he decided on two things. She would require a ghostwriter and the paper would have to halve their original offer.
“Why?” demanded Amanda.
“Because we daren’t print the better half of your story.”
“Why not?”
“No one would believe it.”
“But every word is true,” she insisted.
“I’m not doubting the veracity of the facts,” said Lloyd, “only readers’ ability to swallow them.”
“They accepted that a man climbed the walls of Buckingham Palace and found his way into the Queen’s bedroom.”
“Agreed,” replied Lloyd, “but only after the Queen had confirmed the story. I’m not so sure that Charles Seymour will be quite as cooperative.”
Amanda remained silent long enough for her agent to close the deal.
The watered-down version of “My Life with Charles Seymour” appeared a few months later to coincide with Charles’s much-publicized divorce, but it made no more than a faint ripple in political circles. Now that Charles had no prospect of leading his party it was very much yesterday’s news.
Amanda came out of the divorce settlement with another £50,000 but lost custody of Harry, which was all Charles really cared about. He prayed her irresponsible remarks reported in the papers concerning the boy’s claim to the title had been quickly forgotten.
Then Rupert phoned from Somerset and asked to see him privately.
A week later they sat facing each other in Charles’s drawing room at Eaton Square.
“I am sorry to broach such an embarrassing subject,” said Rupert, “but I feel it is my duty to do so.”
“Duty, poppycock,” said Charles, stubbing out his cigarette. “I tell you Harry is my son, and as such will inherit the title. He’s the spitting image of great-grandfather and that ought to be enough proof for anyone.”
“In normal circumstances I would agree with you, but the recent publicity in the News of the World has been brought to my notice and I feel...”
“That sensationalist tabloid,” said Charles sarcastically, his voice rising. “Surely you don’t take their word before mine?”
“Certainly not,” said Rupert, “but if Amanda is to be believed Harry is not your son.”
“How am I meant to prove he is?” asked Charles, trying to control his temper. “I didn’t keep a diary of the dates when I slept with my wife.”
“But it seems Amanda did so I have had to take legal advice on the matter,” continued Rupert, “and am informed that a blood test is all that will prove necessary to verify Harry’s claim to the title. We both share a rare blood group as did our father and grandfather, and if Harry is of that group I shall never mention the subject again. If not, then the title will eventually be inherited by our second cousin in Australia.”
“And if I don’t agree to put my son through this ridiculous test?”
“Then the matter must be placed in the hands of our family solicitors,” said Rupert, sounding unusually in control. “And they must take whatever course they consider fit.”