Now in the depths of gloom, I went downstairs again and braved the door that led below stairs, to the servants’ part of the house. I remembered going down there as a small child, sitting on a stool while Mrs. McPherson, our cook, let me scrape out the cake bowl or cut out gingerbread men. The big, half-underground kitchen was spotless, cold, and empty. I found a kettle and I even found a tinderbox and a spill to light the gas. Feeling very proud of myself I boiled some water. I even located a tea caddy. Of course that was when I realized that there was no milk, nor was there likely to be unless I contacted the milkman. Milk arrived on doorsteps. That much I knew. I rooted around in the larder and discovered a jar of Bovril. I made myself a cup of hot Bovril instead with some Jacob’s cream crackers and went to bed. Things are bound to be brighter in the morning, I wrote in my diary. I have taken the first steps in a new and exciting adventure. At least I am free of my family for the first time in my life.

Chapter 3

Rannoch House
Belgrave Square
London
Friday, April 22, 1932

Even the most minor member of the royal family is not supposed to arrive at Buckingham Palace on foot. The proper mode of entry is at the very least a Rolls-Royce motor or, in the case of reduced circumstances, a Bentley or Daimler. Ideally a state coach drawn by a team of perfectly matched horses, although not many of us run to coaches these days. The sight of one female person slinking across the forecourt on foot would definitely have my esteemed relative-by-marriage, Her Royal Majesty and Empress of India, Queen Mary, raise an eyebrow. Well, probably not actually raise the eyebrow, because personages of royal blood are trained not to react, even to the greatest of improprieties. Were a native in some dark corner of the colonies to strip off his loincloth and dance, waggling his you-know-what with gay abandon, not so much as an eyebrow twitch would be permitted. The only appropriate reaction would be polite clapping when the dance was over.

This sort of control is drummed into us at an early age, very much as one trains a gun dog not to react to the sound of a shot fired at close range or a police horse to a rapid movement in the crowd. Miss MacAlister, the governess who preceded my finishing school in Switzerland, used to chant to me, like a litany: A lady is always in control of herself. A lady is always in control of her emotions. A lady is always in control of her expression. A lady is always in control of her body. And indeed it is rumored that some royal personages can dispense with visiting strange water closets for days on end. I wouldn’t be crass enough to betray which royal personages can achieve this feat.