Gone With the Windsors. Laurie Graham

days to reach Randolph by telephone, then, when I did get through, he did nothing to put my mind at rest. If I don’t turn in my gold, I can be prosecuted for hoarding and, as if that isn’t bad enough, he’s coming to England in June. I said, “I shall be at Royal Ascot.”

      “So will I,” he said. “I’ll be staying in a town called Maidenhead. I have a Putnam cousin there, twice removed. Now Mother has passed over I’m going to start seeing the world and I’m holding you to dinner, Maybell. We have a lot to catch up on.”

      I doubt that anything of interest to me has ever happened to Randolph Putnam.

      15th April 1933, Port Lympne, Kent

      If Trent Park was a dream, Port Lympne is paradise. Terrace gives onto terrace, vista onto vista, and the lawns are carpeted with daffodils. Dickie and Edwina Mountbatten are here, he being a nephew of Ena Spain and brother-in-law of the betrousered Nada Milford Haven. Everyone in this tiny country is connected to somebody. Alex and Nelly Hardinge are also guests. He’s the King’s private secretary, but I don’t suppose His Majesty dictates letters on a holiday weekend. So far I haven’t found out who they’re related to.

      Others present: Tom Mitford, just back from Munich, Germany, where he and his sister Unity met Mr. Hitler and judge him to be the coming man, Sir Philip’s cousin Hannah, a Frenchman called Hippolyte, who plays tennis, and Marthe Bibesco, who is personally acquainted with Mr. Mussolini. She says he has a magnificent, manly jaw. Arriving tomorrow, the Winston Churchills—he’s something in politics—an actor called Gielgud, and a coal porter! Sir Philip certainly doesn’t give a damn for class distinctions.

      16th April 1933

      This morning, a treasure hunt for eggs, each couple being provided with a list of clues written in aquamarine ink. I was paired with young Tom Mitford, who’s just back from Heidelberg and speaks very highly of the German nation. Our clues led us to the orangerie, where, hanging from a tree, we found a perfect little egg-shaped crystal pendant for me and a tiny basket with a plover’s egg for Tom.

      A simple, rustic luncheon was served on the lawn: spit-roasted kid and pineapple ice. Then Philip took us up in his airplane, one at a time, for an aerial view of the estate. What an accomplished man! He makes one feel nothing is too much trouble, and he’s tireless. Everything must be perfect. Last evening, he had the Union flag hauled down, because the red in it clashed so violently with the orange sunset.

      Musical diversions after dinner. Philip’s wonderful dusky servants brought in thimbles of coffee, which they somehow set ablaze, and then the coal porter, who, I must say, is very well-scrubbed considering his trade, claimed the piano and played and sang for quite an hour. He was really rather good. I’ve advised him to think of taking it up professionally. There must be a great many people in London who’d be willing to pay him, and it would surely be more agreeable than portering coal.

      Philip said, “Maybell, you’re a rrriot!” He’s so easy to amuse. I think I could very happily be Lady Sassoon.

      17th April 1933

      Marthe Bibesco says the man who played for us last night was Mr. Cole Porter. Philip might have made it clearer.

      18th April 1933

      How drab Wilton Place seems after Port Lympne. I found the men rather standoffish, especially Johnnie Gielgud. And Alex Hardinge didn’t smile, even when he was hunting for eggs. They say the King enjoys a joke, but I suppose servants only smile when given leave, and once a servant, always a servant. His wife was adorable though, and so was Clemmie Churchill, and I liked Philip’s cousin once I grew accustomed to her swarthy appearance. She has very good emeralds and superb pearls, but without them, one could quite imagine her selling fish from a barrow in Lombard Street. I couldn’t warm to Marthe Bibesco. She’s one of those predatory types who fastens on to the most important man in the room and allows no one else to get a word in.

      But an exquisite weekend. Rrrravishing, as dear Philip would say. I wonder why he never married. It may be Cousin Hannah and Sister Syb have stood guard over him too fiercely. Well, they don’t deter me.

      19th April 1933

      Wally and Ernest are back from Fort Belvedere with the Prince’s blessing to make him a dinner on May 2nd. We start work tomorrow.

      Lunch with George Lightfoot. He says Marthe Bibesco is a grande horizontale.

      Something else to look into at the Lending Library.

      20th April 1933

      Wally says a grande horizontale is a ceiling expert.

      For his dinner, the Prince has requested a list of lively, interesting people, with a good sprinkling of Americans. She’s told him she can accommodate fourteen, which is stretching Bryanston Court to its absolute limit. Pips and Freddie are already on the master plan, whereas I am scribbled in a margin along with the Judson Erlangers, the substitutes’ bench. She said, “It’s not that I don’t want you there, Maybell. And you probably will be there. I just have to weight every place very carefully. Pips and Freddie are a good combination. She’s sparky, he’s political.”

      I said, “Well, don’t think I’m going to keep the date open indefinitely.”

      She said, “Go ahead. Fill it up if you must, but if His Royal Highness summons you to dinner, you’ll have to drop everything. One doesn’t turn down Royalties. I’d have thought you’d know that.”

      Of course, if she’d only transfer the dinner to my dining room, there’d be seats for twenty.

      21st April 1933

      Lunched with Pips. Told her she and Freddie are on Wally’s A list. She said, “Only because she owes me, I’m sure.” Not just the loan of a ruby choker, apparently. There have been opera pearls. And a crocodile bag.

      25th April 1933

      Flora’s first day at Miss Hildred’s. Lightfoot had drinks with Melhuish this evening and says there were no reports of mayhem.

      26th April 1933

      Wally called me to tell me her plans: only three courses, and no wines, because she’s going to serve curried chicken. There’ll just be gin fizzes and then cold beer with dinner.

      I said, “It’s of no interest to me. I’ve made arrangements to go to an operetta in aid of Navy Widows.”

      She said, “Then you’d better unmake them. I’ve just finished the placement, and I’ve put you between Prince George and Prince Louis Ferdinand.”

      I knew she wouldn’t be able to manage without me! And Prince George! Naughty, rebellious Prince George. We’re sure to get along. Prince Louis Ferdinand is a German, but Wally says he speaks perfect English. His mother is Crown Princess Cecilie, a regular at Lily Drax-Pfaffenhof’s house parties. Wally says it’s quite on the cards that Mr. Hitler will restore the monarchy, and then Louis Ferdinand may reign some day.

      I’m undecided between my magenta crepe and my copper silk.

      28th April 1933

      To Carlton Gardens for drinks. Chatted with dear Leo von Hoesch, told him I was dining with a future Kaiser on Tuesday. He said, “How astonishing. We don’t have Kaisers anymore.”

      I said, “But surely the National Socialists say they’ll bring them back?”

      “Yes,” he said, “they do say that, don’t they.”

      I fear Ambassador von Hoesch is losing touch with things.