Masked Ball at Broxley Manor

in medals, slunk up beside me.

“I say, hello, you delectable creature,” he said. “Don’t tell me. You’re the token sacrificial virgin.”

He laughed a hearty haw haw. I gave him what I hoped was a cold stare.

“Which one is the Hun then?” he asked.

“I’m afraid I don’t know,” I said.

“Rum do this, what? Doesn’t seem that long ago that we were fighting the blighters and now we’re welcoming them with open arms.” He moved closer to me and slid a finger down my bare arm. “I say, you’re an attractive little filly. If it turns out to be too frightfully boring why don’t we just pop off somewhere alone? I know a quiet little nightclub where we could be very cozy.”

At that moment trumpets sounded the fanfare; the national anthem was played. A hush fell on the company as double doors opened and Their Majesties came in, the queen on the arm of a large, portly and very Germanic- looking man wearing more braid and medals than my obnoxious companion. They came forward, nodding and smiling through the room, pausing to chat here and there, until they stopped beside me.

“Georgiana, dear. How good of you to come,” the queen said, holding out her hand as I managed a curtsy without falling over. (As if one refused a queen!) She turned to her escort. “Rupert, may I introduce our young cousin Georgiana Rannoch.”

He took my hand, clicked his heels, then, to my horror, he drew my hand up to his lips. “Delighted,” he said. “Zis is the young lady of whom vee vere speaking, ja? My cousin too, I believe.” He looked at the king and queen for confirmation.

“That’s right,” the king said. “Her father and I were first cousins, just as we were with your father the kaiser.”

“Bertie Rannoch. I remember him. Good fellow,” Prince Rupert said. “And now his daughter is grown up. Charming.” He looked around with annoyance. “And where is Otto? Not here when his father needs and commands him to be present. Most disrespectful. Sons today do not know zat zey must obey their fathers.”

“We are well aware of that,” the queen said, turning to her husband. “Aren’t we, George?”

“You mean the Prince of Wales, don’t you? Confounded boy. Won’t get married,” King George snapped. “Can’t force him. Would if I could.”

“I expect young Otto will turn up eventually,” the queen said. “We must greet the rest of our guests.”

She gave me a knowing sort of nod that I couldn’t quite interpret. My only satisfaction was that the red-faced man beside me had turned distinctly green, realizing he’d been about to seduce the king’s cousin. I smiled at him. “Jolly party, isn’t it?” I said and deliberately trod on his toe as I moved away.

Other people came into the salon. The Duke and Duchess of York came over to greet me and I asked about their little daughters.

“So Prince Otto hasn’t put in an appearance,” the duchess muttered to me. “His father is not well pleased with him. Just as Bertie’s father is not pleased with David. Heaven knows where he is tonight. Or with what type of woman.”

“From what one gathers Otto and David have a lot in common,” the Duke of York said. I noticed that when he chatted with someone he knew, he hardly stuttered at all. “Both of them refusing to grow up and accept responsibility.”

I saw Prince Rupert glancing at the entrance from time to time but Otto did not appear by the time the reception ended, the king and queen retired and the rest of us went home. It wasn’t until I was sitting in the taxicab that it finally struck me. “Oh, crikey,” I muttered out loud. I realized why I had been invited to the reception: they were trying to hitch me up with Prince Otto!

I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised but I was. I was only a very minor royal, only thirty-fourth in line to the throne, but the king had no more daughters to dispose of and it was obviously a good idea to reestablish ties with postwar Germany. So I had been the sacrificial virgin after all. I wondered what Otto was like. I wouldn’t have minded marrying my cousin the Prince of Wales. He was rather dashing, and fun too, even if he was shorter than me. I remembered what Fig had said. Were they trying to foist Otto on me because he was actually mad? I was glad he hadn’t shown up. Who knows, they might have had a priest waiting in the anteroom.

* * *

I felt both scared and excited as I prepared to take the train to Broxley on Saturday. I really hadn’t been out in real grown-up society much and certainly hadn’t had experience in mixing with the smart set with their witty repartee. I hoped that Fig had been right and that the rest of my fellow debs had been invited. I wished I had a maid to accompany me and help me dress, but my own maid stayed in Scotland and Fig wasn’t about to lend me hers. Perhaps people as rich as the Merrimans would have maids to spare.

The train journey seemed to take hours as the sun set in a fiery ball over the bleak October countryside. It was hot in the first-class compartment and I had almost dozed off when I heard a voice shouting “Broxley Halt.” I gathered my bags hastily and alighted. So did several others, including a smartly dressed woman with sleek black hair and a tall dark man with a mustache. She was wearing a gorgeous black mink and he had a fur collar on his overcoat.

“They said they’d send an automobile for us,” the woman said in an American accent, “but I don’t see it. Go see if you can locate it, honey.” Her gaze fell on me, taking in my well-worn overcoat. “Are you bound for Broxley, miss?” she asked. “Coming to help out at the party?”

Before I could answer indignantly that I was going to the party she went on. “They are sending a car for us but I expect we could squeeze you in somewhere. You certainly can’t walk in this weather.”

A chauffeur in livery now approached. “Are you Lady Georgiana, my lady?” he asked. “I was sent to meet you.”

“I am,” I said as he bent to take my bags. “And this lady and gentleman are also for Broxley. I expect we can find room for them, can’t we?” Then I smiled sweetly at the fur-clad American woman. She looked daggers at me. I decided that it was useful to be royal after all.

“So you’re Lady Georgiana,” the woman said as the motorcar took off. “I’ve heard about you. Most eligible deb of the year, aren’t you? Have you landed a husband yet, or is the royal family supposed to hitch you up with a European princeling?”

I thought she was being frightfully informal to someone she didn’t know, so I reverted to formality, as I always do when nervous. “I’m afraid we haven’t been introduced,” I said.

She threw back her head and laughed. “You British are so delightfully stuffy. Wallis Simpson, honey. Newly arrived from Baltimore and friend of Lady Merriman.” She glanced to her left. “And this is my husband.” To him she said, “This young lady is related to the royals, so mind your manners.”

We rode the rest of the way in near silence. Wallis Simpson powdered her nose and applied a red gash of lipstick to her mouth. Then we turned in between gates and I got my first glimpse of Broxley. It was called Broxley Manor but it was nothing like my idea of a manor house. The old manor houses are usually square and low and simple. This was Victorian indulgence at its most opulent, complete with turrets, battlements, towers. I had studied up on it during the week and read that the present viscount’s grandfather had made a lot of money in the India trade, had the old manor pulled down and this monstrosity built instead. They were now one of the richest families in England.

“Well, they’ve certainly done themselves proud. Look, honey,” Mrs. Simpson said to her husband. “I just love the way English aristocrats live. I plan to have a place like this myself someday.”

“I don’t know where you’re going to put it in Baltimore,” Mr. Simpson said, giving me a wink.

“Who said anything about Baltimore,” she replied.

The car came to a stop under a portico, and footmen in smart gold-and-black livery came running to open the door. Mrs. Simpson made sure she got out first. As I climbed out after her a diminutive figure in an exquisitely cut Parisian gown appeared at the top of steps and rushed toward us, arms open.

“Wallis, you came. How lovely.”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world, honey,” Mrs. Simpson said, kissing her an inch from her cheek. “Tell me, is a certain royal person going to attend as you promised?”

“The Prince of Wales? Of course. He never misses one of my parties. You’ll adore him, Wallis.”

“Will I?” She gave an enigmatic smile.

Our hostess turned her charming smile to me. “And you must be Georgiana. I met your father in Monte Carlo.