with her chaperones and it occurred to the countess, as she submitted to a vigorous handshake and a ricochet of enthusiastic declarations from Thea, that her presence here may be no bad thing. Give her enough rope, thought Clarissa, and she might well hang herself. It was clear for all to see that here was no great beauty. It was only the second time that Clarissa had laid eyes on her, and in her mind the countess had created an enchantress, a siren. But this was a girl with a vulgar drawl, a weak chin, hair too short for a chignon and the silhouette of an adolescent boy. From what Clarissa could tell – without looking too closely – Thea wasn’t even wearing a corset. Certainly there was no waist to speak of, and no bosom; instead, she was straight up and down, and scrawny. As she smiled a gracious welcome, the countess felt it was merely a matter of time before Tobias lost interest and looked elsewhere, and her heart lightened at the thought.
The weather broke as the king stepped from the royal train. So swiftly and silently that no one had really noticed, the vivid blue sky had become crowded with pewter clouds and three weeks’ worth of rain was released from the heavens. Flunkies rushed about him with umbrellas but Bertie dismissed them, finding the downpour a great joke, so all the party followed suit, squealing and roaring with laughter as soft, drenching raindrops fell onto their fine hats, coats and dresses. A fleet of three Daimlers – two of them newly purchased for the occasion – waited to convey them to Netherwood Hall andthey all piled in, loud and rumbustious. Atkins, the earl’s chauffeur, was drenched too, as were the drivers of the two other motorcars: rain splashed as if from an open tap from the peaks of their caps and collected in deep puddles at their feet. This was their finest hour and the weather had made a mockery of it. They stood with what dignity they could muster while the king and Mrs Keppel, both of them hooting with merriment, settled into the first car with Caesar the fox terrier. The rest of the party went behind and the royal progress began – a short drive from the earl’s private railway station to the great house, but a difficult one through the new pools and eddies that blocked the way on the roads. This wasn’t a state visit – the king had made that clear – yet the route to the hall was lined with loyal subjects. The miners had the day off, the schools had closed for the afternoon; it wasn’t every day that a monarch passed within touching distance, and this small matter of a biblical downpour wasn’t going to drive them away from the spectacle. The king rewarded their stoicism and good humour by insisting that Atkins lower the roof; stopping the convoy, the chauffeur hauled back the canopy and the Daimler began immediately to fill with rain as effectively as a water butt, its pale cream leather seats darkening so rapidly in the torrent that Atkins wondered if they could possibly ever be restored. But never mind, because there was King Edward VII, somehow larger than life, beaming, waving and – if anything – wetter than the crowds that hailed him, and by his side the beautiful Alice Keppel, bold as you like and soaked to the skin in blue chiffon that clung to her contours like a bathing suit.
Chapter 11
E ve had been down to Netherwood Hall and come back again by the time Silas arrived home with the children. He had taken them to Victoria Street to watch the king drive by and they burst in to the kitchen, sodden, breathless, grinning at each other at some shared triumph or private joke. They dripped on her clean floor and she had to bite back a reprimand; the novelty of having her brother here had somehow altered the normal way of things, and rules that were once set in stone were flouted daily.
‘Mam!’ said Eliza. ‘We saw Mrs Keppel and ’er dress was soppin’.’
‘King!’ said Ellen, pushing to the front, muscling in on the conversation. She had
The weather broke as the king stepped from the royal train. So swiftly and silently that no one had really noticed, the vivid blue sky had become crowded with pewter clouds and three weeks’ worth of rain was released from the heavens. Flunkies rushed about him with umbrellas but Bertie dismissed them, finding the downpour a great joke, so all the party followed suit, squealing and roaring with laughter as soft, drenching raindrops fell onto their fine hats, coats and dresses. A fleet of three Daimlers – two of them newly purchased for the occasion – waited to convey them to Netherwood Hall andthey all piled in, loud and rumbustious. Atkins, the earl’s chauffeur, was drenched too, as were the drivers of the two other motorcars: rain splashed as if from an open tap from the peaks of their caps and collected in deep puddles at their feet. This was their finest hour and the weather had made a mockery of it. They stood with what dignity they could muster while the king and Mrs Keppel, both of them hooting with merriment, settled into the first car with Caesar the fox terrier. The rest of the party went behind and the royal progress began – a short drive from the earl’s private railway station to the great house, but a difficult one through the new pools and eddies that blocked the way on the roads. This wasn’t a state visit – the king had made that clear – yet the route to the hall was lined with loyal subjects. The miners had the day off, the schools had closed for the afternoon; it wasn’t every day that a monarch passed within touching distance, and this small matter of a biblical downpour wasn’t going to drive them away from the spectacle. The king rewarded their stoicism and good humour by insisting that Atkins lower the roof; stopping the convoy, the chauffeur hauled back the canopy and the Daimler began immediately to fill with rain as effectively as a water butt, its pale cream leather seats darkening so rapidly in the torrent that Atkins wondered if they could possibly ever be restored. But never mind, because there was King Edward VII, somehow larger than life, beaming, waving and – if anything – wetter than the crowds that hailed him, and by his side the beautiful Alice Keppel, bold as you like and soaked to the skin in blue chiffon that clung to her contours like a bathing suit.
Chapter 11
E ve had been down to Netherwood Hall and come back again by the time Silas arrived home with the children. He had taken them to Victoria Street to watch the king drive by and they burst in to the kitchen, sodden, breathless, grinning at each other at some shared triumph or private joke. They dripped on her clean floor and she had to bite back a reprimand; the novelty of having her brother here had somehow altered the normal way of things, and rules that were once set in stone were flouted daily.
‘Mam!’ said Eliza. ‘We saw Mrs Keppel and ’er dress was soppin’.’
‘King!’ said Ellen, pushing to the front, muscling in on the conversation. She had
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