place! I know it myself: travelled all through that area by ship just after the war! Such friendly people aren’t they? Which one exactly is your island?”
“Barbados, sir,” she murmured, but his attention had returned to the figure of Mrs. Simpson, who was gliding round the room to the sound of the music. As she passed by, the king’s hand brushed her cashmere elbow. He was quite unable to take his eyes off her.
“Just imagine, darling. May is from Barbados. One day, soon, darling,” he said, raising his voice to compete with the bluesy crooning coming from the gramophone, “I promise WE will go and find some sunshine.”
On hearing the emphasis the king put on the personal pronoun, Mrs. Simpson put her purple-polished finger to her lips in a sign to him to say no more. Her face was abnormally pale, and apart from the mole on one cheek her skin was as smooth as the inside of a seashell. Whirling away from the king’s touch, Mrs. Simpson turned her back on them and May could see her wide jawbone jutting out from either side of her head like the back view of a cobra. The king pulled a cigarette from a compact leather case that was tucked into the silver sporran hanging from his waist and lit the end from the burning ember of the one he was about to extinguish. The intimacy of the little procedure unnerved May further and she was wondering how much more of this unexpected encounter she could manage.
“I am most impressed to hear of your skill behind the wheel,” he continued in his semi-transatlantic accent. May could feel herself breathing hard. “I love cars myself,” said the king. “Matter of fact I’m thinking of ordering one of those new American station wagons. My own driver Ladbroke is a little sceptical. Perhaps you would care to have a turn in the machine when you next bring Miss Nettlefold to see us? You might be able to persuade Ladbroke that one must keep up with the times?”
But May found herself unable to supply anything more than a blush in return to this friendly line of enquiry. And suddenly it was all over. Mr. Osborne had returned and was lingering by the door. With a barely discernible inclination of his head, he indicated to May that it was time to leave.
Past the yellow chairs, across the marble floor, and there at last was the February wind restoring some coolness to May’s flushed cheeks. It was as if she had been released from a conservatory where rare plants were lovingly tended, unable to survive without careful nurturing. Outside felt like the real world. Inside resembled a hothouse of make-believe. She reached the car, inhaling the familiar leather smell of the seats. This strange house, about which she had already been warned in advance not to ask questions, had well and truly shaken her.
“Fancy that,” May murmured out loud, settling herself back in her seat. It occurred to her that Mrs. Simpson must be a very good friend indeed of the king to be so in charge in the king’s own house.
“Well, I must get back to my proper place where I belong, darling,” she continued out loud.
“Darling” mattered to May. Her father never uttered the word when speaking to her and she was glad of that. The term of endearment was reserved for rare usage by her mother alone, and its power to soothe always took her by happy surprise. May could not imagine ever using the word herself. It did not seem to fit anyone she knew. For a moment she wished desperately that her mother could be there with her now.
Pulling the door shut, and adjusting a small cushion that Mr. Hooch, the Cuckmere Park odd-job man, had suggested would give May extra height, she put the engine carefully into reverse. She was still feeling jumpy after the recent scene in the drawing room and as the car began to crunch over the gravel, her shoe became caught in a small tear in the fitted carpet on the floor below the steering wheel. As May tried to release her foot, she inadvertently pressed down hard on the accelerator pedal. The car jolted backwards, hitting an object that May was certain had not been in the driveway earlier.
A prickling on her arms was coming from underneath her skin. The sensation, May’s infuriating response to anything that made her nervous, travelled up towards her shoulders, then her