Read Online The Royal Nanny by Karen Harper - Free Book Online Page B

woodwork at times.
    So much I learned about the reality of royalty that first stay with the queen. I overheard she could not even read the royal dispatches anymore, unless drops of belladonna were put in her eyes to make her pupils huge. Princess Alexandra told the duchess that the queen’s daughter Beatrice—not her heir, the prince—was like a secret secretary to her, reading her important papers when she could not. And it was true that the queen lived in the past with a room in each house she had sealed off and dedicated to her beloved Prince Albert, who had been dead for decades. So in a way, she was a prisoner to her place and her duty, just as were weall, princess to lady’s maid to housemaid to game bird breeder to head nurse.
    B UT I WAS to learn even more that December at Christmas celebrations in the Big House. The royals and the rich were indeed different from what I had known and imagined, even from my days at Dr. Lockwood’s house. Prince Albert and Princess Alexandra were not a bit like his stern mother. I, who was used to rather plain Yuletide celebrations with my family, was astounded at the “normal, usual” vast and exuberant display for the holidays. Like a child, I stood agape at it all. My first Christmas at Sandringham House stunned me.
    Mabel had said that the princess did up the presents herself—multiple ones for each relative and guest, all wrapped in pretty paper with satin ribbons. And she oversaw the decorations. Well, my parents had done all that too, but usually one gift apiece for us—often an orange or small wooden soldier, doll or top—and the decorations were as sparse as the feast. A roast goose and plum pudding were luxuries when I was a child.
    But here, I vow, I was as excited as the children, and all this for just the family and about a dozen of their closest friends. In the very center of the ballroom stood the Christmas tree, a fir cut from the nearby forest that, I swear, was taller than the house I grew up in. It smelled of brisk wind and sharp pine, all mingled with the aroma of food and scented candles. The electric had been turned off so that the tree glowed. I could hardly believe it—swags of tinsel, hanging glass balls, pieces of cotton to imitate snow. Good gracious, it was magic—a fantasy beyond my dreams. I’d fear a fire, but what was there to fear when everything shone brighter than—as Mabel put it—“the star over Bethlehem.”
    Round the room, under the watchful eyes of ancient, painted people in gilt frames, were laid trestle tables covered with white linen cloths, laden with gifts and food. Bone china emblazoned with the Prince of Wales’s three ostrich feathers shone, and silver tureens filled with steaming soups gleamed. I saw Mabel was right: the children must sit through dinner and much talk before they were to open their gifts. If that didn’t teach discipline among all this bounty, nothing would.
    Besides the roast goose—four of them—there was boiled turkey, oysters in wine sauce, and cod’s shoulders. Jellied eels and molded aspics shimmered in candle glow. The children loved the mashed potatoes and macaroni, as did I. This was the first time I had eaten a meal in the same room with the adults, because I was to watch over the children’s table in the corner. The grown-ups’ laughter sounded over the clink of glassware and china. Now and then, David and Bertie were summoned to the dining tables, so I made sure they went straight there and came back—mostly to be shown off by their grandparents, not their parents.
    As far as I could see, we had everything at our little table, including the fabulous desserts—but not, of course, the array of wines. It was a bit of a shock to have house servants waiting on us, and to see the huge array of forks and fingerbowls set before us, but the children must learn their manners—and I too.
    â€œBertie, do not get