Page 13 of The Gathering Storm

‘Kit told me.’

Wally grimaced. ‘Kit always knows everything.’

‘Apparently David talked about marriage?’

‘It’s sheer fantasy,’ Wally said sharply. ‘He knows it can’t happen.’

‘Of course it can’t. But – wouldn’t you like to be Queen?’ Emma asked mischievously.

‘I’ve never asked for that,’ she said. ‘I’m quite happy as I am, in the background, pulling the strings. I just want to get things running smoothly, and put away a little nest egg, so Ernest and I can retire together, financially secure. All I need is another year, maybe two, to consolidate, then I can step back. What I don’t need,’ she went on, with fierce emphasis, ‘is Ernest getting himself involved and complicating things.’

‘Perhaps he feels a bit left out,’ Emma suggested.

‘I’m doing it for us,’ she said indignantly. ‘I can manage David if everyone just leaves us alone. And the country will get a better king out of it.’

‘That’s what Kit said.’

‘Kit knows what he’s talking about,’ Wally said approvingly. ‘But we’ve got to scotch this talk of divorce. Ernest could put me in a very difficult position. He just has to trust me and not interfere.’ She put her fork down again, as though it was too heavy to hold.

‘You do look tired,’ Emma said. ‘Maybe you should do the stepping back now.’

‘David would go mad if I tried. All this kinging is new to him. He needs me too much.’ She didn’t say it as though it gave her pleasure. She leaned closer. ‘Tell you the truth, Emma, I sometimes think he’s gone a little crazy since his father died. He wants to be with me all the time. And when he’s not, it’s telephone calls every couple of hours, and letters, and little notes brought round with flowers. I’m suffocating! He rings me up in the middle of the night. I don’t sleep well anyway, and it’s dollars to doughnuts that as soon as I do manage to drop off, he’ll telephone and wake me up again.’

‘They ought to find him a suitable princess,’ Emma said, interested to see what Wally would say. Kit had explained to her his own idea about how things really stood between David and Mrs S: the King hadn’t been lying when he told Ernest his relationship was platonic. ‘He needs to get married and produce an heir.’

Wally gave a mirthless snort. ‘That won’t happen. David’s not what you’d call heir conditioned.’

Emma smiled at the joke, but said, ‘That’s hard luck on the country.’

‘Not at all. There’s Bertie York and his two little girls. And the Kents have a boy already. There’s plenty of cover.’ She sighed. ‘God, I have got to get away for a bit, have a break from all the strain. I’m thinking of going to Paris. First week of March – David’s got engagements so he wouldn’t be able to follow me. Why don’t you come? See the new collections. Do a little shopping. What do you say?’

Emma felt bad about refusing. For all Wally’s annoying ways, she couldn’t help feeling sorry for her. ‘I can’t. I’m up to my ears in work. I’m sorry.’

Wally shrugged. ‘No matter. I’ll ask Mipsy. She’s always got time for me.’

James had no idea how he might learn Russian. It was true he had picked up French quickly enough, but one was exposed to a certain level of French all one’s life: Russian one never came across. The only idea he came up with was the barman at a little place on the corner of the rue Girardon whose name was Igor, which he thought was a Russian name. Igor was burly and swarthy and had a foreign accent – though in fairness you could say that about a lot of French barmen.

So he called in at the Chat Inquiet on his way home for a pastis and coffee and, having chatted to Igor for a few minutes, he asked, ‘Are you Russian, by any chance?’

Igor scowled. ‘Are you English, by any chance?’

James gave a placating smile. ‘I’m not being rude. You see, my boss wants me to learn a bit of Russian, and I don’t know where to go or who to ask.’

‘I was born in Russia,’ Igor said, without moving his lips, ‘but I don’t go around talking about it. You never know who’s listening.’ He swiped a cloth over the bar top while glancing cautiously to left and right.

‘Would you teach me?’ James asked. ‘I would pay you, of course.’

Igor shrugged. ‘I’ve forgotten most of it. Been speaking French for too long.’

‘Well, could you suggest anyone else? A friend, maybe?’

‘I’ve only got French friends,’ Igor snapped. ‘Russians are all bastards, or drunks, or crooks. Or all three.’ Then he seemed to relent. ‘You serious about this?’

‘Yes, I am. I really have to learn some Russian – or I might lose my job,’ he added with a hint of pathos.

‘Best place for you to go, then, is the Maison de l’Évangile.’

‘What’s that? A convent?’