Putting a hand on hers, Betty said, ‘It’ll be difficult if you see him.’
Bottled-up emotions welled up inside her. ‘He broke my heart. He ignored the letters I wrote to him, begging him to let me know he was at least alive. Even when he was back, he never got in touch with me.’ She looked up, taking a big gulp of air. ‘I don’t know what I’d do if I saw him.’
‘He might not even come, and if he does, you probably won’t even see him, let alone talk to him. If you do, don’t tell him more than he needs to know. There’s a strong chance he assumes you had the baby adopted, so there’s no need to bring up Annabel. We can’t have him thinking he can meet her – who knows where that would lead!’ Betty gave her a solemn nod. ‘Stay aloof, polite, and give nothing away.’
Caroline nodded. ‘I can’t imagine what people would think of me if they knew the truth – I’d lose my job, for a start.’
Betty patted her hand. ‘Remember, you have me on your side. Don’t worry about a thing.’
‘I don’t know what I’d have done without you, Betty, helping me with the baby, getting me through it all.’
But Betty shushed her. ‘If we have no family of our own, then we have to be family for each other, don’t we?’ She pulled away to look at her. ‘And I’ll never forget how you helped me, too. Your friends are sometimes the best thing you have in your life.’
And through all the difficulties and pain, Caroline could only be thankful she had a friend like Betty. Whatever happened, she would have this one special woman who would always be on her side.
MIRANDA
AS SHE GAZED AT THE VAST HEFT OF BUCKINGHAM PALACE, Miranda decided that perhaps it wasn’t such a bad plan after all. Aunt Betty had secured her a job and promised her a room, and theNew York Gazettehad splashed out on an open-return air ticket. All she had to do was keep her eyes and ears open, make connections, and do a little digging around.
She pulled out the latest letter from her father, skipping to the paragraph about the job.
Betty wrote to say that your position is in the new coronation office. Use the staff door on the left of the palace, and tell the desk that a Mr Sinclair has been asked to collect you. She says you can stay at her house for as long as you like.
As promised, I didn’t mention that you work at a newspaper. No one wants journalists snooping around, do they! I’m sure the change will do you good.
With a satisfied gleam in her eyes, Miranda refolded the letter. Being an undercover reporter suited her. It was twisted and chancy pretending to be someone you’re not. Just what she needed.
Putting on her most biddable smile, Miranda made her way to the side entrance, where a woman at a desk in the foyer told her to wait for Mr Sinclair.
Solemn men in stiff suits came and went, and Miranda turned toinspect an especially vile oil painting of an ugly old aristocrat and his young, nubile wife. How could anyone think this was right?
Then a man’s voice came from the door. ‘I’m here to collect someone by the name of Miller.’
That would be her guide, no doubt, and she turned to see a tall, suited man with dark hair and a long, narrow face. With his suntanned complexion, he might have looked Italian or Greek, but there was an English diffidence about him, as if he didn’t care for this particular role.
As the receptionist looked down the list, the man glanced around at Miranda. He took in her red lipstick and the dramatic black suit and an amused half-smile came across his face. Miranda was accustomed to men looking at her as if she were a trophy or a prize – she loathed the implication that she was an object they thought they could possess. But ridicule was a reaction she could hardly prefer.
‘Oh, my mistake,’ the receptionist said. ‘It’sMissMiller.’ She gestured over to Miranda.
A frown gathered on his forehead, and as he introduced himself, she matched his little put-down by saying, ‘Were you expecting a man?’ She let out a small laugh. ‘I hope I’m not too much of a disappointment.’
‘Not at all,’ he said with a courteous bow. ‘Would you come this way? We’re in a bit of a hurry. It’s not usually my job to collect new staff from reception.’ The flatness of his voice bespoke his annoyance at being asked to do something so trivial. ‘I have to deliver these documents for a meeting, and it can’t wait.’
With a precise tap on his folder, he turned and led the way to the door.
It opened into a grand, wide corridor. Along the wall, gilded portraits were interspersed with velvet upholstered chairs laced with gold brocade. The air was fresh with cut flowers and lemon cleaning fluids, and she imagined Edwardian-era maids rising before dawn to throw open windows and dust every crevice, lest it meet with the monarch’s disapproval.
‘What a place to work! When was it built?’ Her American accent sounded loud and informal in the upright surroundings. She didn’twant to stand out – her New York job was on the line if they decided she didn’t belong in a palace.
In the manner of an impatient tour guide, he replied, ‘The original house was built in 1624, and it was expanded over the centuries. It became the monarch’s seat of power in 1837, when Queen Victoria acceded to the throne.’
‘Queen Victoria,’ she mused. ‘One of the great British queens, along with Elizabeth I. Do you think this one will be any good?’
Abruptly, he turned to her, pausing his sharp pace to lower his voice. ‘Queen Elizabeth II will be the very greatest of monarchs, and you’d be better following that line.’ Then he added, ‘You’ll have to learn to be more circumspect if you’re to get on here.’
Miranda kicked herself for revealing her real thoughts. It didn’t come naturally to hold her tongue.
The corridor opened up into a vast, radiant atrium, a double staircase sweeping through the centre. From the high, domed ceiling plunged a great crystal chandelier, throwing a dazzling vibrancy around the space, the sacred silence reminiscent of a cathedral or an abbey.
