Miranda got up to fill the kettle. ‘Oh, Betty, thank you, but I’m fine on my own. Independent to the core, that’s the way I’ve always been.’
‘It’s the way you’ve had to be, dear, what with your childhood cut short.’ She gave her what could only be described as a motherly look. ‘Everyone needs family.’ Then, having none of Miranda’s nonsense, Betty took the kettle back from her and pressed her back into the kitchen chair. ‘You have to have someone behind you, dear. Otherwise, how can you share a good laugh when things go haywire?’ And with that she gave a bray of laughter so raucous that Miranda had to join in.
The kettle on, unmatching china cups, saucers, jugs and sugar bowls were plonked onto the table – no doubt the rest of their sets subject to Betty’s cavalier attitude to breakable objects.
‘You’re the image of your mother.’ Betty plumped herself down beside Miranda. ‘It must have been horrendous for you, everything that happened.’
More than anything else, Miranda loathed people talking about her mother’s accident and death. It was rarely mentioned without pity, often used with the term ‘poor’, as in ‘you poor thing’.
Miranda wasn’t poor anything.
‘I’m absolutely fine,’ she told her aunt, setting out the cups andsaucers. ‘The accident was so long ago I barely remember it, and her death, well, we all knew it was coming.’
But Betty took Miranda’s hands in her own. ‘Your life was turned upside down. And then your poor husband gone, too.’
There was that word again.
Miranda nodded at the old woman, waiting patiently for her to finish.
‘So many people gone in your life.’ Betty patted her hand like it was a small dog. ‘It’s no wonder you’re, well, a bit different.’
At that, Miranda chuckled, the release of pressure inside making it hard to stop.
Unsure, Betty joined in. ‘I’m sorry, love. But you aren’t quite like the other women working in the palace.’
‘Perhaps there’s just a bit more to me than the others.’ A teasing smile lifted one side of her mouth. ‘A little more cleverness.’
‘We all know you’re a bright one, dear. But that doesn’t take the place of having someone on your side.’ The kettle boiled, and Betty got up to pour the water into an old green teapot, covering it in a fraying crocheted tea cosy, like the ones her father regularly received and Rae no doubt discarded. ‘Do you have friends back in New York, people you can rely on?’
‘Some.’ How very quaint her aunt had become, with her little ideas about family and friends. ‘I don’t have much time for friends, and a lot of them left the city when they married. And those remaining, well’ – she thought of the matching coasters – ‘we don’t have a lot in common.’
‘That’s a shame. But perhaps there’s a young man?’ Her lively dark eyes glistened with hope.
Miranda laughed. ‘Do you think my life is incomplete without one?’
In reality, there had been boyfriends after Jack, but why bring them up when none of them had been serious? Her last beau, a fellow journalist, had married a friend of hers after Miranda had introduced them. She’d been genuinely happy for them, given them her blessing. After all, he hadn’t touched her heart at all.
No one ever could.
After Jack’s death, she couldn’t risk loving someone like that again. The weight of grief hadn’t just engulfed her; it had almost destroyed her.
But more than that, she couldn’t even begin to imagine what kind of man could take his place. How could she ever feel anything remotely like that again?
So, Miranda put on her brightest smile. ‘I’m more than happy by myself, and look, it gives me the freedom to come here and work in your lovely palace. Thank you for getting the job for me.’
‘They always prefer family members of reliable staff. The queen has to be able to rely on her staff, make sure we can keep secrets.’
‘Absolutely.’ Miranda nodded, surprised at how guileless these people were, to let a New York journalist in under their noses. It didn’t appear that anyone had looked into her past at all – perhaps America was too far away, or maybe their faith in Betty was absolute. Looking at her dear aunt, she couldn’t imagine anyone not trusting her word.
Any sliver of guilt was quickly pushed away. Miranda, after all, wasn’t prone to human feelings like ordinary people. Her grief had set her apart, made her independent, resilient.
Detachment was her special aptitude, her power.
‘You’ll love working in the palace.’ Betty beamed. ‘Helping behind the scenes, seeing how much preparation goes into making it look seamless. And the queen is lovely, very gracious, but just like an ordinary person, so friendly and cheerful.’
Miranda shrugged. ‘Shouldn’t she act like a proper queen, lofty and dignified?’
But Betty shook her head, shocked, as if Miranda had it all wrong. ‘What I meant was that she has none of the pride and selfishness that the position might bring. I think it must have been her time living in Malta, when she was an everyday naval officer’s wife. She’d have coffee mornings with the other wives, go to the hairdresser and shops, just like normal women. I’ve heard her say that it was the best time of her life, being free for once, invisible.’ She chuckled. ‘Can you imagine, the queen, normal?’
