Free The Royal Nanny by Karen Harper

those jelly pastries all over,” I told the squirming boy. “Gently wash your fingers in that little bowl of water. No, do not make waves, because—”
    â€œLala,” David interrupted, but I half forgave him, for they were all on edge, “do you think a pedal motorcar could be hidden over there? One with a steering wheel and real tires? Can I peek under those tablecloths near the tree? I think there’s room.”
    â€œYou will find out soon, both of you. Can’t you eat the way Bertie is? You haven’t touched your turkey.”
    â€œI’m too excited.”
    When the gift giving began, thank heavens, their grandpapa decided the children should go first and soon both boys were pedaling little motorcars around the ballroom while I kept an eye on them. Baby Mary was with Jane, but when she was brought in to let her mother hold her, she was given a silver rattle to shake and a baby doll nearly as big as she was. I had already been given gifts, a fur muff and a crisp ten-pound note, which would greatly supplement my thirty-five-pound-a-year salary.
    But my eyes grew as wide as the children’s when I saw the adults of the so-called Marlborough House set open their gifts to each other: watercolors, gilt or silver cigarette cases, cigar humidors, a jeweled inkstand, collars for the pet dogs, gold picture frames with family photographs, diamond pins and studs, and, of course, for Alexandra, agate animals. It seemed that these glorious people in their silks and satins and jewels glittered as much as the gifts and the tree. And to think, Mabel and Rose had both told me that more gifts would be given to the downstairs staff and estate workers in a week on New Year’s Day, another time for celebration and a party.
    But for me, among these glittering people who ruled the realm, a new year—a new life—had already begun.

Chapter 8
    T hree and a half years later, all seemed in chaos, not just the nursery. The queen had died on January 22, 1901. Since the twenty-third, yesterday morning, when the news had arrived, the entire York Cottage household had dressed in black garb, though the boys were still in their white flannel nightshirts this morning.
    â€œGrandpapa is king, and Grannie is queen,” little Mary said over and over. Her chatter annoyed David, I could tell. But truly, even in the best of times, he seemed to lord it over the other children. I wasn’t certain if it was because he was firstborn or now knew he would be king someday—or because he wanted my attention all for himself.
    â€œWhich means,” David interrupted before Mary could recite that again, “Papa will be Prince of Wales and Mama princess.”
    Mary asked, “What about me?”
    He ignored her, so, as I tied a crepe bow in her hair to match her black dress, I whispered, “You are always special, MistressMary, quite contrary. Mama and Papa will explain later, but right now, they are in a rush to go to the Isle of Wight where Gangan died to help plan her funeral. There will be a kind of parade, a sad one, and a church service, things like that, in London.”
    â€œBut I want to go too!” she cried. Though usually well behaved, she started to sob while David just rolled his eyes and Bertie became even more jumpy, something I’d worked hard to get out of him. But now I concentrated on comforting and shushing Mary.
    York Cottage and the Big House had all the drapes drawn and edged with black. Even the village folk seemed draped in mourning. Earlier today, I’d seen Chad, with both arms black-banded, walk past and look up at the windows. I’d waved to him, but I don’t think he saw me since the late January frost was so thick on the panes. I was in the sickroom where we’d kept David and Bertie while they had the measles, though they were well enough to be back in the nursery today. A crowded nursery it was, and I loved it, but that also was about to change,