Free A Royal Pain by Rhys Bowen Page B

complaining to the queen that you’re not treating them proper.”
    “Oh, I don’t think she’d do that,” I said, but I wasn’t sure. I rather had a feeling that this was a lost cause. Baroness Rottenmeister struck me as one of those noble creatures who will not flinch from her duty, however horrible it is. Rather like my ancestors, of course. Oh, God. I hope she doesn’t have Rannoch blood!
    Sunday, June 12
    Diary,
    Pouring with rain today. Have no idea how to entertain visiting princess plus escort. Hanni seems nice enough and should be easy. Baroness will be another matter.
    On Sunday morning the baroness, Irmgardt and Hanni had to go to mass. I sent them off in a taxicab. The baroness was horrified that I wouldn’t be joining them. “In England we’re all C of E,” I said. “Church of England,” I added when she clearly didn’t understand. “The head of the church is the king, my cousin. We don’t have to go every Sunday if we don’t want to.”
    “You are relation of head of church? A nation of heathens,” she said and crossed herself.
    When they returned, Mrs. Huggins was about to cook bacon, eggs and kidneys for breakfast but I insisted on porridge.
    “This is breakfast?” the baroness asked.
    “Scottish breakfast. It’s what we eat at home at Castle Rannoch.”
    She prodded it with her spoon. “And what goes with it?”
    “Nothing. Just porridge. In Scotland we eat it with a little salt.”
    She sighed and pulled her shawl more closely around her. Luckily the weather was cooperating for once. The brief summery spell had been replaced by usual English summer weather. It was raining cats and dogs and was distinctly chilly. Even I looked longingly at the fireplace and almost relented about lighting fires. But I knew what was at stake and bravely sought out a woolly cardigan. There was no sign of Belinda all morning. I suspected that the party had not ended until the wee hours and rising early for her meant around eleven.
    Mrs. Huggins absolutely insisted on cooking a roast for Sunday lunch. “I don’t want them foreigners to think we don’t do things proper in England,” she said. “We always have a joint on a Sunday.” But I did persuade her not to do too many roast potatoes to go with it, but a lot of greens. And for pudding something light. She suggested junket. Perfect.
    The baroness ate her meat rapidly. “Good Fleisch, ” she said. “ Fleisch is healthy.” But I noticed she didn’t attack the great mound of greens with the same enthusiasm, nor did she like the junket.
    “Yoonkit?” she asked. “What means yoonkit?”
    It had never been a favorite of mine. I always associated it with invalid food but I managed to give an impression of someone eating with gusto. After lunch it was too wet for a walk, so we sat in the cavernous drawing room while the wind whistled down the chimney. The baroness napped in an armchair. Hanni and I played rummy.
    “Does nobody come to call? No visitors?” the baroness demanded, as she stirred during her nap. “Life in England is very dull.”
    “I think the rain is stopping.” Hanni looked out of the window. “We go for walk. You show me London.”
    We left the baroness snoozing in her armchair.
    “Let us walk through the beautiful park,” Hanni suggested. “Very romantic place, no?”
    So we walked through Hyde Park, where drops dripped on us from the horse chestnut trees and Rotten Row was sodden underfoot. The park was almost deserted until we came to Speakers’ Corner. There a small crowd was gathered around a man standing on a packing case.
    “The workers will rise up and take what is rightfully theirs,” he was shouting, while around him other earnest young men were carrying signs saying, Join the Communists. Make the world a better place. Down with monarchy. Equality for all. Up the workers.
    Hanni looked at them with interest. “They can say this and not be arrested?” she asked.
    “This is called Speakers’ Corner. You can