George Washington's Ghost

That was rather uncomfortable history for any monarch; given that the fall off Amiens had sparked a bloody revolution in France which had, within eighteen months seen the citizen armies of the 1st Republic fighting on the side of the British invaders against Austro-Prussian aggressors on the Rhine. In the resulting chaos the whole of France had been ravaged, Paris fought over twice and then thrice… before the final armistice.

So much for ancient history…

The leading members of the rest of the ‘Berlin Party’ had been circled in conversation as they awaited the arrival of the Royal Party, now they shook themselves out into a dutiful reception line to greet their Sovereign.

Heading the line was the Prime Minister, Sir Hector Hamilton, for once unaccompanied by his wife, the irrepressible and frequently voluble Lady Emma: Sir George Walpole, the Foreign and Colonial Secretary was next in line in the dark, wood-panelled drawing room; to his right hand was the Chief of the Imperial General Staff (CIGS), the white-haired and moustachioed Field Marshall Lord Francis de Selincourt Tremayne of Kandahar, and to complete the quartet, the sparse, dapper figure of the First Sea Lord, Admiral of the Fleet, 7th Viscount Julian Wemyss Troubridge, the man responsible, in league with the now C-in-C Atlantic Fleet, Cuthbert Collingwood, for the abandonment of the big gun in favour of naval aviation in the last decade.

Eleanor always found herself thinking about the remarkable resemblance between the Royal Navy’s two greatest ‘living’ men, and their – in portraiture – Georgian predecessors: Collingwood was a big, bluff, red-faced man who spoke his mind without fear or favour, albeit one with a remarkable knack of working behind the scenes to get his way; while Troubridge was the spitting image of that first Admiral Collingwood’s friend and heroically fated, comrade at the Battle of the Channel at the beginning of the nineteenth century, Horatio Nelson, that most tantalisingly enigmatic of naval icons.

“My, my,” the King declared, “I know we’re off to a funeral in Germany tomorrow but you fellows all look like you’ve got guilty consciences!”

Said by her husband in jest to break the ice because they were, after all, among friends, coincidentally, that was exactly the impression Eleanor had formed the moment she laid eyes on the quartet.

Sir Hector Hamilton grimaced.

He glanced around, uncharacteristically, clearly unhappy to be in the presence of so many staffers and courtiers.

Freddie De L’Isle lightened the mood: ‘Perhaps, if we moved into the Banqueting Hall, sir,” he suggested to the King. “Light refreshments have been laid on.”

Both the King and the Queen exchanged raised eyebrows when the doors to the great room, with which they were so familiar, were shut behind them, excluding all bar their hosts and the four great men who had travelled separately to Kent for this rendezvous.

Freddie De L’Isle bowed his head.

“Forgive me, sir. Pippa and I were asked to accommodate the subterfuge necessary to facilitate this meeting, I hope you will not feel I have gone behind your back. Sir Hector emphasised the gravity of the situation and I felt it was my duty to, er, facilitate matters in my father’s absence abroad. With your permission, sir,” he requested, a little uncomfortably, “Pippa and I shall leave you to your deliberations.”

The King met the younger man’s troubled gaze.

He patted the younger De L’Isle’s arm.

“Think nothing of it, Freddie,” he assured him, “think nothing of it.”

Eleanor and Usha De L’Isle exchanged pecking kisses and then the younger people were gone, and the big, oaken doors clunked shut at their backs.

The King’s stomach was rumbling, and he was glad to survey a silver tea service, and several plates of savouries laid out on a table under the windows. Now that he was looking around the room, he noted that there was a film screen set up at one end and a semi-circle of comfortable chairs arranged, ready and waiting.

Poor Freddie and Pippa, they must have felt absolutely dreadful having to play their part organising this charade.

Whatever it was that was actually going on!

“What is this, Hector?” He inquired of his Prime Minister, his tone momentarily that of a captain of a ship awakened in the middle of the night by a routine report which could have waited until the morning. “What the Devil is going on?”

The King had been looking around for a movie projector, his scrutiny seeking something large, clumsy and metallic; now his eye settled on a small, dull, scarcely larger than a child’s hand device, roughly aligned with the big screen at the southern end of the room in front of the waiting chairs.

Eleanor decided that her husband’s most senior advisors were ill-at-ease, unusually awkward in the Royal presence. That would never do!

Touching her husband’s, elbow she moved to the table.

“Shall I be mother?” She offered brightly.

This seemed to break the ice.

Julian Troubridge stepped forward.