What We're Writing--Rhys goes to the palace.

RHYS BOWEN: I'm in the early stages of a new Royal Spyness book, this one with the working title ON HER MAJESTY'S FRIGHTFULLY SECRET SERVICE.  What do you think about the title? Like it?

As in several of the books Georgie is sent on an assignment by Queen Mary. And this usually involves going to Buckingham Palace--always worrying for Georgie as she tends to be clumsy and hates to find herself surrounded by priceless antiques, or having to eat in the queen's presence.

When I did a tour of Buckingham Palace a few years ago I enjoyed myself thinking "Georgie might have knocked over this statue!" But her concerns about having tea with the queen come from personal experience. When I was a young woman I had tea with the present queen. Oh-- the worry about knocking over a tea cup on the pristine white cloth! Or of biting into an eclair and squirting cream onto the queen's silk dress! Luckily that never happened as we were instructed before the meal that one only eats what the queen eats. And the queen ate one piece of brown bread. So the rest of us stared at the table, laden with every type of delicious cake, scone, tart, and each of us chewed brown bread one hundred times.

Poor Georgie: She is frequently made to suffer with embarrassments that happened to me! Here's a snippet of the scene before she arrives at the palace:

From Georgie's Diary: Off to Buckingham Palace to have tea with the queen in a few minutes. How grand that sounds and how easy it is to write it!  But golly, I’m always a bundle of nerves, even if she is a relative. Please don’t let me knock over any statues or Ming vases!

At three o’clock it was still raining hard and a fierce wind was driving the rain almost horizontally, making me reject the fur coat with regret.  Not wanting to arrive at the palace looking too much like a drowned hedgehog, I decided to throw caution to the winds and hail a taxi cab.

                “Where to, love?” he asked as I climbed into the back seat.

                “Buckingham Palace, please,” I said.

                He chuckled, a deep throaty chuckle that turned into a cough the way it did with many Londoners who had lived with years of smoky fog. “Cor blimey. You going to have tea with the queen, are yer?”

                “Actually I am,” I said.

                There was a silence then he burst out laughing. “Go on, pull the other one! You nearly had me for a moment there.”

                “No, honestly,” I said. “I am going to tea there.”

                “What—are you going to be presented with a medal or something?”

                “No,” I replied. “The king is my cousin.”

                “Blimey!” he said, turning to look at me as if he expected me to have grown a crown on my head. “Begging your pardon, your royal ‘ighness. You don’t expect a toff like you to be riding in a cab driven by the likes of me, do you? I thought your lot went around in Daimlers and Bentleys and  coach and ‘orses.”

                “Not all of us live that way,” I said. “I’m rather a poor relation, I’m afraid. Even taxi cabs are a luxury for me.”

                We drove around Hyde Park Corner and down Constitution Hill.

                “So where do you want to be dropped off, yer highness?” he asked.

                “Outside the front gates, please. I’m afraid they won’t let you drive up to the doors and I’m going to get rather wet.”

                “What, one of their own family? We’ll see about that,” he said and turned into the front entrance, between those imposing gilded gates. Guards stood on either side, with rain streaming down their faces and running down their bearskins while they looked stoically straight ahead. Until we pulled up, that was. One of them stepped out, gun at the ready.

           “I’ve got a member of the royal family ‘ere.” The cabby leaned across. “And we don’t want ‘er getting wet when she comes to see the queen, do we?”

                The guard bent to peer at me. “And you are, miss?” he asked.

                “Lady Georgiana, the king’s cousin and of course I understand that you can’t let a cabby drive into the courtyard.”

                “Who says we can’t?” he said, giving me an un-guardlike grin. “Go on then, cabby, but make sure you come straight out again.”

                “Thank you!” I beamed at the guard. He stood back at attention, but allowed himself the glimmer of a grin.

                So we swept into the central courtyard and a footman came out to open the door for me. He looked surprised at the cab.

                “Lady Georgiana to see her majesty,” I said.

                He opened the door for me and I went to give the cabby a large tip. He pushed it back at me. “That’s all right love,” he said, forgetting the royal highness this time. “I’ll be able to boast about this in the pub all year.”

I'm not one of those writers who outline so I have only the vaguest idea of what this assignment will bring Georgie. I know where she is going-- to the Italian lakes. I know who is going to be killed and why, but not sure yet whodunit. Or what Georgie's role will be. I just turn her loose and follow along and things usually start to happen. Let's hope they will this time!