The Man from St. Petersburg by Ken Follett

either side of the door, wearing the Walden livery. William, stout and graying, was calm, but Charles looked excited. Papa handed Charlotte into the coach, and she sat down gracefully. I haven’t fallen over yet, she thought.
    The other three got in. Pritchard brought a hamper and put it on the floor of the coach before closing the door.
    The coach pulled away.
    Charlotte looked at the hamper. “A picnic?” she said. “But we’re only going half a mile!”
    “Wait till you see the queue,” Papa said. “It will take us almost an hour to get there.”
    It occurred to Charlotte that she might be more bored than nervous this evening.
    Sure enough, the carriage stopped at the Admiralty end of The Mall, half a mile from Buckingham Palace. Papa opened the hamper and took out a bottle of champagne. The basket also contained chicken sandwiches, hothouse peaches and a cake.
    Charlotte sipped a glass of champagne but she could not eat anything. She looked out of the window. The pavements were thronged with idlers watching the procession of the mighty. She saw a tall man with a thin, handsome face leaning on a bicycle and staring intently at their coach. Something about his look made Charlotte shiver and turn away.
    After such a grand exit from the house, she found that the anticlimax of sitting in the queue was calming. By the time the coach passed through the palace gates and approached the grand entrance she was beginning to feel more her normal self—skeptical, irreverent and impatient.
    The coach stopped and the door was opened. Charlotte gathered her train in her left arm, picked up her skirts with her right hand, stepped down from the coach and walked into the palace.
    The great red-carpeted hall was a blaze of light and color. Despite her skepticism she felt a thrill of excitement when she saw the crowd of white-gowned women and men in glittering uniforms. The diamonds flashed, the swords clanked and the plumes bobbed. Red-coated Beefeaters stood at attention on either side.
    Charlotte and Mama left their wraps in the cloakroom, then, escorted by Papa and Aleks, walked slowly through the hall and up the grand staircase, between the Yeomen of the Guard with their halberds and the massed red and white roses. From there they went through the picture gallery and into the first of three state drawing rooms with enormous chandeliers and mirror-bright parquet floors. Here the procession ended and people stood around in groups, chatting and admiring one another’s clothes. Charlotte saw her cousin Belinda with Uncle George and Aunt Clarissa. The two families greeted each other.
    Uncle George was wearing the same clothes as Papa, but because he was so fat and red-faced he looked awful in them. Charlotte wondered how Aunt Clarissa, who was young and pretty, felt about being married to such a lump.
    Papa was surveying the room as if looking for someone. “Have you seen Churchill?” he said to Uncle George.
    “Good Lord, what do you want him for?”
    Papa took out his watch. “We must take our places in the Throne Room—we’ll leave you to look after Charlotte, if we may, Clarissa.” Papa, Mama and Aleks left.
    Belinda said to Charlotte: “Your dress is gorgeous.”
    “It’s awfully uncomfortable.”
    “I knew you were going to say that!”
    “You’re ever so pretty.”
    “Thank you.” Belinda lowered her voice. “I say, Prince Orlov is rather dashing.”
    “He’s very sweet.”
    “I think he’s more than sweet .”
    “What’s that funny look in your eye?”
    Belinda lowered her voice even more. “You and I must have a long talk very soon.”
    “About what?”
    “Remember what we discussed in the hideaway? When we took those books from the library at Walden Hall?”
    Charlotte looked at her uncle and aunt, but they had turned away to talk to a dark-skinned man in a pink satin turban. “Of course I remember.”
    “About that.”
    Silence descended suddenly. The crowd fell back toward the sides of the room