Chapter 17
‘N ow, I have a wee surprise for you.’ Sophie smirks, clasping her hands together. ‘Close your eyes.’ She guides me the last few steps to the door and I hear her push it open. She drags me by the hand across the threshold, and my bare feet sink into the plush carpet. I can already tell that this room is not often frequented.
‘Sophie?’ My tone is nervous as she releases her hold on me and can be heard shuffling things about the room.
‘Okay, okay.’ I can hear the smile in her voice. ‘Open.’ Doing as commanded, I peel open my eyes to see her stood in the centre of the rounded room, arms outstretched as she presents the suitcase that I’d had to leave behind in Braemar all those weeks ago. Propped up on a chaise longue in the middle of the room, Sophie skips around it. ‘Ta-da!’
If I was stood here even just a week ago, I think I would have dropped to my knees with joy. But now, the sight of the designer labels, the array of tiny bottles filled with various potions to make me look youthful and beautiful, have no attraction to me anymore. As Sophie rifles through the fabrics, I scan the room, taking it all in for the first time.
From floor to ceiling, fabrics are draped around the entire circumference of the room in every colour imaginable. As though plucked straight from a fairy tale, this dressing room is the stuff of dreams. A cabinet of tiaras and coronets is framed by hanging dresses, gold laced scarves and shoes for every occasion. Floating around the room, I run my fingers along the fabrics, like a piano of silks, linens, and finely tuned appliqué. Every touch feels like history, with every single piece in this collection aged to perfection and ready to tell a story.
‘Okay, why was I forced into all of those itchy jumpers when this place has existed all along?’ Turning back to Sophie, I smile in awe at the richness of fashion around me.
‘Oi, I tried my best with those jumpers. I was scrounging for days,’ she says, picking up a short, puffy dress from my suitcase and twirling around with it. ‘That right there is the royal collection. Only to be touched on special occasions. I’ve only ever been in this room twice in my life. The first time was to do the dusting; the second is right now. The contents of those wardrobes and that jewellery cabinet are worth more than my life, tenfold.’ Sophie shudders at the thought and sets down another dress she had picked out of my suitcase.
‘Mrs Buchanan has said that the king has given you permission to wear any of your own clothes, if you so wish it, but he has personally suggested this one.’ She waltzes over to one of the rails and releases a sealed bag. Hanging it on one of the hooks dotted about the room, she unzips it slowly, as though revealing a dress so fragile it may well be made from the wings of a thousand butterflies.
I’m not far off. Beneath the protective layer hangs a dress of ivory satin, embroidered all across the bodice with pearls. I have never seen anything more beautiful in my life. The clothes in that suitcase no longer feel like me, at least not tonight. Tonight, I wish to be the kind of woman who wears dresses like that, who floats about a castle in a satin gown and has her shit together.
‘I’m allowed to wear that ?’ Still in disbelief, I stare at the dress in awe.
‘You know, for someone born into royalty, you aren’t half awkward about fine things. I’d have thought you’d be used to all of this fancy stuff by now.’ Sophie chuckles as she begins to deconstruct the dress to help me into it.
‘I don’t think I could ever get used to anything like this.’ I slide the fabric between my fingers, and my fingertips tingle with the caress. I can’t wait to feel it flowing over the rest of my body.
‘You ready?’ Sophie asks, as the opening sound of drums is swiftly followed by bagpipes, signalling that the party has begun. Nodding, I drop my towel and allow Sophie to shimmy the fabric up my body. I feel like a crustacean returning to its shell. The cinched waist and smooth satin feel like home as the dress fits like it was made just for me.
Looking in the mirror, I hardly recognise myself. This isn’t the woman who was reflected back at me in the muddied plastic windows of the train just hours ago. This isn’t the girl with no light in her eyes who was staring back at me in the bathroom tiles only moments ago.
‘It wouldn’t be Balmoral if you didn’t also have to wear a tartan sash though.’ Sophie hooks the red royal tartan over my shoulder and, for the first time in my life, I feel like I belong. ‘Perfect.’ She grins, smoothing down the plaid carefully.
‘Oh, Sophie, this is amazing. Thank you.’
‘What are you thanking me for? I hardly made the thing,’ she jokes. ‘Now, let’s get that hair sorted.’
I think back to the photograph of my mother in the pub. Her blonde hair wild, like a golden halo of curls glowing around her. ‘Can we leave it down?’ I ask, usually forced to have each and every strand hidden away into an updo that is tight enough to give me a facelift.
‘Absolutely.’ Diffusing it until it looks positively unrestrained, my friend and maid returns with one final piece to complete the outfit: a tiara. Teardrop pearls hang in arches of diamonds and swing gently with each of my breaths. The burden of it is indescribable. In one breath, it feels weightless, as though designed specifically for each curve of my skull, matched perfectly for my constitution. In the next, I feel as though I can hardly lift my head. My eyes must remain fixed on the floor or my neck will snap and all of this will be over.
‘What if it falls off?’ I suddenly panic, risking a glance at Sophie.
‘If you keep your head up and walk with confidence, there’s no way it would even dare to fall.’ She grins, admiring her work.
‘What about you, Sophie? Aren’t you coming to the ball?’ I ask, noticing her not rushing to get dressed, panicking that I will have to do this without her.
‘I will be, just a little later. My dress is still in my dormitory.’ She looks around longingly at the endless wardrobe.
‘Why don’t you just dress in something from here?’
Her eyes widen and she shakes her head nervously.
‘I could never. Only the king and queen can give people permission to take from this collection. I reckon I’d be done for treason if I rocked up in duchesse satin.’ She doesn’t cease shaking her head. ‘No, I have a dress I wear every year. I’ll just go and stick that on.’
‘Nothing in there is from the royal collection,’ I say, pointing at my suitcase.
‘No, no, I couldn’t possibly.’
‘You absolutely can. You shared your clothes with me, it’s only right that I can return the favour. How about this one?’ Walking over to the suitcase, I pull out a pale blue silk dress from within.
‘I’d never pull off something like that, honestly.’ Sophie’s eyes are wide as she stares at the way the soft light of the room shimmers with each floating movement of the dress.
‘At least try it on?’ I push, insistent on helping her as she helps me.
Reluctantly, she takes the dress behind the screen and seconds later returns for me to zip it up.
The fabric is still perfectly pressed, but ebbs and flows over her figure like the soft lapping of water on the shoreline. The colour of a loch in the cool of winter, in every movement there is a reflection, like sunlight tickling the surface. All the beauty of the earth is captured right in those very pools and never before has that dress suited a person so perfectly.
‘There is no way I’m having that dress back, whether you choose to wear it tonight or not.’ Sophie persists with her deer-in-headlights expression. ‘Not once in the whole time I have owned that has it ever looked that good on me. You cow.’ I chuckle and she relaxes in the mirror.
‘You really think so?’
‘It is the only thing I can be certain of right now.’
‘My grandmother’s tartan was always blue.’ Sophie looks at herself in the mirror but I don’t think it’s herself that she sees. Snapping out of her thoughts, she turns to me. ‘I think I still have it somewhere. Would you mind, if we went to fetch it?’
‘It would be a pleasure,’ I say, heading for the door, my excitement finally blossoming.
‘What about your suitcase?’ Sophie asks as I slip out of the door.
‘You keep it, all of it. I don’t need it.’ Her shocked expression returns. ‘It’s not a gift,’ I say, hoping to make her less uncomfortable. ‘Think of it as payment, for all you have done for me, and the clothes you have shared with me.’
‘Alice—’
‘I insist. Plus, I don’t want it anymore. I’ve rather taken to itchy woolly jumpers in August and skirts the length that a nun would wear.’
* * *
‘The Ghillies Ball, one of our longest traditions,’ Mrs Buchanan begins as soon as Sophie and I step into the ballroom. She sways a little with the glass of punch in her hand precariously sloshing against the rim. ‘It was begun by Queen Victoria in 1852 as a “thank you” to her staff and has been continued by every monarch since.’
A band sit on the balcony playing their toe-tapping jigs as a sea of kilts and gowns overflow through the room in the various twirls and leaps of the Scottish country dance that everyone just seems to know the steps to. Scanning the room, I know I am only looking for one face in particular, my heart full of both anxiety and anticipation. It sinks, however, when I have no choice but to turn back to the housekeeper once my search proves unsuccessful.
‘Every royal in residence and every member of staff is here right now. You know, Ghillie can stand for two things. The first is your shoes.’ She points at the little black, ballet-esque shoes that are laced high around both of our ankles. ‘Those, my dear, are ghillies. Designed specifically for Scottish country dancing. The second is that its Gaelic for gamekeeper. A ball for the servants, named after the servants. Fandabidozi!’ She takes another swig of her drink and I have to repress a chuckle at the sight of her unwinding. Sophie was right; this really is a night where anything goes.
The king sits stoically in the royal dais and, not wishing to strain his voice above the music, he chats closely in the ear of another kilted individual. The monarch cracks a genuine smile and chuckles animatedly as his raconteur returns to his full height. Fraser Bell stands beside the king, his shy, dimpled smile out in full force, giving all of the ladies’ tiaras a run for their money for the thing of greatest beauty.
Excusing myself from Mrs Buchanan, and sliding in between Sophie and the partner she has had no trouble in finding from the royal household as they swing around the floor in dance, I make my way over, almost instinctively. I curtsey to the king. He looks me up and down, his familiar impenetrable expression returning.
‘Lady Walpole.’ He speaks softly. ‘It seems I have exceptional taste in ladies’ dresses.’
‘You do indeed, Your Majesty.’
‘Beautiful, is it not, Pipe Major Bell?’ The king turns back to Fraser, who stares only at my ghillies, his dimples long gone. I look all across his face, almost willing his eyes to meet mine. When they don’t, the cold tingling begins in my toes and despite the way everyone else in this room is slick with sweat, coldness spreads through me.
At the king’s command, he finally steals one reluctant glance and visibly swallows. ‘Undeniably, sir.’ My cheeks flush.
‘You know, I have had that dress saved in the collection for decades. I believe it was your grandmother who wore it last, to this very ball.’ Still keeping my eyes on Fraser, I can hardly hear what is being said but the king persists. ‘Don’t be surprised if a few of the more antiquated of us in this room mistake you for old Alex. She was very much revered in Balmoral.’
How many times must a woman be told how exceptional her family are, and how many times must she be reminded how much she doesn’t fit in, before she screams? Hopefully not as she is face to face with the king, but boy is she close.
Though it pains me, I politely chuckle.
‘Have you ever been to a ceilidh, Lady Alice?’
‘No, sir. I must admit that I am rather out of my depth.’ I look again about the room as the pace of the song ever increases and the steps get faster and faster until I am surprised the queen is still standing with how she is swung from partner to partner.
‘That shall not do,’ the king says, and looks to Fraser. ‘How about you show my great niece how it is done, young Bell? You have been dancing at this ball for years, have you not?’
‘Since I was a bairn, sir.’ Fraser still refuses to land his eyes on me and I can almost hear my heartbeat above the music with how it hammers against my chest.
‘Perfect.’ The king clasps his hands together. ‘I would show you myself, Lady Alice, but I’m afraid my knees can’t really take the Dashing White Sergeant anymore.’
‘It is a terrible shame to miss you dance, sir.’ The king pooh-poohs modestly. ‘I am afraid I know none of the steps, and I wouldn’t wish to dirty the pipe major’s shoes.’
‘Can you hear her trying to make excuses, Bell?’ A smile draws at the corner of his mouth. ‘Mrs Buchanan is a terrible dancer and that has never stopped her before.’ He nods to the party and Mrs B skips about in the very centre in a spectacle reminiscent of a stag on ice.
‘If I may say, my lady?’ Fraser speaks and I nod to urge him on. ‘Having my toes stepped on is a small price to pay for the privilege of seeing you dance.’
The music stops. Or at least it does for me.