Chapter Twenty-Three 5 November 2023
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
I could hardly recognise the woman I saw in the mirror anymore. She was a stranger, someone called Princess Alexandrina, a sleek creature who had absolutely nothing to do with me.
The honours were dispensed in a Watford Castle reception room, and afterwards I took photographs with the recipients, and then lingered to chat while light refreshments were served.
I liked investitures, pinning medals to the lapels of people who did brave and interesting things, like canoe across the Irish Sea to raise money for wounded veterans, or discover a new species of wasp on a nature reserve in Kent.
It didn’t make much sense for any of these fine people to kneel before me.
But it was nice to see them in their best suits and specially purchased hats, serene in the knowledge that they had done one good thing with their lives.
After a polite forty-five minutes, I slipped from the reception room for some air and wandered down the hall until I found myself in the Wellington Chamber.
It was a colossal space designed to intimidate whoever entered it, with a portrait of Barbara Villiers on the furthest wall.
I went to see her and found that she was gazing down at me with disappointment, ermine robes around her creamy shoulders, rubies in the hollow of her neck.
What would you do? I wished to ask her.
But her violet eyes told me the answer. The House of Villiers was a ramshackle thing when she took possession of it, and she had turned our family into a stone tower that had stood for hundreds of years.
You didn’t pull that off without getting a little blood on your hands.
She didn’t flirt and fuck, scheme and conquer, just for me to ruin it all a few centuries later.
The doors boomed, and I flinched.
“There you are.” Mary continued to tap at her phone screen as she crossed the floor.
“Sorry,” I said. “Just needed a minute.”
Gleefully, she showed me every Instagram post and tabloid story covering the investiture. “Vogue says you’re a fashion icon,” she said.
“Cool.”
My own phone buzzed, and when I glanced down, I saw that it was James again. He texted me every day at noon, and I imagined him standing in his dark kitchen in Oatlands performing this last task before he went to bed.
Checking in, he wrote.
I angled the screen away, typing out a quick response before Mary caught a glimpse: All fine.
I was still stunned that James had found it possible to forgive me. When I called him at the pond, he’d listened to my story in silence. As soon as I’d finished, I apologised over and over.
“You can say sorry one more time, and then I never want to hear it from you again,” he said.
James had always suspected there was more to the story of how his sister died.
He knew in his soul that we weren’t telling the whole truth.
But he said that I was a child who did what children do when they’re frightened and alone.
I knew he blamed Papa entirely, and he would not allow me to share the responsibility, no matter how much I’d insisted.
“Oh,” Mary said, still staring at her screen. “I found those contact details you were after—for the Italian man. Phone number and home address. No email. I’ll send them through now.”
My phone shivered in my hands, and there he was: Davide Rossi.
He had left Rapallo and moved south for the Gulf of Poets, a crescent-shaped coastal inlet once beloved by all the creatives, from Dante to Lord Byron.
Percy Shelley had drowned there when his sailboat capsized during a storm.
His decomposed body had washed ashore weeks later, and they were only certain it was him because he had a Keats poem folded up in his breast pocket.
“Thank you,” I murmured. “You were discreet?”
“Yes, of course.”
“He’s an old friend of my parents. I might need to go visit him—I’m not quite sure yet.”
Mary glanced at me sideways and then returned to her phone, opening up the calendar that ruthlessly governed both of our lives.
“When? For how long? You don’t really have any time off until… March. Unless you intend to go for the day, but—”
“I haven’t decided yet,” I snapped.
She looked me up and down, a new habit she’d developed, perhaps wondering if this mystery man was the reason I’d been quiet and unreliable for months, dropping weight and spacing out during engagements, threatening everything she’d worked so hard to achieve for us both.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “My father sort of… looked after him, and now that he’s gone, I might need to take over. It’s not something I’ve ever discussed with Stewart or the Queen—so if I need to go to Italy, it must be off the books.”
The vaulted ceiling was rimmed with lantern windows, letting in the drowsy autumn sunlight. Dust motes twirled and danced between us.
“Alright,” Mary said cautiously. “But you can’t go anywhere without your protection detail. And I’ll have to tell Stewart. He has your passport.”
I closed my eyes. I’d forgotten about that.
After Mum went to Darfur to tell the truth about the genocide unfolding there, her philanthropic activities had been heavily curtailed by the palace.
For the remainder of her marriage, she had no choice but to stand prettily at flower shows and yacht races, her passport locked in Stewart’s desk.
Never, ever let them take your passport or your phone, she once told me.
You’re a person, not a pet. Stewart had had my passport in his pocket by the end of the very first day.
“Fuck,” I breathed.
“It’s not a big deal,” Mary said. “When you need it, I’ll ask him for it.”
I looked up towards Barbara and found that her soft, knowing smile had tightened into a sneer. In almost every portrait of her, she had posed with her chin resting in her white hand, making her look wanton but powerful. Now she just looked exasperated.
“Ma’am, are you alright?”
I met Mary’s watchful eyes. “Yes, of course. I’ll let you know what I need to do soon. Are we done? Can we go home?”
We drove back to London in silence, and I dozed most of the way, my cheek against the glass as I listened to the tap of Mary’s fingertips on her phone and the endless grind of city traffic.
When I woke up, the wrought-iron gates of Cumberland Palace were coming into view, and I saw that there was a swarm of tourists lingering by the boom gate.
I fixed my hat and sat up straight, waving benevolently as they peered at me through the dark glass.
Outside Cumberland 1, the driver opened my door, but I hesitated. “Thank you for today, Mary.”
“Did you want me to come in? We can go over the notes for the blood-drive appearance tomorrow.”
“No,” I said and slid out of the car, wincing as I stood up in my evil high heels. “I want you to take the rest of the day off. Go to the pub with your friends or something. We can chat tomorrow.”
She nodded uncertainly, and I knew she probably wouldn’t go home, or phone a friend, or book a last-minute spot in a yoga class. She’d return to the office and stay there until the autumn gloaming descended into night.
“Yes ma’am.” She looked me up and down appraisingly. “I love that outfit.”
“You did an incredible job. I’ll see you in the morning.”
I was relieved to find the house silent and still, even Chino’s favourite afternoon nap spot by the fire empty.
Amira must have taken him for a walk. I eased myself onto the bottom step of the staircase and wrenched off my shoes, easing my aching feet into ugg boots, knowing the searing pain that awaited once I stood.
I sat for a while, thinking of the weeks ahead, the decisions I must make, the lies I must tell.
I wondered what Jack was doing at that very moment.
It was the early hours in Hobart, so he was probably in bed, his face gone boyish and soft with sleep.
Or maybe he was out somewhere meeting girls, moving on with his life, hating me more as each day passed.
I knew that as the weeks turned to months, he would think of me less and less, and eventually he would be nothing but relieved.
I wondered if Papa would be proud of me, or if he’d despair of me. I wished that Louis were around, as I did dozens of times a day.
I just want my mum, I thought—the old, ceaseless whisper inside me.
I hurled my left Louboutin hard at the wall, leaving a jagged line in the sage-green paint.
I froze, as if Mum herself would look around the corner and gape at what I had done to her Farrow & Ball walls.
Then I remembered she’d never reappear to scold me or hug me or save me ever again, so I tossed the other shoe in the same direction.
“Good heavens,” came a voice from above.
I flinched and turned to see Vikki at the top of the staircase.
“Oh,” I said guiltily, “I didn’t realise anyone was home.”
Vikki was in her athleisure wear, which meant she was probably there dropping Amira off after Pilates. She descended the stairs, stopping on the last step to stare at the mess I’d made of the wall.
“It was an accident,” I said in a small voice.
Vikki nodded and sat down next to me with a heavy sigh. “Not to worry. The staff keep a few extra tins of paint for touch-ups. I’ll contact them this afternoon.”
“Thank you. Where’s Amira?”
“At the park, giving Chino a runaround. Madhav is with her,” she said. “He’s been talking to her about coming to work for the company.”
I looked at Vikki. “Really?”
She leaned back and propped her elbows on the step behind us. “Yes, well, it was once the plan that she work there after university. Madhav always said she had more of a head for business than Kris ever did.”