Chapter 19
Chapter Nineteen
Callum
The start of June is jammed full of events, like a royal pinata bursting with glittering engagements.
It starts with Trooping the Colour, where I stand on the Buckingham Palace balcony with Nicholas and Amelia, watching the fourteen hundred soldiers, four hundred horses, and four hundred-member brass band all in a display of pageantry celebrating my grandmother’s birthday, even though she was born in January.
The mall is lined with massive Union Jacks, the troops in bright-red tunics and black bearskin hats marching perfectly in time with the music from the band.
Standing in the drizzle, watching the RAF planes buzz overhead in the finale, my life in California feels so far away.
I’ve been messaging Scott regularly, but they’ve been benign, generic messages because, despite the loyalty he’s shown me, I’m still paranoid that anything I share with him might end up blasted across the tabloids.
I wish I could talk to Oliver. He would be able to anchor me. Without him, I’m adrift.
I’m still feeling that loneliness when my grandmother requests to see me in her sitting room the night after Trooping the Colour. Initially, our conversation is just about my upcoming investiture, but then she tilts her head to one side and asks me a question I’m not expecting.
“And how are you doing overall?”
The usual platitudes I give everyone except Oliver die on my lips when I see the concern etched on her face.
“It’s been an…adjustment,” I say.
“I understand. This is not an easy life, despite what many assume.”
“I like being able to speak up for those who do not always get heard,” I say.
Gran nods. “That is one of both the privileges and responsibilities of our positions. I have never taken that lightly.”
“I know you haven’t.”
My grandmother has devoted her entire life to serving the people of the United Kingdom. I don’t think anyone can doubt her devotion or the sincerity with which she undertakes her duties.
I look down at the patterned carpet, pressing my feet into the plush strands before I raise my gaze to hers.
“Do you ever get…?” I trail off because personal questions are not something we really do in our family. But she’s watching me, and her expression is soft enough that I find the courage to finish my question. “Lonely?”
She hesitates, and I feel my face flush. Have I overstepped?
“The position of monarch is often lonely, Callum,” she says finally. “The only way to stave off that loneliness is to find a partner prepared to support you in every way.”
I gulp. A partner. Right.
Her blue eyes find mine. “I was lucky with your grandfather. There were not many men prepared for their wives to overshadow them, particularly in that era. But your grandfather supported me wholeheartedly.” For a moment, grief deepens the lines on her face even further.
I think of what I remember of my grandfather, a tall man with ruddy cheeks and laughing eyes.
“I’m glad you had that,” I manage.
She manages to rummage up a small smile. “I hope you will be as fortunate as I was,” she says quietly.
Her words leave me feeling hollow.
Two days later is the Order of the Garter ceremony, where the history nerd inside me does a happy dance at becoming part of an order of chivalry founded in 1348. And then it’s the beginning of Royal Ascot.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I say the morning the famous races start, taking in the top hat and tailcoat Herbert has laid out for me. “Isn’t it forecasted to be eighty-five degrees today?”
We’re partway into June, but until now, the only difference I’ve noticed between spring and summer is the propensity of people to now react to any sliver of sun by stripping down to their bathing suits in public parks.
There definitely hasn’t been any warming of the weather, with the mercury hovering stubbornly around sixty degrees.
“I believe it’s going to be thirty degrees, yes,” Herbert says.
Celsius. Fahrenheit. Why come up with a second scale to measure temperature when you had a perfectly functioning first scale? I make a mental note to Google it later.
“Tops and tails are the standard attire for Royal Ascot, Your Royal Highness. There is a strict dress code inside the royal enclosure,” Herbert continues.
“Oh. Right.”
With minor help from Herbert, I put on the suit, waistcoat, and tie, replaying his words. Tops and tails sounds like an interesting sexual position.
And…now I’m thinking about Oliver again because it’s a joke I want to share with him.
And okay, okay, it’s also because if there’s anyone I’m interested in exploring sexual positions with right now, it’s definitely Oliver.
Our kiss provided my imagination with source material, and it’s been happily extrapolating what could come next.
Pulling my mind away from erotic fantasies involving the prime minister, I venture down the stairs to where Raymond is waiting.
“You’re riding in the carriage with Her Majesty, Prince Nicholas, and Princess Amelia,” Raymond informs me.
“Okay.”
As the courtiers fuss around, directing us into the carriages, I can’t help feeling like they’re the stage directors and we are merely actors. Interchangeable as long as someone is there playing the role.
“Prince Callum sits next to the Queen, Princess Amelia and Prince Nicholas opposite,” Clive, my grandmother’s private secretary, instructs.
Nicholas’s face twists into a momentary scowl, but it’s gone a second later, leaving his usual smirk behind.
We climb into the carriage. If there’s an elegant way to enter a carriage, I haven’t found it yet.
Nicholas wears a top hat and tails like me, Amelia is in a pink sundress with a horse pin prominently displayed, and my grandmother is dressed head to toe in mauve with a hat that could double as a floral centerpiece.
“I like your hat, Gran,” I say.
“The public places bets on my hat, so I always try to surprise them,” she says with a gentle smile.
Nicholas regards me as we settle into the carriage. It’s part of a cavalcade of six carriages, each adorned with gold trimmings and pulled by immaculately groomed gray horses.
“I guess this is quite the change of scene for you, isn’t it, Callum? From the land of hamburgers and hot dogs to the world of top hats and tailcoats,” he says.
“Yep. I’m definitely not in California anymore.”
We lurch off. I’ve recently discovered that carriages are quite a bumpy mode of transport. Henry Ford definitely did us all a favor by inventing the automobile.
I can’t help wondering if my disgraced aunts, uncles, and cousins are watching this and feeling resentful they aren’t part of it? Or is some part of them relieved to be free from the weight of tradition and expectations?
I nod at Amelia’s pin. “I see you are getting into the spirit of horse racing, Mellie.”
“It’s actually the symbol of Yennenga, a famous warrior princess from Burkina Faso,” Amelia says.
As we travel, Amelia fills me in on the details about Yennenga, who was apparently such an important fighter for her father, King Nedega, that he refused her to marry, leading her to escape from his palace and fall in love with an elephant hunter.
I love learning new things, but I never expected to learn African history as I’m jolting along in a carriage pulled by four horses as part of the royal procession.
As we enter the racetrack, the band bursts into “God Save the Queen.”
Nicholas takes off his top hat, giving me a pointed look, and I scramble to follow suit. The crowds lining the raceway cheer loudly as we come past. Gran gives her usual regal wave.
I’ve never given much thought to the art of waving, but in my initial instructions from Raymond, I learned there is a royal standard on waving to avoid wrist issues.
I don’t think I’ve completely nailed it, so I send a sideways look at Nicholas to see his technique, my face heating when he catches me.
Shit. I feel like I’ve just been caught cheating on an exam.
We dismount the carriages, greet some dignitaries, and are ushered into the Royal Box.
The room is the epitome of class. Ivory tablecloths on large dining tables laden with delicate china and crystal glassware. A casual observer might just see the elegance of the setup, but my brain clocks how many things I could potentially break.
The hum of polite conversation fills the room, punctuated by the occasional tinkle of laughter.
Wide-open glass doors lead outside to seats overlooking the racecourse.
I abruptly stop when I see one of the guests moving forward to greet my grandmother.
Oliver. Here.
Oliver, in a top hat and dark suit, looking more handsome than I’ve ever seen him.
Who knew that a top hat was a magnifier of the attractiveness of the person wearing it?
My heart relocates to my throat.
“Your Majesty.” Oliver greets Gran with a bow.
“Welcome, Oliver. It’s so nice you could make it.”
“I wouldn’t have missed it for the world,” he says smoothly.
He greets Nicholas and Amelia with the same smooth smile before turning to me. For a second, his smooth smile falters, but then it returns.
“Your Royal Highness.” He nods his head and then offers his hand to shake.
My pounding heart only increases when I register Oliver’s smooth, warm hand in mine. I want to do something, give his hand a small squeeze, trail my fingertips along the inside of his wrist, just do something to make this not a normal handshake. But my courage fails me.
As he drops my hand, I scramble for something to say, something to hold his attention.
“Did you know that the handshake evolved from an ancient custom of showing open hands to prove you don’t have a weapon?” I ask. Because, you know, reminding Oliver of my weirdness is a great way to make him want to talk to me again.
“I promise I’m not armed or dangerous,” Oliver replies.
That’s a pity. Because I’d really like to see what kind of weapon you’re packing.
I blush as the comment enters my mind. Luckily, my brain-to-mouth filter, which isn’t always the most reliable contraption in the world, mercifully holds up on this occasion.