All the Time in the World - Tizzy_Morg (2024)

Chapter 1: Birkhall, January 2020 (2000, Highgrove / 1970, London)

Chapter Text

Birkhall, January 2020

I wake with the howling of the wind and curl so that every part of me is cocooned in the warmth of the blankets but my nose is exposed and complains about the temperature. Reaching my hand across, I can feel that the other side of the bed is empty, although the compression of the pillows tells me that my husband came to bed last night. Sometimes he falls asleep at his desk and that leaves him with pain in his back and a niggling disposition best avoided. I grimace as the wind fights its way into the house and I hear the lash of rain against the window panes belabouring them. Today will be difficult. He acts like the incarceration in the house is the fault of everyone around him rather than the inclement weather. I settle back into the covers and shut my eyes to postpone commencing the day.
“Your Royal Highness, Ma’am?”
The knock against the door is tentative. I hate being disturbed prematurely and this house is meant to be where we take our holidays, not where I should be harassed at indecorous hours of the morning. “Why are you in my room, waking me up?”
“So sorry, Ma’am, His Royal Highness, The Prince of Wales has asked for you.”
“The sun hasn’t risen. He knows not to wake me before then.” I’m being petulant. The sun never rises early at this time of year and certainly not this far north.
“Sorry Ma’am, he asked for you.”
The initial irritation dissolves into unease. “Fine.” I wriggle out of the covers and prop myself up on the pillows. The air cools through my nightdress and brushes my bare shoulders like frost, making me shiver. Almost immediately, the lamps are switched on in the room and I find a thick cardigan placed around me, a cup of black tea in my hands, warming them. “Tell me, Martin, what exactly is wrong with my husband?”
“He’s most perturbed, Ma’am.”
“Meaning?” Martin colours most magnificently when he’s embarrassed. Watching the shade of his cheeks, I can sometimes work out the truth before he’s admitted to it. He doesn’t look at me and I repeat my question with a Grandmotherly sternness I know works well with him.
“He’s striding around his office, shouting at anyone who enters.”
“What’s happened?”
“I think The Prince would want to tell you himself, Ma’am.”
As I raise my eyebrows at him slightly, I see his endeavour to remain loyal to my husband waiver at my expression. I just need to probe correctly to break him. “Is it that Chinese virus?”
“That what, Ma’am?”
“Corona Virus?” His blank face tells me it’s not. “Harry then?” I watch his face rouge, not able to lie to me and then crumple as he folds.
“You need your iPad. There’s a message on Instagram.”
“Tell me. I don’t know where my glasses are. I don’t even know how to work Insta-whatever-it-is, I just scroll through the pretty pictures.”
“It’s Their Royal Highnesses, The Duke and duch*ess of Sussex. They have announced they’re stepping back from the position of Senior Royals.”
“Get me the iPad.”
It’s a strange emotion that hits my stomach. The anger is instant and prickles my skin, and the grief for my husband settles down in my heart as an old companion. Swallowing, I attempt to rid my mind of any unfavourable comparison but my stomach is churning, a contorted mixture of unease born of wounds from long ago, and guilt from what feels like a different age, salted in a deep-set resentment. I feel leaden as I read the message four, five times over, memorising it before removing my reading glasses to look at Martin. He’s worried about my reaction but I’m not my husband. I sigh heavily, not wanting to get up, but one benefit of my position is that someone will aid me with everything, especially when my bones are too old to move quickly at this time of day. “Send for Emma.” My poor husband. Anger laps at me but I know I have to be calm, even as my stomach pangs. I bet Charles hasn’t eaten yet. “And tea for his office…”
“Yes, Ma’am.”
“And something sweet.”
“What sort…”
“...Duchy biscuits are fine,” I snap, then pause to correct myself and continue with a more neutral tone, “Ready for when I get there. And toast and honey. Send Emma up now.” Dismissing him, I breathe in deeply, feeling the air inflate my lungs, feeling my blood disseminate the oxygen around my body, to my tired muscles, calming me, preparing me for my job, my vocation. The lifetime I’ve spent talking gently to my husband, teasing him, bullying him, calming him down. There is never the time to process each new disaster with his family and sometimes I feel reminiscent of a firefighter, faithfully attempting to extinguish one crisis as several others ignite around me, but it seems churlish to complain when we’ve spent so many years striving for what we have now.

~*~*~*~*~*~

2000, Highgrove

We turn on the television to listen to Big Ben, to hear the countdown and watch the fireworks and I feel his hand reaching for mine. I clasp it firmly. The camera pans onto a closeup of his mother’s face and I smirk. Sat there with the Prime Minister, she looks as pissed off as her public persona allows. He kisses my cheek and I know he’s noted my expression.
“She looks happy.”
That makes me chuckle and I pull away from the screen and turn to face him. The hubbub around us is quieting now to the hush which always accompanies this precise moment in time, that pause before the countdown to the New Year begins.
“I wonder if the telly’s going to crash at the stroke of midnight?”
“Perhaps everything will go down?”
“Your mother will be trapped in the dark.”
“That would be funny.”
“Do you think the little bug thing will crawl out and take over, reign over us?”
That makes him chuckle and he reaches down to kiss me. “Last kiss this year.”
“Last kiss this century.”
“Hold my hand. I want to enter the new millennium with you.”
The countdown starts but I’m looking into his eyes. I want his eyes to be the first thing I see. Or the last, if the world does indeed come to an end in five seconds time. But, of course, it doesn’t and I’ve almost completed saying the obligatory blessing before he kisses me again, then presses his forehead against mine. I can hear the celebrations around me. The corks popping and the choruses of ‘Happy New Year!’ We’re jolted slightly from side to side as our friends turn and greet in the new year in the time old fashion but I can’t draw away from him. Not until I feel people tugging me, grasping for my hand and then the spell is broken and I’m back on earth, singing along with all our friends, laughing with them, bouncing our arms to the beat of the song, grimacing at the sound of my voice as I warble along with them.
The deep boom of fireworks exploding outside sets off an excited chatter and I find myself hastily bundled into a coat, his coat. My nose burrows to inhale the scent but I’m manhandled outside and his arms hold me to him as I try to watch the display.
“Start as we mean to go on.”
“Being shoved outside, you mean?” I hear him chuckle against my ear and then his lips against my neck make me giggle.
“Resolutions, Darling.”
“Oh, I’m dreadful at these. I always say the same things. I’ll give up smoking. I won’t drink as much… One week of January and the sheer tedium of the month bores me straight back to my old habits.”
“That’s because you had no intention of ever giving them up and you’ve said it for show.”
“Probably.”
“My resolution is to be with you.”
“You are with me, Darling.”
“To fight for you until there’s no longer any need.”
That makes me smile. It will be another millennium before people accept our relationship. “What’s my resolution, Darling?”
“You’ve got to make it. I can’t tell you what your resolution will be.”
I feel his fingers poking in my side to tickle me and smile. “I resolve to love you through everything.”
“You can’t resolve to love me! You’re meant to already love me!”
“I do ‘already’ love you.” I turn my head to kiss him, to reassure him and manage to find his chin. It’s rough against my lips. “I said I will love you through everything. Through everything that hits you, hurts you, damages you. I will love you through every crisis. That’s the resolution.”
“I think I’m getting the better deal.”
“You most certainly are. You need to up the stakes with yours.”
“I can’t. The only thing you want, I’ve done for the past thirty years, regardless.”
“What do I want?”
“You want to be loved and to feel loved. I can’t resolve that I’ll always love you. It’s just a part of who I am. I’m far too old to change now.”
“Don’t change.”
“When have you ever known me to change?”
“Well then you best make up for the discrepancies in our resolutions!”
“I will make you my Queen, Camilla.”
“Whether I want it or not?”
“Something like that.”
“Sounds like a threat.”
“It’s meant to be an honour.”
“Let’s just concentrate on the moment. The bug hasn’t taken over, has it?” I turn in his arms so I’m facing him and bat my eyes at him, making him laugh.
“Don’t sound so hopeful!”
His eyes sparkle at me but even my joke can’t distract from what he’s just said to me. The crowd around us seems to me to be separated from us by an invisible force, hushing the noise, and I feel like we’re suddenly so far away from the rest of the world. “Your resolution isn’t about me. It’s about what you want.”
“It’s also about you being treated with the respect you deserve.”
“That isn’t important to me.”
“Only because you’ve learnt to live without it. It is still important.”
“I’d prefer to be with you than to be ‘respected’.”
“I want you to have both.”
I know he does. I won’t let him shatter traditions and demand it happen now; I’m not sure that would even work. But I know he means it and once he makes a decision, he sticks with it. “It would be nice to not be the most hated woman in the world…”
“I wish people could meet you. Then they’d love you as much as I do.”
“This is the perfect time for wishes. Make them to your heart’s content and then hold onto me tightly and just savour that we’re here together.”

I hardly dare allow myself to wish for anything. It feels like tempting fate. Turning my face towards the spectacle in the heavens above me, I push my head back against him and wish for time together. Just us. But even as I wish for it, I know it will never happen. Ironically, we saw far more of each other when we were married to other people, almost a different lifetime ago, when we both had fewer scars, before the trauma of the past few years. I’ve got a better wish. My wish is that I can make him happy, that I’ll be allowed to do that. At the moment, everything is an uphill battle for acceptance, dodging the grenades thrown at us from his own family, riding the wave of public contempt. I don’t desire to be a part of the Royal Family, I never have; I would happily flee the country and live out the rest of my life with him. A simpler life. No responsibilities. But it would break him and put the responsibility onto his son’s shoulders, shoulders far too young for that weight. So perhaps, instead, my wish is for the strength I’m going to need in order to make him happy when the world is desperate for us to be ripped apart. They don’t realise it’s far too late for that. We won’t be parted from each other now. I wrap my arms around him and pull him close to me. We are starting the new millennium as we mean to go on. Together.

~*~*~*~*~*~

1970, London

His body tenses as I wrap my arms around him but I ignore it and I feel his hands gently pat my back.
“Do people not usually hug you, Sir?” I pull away, my eyes grinning at him. He is bright red, his cheeks so flushed they match the rouge of the wallpaper behind him.
“Usually I initiate it. People don’t tend to assume they can hug me.”
“How dull.”
That makes him laugh, a little giggle which sets his face alight. This has been my challenge all evening, to see if I can make this very serious young man loosen up a little. The giggle is almost apologetic and he brings his hand up to his face to hide behind. I want him to laugh openly with me. I’m not sure why. Objectively, he’s very attractive, if you’re into princes. He’s got the education, certainly, some of the topics of conversation have tested me to my limits tonight but he seems to have enjoyed himself and he appears to have been a very good distraction from the mess my love life is currently in with my on-off boyfriend Andrew and his various conquests. Lucia, our mutual friend, was naughty but right to introduce us and her little soiree has been an unmitigated success.
“Careful you two,” Lucia draws on her cigarette to drastic effect, “you have genetic antecedence…” She blows the smoke out to form a perfect smoke ring and I’m more than a little impressed.
“Sorry?”
He’s really sweet when he’s confused. “I think, Sir, she was referring to the fact that my Great Grandmother was your Great-Great Grandfather’s Mistress…” That makes him blush, from his cheeks and up his ears.
“He had a great many mistresses, which particular one are you referring to?”
“Alice Keppel.”
“Oh… That one. She was considerably more than just his mistress, wouldn’t you say?”
“I suppose…”
“According to my sources, she was the love of his life. You certainly had best watch out. I apologise in advance if I fall in love with you. I won’t be able to help it, you see. Genetic antecedence.”
“She was also meant to be exceptionally good in bed.” Lucia’s drawl makes me cough out my own inhalation of smoke and turns his cheeks a deeper rose colour, although his eyes are sparkling at me.
“Is that genetic too?”
I laugh and watch his face break into a great smile. “Would you like to know? Or are you destined to be a virgin until you’re married?”
“There are no rules about me being a virgin.”
“How unfair.”
“I guess it is, rather. Tell me this, Miss Shand, how is it that you are single when you talk such tantalising talk?”
“Apparently others find me less attractive. Perhaps it’s all a facade and I become boring the more time you spend with me? Then you require more variety?”
“Somehow I doubt you’re ever boring. Andrew’s an idiot, by the way. My sister is a wonderful woman but she will drop him like a stone when she’s finished with him.”
The fact that he knows about me and Andrew shocks me but I don’t let it show on my face. Perhaps Lucia has told him. The other, inconvenient truth being that Andrew’s current squeeze is Princess Anne, is evidently public knowledge and I ignore the pang of pain which goes through me. “Oh, I’m quite sure he’ll survive. If he doesn’t already have someone else on the go, I’d be really surprised.”
“Then it appears I meet you at a fortuitous time.”
“How’s that?”
“Well I take it that you’re very much ‘off’ with Andrew?”
“Very much so.”
“Hence the fortuity.”
“Oh, well, I only had eyes for him and he only had eyes for everyone…”
“That explains why you fell over a cliff.”
I look at him, recognising the line and seeing his eyes looking at me, anxiously willing me to laugh, “You rotten swine, you!”
“You have deaded me!”
That does make me laugh. “Foiled by President Fred!”
“Quick, get behind the screen, Gladys.”
His mimicry is so on point, he leaves me with tears rolling from my eyes and I’m doubled over with laughter as he recites line after line of my favourite radio show with perfect accuracy. In the end, I have to stop him, to allow myself space to breathe and just looking at him sets us both off again, laughing all my makeup off. Neither of us noticed Lucia disappearing and it’s only her reappearance later which switches our conversation to something else.
I like the way he looks at me as if he’s searching for my approval when he speaks, checking that I agree before continuing. I can’t quite believe how funny he is and how interesting his stories are. I could listen to his soothing voice for hours. Not that I’d admit that. The time dissolves whilst we talk and I don’t notice the fading of the light, nor the various candles which appear around the room until we run out of time and Lucia shows us out of her flat. We saunter down one flight of stairs together.
“Goodnight, Miss Shand.”
That makes me giggle; it’s so antiquated and suits him to a tee. Now I can feel myself flirting with him. “Goodnight, Sir.”
“I’ll walk you home.”
“It’s just down the corridor. I can surely manage.”
“I’ll walk you anyway.”
“Then you’ll know where I live.”
“Yes, I will.”
“I’m not sure that’s entirely suitable.”
I can’t stop myself from flirting with him, batting my eyelashes, glancing at him sidewards, ensuring he sees that I’m looking. The darkness of the hall is illuminated by the glow from the moon as all the lights have gone out in the power cut, a sign of the times which is usually irritating, but today seems romantic. It makes his skin glow with a silver sheen and I want to reach up and touch his face. I don’t, of course. Instead, we linger by my door, leaning against the wall, talking, giggling quietly as I unsuccessfully attempt to desist with the flirting.
“Can I kiss you goodnight?”
“Of course not.” His question shocks me and I kick myself for my immediate knee jerk answer.
“Well, would you come dancing with me?”
“You’re a Prince. Can’t you just order me.”
“Possibly. I’d prefer you not to come by force, however.”
“Would take some of the fun out of it…”
He giggles, nervously, and it makes me smile.
I pretend to consider, my eyes meeting his and seeing the fear in them. “Not tonight.”
“No, of course not. Tomorrow?”
That makes me chuckle and I nod, turning the key in my door.
“When shall I pick you up?”
I shrug and slip into my flat.
“Seven thirty?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow.”
I close the door in his face and smile to myself. I feel slightly giddy at the thought of him calling on me. This should be fun.

Chapter 2: Birkhall, January 2020 (1990, Middlewick House / 1970, London)

Chapter Text

Birkhall, January 2020

Pacing down the corridor to get to him, I make no attempt to plan what I’m going to say. The years spent together have taught me that listening to him is the best tonic to his rage and numbs some of his pain. I am usually the person who calms him down, who makes him see the grey in the problem, who pushes him for greater cohesion in the family, but the entitlement of his youngest son, to the detriment of all his loved ones, rankles. With Harry, it’s difficult to sympathise with the lost little boy inside of him when he’s a fully grown man throwing stones at the people in his privileged life.
Charles’s anger is cold and resentful by the time I reach him but he smiles as I walk in, like always, and greets me with a kiss before launching into a tirade.
“Financially independent? The last phone call I had with Harry was him begging for money.”
“Did you give it to him?”
“I’m not a bank!”
“I thought he wanted to be able to support himself like a grown man, rather than relying on his Papa for handouts?”
“Handouts? It’s millions of pounds. ‘We need security. Megan isn’t safe’…”
Taking a breath, I swallow my anger and try to rationalise his son’s behaviour. “This isn’t about money. It’s about Megan. He wants her to be the star. All eyes on her, all attention on her. It’s like he’s projecting his mother upon her.”
“He feels like everyone is conspiring against her.”
“He hasn’t exactly helped her…”
“It’s not even true!”
The words are shouted and his sudden outburst startles me. I can see his cheeks colouring red, matching the tip of his nose.
“If he wants to know what real conspiratorial aggression from the firm and the press is like, he should perhaps reflect on what it was like for you!”
“I know…” It’s too close to a nerve that has been exposed for far too long. I watch the vein on his forehead pulsing with the strain of controlling his temper and take his hand into mine. Anything that insults me sends him flying into a hot rage but he is all talk and no action. He takes Harry’s assertion that Megan deserves to be protected from the press as a personal affront because it scratches at his guilt for never really protecting me. To Harry, the world is the enemy which he must fight to avenge his wife. Like his father, he has that same fixation on the negative, that feeling that everyone is out to get him, is against him, coupled with a burning desire to protect the woman he loves. The difference between him and his father is the delivery instrument of change. Harry wishes to blow the world order to pieces and start again. Every slight he encounters must be avenged and every person who stands in his way must be toppled. There’s no middle ground. We either support him or oppose him and any criticism is received like we are throwing knives. He and Megan have created their polarising position but wish for annihilation of the opposing side rather than acceptance. War, not peace. I bow my head to kiss the white tips of Charles’s knuckles and smile as his finger flicks up to stroke my cheek. “We don’t wage all out war in the press. You’ve tried that. You can’t win.”
“She doesn’t understand her role as his wife. She’s meant to be the supportive role, not the lead.”
“She’s a modern woman… Her expectations are very different. Harry’s are too.”
“Then don’t marry a Prince. You can’t change the institution to suit yourself.”
“We did…”
“Not like this, we didn’t.”
“No…” I know my role as a wife. I know we’re not equal in status but we are a partnership. It’s my job to let him shine. One of the most surprising moments in our marriage was when I realised that he wanted me to shine too. Harry is so like his father, desperate to show the world the woman he loves, needing the world to love her too. But there’s no temperance. Where Charles agonises over every decision, determined to make the best one, Harry assumes his feelings are the only correct viewpoint and attacks whomever varies from that perspective. That, he learnt from his mother. I sigh, pulling away from the loop of my thoughts. “I am worried for Harry, though. This has manipulation wrapped all around it. He’s determined to subjugate himself to the stronger woman in his life. It’s never been any different.”
“It’s the hypocrisy which bites…”
“Yes…”
“...nothing is ever good enough for him…”
“No…”
“...the unfairness of the entire situation is infuriating…”
“I know, Darling…” I catch his eyes and tell him I understand. How can I not? I know what it is like to be a social pariah, an actual persona non grata in his family’s eyes, and universally hated. There’s no debate about my treatment by the world, but we worked very slowly, very carefully to bring me to social acceptance. We have fought our own path, but we crafted our image carefully, knowing time was on our side. It might have been unfair, but that’s life. Change has never had a reputation for being quick.
“I’m never going to see my grandchild…”
That makes my heart pang. His tone may be self pitying but this is different. I feel the pain in his words. “Oh, Darling, I’m sure it won’t come to that.”
“Of course it will. He’s going to use his child as emotional leverage. He learnt from the best.”
There’s nothing I can say to that. I just stroke his hand and try to convey as much love as possible into those sad grey eyes.
Harry saw marriage as the cure to the consuming loneliness this life entails. He’s seen our happiness and both resented it and wanted to emulate it simultaneously. However, by the time Charles married me, he was ready to heal, to put the past behind him. I don’t truly understand Harry’s agenda, acting out his personal pain on the international stage. I think it’s just destruction. A child acting out in pain.
“It’s just so sad…”
“Yes… Yes, Darling it is.”
“I’m so sad for him, and I’m so sad for me.”
“I know.”
He sighs and rests his head on my shoulder, my cue to wrap my arms around him, to pull him tightly against me as if I can protect him from everything that hurts him through the ferocity of my love for him.

1990, Middlewick House

“She won’t let me come.”
My stomach sinks into a pit at the sound of his voice. He is so unsure of himself. I uncoil the telephone wire from around my finger and reach for my cigarette. “Darling, he is your son. You don’t need her permission.”
“She’ll cause a scene.”
“He’s your little boy and he needs you. Go.”
“Darling, don’t… I’m just going to make everything worse. I’m dreadful in situations like these.”
“Who are you making it worse for?”
“Diana?”
“Why do you care?” I take a deep inhale of my cigarette and listen to him spluttering to try to rationalise his declaration. “Listen… If it were my son, if it were Tom, I wouldn’t even think about it, I would be there.”
“But you’re his mother. That’s different.”
“And you’re his father. So stop arguing with me and just bloody go.” I hate it when he does this. He’s not a child and Diana’s his wife, not his mother. Nobody should be in charge of what he’s allowed to do in regards to his own children. Incessant, she pulls on any thread she can to anger him and hurt him but he still defends her. The problems with his wife are exacerbated by the way he backs away from her attacks of rage, giving her her own way, letting her control him. Nothing is ever enough for her because she demands that he worships her and he doesn’t have the capacity to pretend.
“I’ll just ring the consultant and check that he is alright. It’ll be better that way.”
“William will not forgive you for not being there. You know that. You know better than this.” Charles never stands his ground with Diana. He screams at her and says the most awful things but when it comes down to it, he has no bite.
“Don’t tell me what to do.”
“You rang me.”
“Yes, but not to be dictated to.”
“Well bloody well hang up, then.”
“Don’t be like this.”
“Well don’t act so bloody stupid.”
“My mother said to leave it to Diana.”
“Your mother has no maternal instincts in her entire being. Ring your Grandmother, perhaps she’ll say something less idiotic.” I also loath Diana’s martyrdom of motherhood, her insistence that only she can love her sons, that Charles is a terrible father. Smothering her children and then blaming their father for everything wrong, manipulating them, telling them they’re not allowed to hug him, not allowed to kiss him, only her; it shouldn’t be celebrated and I want to punch him when he starts claiming what a wonderful mother she is.
“She’s going to start an argument and scream at me in front of William and in front of everyone.”
“Darling, just go. No announcement. No more calls to her. No arguments. Go. Sweep into the room. Talk to your son. Ignore her. If she starts anything, leave. But then you’ve been and he’ll know you care about him.”
“Of course I care about him!”
“But he needs to know that. He’s only a little boy. Love to him is being there for him.”
“I wish you were coming with me.”
“Darling, if I could, I would. I’d walk you all the way to his room and then push you inside to be his Papa.”
“Thank you, Darling.”
“I love you.”
“Talk later.”
“Later, Darling.”
“Are you sure…”
“Positive. Go…”

“How was he?”
“Well, considering he has a deep gash across the top of his head and concussion, not too bad… Who knew golf clubs could be so destructive in the hands of another child?”
“It was an accident, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, of course. Not that you’d think that, the way Diana was going on about it…”
“Did you manage to stay for long?”
“No.”
“Oh, Darling, are you okay?” I inhale deeply, feeling the rush of nicotine swill through me, calming me.
“I don’t think he wanted me to be there.”
“Of course he did. You’re projecting your own fears onto him.”
“No. He didn’t want me there because Diana made it very obvious she didn’t want me there. Harry was clinging to her like a limpet, a scared little boy, whimpering. William just looked embarrassed. ‘It’s alright, Papa, I’m fine. You can go to work.’ I can’t do anything now. She’s there sitting almost on top of him. She won’t let me anywhere near him.”
I loathe the woman with all my heart but even so I can’t imagine ever hating her so much, I feel that it’s justified to damage my own children in order to hurt her or win a cheap score over her. My heart aches for him. “It’s okay. You’ve been to see him. He’ll remember that. He needed you and you were there.”
“It’s all such a bloody mess.”
“It really is…”
“Yes it is. Yes it is. Why aren’t you here with me? I need you.”
“I believe you have plans I’m not invited to.”
“It’s just beastly not having you here. I’ve got this God-awful opera to go to.”
“I think it’ll be good for you. Take your mind off everything.”
“I don’t want my mind taken off it. I want to be with my son. Or, at the very least, available in case something happens.”
“You have a mobile phone. Take that.”
“I’m not going to enjoy it, sitting there, worrying about him, trying to be jolly with the people I’m with. With you I don’t have to be jolly. Oh Darling, I want to be with you. And I know that if I do go, everyone is going to be saying what a dreadful parent I am.”
“Darling, it’s not a social event, it’s business. Let the papers say what they want. Go if you feel up for it. No one will blame you if you don’t.”
“They’ll be disappointed.”
“Yes… But that’s not really your problem.”
“But it is though…”
“If you feel you should go, then go. Take your mobile phone and then you can keep in touch with Great Ormond Street. If you think you’re too upset, then don’t go.”
“Do you think I should go?”
“Honestly, I think going to the opera is going to stop you worrying for an hour or so.”
“I want you.”
“You always want me.”
“No, I need you. Please come up to London.”
“And do what?”
“Well by the time you get here, climb straight into bed and read a book or something until I get back.”
“So you want me to drive how many hours to London to bed me?”
“No, I want you to drive to London so I can fall asleep in your arms and so tomorrow morning, when I wake up, I will have you with me. I need you, Darling, please come.”
“I’ve got the most awful backache…”
“...Oh, Darling, I’m sorry. If you’re not feeling up for it…”
“Let me finish… but, if you promise to get your staff to run me a hot bath and supply me with a hot water bottle when I arrive, I will gladly spend the night wrapped up with you. And a glass of wine! I think we both need a good Burgundy.”
“I’ll ensure that there’s wine and a hot bath…”
“And a hot water bottle…”
“I’ll be your hot water bottle.”
“I’m your support blanket.”
“Sounds about right. Darling, I can’t wait to see you. Thank you. I love you so much. Everything is so much more manageable when you are here.”

1970, London

Leaning across the table, I reach for his drink and take a sip. He stares at me in disbelief, as though no one has ever had the cheek to do this before and then his eyes slip back to his ongoing battle with himself. I can see the effort required to look at my face rather than my cleavage and it makes me laugh. We’ve spent the majority of the time tonight on the dance floor, elbowing for space and letting him twirl me about. I’m not sure I can say we were coordinated but he was certainly enthusiastic and the complete opposite of what I had expected him to be like. His hands felt good on my waist. His face beaming down at mine was just that little too close.
“Miss Gladys?”
I return from my thoughts and smile at him. “My name is Gladys Clutt.”
“There is no cure…” His mimicry makes me giggle and he looks very pleased with himself. “Spelt with a Masculine G as in Gee Whizz…” How can he quote every line from that show?
“Call me Milla.”
“Milla…” He tests out the name and I can feel his voice reaching inside me. “You’re too far away. I can’t hear you properly.”
I smile, standing up, and hold my hand out to him. The room is darker than before and the music louder. As he takes my hand, I turn and walk into the melé of dancing, the contact with his hand both reassuring and exciting. It’s the time of night where the music slows but so does the world as he reaches his arm around my waist and pulls my back against his chest. I can feel his breath against my neck.
“Here is fine.”
It takes a few breaths to reply, savouring the feel of being wrapped in his arms, controlling the rush it sends through me. “I barely know you.”
“Do you want me to let you go?” He releases me but I don’t move and his hands rest against my hips gently as I allow myself to lean back against him. We sway slightly to the music and I ignore the way my heart is banging against my chest. I want him to kiss my neck. I stretch my head back to give him access but although I feel the tip of his nose brush against my skin, he whispers in my ear instead and I’m left feeling both relieved and slightly disappointed. At some point, he turns me around to face him and then we’re both suddenly far too close. One hand pushes into the small of my back so I’m pressing against him and although I arch my back to try to keep some distance, each time we laugh and joke, I find myself edging closer to him. When the lights flood on at the end of the night, we’re still dancing together and I don’t want to pull apart, wishing the time would stop marching away with itself.
We laugh all the way back to my flat and I fling the door wide open and drag him inside with me by the hand. I see him eyeing the decor. Or my version of decor, which is to drop everything on the floor and fight my way through. I do that with my coat now and notice him removing his, folding it and looking for a clear space to put it. Or perhaps a clean space to put it. My poor, suffering flatmate has actually partially tidied up but I still see that the mess shocks him. That makes me giggle.
“I think you need to sack the maid.”
“I consider myself in too high esteem to fire me.”
“Well you require a cleaner, at the very least. Then you won’t get sick.”
“It’s not that bad!” His face tells me otherwise but I ignore him, opening the lid of the record player. “What do you like to dance to?”
“Anything.”
“Helpful.” I flick through my records and laugh as I pull out ‘Je T'aime...Moi Non Plus’.
“What are you laughing about?”
“You’ll see…” I carefully place the needle on the record and turn to face him, resuming the position we have spent all night in, back in his arms. Looking up at his face, I smile as he recognises the track.
“Are you trying to flirt with me?”
“No. I’m not trying.”
“So you are flirting with me?”
“Evidently.”
He nods, looking pleased and I smile up at him, watching his ears turn pink as we listen to the words of the song.
“I’ve no idea what they’re saying.”
“I’ll translate it to you.”
“I speak French.”
“Je parle mieux Français que toi.”
“You see, I’m watching your lips move and I’m hearing no words.”
“Oh, my love… Like the undecided wave… I’m going, I’m going and I’m coming… Inside you.”
He makes a strange sort of gasp and I see the tips of his ears turn pink. His hands clasp onto me tighter and his eyes are looking at me intensely.
“Entre mes reins… Et je me retiens.” I whisper the words to him, my lips almost on his.
“Don’t.”
“Tu ne veux pas que je me retienne?”
He kisses me rather than answering and I smile at the excitement rushing through my body, but I don’t think he knows what to do with me. He keeps on pulling away to catch his breath and he’s so gentle, I let him control the pace, not wanting to scare him. I was expecting to seduce him, make love to him, but I realise that won’t be happening tonight so instead I relax, allowing myself to enjoy the sensations. He holds me in a tight embrace and I feel like I’m floating with his kisses which wrap around me and flow through me.
“Stay with me.” I feel the panic in his body before he says a word and I’m filled with a need to protect him that surprises me, “I want to kiss you all night. Nothing more, nothing less.”
“I’d like that.”
“I want to curl up with you and kiss you until I fall asleep.”
“I want time to slow so this lasts longer.”
“We have hours until morning, Darling.”

Chapter 3: Birkhall, January 2020 (2010, Birkhall)

Chapter Text

Birkhall, January 2020

The stormy weather, appropriately, hasn’t ceased all morning and the summons to Balmoral come before I have managed to calm him. I find it so difficult when I’m angry too, the emotions this whips up are so personal, wounds very deeply hidden and tightly bound. My hands are shaking when I reach up to kiss him goodbye.
“You never let me do this, what Harry’s doing. I begged you so many times.”
And here it starts. That guilt, that uncertainty, even at me. “It wasn’t what you wanted. I didn’t want you to destroy your family, your life, your birthright, because of me.”
“I should have fought for you.”
“You did, in your own way. I never wanted the destruction necessary to be with me.”
“I didn’t look after you enough.”
“Charles, when Andrew and I got divorced, you kept the roof over my head, both metaphorically and physically. You made sure I had food sent to me, a car and petrol so I could get about, every book published to entertain me… You looked after me.”
“I didn’t keep you safe.”
“Yes, you did! I’ve had police protection since ’97…” My voice trails off. I neglect to mention why he paid for police protection for me, why he enfolded me into his household and he looks at me even more guiltily.
“Far too late… I should have anticipated the impact this would have had on you.”

To this day, I occasionally get nightmares about head-on collisions in a car. These twisted nightmares attribute blame to the people in my life I know would prefer me not to be where I am, but the day I lived that nightmare felt like I was hovering above myself, watching myself, in a state of complete terror. I still remember the shock when I turned the corner to see that other car, the jolt of the impact and the screeching and groaning of metal twisting and buckling. There was no pain. I realised I was alive and yanked off my seatbelt, kicked the door to get out of the car and staggered over to the other. It was upside down, the wheels still spinning. I took one look at the blonde woman at the steering wheel, blood on her face and I screamed and ran. At that moment, I thought I’d killed her. I ran until my lungs burst and then I collapsed upon the roadside verge and hysteria took over. At some point, I’d regained enough of my faculties to ring Charles, sobbing again and again that I’d killed her. It didn’t matter what he said, sense was not with me and I don’t know to this day how long it took him to figure out enough to send his protection officers to find me. They couldn’t console me when they arrived, nor get any sense out of me until they informed me that the woman whose car I’d hit was alive, more shaken than hurt, and angry that I’d left her upside down whilst I ran off, screaming.
Charles was calm and gentle with me, downplaying the incident, but the parallels of the accident shook him to the core and made him reevaluate my position. From that afternoon, I relinquished a large chunk of my freedom for a chauffeur and my own police protection as it made him realise that I was a public figure now and that people might want to cause me harm. But it was as much for our reputation as for my safety. That cold rational part inside my brain knows that if that woman had died in a car accident because of me, nothing would be able to rehabilitate me. We would never be able to be together.

“I didn’t protect you from the press.”
His words pull me from the squealing of brakes and I’m grateful. “You couldn’t protect yourself. How were you meant to protect me?”
“That’s all Harry wants for Megan, I do understand that… But…”
“...Harry and Megan are perfectly safe here.”
“Yes… Harry doesn’t realise that not only was he allowed to marry the woman he loves, it was encouraged, celebrated.”
“It’s a different time.”
“He should be grateful.”
“No, he shouldn’t.” He’s no longer talking about Harry. His thoughts are firmly on our difficulties. “What happened to us was not okay. Everyone should be allowed to marry the person they love.”
“If you’d have married me in the first place…”
“It was a different time…”
“I don’t understand what more he needs.”
“He’s not you.”
“She’s not you, more like.”
“Good. I’m sure that would be illegal. I know we said we should be able to marry who we want, but there are steps too far and lines which shouldn’t be crossed.”
That makes him chuckle. “I’m certainly pleased you find it so abhorrent. There’s technically no law against it. You’d both be consenting adults.”
“I’m sure it’s happened in the past. Oedipus?”
He chuckles again, kissing me on the forehead. “Let me go, Darling, my own mother, who I have no intention of marrying, is calling.”
“Battle stations.”
“William will be apoplectic.”
“I’ll phone Katherine.”
“Since when do you two get on?”
“We’ve always got on.”
“Phone calls at times of strife to share gossip?”
“I’m a very good ally. I, actually, quite like her although I have to try really hard not to be insufferably posh and I think she’s warmed to me too.”
“She married a bloody Prince. Too posh? What was she expecting?”
“Shut up and go to your summons.”
“Everything in this bloody family is always such an absolute catastrophe.”
“Yes, you’re right.”
“I just can’t believe he would do a thing like this, and expect there to be no consequences. My mother isn’t going to be thinking about that little boy she used to chase about the room when she draws her sword.”
“Will you be sticking up for him?”
“I just don’t think it’s possible. I can’t exactly put my neck out for him because then that will be seen as a slight against William. And I’m so angry at him, Darling. What should I do? Tell me what to do.”
“What’s the most important thing?”
“The Crown. Always the Crown.”
“That’s your answer. William is your choice. But remember through your anger that he’s Diana’s boy.”
“I know he’s Diana’s boy. That’s never been the dispute.”
“No. I mean, in the eyes of the public. Don’t forget.”
He sighs, “I’m not bloody likely to, am I?” and then pushes his head into my neck, signifying the end of the conversation and I hold him to me, swaying slightly as though to some inaudible music, not wanting to let him go.

“What will you do when I’m gone?”
That makes me smile. “What I usually do when you’re away, prepping for the apocalypse.”
“But it’s meant to be our holiday, together, and I’m constantly away…”
“Life is like that sometimes…”
“Hold on…” I smile at him as I see him register my words. “Apocalypse?”
“The Chinese virus.”
“You’re obsessed with that bloody thing.”
“No harm in being prepared.”
“Well don’t get another bright idea to install wifi or something else abhorrent in my absence.”
“Would I ever?”
“Yes… You absolutely would.”
“Go and see your mother. When you get back, we can put on wetsuits and go for a walk.”
“Make sure the fires are lit, I don’t want you getting ill with the cold and damp.”
“If you’d let me fully renovate…”
“Don’t be drastic.”
“Shoo… See you later…”
Not quite unbeknownst to my husband, I’ve used the time he’s spent in war cabinets with his family to plot renovations to the house to try to minimise the drafts and the damp and to brighten the place up a little. I’ve read through the briefings on my husband’s desk about the virus in Wuhan and I know that we’ll be sent here, away from everyone for his protection if it spreads. This house is barely livable but he’s against change of any sort so I’ve spent a considerable amount of time with colour cards, matching up the shades of the walls and ordering the correct paints. I’ve also booked a glazier and several carpenters to solve the problem of the drafts inside and I’ve secretly paid for a new boiler to be installed, bypassing his deliberations so it happens this century. Irritating the head gardener considerably, I’ve doubled the extent of the kitchen gardens to make us self-sufficient. If everything goes to plan, the estate might actually be livable by the end of January. I know from past experience how uncomfortable this house can be in the cold and there’s no harm in being prepared.

~*~*~*~*~*~

2010, Birkhall

It’s so cold my breath is condensing in front of my face. Which, ordinarily, occurs outside, not whilst I’m sitting at breakfast with my husband. We’ve managed to seclude ourselves after the stress of Christmas in perfect isolation from the world, just the two of us and my sister and brother-in-law. No polite conversations with inclement family members or sycophantic social climbers. It’s bliss. Arctic style. The thermostat reached zero this morning for the first time since I can remember. I mention this to my husband who laughs at me.
“We use Celcius nowadays, Darling.”
“Tell that to your barometer.”
“I use the laptop to determine the weather. It’s more accurate.”
“I prefer the old fashioned method. What’s a laptop but a lump of metal and plastic?”
“Yet, connected to the internet and power, it’s technically precise.”
“How did you connect… Don’t answer. I don’t actually want to know…”
He smirks at me and blows out a plume of white condensation. It shouldn’t be this cold inside. The fire is flickering brightly but it’s not been lit for long and doesn’t have that residual heat it needs to be warming. The morning shines grey through the windows and I can see the ice growing in patterns up the glass, reflecting the light into odd directions, making the room feel dimmer. I’m wearing an ancient fur coat, one I’m not allowed to wear outside anymore, and I can see my husband’s concern each time I bring my fork to my mouth. I hover my scrambled eggs just above it to watch him wince and then smile as I eat my mouthful. I have this glint of evil inside me which makes me want to pour my breakfast down myself to watch his reaction. I don’t, of course. A cackle of laughter disturbs me and I turn to see my sister walk through the door, wrapped head to toe in a blanket of tartan.
“You look like the Empress of Prussia sat there in your Ushanka and coat, inside. All you need is a muff!”
“That’s because she’s probably wearing the last Empress of Prussia’s coat.”
“I found it at the back of a cupboard, left to feed the moths.”
“And now you’re subjecting it to eggs…”
I laugh. I knew it was bothering him.
“Well at least it’s sensible attire for the temperature.” Ever the conciliator, my sister. She plonks herself down next to me and starts picking at my eggs. “I looked at the barometer, it’s zero degrees!”
“Minus eighteen.”
Charles almost makes me splutter my eggs down myself.
“It’s not Antartica, Sir, that’s a little extreme.”
“Celsius. Goodness. Can you Shand girls not keep up with the times?”
“Speaks the living relic of an ancient time!”
I listen to them bicker through breakfast with a twinkle in my eye even if I’m quite aware I must keep out of the argument.
“Darling, did you hear what she just called me?”
“Temporary deafness, I’m afraid...”
“Darling Milla, your husband is quite incorrigible. Surely you won’t stand for what he just said.”
“I was stuck in a daydream, I’m very sorry…”

Skiing is not my usual passtime. We never went as children and whilst my sister took up the hobby like the majority of our generation with the ease of the flights and enjoyed the buzz of the resorts, I hated flying and my ex-husband, Andrew, never particularly wanted to go, at least not with me. By the time Charles and I were able to holiday together, I had no wish to learn alone on the nursery slopes at Klosters whilst Charles hurtled off-piste down a mountainside. Instead, I’ve been subjected to yearly torments at Aviemore before we finally compromised on Clashindarroch Forest. It suits his green objectives and for me it’s so much easier, not having to face death by careering down a run on wobbly legs. The skis are lighter, we spend half the time trudging uphill and the slopes are much more gentle. We both find the forest beautiful under the blanket of snow and we end up getting cold as we insist on stopping to watch a bird we spot or because we’re transfixed by the view.

This year, we are able to ski cross-country on the Birkhall estate. A blanket of snow six feet deep has covered most of Scotland and both post and supplies are being airlifted in, but here the snow isn’t so thick and it’s perfect to ski on. I think this is Charles’s idea of heaven, being the tour guide around Birkhall, on skis, with me and a captive audience. I’m actually a fair cross-country skier by now and to my absolute delight, my brother-in-law is struggling somewhat. So for the first time ever, I’m the person keeping up with Charles and we get these wonderful quiet moments to ourselves, listening to the sound of the snow falling from the branches with a thud to the ground, spotting the deer in the distance before the other two catch up. My sister is red in the face with the exertion of climbing up each hill but I’m used to him dragging me up mountains and even carrying my skis through the snow doesn’t feel too tiresome. He’s so happy to have me with him, his eyes are soft each time he looks at me and he stands as close to me as he can get.
“Look, the stream is running.”
“Of course.”
“But it’s so cold!”
“The spring isn’t far from here. It’s warmer underground and it’s moving so fast it hasn’t time for the surface to freeze.”
“Will the loch be frozen?”
“Loch Ullachie, yes, definitely.”
“Can we go ice skating?”
He laughs at me and glides to a stop by the side of the stream. “What? On the rusty blades left to die in the outhouse?”
“Yes.”
“I wasn’t aware you can skate.”
“No. You can teach me. You’re the one with the famous teacher. Taught by Torvill and Dean themselves.”
“I wasn’t taught by them.”
“I thought you were.”
“No. I was taught by their coach. Both Anne and I were. She said she thought I’d make a skater.”
I hit his arm. “She had to say that.”
“No. She said Anne should remain on terra firma. I, apparently, was a natural.”
“Of course you were. I can just see you in your tights and your spangly costume…”
“You’re only being bitter because you’re jealous of my ice skating career.”
“Teach me. We can be Torvill and Dean.”
“It was so many moons ago, I’ve forgotten how to stand up. Anyway, aren’t Torvill and Dean famous for lying on the ice? We can do that! That sounds achievable.” Then, without warning, he pushes me over into the snow and falls on top of me, both of our skis still attached and sprawled together. He’s such an idiot. We’ve fallen awkwardly and he’s too far away to kiss me, so instead he’s pouting and making slurping noises making me giggle until I wriggle closer and his lips are still in that ridiculous pout and it makes me squeal as he attacks me with this sloppy kiss. He manages to subject me twice to this ordeal before I push a handful of snow in his face and we’re both laughing as I wipe away the snow from his mouth to kiss him properly. I hear my sister moaning at our excessive display of affection but it just goads Charles and he pins me down in the snow to kiss me again.
“You’ll never be free. I’ve got you forever.”
“A prince will come and save me and then I’ll be freed from your tyranny.”
“Never, never, never.” He kisses around my face, making me giggle again and then attempts to get up, realises his skis are tangled in mine and he’s stuck and flops heavily back on top of me. “I think we’re stuck together forever.”
“However will we cope?”

Chapter 4: 1970, Sussex and Buckingham Palace

Chapter Text

1970, Sussex

He kisses both of my cheeks in greeting and the contact makes me smile. Then we launch into a tirade of a conversation as we amble through the countryside. His hand is so close to mine, I allow mine to brush against his and our fingers catch and don’t let go. My skin is tingling from the sensation and for a while, I quieten and listen to him talking. He’s so clever. I don’t know many people who have been to university that returned quite so keen to continue learning, in all its facets. But he’s also wonderfully innocent, which is making this courtship so different. It’s been two months and he’s still not trying to sleep with me. He’s desperately trying to get to know me and it makes every touch that bit sweeter. The green fields around us, filled with new born lambs, seem to have been painted from a folk story and we wander through without a care. The bright yellow petals of the daffodils shine out, reflecting the afternoon sun, and cast a gentle warmth upon us. He helps me down from a style, pulls me to him and kisses me without any warning, making me gasp in surprise. I register the smirk in his eyes before I kiss him back, running my fingers over his face and savouring the feeling in my stomach. We could kiss away an entire afternoon without stopping for air, it feels so nice, but he’s too reserved to press me for more. The rest of the afternoon passes in a daze between trying to walk where his fingers stroke mine and send a rush through me, to the pauses where we rush to kiss each other and the fire between us is immediate.

Back at his car, we pull apart and he insists on taking me back to my parents’ house rather than letting me walk. I sit in the front seat, next to him, a flush on my cheeks and a smile shining out from my face. He parks just out of view from the house and reaches for me again, kisses no longer soft and sweet but passionate and I want him to touch me. I can feel his hands pressing against my coat and then one hand pushes up my thigh, making me squirm, and I wonder if he’s quite as innocent as I first thought. But then he pulls away, he is a gentleman after all, and I see how dark his eyes are as they look at me with so much desire, it makes me bite my bottom lip and giggle slightly. I don’t quite dare take this any further.
“I’ve got to go. The Parentals will be expecting me back for dinner.”
That makes him laugh, “Would I be in trouble for bringing you back late?”
“Definite black mark against your name, President Fred.”
“Well I don’t want to be deaded.” He gets out of the car and I sit, waiting for him to walk around to open the door for me, grinning up at him as he offers his hand to help me up.
“Do you want to come inside?” I register a flicker of panic on his face and grin, adding, “I’ll introduce you as my friend…”
“No.”
I nod, a little disappointed but not surprised.
“I don’t want to be your friend. Don’t say that.”
That makes me smile. “Okay. What would you like me to say?”
“Introduce me as your boyfriend.”
“Are you?”
“Am I not?”
“Have you asked me?”
“I sort of assumed it was evident?”
“Don’t assume.”
“Goodness me, Milla. You don’t half make it difficult. Introduce me as the man who would desperately like to be your boyfriend.”
“Desperately?”
“Yes. Desperately.”
He reaches for my chin and tilts it up to kiss me. I could spend forever kissing him. Then we walk down the drive to my parents’ house, get to the front door and reach up to hammer the great knocker.
“Hold on.”
“What?”
He kisses my nose, making me laugh. “You’ve not given me an answer.”
“You’ve not asked a question.”
“Milla, will you be my girlfriend?”
We both giggle, me amused at how serious he’s being about this. “Course.” Then he smiles a giant, dopey smile at me and I realise, with a bit of a start, that he really wants to be with me and for him, this is serious.
I haven’t told my mother who I’m currently dating. She knows he’s called Charles and that he’s so sweet and that I like him rather a lot, but that’s it. They’re not going to approve. I know that as nice and welcoming and jolly as they will be with him, they will be shocked and unhappy with this relationship, however innocent it may be. Although I doubt it’s going to remain innocent for very much longer. It’s getting really difficult to be around him and not touch him. Every kiss shoots through me with a life of its own.

“Darling!”
My mother kisses me enthusiastically and makes to do the same with The Prince, until she recognises him and corrects herself. My whole family are there, my sister eyeing him up, my brother looking as though he’s above all these matters. He gets welcomed into the entire noisy fold and I watch him relax. Relax in a way I’ve never seen before. And although we’re still correct with addresses, he slips into the ease of our familiarity and I watch it cushion him. He’s drawn to my mother from the oft. That doesn’t surprise me. She’s warm and friendly and listens to him in a way that makes him follow her about like a lap dog. He craves my father’s approval more than I would have expected and he’s so respectful towards him. Then, to my siblings, he’s funny. He mimics people from the television as we wait for dinner with a shocking precision and delights my brother by teaching him to swear in Welsh.

“I’ll make you up a room, Sir. It’s far too late to be driving back to London tonight.”
My mother, ever the hostess, chivvies him into accepting our hospitality without a thought. Out of everyone, she has taken to Charles the most and I can see the feeling is mutual. He basks in her maternal care and she can’t seem to help herself, almost force feeding him extra roast potatoes and fetching a blanket when he shivers slightly in the cool of the evening air. I curl up with him in the blanket and I realise I have never felt him relax before. His body becomes soft and he holds onto me so gently as we sit and listen to my father reading out from The Scarlet Pimpernel, my siblings and I as engrossed with his every word as we were as children.

Later, I slip into his room, smiling as he starts at the noise of the door and smirking at finding him half dressed. He puts his shirt on but doesn’t fasten it as he walks over to kiss me.
“Get out! Your father will murder me.”
I just shut the door behind me and pull his head down to kiss me before slipping my hands into his shirt, pressing my fingers into the warm skin on his back, feeling his entire body tense before he reaches for me. I’m not expecting the rush which floods through me as his hand pulls up the material of my gown and his fingers trace up the back of my thigh. I didn’t anticipate this relationship, nor that it would be mutual. I can barely breathe as he kisses down my neck and his fingertips trace my skin so softly. He was meant to be a way to make Andrew jealous. He wasn’t meant to feel like this.
“Go before your father shoots me.”
“My father would do nothing of the sort. You’re not the only man I’ve brought back here.” That is an awful thing to say, I realise this, but the words slip from my mouth before I can silence them. He instantly lets go of me.
“Great. I feel really special now.”
“Well don’t. If you treat me badly, I will just replace you.” I want a cigarette. I think I might have just ruined everything.
“I will never treat you badly, Camilla Shand.”
His eyes bore into me earnestly and I want to believe him.
“God, you look so beautiful.”
I chose my outfit carefully. It’s a blue silk nightgown which seems to flow to the floor. I didn’t buy it for him, but his is the better reaction. There’s a knock at the door and I slip behind it with a jolt. I watch him button up his shirt and his eyebrows raise at me in alarm as he leans forwards to answer it. I’m silently gesturing to him not to betray me.
“Goodnight, Sir. I’m just checking that you have everything you need?” I hear my mother’s dulcet tones and roll my eyes. She’s actually checking up on me.
“Goodnight Mrs. Shand. Thank you again for your hospitality.”
“Are you quite set for the night?”
“I am, thank you.”
There’s a pause and it’s slightly awkward and I know she’s wanting to check whether I’m in the room. She knows me too well. “Has Camilla come to say goodnight?”
“Yes, she has…” He lets the sentence drop, not wanting to lie but I know that she’s about to pry for more information.
“I went to say goodnight and she wasn’t in her room. I was wondering if you’ve happened to see her?”
He doesn’t lie easily. I don’t know him very well but I know that. The tips of his ears are turning pink. “I think she was going out for a cigarette…”
“Oh… She usually just opens her bedroom window, as if I didn’t know. She’s being unusually coy tonight…”
He doesn’t know what to say. The pink has spread from his ears all down his neck and he’s looking so uncomfortable as he glances at me so quickly before looking away. My mother has the instincts of Miss Marple. None of this will pass her by.
“Will you tell her, when she comes back in, that I want to have a word with her.”
She knows full well that I’m here; I can tell by the sarcastic tone of her voice. I can feel her eyes boring through the door. It’s only politeness that is stopping her from barging right inside and dragging me out by the ears.
“I will.” He’s practically muttering now, so embarrassed at lying for me. She bids him goodnight with a much softer tone and he closes the door quietly, his face bright red as he shakes his head. “That was a close one. I thought she had twigged.”
His innocence makes me smile. “Darling, she knew I was here. She was just being polite.”
“Please come here. Let me hold you.”
I walk to him slowly and sink into his arms, my head fitting into his neck like we were made to fit together. I feel his fingers against my shoulders and then his hand trails down my back. I reach up to kiss him and feel him moan into my mouth as his hand traces the tail of my spine and then grasps onto me. That one sensation makes me squeak and immediately he’s pulling away, encasing me into his arms again.

“How dare you check up on me! I’m not a child. Neither is he!”
“You’re the one skulking around, hiding from me. Acting like a child. Why didn’t you just answer the door instead of making the poor boy stutter and lie for you?”
“Because I knew you’d be like this!”
“You don’t do that when Andrew comes. Then, you’re pretending to act like a grownup.”
“This has got nothing to do with Andrew.”
“It’s got everything to do with Andrew.”
“Why? You don’t even like him!”
“I like him. I don’t think he treats you very well, but I like him.”
“Oh, now you like him… Now I bring someone else home, now you decide that you’re going to like him!”
“He’s not ‘someone else’ though, is he, Camilla? He’s The Prince of Wales! What are you playing at?”
“Mother, I’m twenty three years old. I can sleep with whoever the hell I like.”
“Not under my roof, you can’t… Oh please tell me you’re not sleeping with him?”
I want to scream in her face that I am, just to spite her, but I’m not that good at lying. “No.” It’s a sullen ‘no’, laced with spite but her face looks even more worried.
“Camilla, what are you doing?”
“Nothing! For once, I’m doing nothing…”
“Are you trying to get him to marry you?”
“No!”
“Are you trying to make Andrew jealous?”
“Yes.” I stare at her with the same sulky expression I’ve used with her since I was a teenager and it makes me feel even more infantile.
“You will never get anywhere with Andrew by competing with him. You either have to accept him as he is or move on.”
“What would you know?”
“Are you sure this is about Andrew?”
“Yes.”
“You don’t sound sure.”
“Well what is it to you if it isn’t?”
“Darling… Very, very seriously… Be careful.”
“He’s lovely. It’s not him I have to be careful with.”
“Perhaps, but I don’t think you understand what you’re doing.”
“It’s just a bit of fun. Why are you stressing?”
“He’s going to marry a young girl from the right family… who has no history… You’re a subject. You don’t have a title. You have more ex-boyfriends than your great-grandmama...”
“Who says anything about marrying him? Perhaps I just want to be his mistress!”
“Darling, you need to be married for that. You’re making it extremely difficult to be considered a suitable wife. Even for someone like Andrew.”
“Well perhaps I don’t want to be married.”
“Camilla, you haven’t fallen in love with him, have you?”
“No.”
“I thought you had your heart set on Andrew?”
I shrug and am surprised when my mother wraps her arms around me. “I’m sorry. My poor little girl.”
“Why are you sorry?”
She kisses my hair and then my ear, making me squeal. “You deserve better. That’s all… No… Don’t tense up and pull away. Let me give you a big hug. My poor, little, grown-up girl…”
“Have you finished moaning at me?”
“Moans are over, Darling…. No…Don’t pull away yet… He’ll wait for you… Let me hold you for just a little while longer and stroke your hair…”
“I’m not sleeping in a separate room from him.”
“No, I know…”
“I’m not!”
“I know…”
I sigh. “Fine… I won’t have sex with him. Happy?”
“No… But thank you for the consideration.”

Unfulfilment is a curious sort of pain. As sweet as falling asleep in his arms felt, I didn’t take into consideration the temptation in the dim light of the morning. When all I can hear is his breathing and my skin is alight from the feeling of him against me. When we wake up and we’re already kissing, because, half conscious, we reach for each other and then I can’t seem to stop, my hands covetous against the bare skin of his back. The kiss is fire. I feel him grasping onto my nightdress, trying to pull me closer and I find his hand and guide it into my dress, up my thigh, hearing him groan and then he sits up abruptly and turns away from me slightly. “Not here, Milla.”
I feel him shaking and realise that he’s scared and I stop.
“I want you more than anything, but not here.”
I allow him to pull me to his chest, my body encased by him and I listen to his heart beating frantically and his heavy breathing until he relaxes again and it steadies, soothing me, lulling me, but he’s not asleep. I look up at him, gazing at me with an impossible softness and stay, transfixed as the light gradually introduces more nuances of colour into those beautiful eyes.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

1970, Buckingham Palace

“Shush! We’re not meant to be down here!”
“It’s your house, why ever not?” I giggle as he clamps his hand over my mouth and then pulls me against him.
“These are the staff quarters.”
“Am I only fit to be seen in the staff quarters?”
“You’re such an idiot. Shush!”
I comply, letting him drag me down another cramped staircase, our feet clattering on the stone steps. “It’s a rubbish palace, this.”
“Shush!” He pushes me against the wall and kisses me, stopping my complaints, making me laugh into his mouth. “You’ve got to be absolutely silent along this corridor. I don’t want to disturb anyone.”
“Who’s still here at this time?”
“Plenty of people. Please be quiet.”
“Okay, okay, I promise.”
He lets me go with one extra strong kiss and takes my hand to pull me down the corridor. He’s acting like such a fugitive, I’m desperate to laugh but I keep it in and sculk down another passageway, through a heavy wooden door and down another staircase. Finally, we reach the room he was looking for and he pushes me inside and switches on one dim light. It’s a box room, filled with what looks like canisters of film and plenty of odd machines.
“Don’t touch anything.”
I pull a packet of cigarettes from my bag and proceed to make a meal of lighting one. I see his nose flicker upwards, almost imperceptibly showing distaste and then he retains control of it again.
There’s a loud boom and the sound of a motor before the crackling of film tells me this is a projector room. I watch him fiddle about with the controls before he opens up a hatch in the floor and scales down a ladder. “Come on Gladys.”
“I’m wearing a skirt.”
“I make no promises not to look.”
That makes me smile. I take one last drag of my cigarette and then scale down the ladder, tripping up on my skirt and sliding down like it’s a fireman’s pole. He catches me but his face is contorted with amusem*nt and I laugh, watching him splutter at me. When he recovers, he grasps my hand again and pulls me to the centre of the room, in front of the benches, where there’s a small blanket and several cushions strewn on the floor.
“I think you’ll like this film. It’s my all time favourite. So funny.”
“No pressure. Do you usually hang out in the dirt on the floor?” I watch his face fall in the glare from the start of the film and smile at him to let him know I’m joking.
“It’s not really for the family. More for the staff but nobody was using it tonight so I thought I’d utilise the facilities.”
“What’s the film?”
“His Girl Friday.”
“That’s your favourite film?”
“Well…”
“No, have strength in your convictions. If it’s your favourite film, state the case. Don’t waver, waiting for my opinion. I’ve not seen it. What do I know?”
“I think you’ll find it funny.”
I sit myself down on the floor, making myself comfortable and throw a cushion at him as he hovers over me. “Aren’t you going to join me?”
“It’s not really the done thing to frolic on the floor.”
“Shut up. Sit down here. If the film’s any good, I might let you slip your hand into my shirt!”
He sits down so suddenly, I hear the clunk, and his soft yelp which makes me laugh. “Now you’re being reticent. You weren’t like that last night.”
“Last night you needed encouragement.”
“I just need more practise. We could practise now?”
“No. I want to watch your favourite film. We can practise afterwards.”
“I’m not so sure I can keep my hands off you for so long.”
“I never said you had to keep your hands off me.”
“So can I slip my hands in your shirt right away?”
“Shush, I need to read the screen… Oh it’s already started… I missed it!”
“It’s something to do with the press doing anything short of murder to get a story.”
“Oh, sounds about right.” I listen to the clicking of the typewriters on the screen and feel him pawing me, trying to get my attention.
“Even ten minutes is a long time to be away from ya.”
I look at him confused at the American accent until I hear the line repeated on the screen and I smile, kissing him before wriggling to make myself more comfortable, propped up against what appears to be a large box, sat on a cushion, my legs entwined with his, my hand helping his to reach into my shirt and then I rest my head on his shoulder. “Hildy is beautiful.”
“She’s smart and beautiful. Dangerous combination. Like you.”
“I’m not smart. Walter is quite attractive.”
“He’s a bastard.”
“Yes… I can see. Strangely attracted to that.”
“You should like Bruce.”
“The ‘even ten minutes is a long time to be away from ya’ guy?”
“Yes, him.”
“I’ll decide later. Let me swoon over Walter for now.”
The film is hilarious, I’ll give him that and so modern it’s like it could have been written today. I’m also enjoying those puppy dog eyes which check over me, anxious to see if I’m enjoying the movie.
“You really do remind me of Hildy.”
“Hmmm…I’m not so sure.”
“She’s skatty. And talks all the time. And at a hundred miles per hour. She’s so dramatic and she has every man around her desperate for her good opinion, wrapped around her little finger. Except one.”
“One we don’t talk about.”
“I still don’t understand how you let Andrew treat you so badly.”
“He didn’t treat me badly.” I don’t know why I’m arguing with him. I know I deserve better than Andrew, but there’s something about him I can’t shake off. He’s still there in my skin, tormenting me. Perhaps it irks me not to get my own way. Perhaps that’s what I like about him; I can’t control him.
“Didn’t he, sorry, doesn’t he sleep with everyone you know?”
“Well… Yes…” Reality is such a cold place to return to. Every woman I know, plenty I do not. Practically all of my friends…
“And then comes crawling back to you?”
“No. Never crawling…”
“Darling, that’s worse. Perhaps you’re not Hildy, at least she knew Walter’s flaws.”
“There’s no need to be cruel.”
“I’m sorry. You’re right.” He kisses my neck in apology. “You can be my Girl Friday, anyway. Only, I abhor the press, don’t become a journalist.”
“Promise.”
He kisses me again and it’s surprisingly easy to melt against him. Listening to the staccato delivery of the lines of the film, he makes me want to forget about everyone other than him.

Chapter 5: Birkhall, January 2020 (1980, Wiltshire)

Chapter Text

Birkhall, January 2020

These two weeks in January have always been my favourite time of the year. I have him all to myself and we invite only the people we love the most to join us. Birkhall has become our sanctuary, from life, from the press, from his family. This year however, his family has managed to intrude and I’m back to waiting around for him. Waiting for him has been my lifetime occupation. Waiting for him to finish his work, to return from an engagement, waiting for him to make up his mind. This morning has crawled by, waiting once again for him to return.

We used this house as a retreat back in the 70’s when it belonged to his Grandmother. For all her scheming to ensure I married Andrew rather than Charles, she was actually very accommodating of our relationship back then. I was invited up here to stay every time the family journeyed up north. Sometimes with Andrew, but mostly without him. At the time, I felt flattered by the attention. Afterall, she’d turned my wedding into the society event of the year by her presence, along with Princess Anne. One more ex-girlfriend made no difference to my day when Andrew must have slept with half the women in the church. We had our formal pictures taken with them, Andrew and I, bride and groom at the back whilst they sat in their prime position. Perhaps his Grandmother took pride in her assistance in getting Andrew to commit to me.

After my wedding, she did all she could to ensure Charles got to see me. The first year was difficult. Charles was so hurt and distant with me and I really was flush in love with Andrew at that point. I told Charles I was pregnant with my first child, Tom, whilst I was sitting here on the steps of the porch and he wrapped his arms around me and wished me every possible best wishes before returning to Balmoral to brood for the next few days. It was also here where I realised my errant husband had returned to his philandering ways whilst I was heavily pregnant, leaving me feeling utterly dejected and heartsick. Charles took me out for a short amble in the gardens, away from everyone else and held me whilst I cried. That was the start of our friendship, our real friendship. We tempered each other’s sadness and brought out the joy; we still do.

Sat on this old battered couch in the morning room, I asked him to be Tom’s Godfather, and he took the job very seriously, making sure we arranged the christening so he could be there. Those few years cemented our relationship in a way neither of us could have realised at the time. He was my best friend. He still is. The person I talked to about everything. Every time he returned from his ship, he’d find me or I’d come up here to stay. We’d hike out past the gorse, through the trees until we’d rest on a bed of heather and hours would slip away as we talked and laughed. Inevitably, it wasn’t too long before we started sleeping together again, under the guise that it was to punish Andrew, but even that pact was whispered here, under the willow trees by the stream and then sealed on the very bed we lie in today, amongst other places. His Grandmother encouraged us. I suppose I was considered at that time to be a safe person whilst he found the person he would marry. The only people who ever worried about us were my parents, but at that point they had too much restraint to interfere. I only found this out years later, when my heart lay in tatters following his marriage to his first wife.

1980, Wiltshire

Considering the amount of alcohol on offer, I feel remarkably sober and clear headed. The afternoon has crawled by with Andrew in a strange, snarky mood with me and now the sun is setting and the torches are lit on the pathway leading to the marquee. It’s so warm, I’m wearing just my strapless dress, with my shawl being carried for me by my husband, who is suited with his jacket slung over his shoulder like usual. We find a table where we can sit and bitch about everyone on the dance floor without being overheard.

“Your Royal Highness, glad you could make it.” Andrew spots him first and greets him warmly. “No date tonight?”
“Scared the last one off.”
“Pissed her off more like. You have to learn to be a bit more discreet with your love affairs, Sir.” I can hear the sneer in Andrew’s voice.
“Like you, you mean?” My words are sharp but he laughs them off.
“Anyone’s discreet compared to you, Darling.”
“Does it bother you?” I say it as a challenge rather than a question.
“Be my guest. Your reputation, not mine.”
“Yours is already in tatters.”
“Darling, nobody other than you cares what I do.”
Charles listens to our exchange without comment before reaching over to kiss my cheeks. “I’m going to grab a bottle and then, when the dance floor fills up a little, care for a spin?”
“It’s generally polite to ask her husband first, Sir.” Again, that coldness from Andrew.
“Why? Do you speak for her?”
I can feel Charles rise to the provocation and step in, “No, but he’ll feel aggrieved if you don’t consult him about the wine…” That makes them both laugh and Andrew hurries to pull a seat for Charles to his left, so that he is sitting in the middle of the two of us. Perhaps he hopes this will ensure he is always included in the conversation. I’d like to think that I always include my husband in our conversations, but then, when we get on a roll with something, it’s impossible for anyone to penetrate the in-jokes and the private codes we use. It doesn’t really matter where Andrew sits. However, currently Andrew is boasting about his latest conquest and goading Charles to talk about his. I sit, unamused, as Charles recounts travelling to a lady’s house, acting out the butler to perfection, describing the look on the housekeeper’s face. I find myself wanting to listen to him even though I’m filled with this awful flood of jealousy. He describes the grounds of the house and the row of beech trees and I get a sickening wave pass through me when he starts describing the lady. He’s trying to impress Andrew and he’s being so vulgar but even so I can tell he cares about this woman. The words he uses are like how he talks to me. That hurts more than the story.
“And then my PPO, the poor sod, comes out looking for me, and finds me butt-naked, mid-shag against the tree…”
Andrew guffaws along with Charles as I hide behind my wine glass, realising with a sudden shock that he was talking about me. At my Grandmother’s house, a few years ago. I kick him under the table but he doesn’t react, just continues to chuckle.
“Go on, Milla, your turn.” My husband smirks at me.
“Not a chance.”
“Leave her alone. Anyway, I want to dance. Milla, you promised me a dance.” Charles reaches his hand across the table and I take it, feeling him tugging me and having to trot to keep up with him.

Safe on the dance floor, he pulls me close to him and laughs as I prod him in the sides.
“That wasn’t very nice.”
“I know. I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” His tone raises as my hands reach his ribs and I pause there, threatening to tickle him. “Andrew was being a complete dick so I wanted to teach him a lesson. I was expecting you to react by, I don’t know, slapping me or something, but you just went paler and paler so I told the story as rapidly as I could.”
“There are other ways of teaching him a lesson.”
“What are you suggesting?”
“Kiss me.”
“Are you still using me as a way to get one over on him?”
“Why not?” I tilt my head up and push so my lips are so close to his, I can feel his breath.
“If you want to get even, you can kiss any man in this room.”
“I don’t want to kiss them. I only want to kiss you.”
“That’s a better reason.”
I reach up to kiss him, softly, unsure if he wants to. He pulls away and kisses my nose.
“If we’re putting on a show, we should do it properly.” Then he reaches to kiss me, passionately and I find myself slipping into a haze of him and the fire in this kiss. I feel myself responding, the kiss getting stronger until he reaches for me with so much want I have to pull away.
“You can’t kiss me like that.”
“Like what?” His words nuzzle against my lips and he pushes against them again, making me moan, involuntarily.
“That kiss…” I gasp, managing to pull away for a second time, “which tells me you want much more than a kiss.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You absolutely do.”
“I think you need to educate me on the different types of kisses.”
That makes me laugh as we start kissing again and continue with every type of kiss we’ve ever thought of and several ones we’ve not. I know everyone is watching us. Eagle eyes may pretend not to notice, but invariably, back at the tables, tongues will be wagging and gossip will be spreading. I also know my husband will be watching, bemused, amused, I’m not quite sure. I don’t care. It’s so nice to be kissing Charles, to have him against me. It’s so nice to drown in the rush that shoots through me with every kiss, each time my tongue meets his, every time we push together. We used to kiss like this when we first got together, a decade ago now, as though kissing was the only way to get to know each other, as though we had to kiss away our time apart, as though we had all the time in the world so we could focus on just that one pleasure and really savour it. I’m savouring it now.

At some point we pull away and by mutual agreement head back to the table, back to my husband. Andrew smiles and laughs and seems more surprised than anything else but I know he’s annoyed underneath. I can tell by the slight twitch next to his eye and the coldness in his voice when he speaks to me. He starts a one-upmanship battle with Charles, which is supremely embarrassing, taking my hand and pushing his fingers between mine whilst regaling a highly personal story about me and him. Aware of the entire room watching us, I smile and laugh when I’m meant to. Charles doesn’t take his eyes off me for a second and his smile doesn’t meet his eyes.
“Funny, she doesn’t do that with me.”
I hear the words come out of Charles’s mouth as a cold lump settles in my stomach. Why? Why does he rise to the bait?
“She keeps her eyes open. Perhaps it’s because she isn’t imagining someone else?”
Oh my God. I pull my hand out of Andrew’s grasp and grab hold of Charles, pulling him up. “Let’s dance.” I can’t drag him away fast enough.

On the dance floor, he smirks at me and I want to hit him. “Idiot.” I snarl at him. That wipes his face.
“He f*cks all your friends. How dare he get annoyed with me.”
I can’t say anything. What is there to say?
“Look like you’re enjoying yourself. People are staring.”
I sink against him, my head against his shoulder and his arms wrapped around me as we sway in time to the music. I know I’m going to return to an argument tonight. I probably deserve it. But nothing feels quite like sinking into Charles’s arms and breathing him in, feeling him all around me, listening to his heart beat. I feel him brush my hair away from my cheek and then the heat spreads through my neck when he kisses that spot which pulses with my own heart beat. There’s something about pain which heightens desire and his fingers drawing down my nape and over my back ignite my skin. The kiss this time is less playful as I struggle with breathing and my body throbs with how close he is but how restrained we have to be. Each kiss is a torrent through me, rushing through me. I can feel he wants me. We can’t go anywhere. He can’t come home with me. I can’t leave with him. So we hover in this agony, knowing this isn’t the same as Andrew’s love affairs, ignoring the reality of what’s happening between us because it can’t go anywhere, not admitting to each other how much we want it to.
We draw away from each other because it’s starting to get too difficult. Because we’re not even slightly in control. Even the soft kisses he plants against my lips make me moan into his mouth. I don’t remember ever wanting someone so badly.
“Where can we go?”
His whisper in my ear makes my body shudder and I know he feels it as he grips onto me tighter.
“Come outside.”
“I can’t go without Andrew.”
It makes him growl into my ear. “You want to. I know you want to.”
“Yes, I want to.”
“I can see how much you want me.”
This isn’t helping. How is it possible to feel like this? And then his hands. I grasp onto them as he starts pulling at the skirt of my dress. “Stop it.”
“Tell me you don’t want me to.”
“Not here.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
But he stops and then I’m drowning in this kiss which reaches every cell in my body and my hands are in his hair, pulling him to me.
“Let me feel how much you want me.” He bites my neck and it takes everything I have not to call out. Why do I want him more and more each time we are together? His hand is slipping up my thigh again and I want him to but I can’t. I stop him but I don’t pull his hand away and I can feel the warmth on the inside of my thigh setting fire to my skin, reaching upwards. I can barely stand the slight stroking of his thumb, making me bite my lip to stop the squeak which wants to leave my mouth.
“I want Andrew to see you like this. I want him to see how much you want me.”
It should make me stop. It should turn my body cold but it doesn’t. It makes me gasp as this thrill shoots through me and his hand creeps up my thigh again.
“You want to get even?”
“I just want you.”
“If we stay here, like this, we are going to shock everyone.”

With effort, I pull away and slip my fingers through his as I lead him back to the table, forcing my breathing to return to normal, aware how hot my cheeks feel, back to my husband. Andrew gives me an amused look, which wasn’t what I was expecting. I sit down next to him and Charles sits next to me, so close, our legs are pressing together and I don’t pull away.
“I can see you like my wife, Sir.” He pours wine into Charles’s glass and then tops up his own and I can feel his eyes burning into me although I look resolutely down. “And I think she likes you too, very much.”
I can feel Charles’s hand return to my thigh, under my skirt and after the first rush through my body subsides, I place mine on top of his with a warning pressure. I wish I could let him reach up and touch me but the thought rushes through me and pulses as forcefully as his kiss before.
“I always thought she’d seduced you. Obviously it’s the other way round.”
Opening my mouth, I try to respond but Charles chooses that moment to push his hand up and all that comes out of my mouth is a gasp as I force my thighs together to try to stop him and I want so much to let him as he fights me.
“You do realise that Camilla’s parents are here? Sat, just over there.” He nods across the room as I feel my skin turn cold. “My mother-in-law can see everything you are doing with your hand between my wife’s legs.”
That stops Charles more effectively than anything I’d done and he apologises to both of us as I try not to show the mortification on my face. It’s just a game to Andrew and he laughs at us both, enjoying the power. I reach for my glass but it’s empty. Andrew hasn’t bothered to refill mine. Charles hands me his and I sip it gratefully, placing the glass against my cheeks to cool them.
Andrew looks at me and smiles, “Ménage à trois.” He’s no longer angry with me. He actually looks strangely proud. I’m not sure whether I’m disappointed or not in his complete lack of jealousy. Not for the first time, I’m struck with the realisation that whatever is between Charles and I is the more pressing concern.
“We’re throwing a party next Saturday. Some friends from school, you know. You’re very welcome to join us.”
I almost laugh. Typical Andrew. For him, sex is just sex and this is just another opportunity to network. He doesn’t consider Charles to be a threat. How can he be? We’re already ticking down to the day we have to part.
“To love affairs!” Andrew tilts his glass towards me and I chink it with Charles’s glass, hesitantly. All I have done is bolster Andrew’s ego because he can see how much The Prince wants something that belongs to him, his wife. He’ll dangle me for his own gains, without any qualms because he knows how much I want The Prince too. In his mind, we both gain and I know he’ll relish the social advancement far more than he will care about sharing me. Gulping down the wine, it strikes me that this doesn’t matter to me; I just want Charles.

Chapter 6: Birkhall, January 2020 (1990, Highgrove)

Chapter Text

Birkhall, January 2020

I suppose it was inevitable that we’d end up here, where memories float around like spirits, some joyful, others painful. His Grandmother was less accepting the next time around. She tolerated us at first because she knew I made Charles happy. It was common in her day for men to have their mistresses and I think they all thought in the mid 80’s that I might be the necessary tool to stabilise Charles in order for the success of his marriage. How out of touch they all were. How greatly they underestimated Charles’s desperate need for love. They considered me to be a necessary inconvenience and it never crossed their minds that we might genuinely love each other. So the parties went on. I still found myself invited to family events, although no longer public ones, staying here, with and without my husband.

By this point, it was agony. Snatched moments together, clinches which left me breathless and in tears until it settled into the closest thing either of us ever had to a conventional relationship. A decision really, also made here, in the grounds of this house, that this connection, this passion between us, was more important than anything and anyone else and that we were not going to fight it anymore. He became my quasi husband for most of the week, returning to me two, three, sometimes four nights a week, Sunday through to Friday. He’d come in late, when it was dark and we ate dinner together, we’d drink a glass of wine and then do the everyday normal things every couple in the world does. My favourite activity, strolling around the garden, setting the world to rights, and his, lying in my arms in the dark, my fingers gently stroking through his hair as we shared those thoughts you can only ever have by moonlight in the arms of your lover. Then the weekend was spent with our respective families, each parting from each other more painful than the last, and we’d spend hours upon hours talking, whispering to each other down the phone, counting down the minutes until we could see each other again. By this point, both marriages were a charade, but it suited Andrew and I and it allowed Charles to spend time with his boys with fewer arguments, as I could keep him a little more even-tempered. The relative peace of those short years was never going to last. In hindsight, it was always going to end in disaster.

1990, Highgrove

My stomach churning with anxiety, I push open the door to see him down the corridor, making me burst into a funny sort of a run to speed up the transition into his arms. Then, when I reach him, his arm suspended by that odd contraction from his shoulder, I want to wrap my arms around him but I can’t. Instead, I kiss him, firmly, telling him off once again for being so stupid to fall off his horse, fussing over him dreadfully. He wallows in his own misery and enjoys my nagging, demanding kisses, enjoying the melodrama of his predicament whilst I’m there to make light of it.
“They’re saying now I must give up polo.”
“What, because of a broken arm?”
“Yes…” He sighs heavily and leads me into the sitting room where he sits down as close to me as he possibly could. “That I don’t take my responsibilities seriously enough, that I’m nothing but a playboy prince.”
I listen to him, intently, trying to decide whether to tease him to lighten his mood or if he’s really upset about it.
“...But I can’t give up polo… It’s one of the few things that keep me sane. When I play, it clears my mind entirely of every problem in my life. It’s imperative that my mind is solely focussed on the game, or I’d fall…”
“You let your mind wander then?”
“Yes… I couldn’t stop thinking about the pigheadedness of my parents and how they’d prefer me to be in this unimaginable torment over any chance of happiness. And everything I do or say is wrong. Not just wrong. Wrong with this snivelling sneer that tells me it was so foolish, they can’t even deem to look at me. I’m beyond a disappointment, I’m a constitutional failure. Everything I strive for, to them is nonsense, folly, and I’m this massive spanner in their perfectly oiled machine. Really, it’d be better for the lot of them if I never existed.”
“Darling, I really don’t know how you cope with all the criticism. I’m so sorry.” I wrap his head in my arms, pulling him against me as he cries, my heart bleeding for him. He holds onto me so tightly with his one functioning arm, as though squeezing me will hold me closer, keep me next to him. Then I kiss the top of his head and run my fingers through his hair, trying to calm him, trying to comfort him.
“I’m a fraud.”
“No you’re not, my Darling.” I shush him, stroking his head, rocking him slightly. Although he won’t admit it, preferring to languish silently, he’s in an awful lot of physical pain too and it’s turning his mood sour. Every negative interaction affects him more than usual and I’ve spent the past week almost living here, calming him, giving his staff a break. I’ve invited friends over to entertain him and made myself available for his every whim. Not that he appreciates this but when I return to my home, he pleads with me and cries for me to stay with him. He’s trapped in a dreadful cycle of despair and it’s awful to witness. Eventually, his tears ease and he lies with his head on my chest as I gently scratch his head, lulling him into a trance. I don’t stop. This is the most peaceful he’s been in days and I wonder if he’s sleeping at all when I leave him. Continuing until he’s fast asleep on top of me, I’m suddenly aware that I’m stuck. That’s okay. I resume stroking his head intermittently and when I get bored, I reach for the bell. I time it with the stroke on his head so as not to wake him and put my finger to my lips when the butler walks in.
“Could you run him a bath?”
He is currently emitting a musky aroma of dried sweat and damp. I happen to know he refused to have a bath for the past few days because he was too deep in his melancholy but he won’t refuse when I ask him. He won’t refuse my help to undress him and wash him.
“Would you like anything, Ma’am?”
I look up in surprise.
“Would you like me to put on some music? Or bring you some supper?”
I’m not used to his butler asking me questions. I also don’t expect him to serve me. As for how he addressed me… “No, no. I’m quite alright.”
“If you’re quite sure, Ma’am. Please ring for me if you need anything.”
Waiting until he backs his way out of the room, I kiss the top of my prince’s head gently. We’re going to have a word about how I should be addressed by his staff. I don’t want any disgruntled ex-employee leaking to the papers that The Prince makes his staff refer to his mistress as though she’s royalty.
When the butler returns to tell me the bath is ready, I thank him but before he goes, he starts talking to me again.
“If it’s agreeable with you, Ma’am, I shall ask The Prince’s valet to put out his night clothes…”
“I don’t need…”
“…and he’ll place them in the dressing room for you.”
I smile at how he anticipated my objection. “Thank you. You don’t need to address me as ‘Ma’am’ though.”
“I don’t need to. I choose to. Is that all, Ma’am?”
I hear the stress on the last word like a challenge. “That’s all, thank you.” I don’t even know the man’s name. I’m going to have to find out now.

“There’s no water in that bath.”
“It’s how I like it.”
“It’s lukewarm.”
“It’s better for the environment.”
“Doesn’t exactly make for a relaxing time.”
“Are you going to continue admonishing me for how I take my bath or are you planning on helping me?”
“I’m planning on doing both.” I start unbuttoning his shirt and he watches me. “Although I’m almost certain you could do this yourself.”
“No. I’m an invalid.”
“I see.” I kiss across his chest as I slide the shirt off his shoulders.
“Are you going to kiss me everywhere you remove clothing?”
“No. You smell.” I hear him giggle at me as I unbutton his trousers and kneel down to remove his socks. Then I help him into the tepid water and kneel on the bath mat beside him. “I’d imagined this to be pleasant but you seem to prefer a sparse, merely functional bath time so I suppose I’ll get the sponge and make a start. That’s presuming you even have a sponge.”
“I have a sponge. But I don’t know where it is. You’re going to have to use your hands.”
His words make me laugh. He always makes me laugh. “A sponge would be easier.”
“But your hands would feel so much better.”
“They would, would they?” I let my hand run over the surface of the water, watching the smile on his face before flicking the water up at him, making him laugh.
“Your hands gently caressing me will help me to get over the disappointment.”
“What disappointment?”
“I imagined you would get into the bath with me and I could feel you against me.”
“Not in that bath. I’d die of hyperthermia.”
“I’d keep you warm.”
“The water wouldn’t reach my waist. It’s a puddle. Not a bath.”
“Then I can see everything.”
“The only way I’ll get into the bath with you is if it’s hot water, a reasonable depth and preferably has some sort of product in it. An oil or a bubble bath. You’re living in the Victorian era. Spartan.”
“You’re confusing two distinctly different historical eras.”
“Pedant. Spartan then.”
“If I’m Spartan, you’re my slave. You can wash me. And dry me. And bed me.”
“Darling, I’m doing that anyway, and you don’t have to pay for my upkeep. I’m a bargain. A slave is much more expensive.”
“Yes, but slaves don’t answer back.”
“Fine, I’ll be silent.”
“Good.”
“Good.”
“You’re not silent.”
“I’m going to be.”
“Okay then.”
“You won’t like it when I stop talking to you.”
“I’m still waiting for the silent treatment.”
“I won’t talk to you!”
“Yes, you keep on telling me this…”
“Not a word.”
“You’ll not last five minutes.”
“I’ll not talk for an entire day.”
“I can’t even imagine the peace.”
“Well start imagining it because I’ll not speak to you.”
“No, there’s no point. You’ll never manage it.”
“I could if I wanted to.”
“Ah, and therein lies the problem. There’s no way you’d ever want to. So it’s an empty threat.”
“I’ll do something worse.”
“What?”
I smirk at him and run my nails up his thigh before tracing him with the tips of my fingers. “I’ll do this until you are begging me not to stop and then I’ll leave you and call for your valet.”
“That’s evil.”
“I have a decent streak, yes.”
“But, Darling, I’d accept that. I’d accept anything for your hands on me. Plus I don’t have a functioning right hand at the moment.”
“My poor little Prince.”
“I really am in desperate need.”
And we laugh, giggling together like we are teenagers, chatting about the day and all its problems with an irreverent tone, complaining about every person who makes life difficult with a sharp acidity, making fun, laughing more.

“When are you getting that cast off you?”
“I don’t know. I’m going to need another three months, they said.”
“Come and sit with me, tell me everything they said.”
“I don’t want to bother you…”
“You’re not bothering me. I love you. I want to know.”
This explains things. The anxiety, the scowling, the shortness of temper, the pessimism in every word he utters. Not that he directs it at me, he’s got enough self control not to do that, but I bear the brunt of the mood regardless. I spend so much time soothing him, massaging his bruised ego back to health, consoling him when the worst invariably occurs. If I could, I’d remove everything that hurts him, that scorns him, that mocks him. I’d fight the whole world if I could make things better. Instead, I concentrate on him. I make him smile and then chuckle and then laugh. I pull him out of himself and inject him with some degree of positivity. Every day when I walk through the doors into the house, he is so happy to see me, forgetting everything in those brief few moments as we greet each other. My heart still pitter-patters at the joy of seeing him.
But recently, I feel the house breathe a sigh of relief when I arrive. Staff who ignored me, smile at me now; staff who shouldn’t interact with me, find ways to help me, to look after me. I find a sharpened pencil on the morning tray and the daily crossword cut out neatly from the newspaper for me to attempt, saving me from both scrabbling around for a pen and from Charles’s look of irritation at the headlines. Lunch appears when I’m hungry whether I’m expected here or not and they’ve learnt exactly what I like, serving me dishes and checking what I’ve eaten to alter accordingly. My clothes are washed and pressed and folded if I ever misplace a single item, and I do, regularly, and my boots are scraped of mud and my coat brushed down when we walk out. I only have to reach out my hand with the thought that I’d like a cigarette and I find a box with my favourite brand inside, a match fixed so I can pull it out and light it easily. One day last week, I had the most dreadful headache and Charles was so upset with himself, I couldn’t bring myself to say. The butler brought in tea for him but for me, steaming lemon and honey, with two ibuprofen tablets discreetly hidden by the napkin. I never used to get this treatment.
“Shall we go for a walk around the gardens?”
“Only if you want to, Darling.”
“Well, actually, I would, rather. It’s a lovely evening and I want to see how your delphiniums are surviving in the heat.”

We never run out of conversation. As we potter through the gardens, there’s an endless stream of chatter which floats between us. It’s difficult to be quiet when there’s so much to talk about. His delphiniums are radiant and I stroke one of them gently to show my appreciation, making him giggle. Then the water in the fountain is so clear, I just have to run my hand through it and he uses my preoccupation to flick water up at me. I almost manage to pretend to be annoyed. Touched softly by the rays of the setting sun, the trees seem to gleam their appreciation of the light as he smiles at me and launches into a detailed recount about one particular variety of lichen before I’m distracted by a perfect fairy ring of mushrooms and I need to tell him about the Enchanted Wood. The pixies from my story blend into his rendition of the Yeats faeries, which reminds us of a night so many years ago standing on the west coast of Ireland and I squeeze his hand to tell him that I know and I’m there when he looks at me sadly. The walk is more subdued for a while after that, before he tells me about a memory of his Uncle Dickie and we end up laughing again. He’s told me that story so many times, it feels like the memory is my own and I find myself narrating it with him, reminding him of the parts he has omitted. We cut through a hedge, suddenly, the entrance obscured until the last second and then we climb through the middle of the yew, silenced by the dark, by the feeling of being cocooned by nature.
“We’re going to your garden.”
“I don’t want to drive to mine.”
“We don’t have to drive.”
“It’s a fair walk.”
“Just a minute.”
Intrigued, I let him pull me through the bushes on a trail which is almost imperceptible until we come to a door in the hedge.
“Have you made me a secret garden?”
“Yes.”
I smile at him. He can be so terribly romantic at times. Then I push the door, feeling the resistance. “It’s locked.”
“Naturally.”
“Well, are you going to open it?”
“No. You are.”
“How?”
“The key’s in one of my pockets.”
“Are you going to tell me which?”
“No.” He smirks at me and I laugh. I know exactly where he’s hidden it. Not that I’d let that spoil the fun and I watch as his cheeks turn pink as I slip my hands inside each pocket, running them over his body in my pretence to find the key.
“What about here?”
He grabs my wrist as I make to push my hand down the front of his trousers and he kisses my ear. “You’re incorrigible.”
I just grin at him and slip my hand into his trouser back pocket, pulling out the key.
“You knew it was there all along!”
“No I didn’t... I had to find it…” I bat my eyelashes at him coquettishly and he giggles at me, taking the key off me and opening the door.
Inside is a circular stone bench with flowers pouring from the centre like a fountain. Words are engraved on the seat of the bench but my eyes are drawn to the borders of the small courtyard. Giant pots overflow with masses of flowers - arriculas, lily of the valley, myrtle, primroses. The space is bursting with their sweet scent and the soft colours shine in the dim rays of the sunset. Every flower is one of my favourites and I feel my heart bursting. “It needs a gnome.”
“A what?”
“A gnome. It needs a gnome to look after it when you’re not here.”
“Okay, I’ll get a gnome.”
“No. I’ll get you a gnome. It’s my garden. I’ll choose the right one for it.” I circle the bench, reading the words aloud as I decipher them, “A rainy day is like a lovely gift - you can sleep late and not feel guilty.” I look at Charles who is smiling at me. “I feel like I ought to know it. I recognise it.”
“It’s an author.”
“Which author?”
“No. You can find that out by yourself.”
“But I want to know.”
“Then you best start reading!”
“You’re seriously not going to tell me?”
He just shakes his head, laughing at me. “Your favourite author. I believe you write her fan mail? It also reminds me of you. It’s the sort of thing you’d say.”
“Can we sit?”
“Of course. It’s designed to be sat on.”
There’s no wind in here and I close my eyes to listen to the humming of the insects and the faint trickling of water. It’s so peaceful. I feel him sit beside me and our shoulders touch. I can hear the wind outside the walls of this sanctuary, rustling the leaves, but in here, everything is quiet, everything is safe. I breathe in, almost tasting the scent from the flowers, feeling him with every sense.
“This is how I feel when I’m with you.”
The words are whispered to me so softly, I wonder if I’ve imagined them but then he kisses my head carefully and I know he meant me to hear him.

The bottle of wine is out waiting for us when we return to the house and he pours my glass as though he’s a waiter. Of course, he has no option but to with one arm strapped up against his chest. We chink glasses and retreat to the sitting room where I collapse upon the sofa dramatically.
“Hard day?”
“Absolutely. Exhausting. All that walking and talking...”
“Listening to me is a chore, I’m sorry Darling.”
“Never a chore. Talk all night. However long you need.”
That makes him chuckle, as I knew it would. “What, as you sleep?”
“Exactly. Win-win. You get to pour your heart out, I get my beauty rest.”
“Well I best start now then.”
“Tell me everything. I want to know everything.” I mean it. He knows I do.
“I love you.”
“You know how much I love you, don’t you?”
“I adore you.”
“I know you do.”
He does adore me. Every facet of my personality, every wrinkle on my face, every part of my body. The good days, the bad and everything in between, he loves me and tells me so. This snatched time together, sat drinking a glass of wine, regardless of the circ*mstances, has been a blessing for us. But I’m more in love with him now than I ever thought possible. More entangled in his branches than I should have ever allowed myself to become. More at the mercy of his whim than any person would wish to be. This burning love that never subsided, that disregarded every deterrent, is in control now and I accept it, reaching to take his hand as we sit together, just the two of us, drinking together, listening to him offload his anger, his distress, willing him to find peace within himself.

Chapter 7: Birkhall, January 2020 (2010, London)

Chapter Text

Birkhall, January 2020

By the end of her life, his Grandmother would have nothing to do with me. She adamantly refused to ever see me again and was vocal in her disapproval of me and her insistence that we would never marry. All of which we conveniently decided not to remember when I attended her funeral and took ownership of her property. She will have known what would eventually happen. She never lost her marbles. The fact that she bequeathed much of her jewellery to Charles, knowing that I would need it tells us she accepted me far more than she ever publicly admitted. Some items we found were ones she had only recently purchased and certainly were not for her own use. They included clip-on earrings, which she did not need, and the most beautiful ballerina brooch, which I fell in love with at first sight. We believe she bought them for me and took them as her own form of a blessing for our eventual nuptials. I wear every piece with nostalgia untainted by those last few years and Charles delights in my wearing of his beloved Grandmother’s jewellery.

Charles returns to me in a state of shock. He tells me about the family’s decision to cut out Harry with a startling coldness and anger before breaking down and I can’t console him. He clings to me and weeps and I’m infected with a familiar hatred towards his family and this institution that seeps through me. The unfairness and favouritism of his mother, willing to do almost anything to protect her precious second son, and ruthless with everyone else. The entitlement of Harry and Megan, who do they think they are to make such demands? And my poor Darling, who can and will make such dreadful decisions but they eat him up on the inside. All I can do is hold him, on the sofa where we once played with both my children and now my grandchildren, the same spot where he was dragged away from me abruptly when I contracted glandular fever back in 1979, against the same cushions where I nursed him when he broke yet another bone in 2001.

I force him to drink some tea and eat a biscuit or two, sitting on the floor this time, cuddling the dogs, throwing their soft ball again and again. Then we get another summons, this time the both of us and I have to leave him to dress correctly to see his mother, to quickly apply makeup and attempt to tame my hair. He smartens up too, his previous suit crushed from lounging on the floor, but as usual he’s ready before me and waits for me impatiently in the hallway, rather than getting in the car. He smiles when he sees me and kisses me as I take his hands, squeezing them. We delay further because we need a moment, just the two of us, to look in each other’s eyes and feel the comfort and reassurance necessary to spend the rest of the evening in false jollity, pretending to his family that his world hasn’t just imploded, masking the severity of the pain and the shock, concealing the hurt so his feelings are merely trifles.

2010, London

We sit together in the car, silently, watching the world pass by in the orange glow of the streetlights. He’s anxious. I can tell by the way he’s fiddling with his gloves. My heart beating in sympathy, I reach over to take his hand. His encases mine but it soothes him to touch me and he smiles at me before staring out of the window again, hands clasped together. Mine are no longer as steady as they once were but it doesn’t bother him. He holds onto them tenderly, regardless, for the duration of our short time together in private.
“You look beautiful.”
That surprises me. “Not too shabby for an old bag.”
That makes him smile. “No. Beautiful. More today than any day before.”
And his eyes meet mine and he means it and my heart floods with so much love for him, it almost makes me cry. He kisses the backs of my hands before turning to look out of the window.

There are a lot of people on the streets. All young, some carrying makeshift protest signs about student top up fees. I’m struck with a mixture of jealousy for their freedom and a sadness for the futility of their actions. I don’t know what they’re hoping to achieve. The last time protests worked to change public policy was before Margaret Thatcher. I remember burning to take to the streets and march for my beliefs when hunting was outlawed. I remember screaming at my now husband for not letting me go. But I realise that protests do nothing except make the protestors feel better about having done something. You want to change policy? Go into government. Or do what my husband does, write to them, persuade them, use the power you have. I suppose the people protesting do not have the power they need, hence the need to protest.

The children around us have spotted our car and recognised us. They seem friendly enough, waving at us, phones out, taking pictures. My husband is dreading this performance tonight. He feels like he has to put on a show and be more jolly than he has the capacity to display. I feel it’s good for him. He’s got a very good sense of humour, he just gets tied down with business too much. The crowd around us gets thicker and then the car stops. I can see Charles sitting up straighter. He looks uneasy. And then the mood of the crowd changes. It sounds angry. People are no longer smiling and waving at us. The car gets shoved and then I can feel it shake as it’s hit. An almighty crash smashes the window on my side and I leap and reach for my husband. I want to scream as the car jolts from side to side and the jeers from the crowd are frenzied, like men on a hunt with their prey encircled. The window cracks with the force of another impact and this time I gasp loudly, holding onto Charles’s hand so tightly, feeling the death grip he has on mine in return. He’s trying to instruct me to do something but the words aren’t making sense in my brain. I can just see his eyes looking at me, scared. There’s another thud against the car and there’s a man in a tuxedo shoving protesters away. I watch him grab onto a man and hurl him to the floor, away from the car. He’s one of my officers. And then the car speeds off and we are slammed back against the seats with the force from the acceleration.

If I thought my hand was shaky before, it’s impossible to calm it now. I’ve also never seen him so worried. This is a man who looked on with scant interest as a gunman aimed shots at him. He didn’t even flinch. Now, he’s beside himself with worry.
“Swap sides with me.”
“What?”
“Swap sides. That window will not take a bullet. I need you on the safe side.”
But the second I undo my seatbelt, the alarm goes off and it causes such consternation from the PPO, I click it back. I stretch it to move closer to Charles and he wraps his arms around me.
“Well, we’ve not done that one before.”
It makes him chuckle at me and I know that’s my line for when we get asked about it. For now, I rest my head on his shoulder, glad that I’m with him, whatever the circ*mstances.

Chapter 8: Birkhall, March 2020 (2000, St James’ Palace)

Chapter Text

Birkhall, March 2020

“What did your test say?” His voice sounds husky over the phone and it sets my heart in a little flutter of panic.
“It’s negative, Darling.”
“Thank God. Phone me in an hour. I have to write a letter.”
The days have merged together in a way which seems to make time stand still. An ongoing void of hours which lead to more isolated hours, filled with worry. I look up from my book expecting at least twenty minutes to have flown by but they never do. They crawl. I made a shrewd prediction with this virus but I expected that we would be safe at Birkhall, not infected and hiding away from spreading it to other people. Why him? Why not me?
The phone rings again and at first I’m glad for the hour to be over, and then very aware that only fifteen minutes have passed and I’m gripped with panic again. I know it’s him. “What is it?”
“William, he’s positive.”
Oh, good Lord. “He’ll be fine, Darling. He’s young, fit. You don’t need to worry.” Please don’t worry. Concentrate on getting better. I’ll do all the worrying for you.
“He says he feels fine.”
“Well that’s just what you need to hear. Thank goodness.” I’m going to phone his wife later and prize out the real story. William’s never let us know when he’s ill. Not when he was at school and was struck down with flu, he carried on attending lessons until his house master noticed how much he was struggling and phoned us. Not when he was at university and had a kidney infection and Kate phoned us in a panic when she found him doubled over in pain. It’s as if he has to maintain a facade at all times.
“I’m sure you’re right. I seem to be fine anyway.”
He doesn’t sound fine to me but I bypass the issue. “Well that’s good to hear.”
“Darling, if I’m not, I don’t want you to come and visit me.”
“What?”
“If, and I fervently hope it doesn’t come to this, but if it does, you’re not to come to see me.”
“Darling, if you’re ill, I’m coming to see you.”
“No. I don’t want you to. I’ve seen those awful videos from Italy. I don’t want you visiting me when I’m like that.”
“How ridiculous. I don’t care what you look like.”
“And if I’m ventilated, you must stay away.”
“I will not!”
“Everyone else has to die alone. I’m not being the exception.”
“What the f*ck?”
“I know they’ll let you in if you push them. No one will say no to you. They won’t dare. I’m telling you now, I don’t want you there.”
The shock from his words strikes through me and I’m at a loss for what to say.
“Darling, put your camera on. I want to see you.”
“I don’t…”
“Camilla, put your camera on.”
My hands are shaking as I reach for my iPad and press the call button. He never uses my full name and there was something about the tone that I couldn’t argue with. It takes us a few minutes to fix the connection between us and to adjust the video and the volume on the speakers but the time gives me a little chance to think and devise my argument.
“You can’t be seen to have special treatment.”
“That’s the most ridiculous argument. If you’re about to die, it matters not two hoots what anyone thinks. The entire country can hate me, it’s not anything I’m not used to. And it wouldn’t matter. I’m not living this life without you.”
“Darling, you can’t come. What if you catch it from me?”
“I don’t care!”
“Well I do!”
“You wouldn’t even know - you’d be hooked up to a ventilator.”
“I want you to promise me, you won’t come.”
“No!”
“You have to.”
“No, I bloody don’t!”
“I want to die knowing you’re safe. Knowing that I’ve not made my family’s position harder than it already is.”
It’s been a very long time since he made me cry and I do now without hiding my eyes, letting him see but he’s resolved; his face is crumpled with guilt but he holds his position. He watches me cry. “How can you not let me say goodbye to you?” I do cover my face now as the tears turn to sobs and I turn my face to shield myself, my shoulders shaking.
“Let me see you.”
“How can you watch me cry?”
“Because I want you to be safe. Promise me, Milla.”
“No!”
“Dammit, it’s the only thing I can do to make dying alone in a hell hole bearable. I need to know you’ll be okay.” He shouts at the camera and the speakers distort his voice.
“I’m not going to be okay!” I scream the words back at him and end the call. Then I turn it off and unplug the phone, just as I hear it ring. I’m so angry I want to hit something and my heart has cracked and the pain is like nothing I can remember. I pace about in my room until I can’t take it anymore and I fly to my bedroom and grab the largest pillow and hug it to my chest to staunch the pain. His first reason, his primary reason, isn’t anything to do with me. All he cares about is his public perception. Then the tears come with a vengeance, making me rock with the violence of the emotion as I cling to the pillow as if for life. I want his arms around me. I want to push my face into his neck and breathe him in.

2000, St James’ Palace

As wonderful as it is to be able to be seen with him, out in public, I feel bereft this morning when he leaves me to go to his appointments. I need to remember how far we’ve come and try not to wish for more time. The impossibility of our situation was almost easier to deal with when there was no hope of a life together. Now it feels like it could be possible, I’m impatient. And bored. So bored. It’s difficult to maintain life as it used to be. There are so many ordinary things which are now almost impossible for me to do, but that gaping hole in my life isn’t filled by being able to see him more often. We still have so little time together.
Charles tells me to occupy myself by getting involved in charities, but I feel like a fraud, like I’m trying too hard to be someone I’m not, or worse, like I’m emulating his ex-wife. I don’t want to take her place. I don’t want to be anything like her. My life is narrowing to a point where I can see why she was so angry and frustrated but I refuse to complain about the pressure to him. The constant humiliation and attacks I get from the media, from supposed friends, from The Firm, from Charles’s family, are almost crippling and everything I do is wrong. I embarrass him. I damage him. I’ve made him the laughing stock of the entire world. His younger brother has a particularly visceral reaction towards me, sitting on his mother’s knee, whispering my faults like a serpent around her neck. It’s like fighting the wind. I try at least to look the part, pay more attention to my personal grooming. He didn’t ask me to but he didn’t object when it was suggested and I’ve now got a rather generous allowance just for that. I’m torn between the knowledge that I must look the part, and a deep resentment that I must do this to be considered acceptable. But whatever I do, the photographers always see the worst. I see the pictures occasionally and I look so awful, I sometimes worry that they’re right. Why would he choose to be with someone so hideous? And then I give myself a stern talking to because I know better than any person on the planet where his heart lies. But the allowance is almost an admittance that I’m not enough for him. This deep-set hurt is so insignificant in the grand scheme of things that I ignore it, try to lock that feeling away. I don’t want to make anything in his life any more difficult than I already have done.
His distinctive footsteps distract me from my thoughts and I get up to greet him. He’s so happy to see me, I see his eyes light up and I forget the pain. He is what I am fighting for.
“Darling, thank goodness you’re here.”
Where else would I be? I don’t say it as it feels a little peevish. Instead, I kiss him and help him take off his jacket before pulling him for the tea that’s already laid out ready for us, chatting to him, asking him about his day. He looks at me peculiarly, alarm in his pale blue eyes and my heart knots with anxiety.
“Sit next to me.” He yanks my arm and I sit next to him, worried as his hands rub my thighs like he’s trying to comfort me. “I don’t think you’re being very honest with me.”
“What am I not being very honest about?”
“I think you’re being false with me to try not to upset me.”
“I’m not being false.”
“You’ve stopped arguing with me.”
“Perhaps I just agree with you more.”
“You’re always pretending to be happy, dealing with me…”
“I want you to be happy…”
“No. I feel like it’s no longer real… This, between us. It’s a facade. It’s you appeasing me. It’s not a real relationship.”
My breath chokes in my throat and nothing comes out. I feel my eyes welling up and have no control as my nose blocks up almost instantly. The worst thing about it is that he’s correct. I’m living on a tightrope, dealing with him, managing him. Concealing my own pain from him.
“I’m right, aren’t I?”
His eyes are watery and they break me, letting uncensored tears flow down my face, each moment that passes makes it more difficult to breathe. “Please don’t do this to me again.” I don’t know how the words escape but they stab me when I hear myself say them; the memory of phoning him to be told he doesn’t want to speak to me, he doesn’t want to see me anymore, is still so raw it merges with this new agony. To my shame, I clasp onto his hands, bending double so my face is on his lap and my body erupts into sobs.
“Do what?”
“Please don’t leave me.” I feel his body tense up with my words and I know he’s angry.
“I’m not, I’m not. Of course I’m not.”
But his voice is gentle and I feel his lips kissing the back of my neck even as I break into a fresh round of sobs.
“No, Darling, I’ll not do that to you ever again.”
He doesn’t try to shush me as the pain from not being chosen jars through me.
“I’d convinced myself that everyone was right about you, that I needed to let you go.”
“You didn’t even tell me…”
‘I was a coward. I’m so sorry.”
He pulls his hands from the clasp of my own and then strokes my hair. I feel him kiss the back of my head even as I burrow further into his lap.
“But you told me it was okay. That you understood.”
“I did understand!”
“And you’re doing the same now. You’re so understanding but you’re doing it at your own detriment.”
“I’m sorry. Please don’t leave me.”
“I’m not leaving you. I’ll never leave you. Don’t apologise. I don’t deserve it. Please sit up, Darling.”
It takes me some time to sit up. For the shock to dissolve through my body, for my nerves to calm. He sits with me, stroking my hair, my back, until the sobs become a trickle down my face that I can’t stem and I sit up enough to look at him, feeling him holding my shoulders.
“I thought that the only way the public would accept me divorcing Diana was if you took the fall.”
“You were manipulated…”
“No, I wasn’t. I thought I was making the right decision. You need to know that I chose to do that to you. It was my own poor judgement. I’m so sorry but I wasn’t listening to what people said and was swayed. I thought I was doing the right thing. You don’t need to worry about what other people are saying to me; every person on earth can tell me I should leave you and I’ll never do that again. They were some of the worst weeks of my life.”
“You just cut me out.”
“I know, I know. I’m sorry. I was so cruel to you. It was easier to not speak to you, to let my secretary inform you I didn’t want to talk to you again. I was so, so wrong. But Milla, you just forgave me, I didn’t know you were still so upset about it.”
“You rang me hysterical, what was I meant to do? I love you. I know you.”
“That’s what you do. And I love you for it, but you internalise everything. And I don’t realise how much you’re hurting. Milla, that was four years ago, you sheltered me from that for far too long. What are you hiding from me now?”
“Nothing.”
“That’s a lie. Darling, I want this relationship, but I want it to be a relationship between two adults. Let me in.”
I shake my head at him, trying to stop the tears from falling down my cheeks. It’s too difficult.
“Do you not trust me?”
No. I don’t. I know him too well. I know I can’t do this. I have to be the strong one. “Yes, I trust you.”
“You don’t trust me.”
I hear his sigh and I reach for him automatically, knowing I’ve hurt him, wrapping my arms around his head, feeling his arms encompass me. “It’s too much, all at once. I do trust you.” I’m trying to appease him and I’m not sure he believes me.
“Well then, start small. Tell me one thing that is hurting you.”
We’re silent for a long time. Long enough for the tears to dry on my cheeks, enough to almost be in a daze of sleep. He holds me and doesn’t let go. He’s waiting for me. “Sometimes…” But the words tie around my tongue and it’s like a brace, holding them in. I feel his thumb rubbing against my shoulder and I know he’s waiting. I take a breath, “Sometimes I allow it to get to me…” I feel my chest constraining the words and they tail off. He waits but I can’t continue.
“What gets to you, Darling?”
“What,” I clear my throat, “people say about me.”
“Is there anything in particular?”
“Everything.”
“What’s everything? Tell me, Darling.”
“I can’t.”
“Well shall I run through the things I think you might be bothered by and you can just tell me yes or no?”
I feel like he’s scraping away at my insides with a scalpel and I have to evade the scrutiny. “It’s not one thing. It’s just a cumulation of everything. I’m being silly.”
“You’re not being silly. I don’t think any person alive has ever had to suffer the indignities you’ve suffered.”
“It doesn’t bother me…”
“It evidently does…”
“It doesn’t. It’s not that people say things, it’s that because of their words, we’re pulled apart.”
I’m so sorry. I’m sorry I exposed you to the press. I’m sorry that you’ve been made into a pariah. I’m sorry that loving me has hurt you so much. But it’s going to get better, I promise you, My Darling, I will do everything I can to make things better and we’ll be together eventually.”
And even as I love him for his words and I tell him, it’s not the whole truth. What upsets me is that I am never, and never will be, his first priority. Although the words and spite cause me pain, I can rise above them. What makes my heart ache is the understanding that I am an embarrassment that he needs to manage, carefully mould into his life. If I ever become too damaged to rehabilitate, he’ll drop me like a stone to ensure the good standing of his family. It’s not something I will ever say. I understood this a long time ago and I accept it. But that doesn’t mean that it doesn’t hurt.

Chapter 9: Birkhall, March 2020 (1980, Rhodesia)

Chapter Text

Birkhall, March 2020

By the time the knock on the door comes, I’ve cried myself dry of any tears. I feel empty. Dragging my body from the immobile statue it has become, I open the door to collect the tray. It’s piled high with letters and tea and biscuits, but at the top is a cutting of the softest lilac auriculas and I start crying all over again. How did he manage to source these from his room? I turn on my ipad and call him.
“Do you like them?”
“Of course.” I don’t know how I have tears left to cry but they stream from my eyes.
“I will need you to talk to me.” He’s crying now and it makes my tears worse. “I need you to make sure they put the iPad next to me so I can hear you. And you need to talk to me, I don’t care what about, because I’ll be so scared.”
I know I’ve lost this argument. I nod and I see him breathe a sigh of relief.
“Do you promise me?”
“I promise you.”
“I’d do anything to wrap you in my arms right now.”
“Just get better.” Oh God, what if he has a sudden turn for the worse and the last thing we did was have this awful argument?
“I’m trying.”
“Try harder.” I want to take his hand in mine and squeeze it. I want to look into those pale blue eyes of his and push my nose against his.
“Concentrate on staying well.”
“I am.”
“Concentrate harder.”
I’ve never felt so alone.

1980, Rhodesia

Our hands are locked together and our legs are so entwined we might as well be one person. He’s talking to me but I’m too tired and too lost in his eyes to really concentrate on what he’s saying. Everything about him feels good and my body aches in such a wonderful way as I wriggle slightly to get closer to him. Pressing my nose against his, I’m about to kiss him when I hear the word ‘Rhodesia’ and it dawns on me what he is talking about. It makes me draw away from him in surprise. “Why the f*ck are you visiting my husband?”
“Because I’m representing Her Majesty. Why are you not with your husband? Most military wives follow them about.”
“I’m not a dog. Anyway, I’m far too busy servicing you.”
“Well come and ‘service’ me in Rhodesia, then.”
“What, fly out with you?”
“Yes.”
“Fly out with you, to Rhodesia, to visit my husband?”
“Why not?”
“Don’t you have a girlfriend at the moment?”
“Which one?”
“You know which one.”
“The brunette who is very sexy but argues with me about sleeping with you?”
“Exactly.”
“Do you like her?”
“No. Loath her.”
“Then no.”
“I really am becoming more and more like my Great Grandmama.”
“Do it. Do it for me. I can’t bear to be away from you for so long. A trip abroad is like an eternity without you.”
“It will cause an absolute panic. They won’t know where to sit me.”
“They will sit you next to me, if they have any sense.”
“Whilst my husband is there?”
“You can’t possibly be feeling guilty?”
“No… Of course not. If his philandering hasn’t caused a diplomatic crisis this time, he’s done well. Oh, what the hell, yes… Yes…”
“We leave tomorrow, my darling Girl Friday.”
I give him a look before panic takes over. “Oh, God, I’ve got to pack…”
“No…” He grabs hold of my waist and pulls me back to him, trapping me underneath him. “I order you to stay and ‘service’ me, Hildy.”
“You ‘order’ me?”
“Yes. Service me now. Service me when we’re on the plane tomorrow. Service me all through our trip. Each night. All night.”
“I need to warn Andrew I’m coming.”
“My staff will. Don’t go back to Walter. I’ll let them know you’re coming, let me ring them now. I’ll send someone to help you pack tomorrow morning.”

It’s so absurd, it’s hilarious. I’m like the Cheshire Cat the entire day, waiting for the car to arrive, grinning all the way to the RAF base, onto the plane, into his arms. We’re not discreet as we jump up and into his room the second my nerves stabilise from the shock of takeoff. And it’s so exciting and so ridiculous, I hear laughter peeling from my mouth, making him grin, making him look at me with such a satisfied look in his eyes. We don’t stop laughing through every break of his engagements and I see how happy he looks from the side of each room we enter, meeting and greeting people confidently, with ease. Andrew is more amused with the situation than I’d dared hoped he’d be, and the three of us cackle through dinner, trying not to fall about in laughter at the shocked looks on people’s faces. And then Charles takes my hand and leads me to his room as if this is normal. But it’s not normal.
There are billowing drapes of netting by the doors, deterring the mosquitos, but the breeze that wafts through is still hot, and it’s so humid, my skin feels damp. The room, appropriately, is fit out in the darkest wood and silks and the marble flooring is cool on my feet as I kick off my heels to stand with him. Plumes of netting hang over the bed, obscuring it as we walk around it, looking for the entrance and then we rush to pull off each other’s clothing, in between burning kisses, until we’re completely naked and we push through the netting, into the bed. I have time to stretch my hands on the soft white sheets as he closes up the net and then there’s just the feel of his skin against mine and it’s so hot we slide against each other.
It’s impossibly romantic. Lit solely by the iridescent light of the moon, we make love to each other over and again until we’re both so exhausted, we can barely move but there’s no thought about sleep. We have too much to talk about and too little time together to say everything. He’s lying with his head between my thighs and he’s nibbling on the inside of my knee, making me giggle as we furiously recount the day, too hot to lie together, both of us sticky but neither of us bothered. The fan doesn’t seem to be doing anything to help us. But as the night rolls on, and the dark provides some relief from the stifling heat, we end up entangled and this time, as we make love to each other we can’t help but whisper to each other and his words of love seep into my skin and I have to kiss him to stop me saying them back to him. A kiss which floods through my body as though we’re kissing for the first time, making every movement almost exquisitely unbearable until I can’t do anything but let him take all control, until I’m biting down on his neck to hold in these moans which seem to spill from my mouth with no restraint. And afterwards we don’t speak, for the first time, we just press against each other, caressing each other, kissing each other until sleep takes us and then we wake in the morning, entwined, fingers clasped, nose-to-nose, lips anticipating the sensation of touching again. I hear him groan as his hand grasps up my body and we’re instantly returned to where we were the night before as my skin aches for him and the only thing I can do is pull him closer and we’re pushing together before we’re even fully conscious.

I can’t stay away from him and I don’t want to. All day he’s reached for me, pulled me out into a corridor just to push me against a wall and kiss me, making me gasp before returning to where we’re meant to be. His hands grasping onto me when we sit in a car, kissing furiously when we have a second alone, the need for each other relentless. I find myself staring at him from the side of the room, when I’m allowed in, listening with bated breath to his speech, willing it to go well and then experiencing such an unexpected surge of pride and relief when it does. He looks over at me with anxious, questioning eyes and I can’t help smiling at him, trying to convey with my eyes how well I think he’s done. I want to rush to him and kiss him. Instead, I see him nod at me, relieved as he vacates the stand and circulates to network in the room.

“You treat him like you’re his mother.”
I roll my eyes at my husband and take his arm to navigate the room. “You look very smart.”
“Don’t flatter me to change the subject. I know you far too well, Milla. Your feminine charms don’t work on me. I’m immune.”
“I’m not sure whether that’s meant to be taken as an insult or if you were meaning it positively. I’m going to take it as the latter.”
That makes him laugh but he doesn’t drop the subject. “You always did say he was immature.”
“Evidently it’s a trait I find attractive in men.”
“He treats you like a surrogate mother, and you get a kick out of that?”
“I’m not restricted to that particular branch of immaturity. It comes in many shapes and sizes.”
“That’s why I had to marry someone so much younger than me.”
“You think our age gap evens out the maturity levels?”
“It’s why we’re well suited. We’re on the same page, the same level.”
“Wishful thinking there. I think men require many, many more years.”
“Some more than others. He was diabolical to be with until you entered the room.”
“I’m a calming influence.”
“I don’t know how you put up with it. Maybe you like the attention?”
“I do like the attention.”
“I couldn’t cope with the constant pawing.”
“Not sure he’s really into men. It’s not something you need to worry about.”
“Now that would be scandalous! I’d almost give it a go for the fun of it.”
“Hands off. He’s mine. Anyway, I thought you were otherwise occupied?”
“You’re being uncharacteristically possessive.”
“It’s motherly concern”
“He isn’t actually yours.”
“I’m aware.”
“Just checking. Wouldn’t like a constitutional crisis on our hands…”

It’s such a relief to return to our room for the second night. Such a relief for the end of the sudden curtailing and the half-hearted attempt at discretion. As I pull him as close to me as is physically possible, I get a surge of panic through me. Panic at the intensity of everything. Every kiss. Each conversation we have. The reaction throughout my body from any slight touch to the feeling of him inside me. Panic as I breathe him in and realise I’m inhaling him because I need to. A fear so strong, it takes hold of me as I’m lying, staring into those soft eyes when he tells me how much he loves me. I have to swallow my response, press my thumbs into his face and kiss him.
“You’re shivering.”
“It’s all the exertion.”
He laughs at me and swats my stomach. “You don’t want me to hold you then to warm you up?”
That’s the only thing I want at this moment. I curl against him, feeling his arms around my back, slipping my legs between his and smiling as he rolls on top of me, trapping me under him.
“I’ve got a new girlfriend, the one you pointed out. That Diana girl.”
“You choose now to tell me about her?”
“You’re the one insisting that I date all these women.”
“Now… at this point in time? Not this afternoon? No? Now…”
“Why? Are you telling me that you’re jealous?”
“No…”
“You’re lying. I can tell you’re lying.”
It’s not a nice feeling. Both the jealousy and being called out. I scrunch up my nose and to my disgust, he chuckles at me.
“Good. I’m glad that you’re jealous. I hate it when you tell me to find a wife.”
“You still need to. Even if you ‘think’ I’m jealous.”
“But I want you.”
It’s so direct, I almost gasp. Instead, I try to turn the conversation, “You’ve just had me…”
“As my wife. Marry me.”
“What?”
“Marry me, Camilla. Please…”
“Charles…” I feel my heart sinking deep into my stomach.
“Divorce Andrew. Marry me.”
His eyes are staring at me, pleading with me. I’m pinned underneath him, his hands around my wrists which he’s pulled above my head. What am I meant to say? I don’t want to hurt him. I opt for humour, our invariable fallback by the way of a difficult conversation, “Are you mad?”
“Yes. Mad. Madly in love with you. Marry me.” Between kisses, he whispers the words into my ears, against my neck, into my mouth.
I wish I could say yes. “Darling, please don’t ask me to do that.”
“I don’t care about anything but you.”
Here it starts. I can hear the hurt in his voice, the pleading tone. I don’t think I can go through this again. “Then I’m going to turn you down. I won’t let you do that. I’m not going to divorce Andrew. I’m not destroying my children’s lives. I’m not depriving my country of its king. No, Charles, I won’t marry you.”
“What is so wrong with me that you turn me down again?”
“Nothing. Nothing is wrong with you.” I pull my arms away from his grasp and reach around his neck, coaxing him to rest against me. “Everything is wrong with me.”
“There was nothing wrong with you the first time I asked.”
He’s so petulant when he’s hurt. “Other than I’m a subject and not a virgin? I had a ‘history’.”
“I didn’t care.”
“Others did.”
“Who cares what they thought?”
“You’re The Prince of Wales, the future king…”
“Yes, thanks for reminding me, I had forgotten…”
That makes us both laugh, despite the conversation and I feel his fingers across my face and his lips press against mine forcefully, making me gasp, making my stomach somersault.
“If you divorce him, I’ll marry you.”
“You know you can’t. So I’m trapped. I can’t divorce him, it’ll cause a scandal and then I won’t be able to see you.”
“So what do we do?”
“Nothing. I stay with my husband, you marry someone else, that Diana girl might be a good option. You know this. Don’t make things difficult.”
“You mean don’t talk about it?”
“Yes.”
He bites my neck, pulling at it with his teeth, making my skin explode with the contact. I can’t bear this conversation and the hurt I have to bestow on him. I can’t control the surges of hope which try to constrict my words of refusal and the disappointment which stabs at my heart. I can’t bear the crushed look in his eyes as he pleads with me, eyes still so wonderfully innocent and sweet and I kiss him to quieten him. Sometimes words are too painful and the pain too secret to express.

Chapter 10: Birkhall, March 2020 (2010, Clarence House)

Chapter Text

Birkhall, March 2020

I’ve barely pulled on my clothes to face the morning before the door barges open and he rushes in. We’ve been counting down the days, and the result of that last COVID test took so long, I feel that time is pulling a trick on us and is in fact reversing. I accept his embrace without restraint, needing it as much as him and I reach to push my face into his neck to breathe him in. We stand tangled together for a long time, reaffirming our love for one another in the oldest and simplest of ways. We’ve been avoiding the conversation we’re about to have for the past week, a few more minutes won’t matter as I savour that sense of completeness from being wrapped in his arms, as my hands run up and down his back, relishing having him here to hold, squeezing him as tightly as I can, feeling the returning pressure. We’ve always done the making up from an argument the wrong way round. Any serious conversation has always commenced after we reassure each other how much we love each other. A large part of me would take this love and disregard any conflict but sometimes the strife is necessary to heal, to move forward.
“I love you. You know I love you?”
I hear his whisper and sigh. Here it starts.
“I don’t see a way out of this, my Darling.”
It makes me smile, even as I get a prickle through my skin in anticipation of the awaiting conversation. “You never do see a way out of it. Be more positive, Darling.”
“But this time, I really don’t.”
“By which you mean, you’re not willing to concede anything…”
“Don’t let go of me.”
“Do you remember Penelope?”
“No.”
“Yes, you do, Penelope, you know, tall Penelope…”
“Not helping…”
“Penelope… You know her. She used to be a sucker for the hair magazines and she’d come round to my flat and cut her hair and you’d get annoyed because this short blonde hair was everywhere and I don’t think you quite believed me that it wasn’t another man…”
“Massive boobs.”
“Yes, Penelope!”
“Married an old man…”
“He wasn’t an old man. He was only about twelve years older than her.”
“You’ve not spoken about her in years. You’re really procrastinating.”
“She sent me a letter, I got it yesterday. Her husband’s just died, of COVID. She’s beside herself because she thinks he caught it off her. She’s blaming herself.”
I feel his arms squeezing me tighter. “You always do this.”
“Do what?”
“Make excuses for me. I know what you’re trying to say and I love you for it, but that wasn’t why you were so upset with me.”
“She told me to hold you very tightly when we were together again.”
“I’ll hold you tighter.” There’s a pause as we do indeed hold each other tighter.
“How’s William?”
“He says he’s fine. I don’t think he is. He’s said his wifi isn’t working properly so we can’t video call. I know I’m old but I know an excuse when I hear one. What have you heard?”
“Kate was evasive. I think he’s a lot worse than he’s letting on.”
“It’s not even public that he’s ill.”
“People will worry.”
“When it’s about someone else, you understand duty.”
His words hit me as a blow to my entire body and I pull away from him, holding onto the bedpost to steady myself. “I understand it perfectly.”
“But you suggest you can shirk it because you’re upset? When the rest of the country can’t?”
“Yes. You think I’d just be ‘upset’ if you were dying?”
“Do you think your feelings are stronger than Penelope’s? Or anyone else who has lost their spouse and not been there with them?”
“Yes.”
“That’s incredibly selfish.”
“You don’t get to temper my feelings. Put this the other way round. How would you feel?”
“That’s completely different.”
“How is it any different?”
“I’d be with you.”
“What?”
“I’m not letting you die alone.”
“But that’s exactly what I’m saying!” The indignation at his remark rails my skin into hackles.
“How would it look if I left my wife to die alone in hospital when everyone knows I could bend the rules to see you? I’d look like a coward, and everyone would think I have no heart.”
“So you’d only be with me because it looks better?” My words are very quiet but I see his face and he knows I’m angry.
“I didn’t say that, don’t extrapolate. I’m talking about public perception. Feelings don’t come into it.”
It’s like being shot. I gulp, feeling my temper boiling through me, controlling it with difficulty. “Get out.”
“No.”
“Get out of my room before I completely lose it with you.”
“Lose your temper. I’m not leaving.”
“Fine, I’ll go!” I step forwards towards the door and he grasps onto my wrist. “Get your hands off me!”
I see him hold his hands up. “Don’t walk out on me.”
“If you think I’m staying here a second longer…”
“You can’t go, Darling, it’s lockdown. You can’t leave. We have to talk about it.”
“Just try and stop me!”
“Milla, please…” He swoops to the doorway and stands in front of me. Once, I would have barged past him and marched out into the grounds, storming through the heather, knowing he was behind me, at a distance, watching that I’m safe, waiting for me to calm down. Today, I’m filled with a hopelessness which leaks through my body and turns the anger into despair. The despair is too heavy for my knees and I sit down on the bed as they buckle. I wouldn’t want to become predictable anyway. He paces like I’m a wild animal, not knowing what to do or to say. I lie down on the bed and turn my body away from him. By the time he dares to sit next to me, the tears have started and I push my face into the sheets but when my shoulders give me away, I feel him turning me, lifting me until I’m sobbing against his chest.

2010, Clarence House

He fusses around me so badly sometimes, it’s peaceful to shut the door to my bathroom and block everything else out, the order, the adherence to a schedule, the need for perfection in everything. It extends into the ways he feels things ought to be conducted, some of these opinions I share, others I do not. His insistence on the both of us bathing rather than showering, for instance, is sometimes irritating, but this morning, the hot water warms my aching bones and I lean back gratefully, pleased with the time to myself.
“Darling, where did you put your phone? It’s ringing and it won’t be quiet.”
Standing in place of the door, he looks at me expectantly, a breath of cold air cooling my shoulders, which sit above the water. My peace shattered, I sigh. “Under my pillow.”
“Under your…” His face screws up in distaste. “You know my thoughts about having that too close to your head.”
“Mmmm. Yes, and you know mine…”
He stands, mouth open like a goldfish. “You care that little about what l think?”
“I’m trying to bathe, Darling, to get a modicum of quiet before…” That look on his face. My words trail off as he’s in a different world. He’s not present when his face looks like that. “Darling?” There’s no response. “Darling!”
“Hmmm?”
“Charles!” That did it. His eyes move up to meet mine. “Finished ogling?”
His cheeks flush slightly and he smirks at me.
“Out!” I point to the door and he turns to leave, chuckling.
I sink down into the tub, letting the water submerge me, enjoying the feeling of tranquillity brought about by the cocoon of the water. Holding my breath and with my eyes closed, I can escape from the world here. When I surface, I should feel reborn. I don’t. Every ache and pain remains. My hair needs washing and I can’t be bothered. Nor do I want to get up and dressed and styled. I’d prefer to stay here all day, reading a book, not moving. Eventually, the heat from the water is transferred into the cool of the air and my skin has wrinkled up into prunes. I toy with simply turning on the hot tap but I hear my husband’s dulcet tones.
“We’re leaving in an hour. You need to hurry up.”
I sigh. I’ve still not washed my hair. Then the door opens and I consent to help with my hair before being chivvied out of the bath and into my dressing room. It’s a very female sort of peace in here. I’m wrapped in a huge dressing gown as my hairdresser blows my hair dry and styles it, chatting away amiably. Usually, I do my own makeup, but my team have evidently decided that there is not enough time as that’s applied onto me like I’m a doll. My clothes are set out ready for me and I let them dress me, appreciating the help when I can’t summon the energy to do it for myself. Hat affixed, broach pinned on my coat, shoes polished and gloves on, I walk down the stairs towards my impatient husband. He smiles at me, marching down the corridor to help me down the last steps, then kisses my neck, making me chuckle.
“The car’s ready.”
“I’m never late.”
He rolls his eyes at me, “You just enjoy making me panic.”
“Your tie isn’t done correctly.”
“You never think it is.”
But he smiles down at me, enjoying the fussing as I fix his tie and remove a bit of fluff from his coat, taking pleasure in being able to go to work together, relishing the soft kiss I can give him before I take his arm to walk to the door.

Chapter 11: Birkhall, March 2020 (1980, Bolehyde Manor)

Chapter Text

Birkhall, March 2020

“I love you. Please tell me that you know that.”
“I know you love me… You just don’t love me enough.”
“You’re upset because I put you second to the Crown.”
I don’t answer. I just try to breathe, try to match the pressure around my body from his arms but my limbs have no strength.
“Do you know why I would come to see you?”
“Yes, you’ve told me…”
“That’s the public reason I would give. But my personal reason has nothing to do with that. My personal reason is you. Darling, you wouldn’t even know that I was there. But I couldn’t be apart from you. The reasoning is selfish. How I feel.”
“But you won’t grant me the same wish.”
“No. Because it would look bad on the Crown.”
I open my mouth, ready to complain but I just sob, my heart so heavy.
“And think who that person is. Not my mother. She’s just holding on to spite me. He’s my little boy, regardless of his age. Don’t hate me for that. Don’t think I love you any less.”
The reasonableness of his argument jars through me. “I hate you.”
“You would do exactly the same.”
I hate it when he is right. “Why is it always me that has to submit?” I know I’m being petulant but he has really hurt me, years upon years of knowing I’m not important enough.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry about how upset I have made you. But a marriage is a union between two families, not just two people. It isn’t an isolated cocoon of just our love. Could you even imagine?” He kisses the top of my head. “We’d kill each other.”
“This is a bit like a cocoon…”
“And we’re already fighting.”
“I don’t want to fight with you.”
“I don’t want to fight with you either.”
“But it’s always me making the compromise.” He isn’t even aware of most of them.
“I know. I know… I love you. You’re the reason I have happiness in my life. I don’t deserve you. I know I don’t. But I love you. Every atom of your being radiates the energy I need to survive. I don’t have the power to give you everything you deserve in life. I’m sorry for being a failure to you.”
If I didn’t know he meant it, this would anger me. It’s manipulation. But in his case, he means it and it tugs at my heart. How can he still feel like this? “You’re not a failure.”
“I am if I can’t make you happy.”
“You make me happy.”
“Funny sort of happy this is…”
“Nobody is happy all the time.”
“I’m happy every time I know I’m going to see you. Even today. I was scared about seeing you but still happy. Holding you in real life, like this. Even if you’re crying…”
“Better when I’m not crying?”
“Admittedly better when you’re not crying…”
“Hold me until I stop.”
“Can I hold you for longer?”
“Yes. Can we start today again?”
“How?”
I wriggle out of his arms and start taking off my clothes. He gives me a sideways glance and copies me.
“I presume this isn’t what I’m thinking.”
That makes me smile. “Your presumption is correct.” I slip my legs under the blankets, out of the cold, and he soon joins me, squealing slightly as I press my frozen feet against his calves. He kisses me softly and I realise how much I’ve missed him, how much I’ve wanted to be beside him, to hold him, to kiss him.
“What do I have to do to make it a positive presumption?”
“Depends on how loved you can make me feel.”
“I can make you feel loved.” He finds my hand and kisses it repeatedly.
“When we get up, we can start the day again.”
“I’d like that very much.”
“I can’t wait to spend the day with you. Being in isolation away from you has been like living in a prison. But I can deal with being trapped inside the house with you. Just you.”
“Only you. I’m looking forward to it already.”

1980, Bolehyde Manor

I struggle with the seatbelt, not managing to release it from the clasp and he laughs at me, watching me getting annoyed with it before reaching over and releasing the lock.
“Free.”
“Thank you.”
“Are you planning to run?”
“What? Because you’ve released me?”
“Because I set you free.”
“You think I’m free just because you removed a belt from around my body?”
“I’ll release you from everything.”
“The door’s locked.”
He smiles, pressing a button and I hear the clunk as the car unlocks.
“If I run, there’s armed police to stop me just ten yards away.”
“I’ll call them off.”
I hold up my left hand. “You can’t free me from this.” I say the words before thinking and then I curse myself. We don’t talk about this relationship going anywhere or that it’s not. We don’t mention the binds and why it’s not possible. We don’t talk about anything to do with feelings. Just desire. And friendship. They’re easier.
He takes hold of my hand and brings it to his lips, kissing the palm of my hand and making me shiver. “I could remove this very easily.” Then he bites my ring finger, roughly, pulling my wedding ring off with his teeth. I giggle, nervously, as he spits it from his mouth and tosses it in the ashtray, amid the ash from my cigarettes.
“It feels very bare now.”
He reaches to kiss me but pulls away before I can respond, then I feel him pulling at my finger again, this time to push a large ring over my knuckle. The metal is warm. He doesn’t let me look at it but I know the ring very well. It sits on his pinkie and he never removes it. My heart is beating so loudly, his protection officers must be able to hear it, sitting in the car behind ours, guarding the drive behind us. His blue eyes are staring at me intensely and he strokes my hand now with his thumb, stirring a current through me. Why did he do that? Why does it make my heart leap with an excitement which is edged in such a warm pleasure? I want to allow myself to love him but I know I can’t.
“Imagine it’s any diamond on this planet. I’d get it for you.”
“Please stop.” I can’t afford to indulge in this pretence. It’s dangerously like hope.
“Or would you prefer a stone instead?”
“No.” I don’t know what I’m saying ‘no’ to. The stone, the roleplay…
“A diamond then. The size of your knuckle. Then you can’t ever take it off.”
I feel him slide towards me, slipping across the leather seat and then we’re in easier territory as he reaches to kiss me. I throw myself into the kiss as kissing him is the only outlet for my heart. I grasp onto his head and push my fingers into his hair, pushing against him fiercely. But then my head is against the back of the seat and I can feel his hands now caressing my face, his kiss so gentle, it forces me to open my eyes and his are there, staring at me and I need to look away but I can’t. How did this become so much more than playing games with my husband? How did my best friend become this burning desire in my heart?
“I think I’m in love with you, Milla.”
“Think? If you were in love with me, there would be no thinking involved.”
“That’s nonsense. Of course the thought process is involved.”
“Then you’re not in love with me.”
“You have the most ridiculous romantic notion of love.”
“Love is different. You said you were ‘in love’ with me.”
“I take it back. I love you. Are you going to argue with that?”
“I’m heading inside.” I push him off me and reach for the ashtray to retrieve my ring.
“Don’t!”
It stops me for a microsecond and then I reach for it again, his hand capturing my wrist roughly. A liquid anger bursts through my veins as he physically restrains me. “Get off me!”
“I don’t want you to get your hands dirty!” He holds out a pristine handkerchief and releases my wrist. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to…”
“Yes, you were.” I snatch the handkerchief and fish out my ring from the ash. It’s filthy.
“I’ll get it cleaned. Please don’t put it back on tonight.”
His ring is so heavy on my finger and so tight and my heart is pounding from the conversation we’ve just had. I climb out of the car without kissing him goodbye and walk quickly to open the front door. I’m not surprised to feel his arms around my waist and his lips against my neck, making me ache for him. “You can’t come in, the children are in bed.” I push the door open and his teeth pull at my ear, making me squeal.
“Why not?”
He follows me inside before turning me to face him. He’s not even kissed me and I know he’s staying. Every cell in my body wants him. I manage to put my keys on the sideboard along with his handkerchief with hands which are already shaking.
“I’m sorry for making you angry.”
“I’m not angry.” I don’t have enough resolve to maintain anger with him. He kisses my neck and my arms wrap around him of their own accord.
“I love you. I don’t want to upset you.”
“I’m not upset.”
“You’re shaking.”
I pull away from him. “Follow me. Quietly.”

He’s gone when I wake the next morning and I roll over to push my nose into the pillow he used. I can still smell him and I breathe him in, feeling it curl through me, stroking my heart which is already sending out ripples of distress at being parted from him. I need to get a grip on this. I can’t be in love with him. I allow myself a few long moments to remember last night and that delicious rush which floods through my skin as I recall the feeling of his body flush against mine before I force myself up and into the shower, washing him away. Then it’s time to switch into my other life as I go to wake my baby daughter, her fat little face scrunching up in displeasure at being woken. Back to praising her for having a dry bed, slathering cream all over her, dressing her, negotiating what she’s wearing–why does she care what she wears? Then I heave her on my hip as it takes far too long for her to walk downstairs when she’s dopey like this and trudge into the kitchen. Tom is out on the patio already. I can hear him talking to himself and the door is wide open.
Ambling outside, I see the train track first, a wooden contraption which he has constructed all around the patio and then I see the two of them, Tom and Charles sitting together, building a bridge. My heart feels like it’s falling from that same bridge. I watch Charles explain the need for supports and then help to build the track, letting Tom do the work, allowing him to think and adjust the plan. Laura demands to be put down and I find myself staring at Charles as Laura toddles over to him and he sits her on his knee.
“Good morning, Darling.” It’s said to Laura but he’s looking at me. Laura makes a grab at the track and he hands her a train to play with which she drives over him. This isn’t fair. He can’t be so good with my children. My heart is shouting at me to listen and it’s becoming too difficult to ignore. I return to the kitchen for air, busying myself with breakfast and I notice my ring in a bowl on the side, sparkling clean. I reach for his signet ring, sitting on my finger and run my finger over the feather crest, wanting to keep it. I pull it but it’s tight and it doesn’t budge and I get the first waves of panic that I won’t be able to get it off.
“Do you need help?”
I look up at him worriedly, then smile as he seems to be wearing my children, Laura still playing with a train on his shoulder, Tom clasping onto his trousers. “Morning, Darling.” I bend down and open my arms to my son, kissing his soft hair until he wriggles away.
“I got it on without a struggle so it will come off.” He grasps onto my hand and kisses it. “For now, you’re stuck with the reminder of me attached to you.”
“Don’t look so smug.”
“I’m feeling incredibly smug this morning.” He puts Laura down, and she rushes off to follow her brother before he wraps me in his arms.
I sink into them as if they were made for me, breathing him in, pushing my lips against his neck.
“Last night was…”
“Stupid…”
He laughs at my interjection, kissing the side of my face. “Incredible. As you well know.”
“I thought you’d left.”
“I won’t leave you without saying goodbye. I was planning on making you breakfast but then I got distracted by Tom.”
“Making me breakfast? You can cook?”
“Scrambled eggs, of course.”
“Wow!” He grasps onto my sides, tickling me, making me giggle before kissing my forehead and drawing me closer.
“When can I next fall asleep with you wrapped around me?” His words are whispered into my ear, making my heart sing, making my stomach churn with anxiety.
“When can I wake up with you beside me?”
He doesn’t answer, just kisses my ear and holds onto me tighter.
“So when am I meeting you and your girlfriend as ‘a couple’?”
He moans into my ear and we pull apart. “Why can’t I just marry you?”
“I don’t know. Something reminiscent of someone called Simpson?” It makes him chuckle but the smile doesn’t reach his eyes.
“I would actually like you to meet her properly. Tell me what you think of her?”
“We should probably do it sooner rather than later. You have very bad taste in women.”
“You just never like any of them.”
“Precisely. Really bad taste.”
“Give her a chance. She’s very young.”
“I know of her. She’s a lamb. I can’t really see you two together though.”
“You can help her.”
“What? Help her become more ‘suitable’ for you? Christ, Charles, do you actually like this one?”
“I don’t know. I might do. She’s very sweet. She listens to me.”
“Do you think she’s attractive?”
“Hmmm…”
“Oh God… So you only might like her personality and you’re not sure she’s attractive?”
“She’s very pretty.”
“That’s a start.”
“She’s very amenable.”
“What a quality to possess.”
“It’s quite important really. She’s going to have to do everything my family says and tradition dictates for the rest of her life if she marries me.”
“Good point… Okay, amenable then and pretty. Let’s meet her. I’m sure I can pass on some friendly advice.”
“I don’t want to marry her. I need you to know that. I want to marry you.”
“But you can’t, so here we are, discussing potential brides…”
“Don’t get ahead of yourself…”
“Darling, you don’t have to marry her. But you might need to give her a chance.”
“I was meant to be leaving.”
“Some conversations are important enough to take the time to have them.”
“Yes. Call me later. It’ll be good to talk through this with you anyway.”

Chapter 12: Birkhall, January 2021 (1971, Classiebawn Castle)

Chapter Text

Birkhall, January 2021

The only thing that has made this new lockdown bearable is the weather. There is a crisp snow on the ground yet the sun has just the faint touches of warmth and the skies are wall to wall cornflower blue. We’ve walked for miles every day just to feel less cooped up in the house. Whilst both of us have been working remotely, we’ve still got masses of spare time and we’ve spent more time together these past few lockdowns than the rest of our entire married life put together. Invariably, we’ve ended up talking through issues we have always just ignored. I’m taking it as a positive that we’re more involved in each other’s work and families than we’ve ever been before. I’m not quite as optimistic about his persistent need to overhaul our lives to analyse every minute detail.
“When did you realise that you loved me?”
I wince slightly. It’s a really difficult question. I look down at the dirt path in front of me and don’t answer. He leaves just a few paces before continuing.
“You can’t say you don’t know or you’re not sure. That’s not in the spirit of this discussion.”
I stall, stopping to pick up a stick and throw it for the dogs. “We’ve talked about this before.”
“Yes. But I don’t accept your answer.”
“What would you like me to say?”
This time it is him who pauses, wrestling the stick out of the dog’s mouth and throwing it again for them. “Milla, be honest. Why does it matter? It’s so many years ago.”
“Because every time we’ve discussed this, you’ve got upset with me.”
He scrunches his nose although he knows I’m right. “Alright. If I get upset with you, I’ll put an additional half a million into every grandchild’s trust fund. Then it’s a win-win situation for you.”
I gawp at him, knowing that he’s serious and hating that I’m so easily bought. He continues walking, chuckling at me and therefore understands.
“1970?”
“No. I did not love you.”
“I think you did.”
“I don’t remember ever thinking to myself that I was in love with you. I’m sorry. I liked you. I was very fond of you. Maybe I did love you. But I wasn’t in love with you. We hadn’t had enough time.”
“You’re wrong. You loved me.”
“You may have wanted me to love you. That’s very different.”
“When you married Andrew?”
“No. Stop torturing yourself. I was very fond of you. I was upset that things ended so badly. That it was considered best for ‘all parties’ if I married Andrew. But I did love Andrew then.” I watch the tip of his nose, the tell tale sign of displeasure and reach for his hand, kissing it before returning my eyes to the path ahead. “You asked me to be honest. You wanted to talk about it. You promised you wouldn’t get upset with me.”
“I promised I wouldn’t get upset with you. Not upset in general. After Tom was born?”
“I don’t know. No, you’ve got to allow grey areas, Darling. I was rather desperately unhappy and I didn’t understand why. And you were… I think if I wasn’t so sad, I would have been in love with you. But I couldn’t feel anything. You were my friend, my revenge, my secret. There was love there, certainly.”
“When my Uncle Dickie died?”
I reach for his arm to squeeze it. It’s funny how grief for a person you love never really dies. It just hides inside you, dorment, the pain numbed by the passage of time. His Honorary Grandpapa was such a huge part of his life, of our lives by that time, but your life continues to grow, despite the grief and eventually, that gaping chasm the loss created is no longer such a consuming part of your life, just a part of your life. But it’s still there, that chasm, if you allow yourself to think about it. Just as raw as ever. “Yes. I think that’s what made me realise I loved you.” This is a lie. I knew before this monstrous life event. For me, it wasn’t death that made me realise I loved him, but birth.

1971, Classiebawn Castle

I sit quietly, staring out of the window, pretending to be nonchalant as we drive through the countryside. After the panic of getting into his plane, where I had to pretend to be calm as he flew us across the sea, this feels relatively easy.
“You’re much less grey now.”
I sigh, inwardly. Evidently I wasn’t successful.
“I thought you’d enjoy a personal plane ride.”
“It was slightly better than an ordinary plane ride.”
He chuckles at me and reaches for my hand.
“It’s refreshing to see you have your own foibles. Sometimes you’re a little intimidatingly perfect.”
“Thank you?”
“It was a compliment.”

Other than the flight, every moment we spend together is so free of strife and hurt that I find myself relaxing. Today, I spent the entire day thinking about him. I never thought I’d be able to push Andrew out of my mind so easily but he’s a tonic to that mess. I might never love anyone as much as I love Andrew, but if I have to live without him, this will either be a wonderful alternative or the best revenge I could think of. I’m not sure I’m quite ready for the former. Pushing away the more unsavoury of my thoughts, I concentrate on the present instead. I’m good at doing that. Why live in the past or spend your life fearing the future when the present is the only thing you have control over?

“I’m taking you to meet my Uncle Dickie.”
“Oh, right.” I wrack my brains, trying to place the name and then it hits me and I force my face to remain neutral.
“Your hand’s gone all stiff. Relax. He’s like an honorary grandpapa to me. He’s looking forward to meeting you.”
“I didn’t dress…”
“You dressed correctly. We’ll spend the weekend hunting and walking and riding. You’ve got evening attire. You’re dressed perfectly.”
We sit in silence for a little while as I force my heart to stop beating manically before I blurt out, “Why him?”
“There are only two people in the world that I want you to meet who I care about and who care about me. One is my Grandmother, but you already know her, the other is my Uncle Dickie. I can’t introduce you to my mother and father but I can bring you to meet the people who raised me, who love me. I realise it’s not the same as you taking me back to your family house with all your immediate family, but it’s as intimate as I can do.”
I smile, raising his hand to my lips. “I can’t wait to meet him.” Because at this moment it’s suddenly true and I relax. He wouldn’t take me to meet someone who won’t be nice to me. That’s not his style. I don’t know if I’m in love with him or not, but I know there’s something special here. I’ve never felt so wanted and appreciated in my life. For now, I’m going to focus on being his friend. A friend I want to be with all the time. Well, a friend I happen to enjoy sleeping with. A friend I need to kiss at every possible opportunity. I wonder if he loves me? Maybe I’m getting carried away with myself. I might just be a bit of fun for him. That’s okay. I think. I’m certainly just a bit of fun for Andrew. It would be nice to be worth a little more.

“Do you really mean that?”
“What?” I was completely lost in my thoughts.
“Did you even hear what I said?”
“No.” It’s not worth lying about. “What did you ask?”
“I asked if you fancied going fly fishing and you said yes.”
“Did I? Well that very much depends. I’m up for most things if it involves company and chatting. So I’ll fish with flies if you are prepared to show me how to do everything and aren’t going to expect me to be quiet for long periods of time.”
“I might take you salmon fishing then. I don’t think fly fishing is for you. I find it’s a great way to contemplate life.”
“You mean you stand in silence in one spot for hours on end.”
“Yes.”
“I don’t think I fancy fly fishing.”
“What about if we go in a little boat?”
“Are we still fishing?”
“In the sea this time.”
“The same rules apply.”
“Do you ever do peace and quiet?”
“You’re with the wrong person for that. Only when I’m on my own.”
“I go on my own for peace and quiet also. If we go line fishing, are you going to be bored to death ten minutes in?”
“Are you planning on talking to me?”
“Of course. I wouldn’t bring you if I didn’t want to talk to you.”
“Sounds great then.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
He looks at me with a strange look in his eye and then he pulls the car around the corner. We turn out onto a road which runs parallel with the cliffs and I can see the fog rolling in off the sea. Then I spot the castle.
“How far away are we?”
“About fifteen minutes, why?”
“Will we be missed if we’re a little late?”
“No?”
“Pull up.”
He does as I ask and I get out of the car and run over to the cliffs. He follows, quickly behind me and wraps his arm around my waist, pulling me against him. It rises up out of the undulating rolls of the hills and towers high with twisting spirals.
“My goodness, it’s like something out of a fairytale.”
“The mountain behind it is home to the fairies. It’s said the doors open at night and the restless spirits float out. The villagers claim to hear them and some have been kidnapped to look after the fairy babies. If they escape before seven years have passed, they can leave but otherwise they are trapped there forever.”
“Don’t let them kidnap me.”
“I’ll keep you tight in my arms…
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world’s more full of weeping than you can understand.”
“Yeats.” It makes me turn in his arms and he kisses me so, so softly until the heavens open and we have to run back to the car. But it’s too difficult to stop as he pulls me across the front seat of the car and I find myself on his lap, kissing him fiercely as the rain hammers down on the top of the car. His arms are wrapped so tightly around me and I feel his fingers grasping onto me, holding on as we sail off with the intensity of the kiss, pulling me closer even as I try to rock my hips against him and then closer still as I moan into his mouth as pleasure from this slight movement takes me unexpectedly.
A flash of car headlights interrupts us and as we pull away from each other, I realise it’s suddenly got very dark. The car stops next to us and winds down the window.
“Your Royal Highness…”
We can hear him through the glass but Charles winds down my window, reaching over me to talk to the man.
“Are you okay, Sir?”
“Fine, thank you, Timothy.”
“We’ve got to go the back route. Workers have dumped a huge truck of gravel over the main road in and they’re not due to shift it until Monday. Follow me, Sir.”

Classiebawn Castle is a fairytale outside but it’s cold and draughty inside. I feel like I’ve gone back several centuries, sat at dinner with the roaring fire and then I have to retire to the drawing room to leave the men to drink whisky and smoke cigars. My host seems pleased to leave her husband to his folly and we sit together for a good hour without either of us taking a breath from chatter for anything less important than a drag of a cigarette or a sip of a Tom Collins. Eventually, the doors open and a slightly drunk Charles escapes from the dining room and makes a beeline for me. He sits practically on top of me and wraps his arms around my waist.
“You smell of smoke.”
“So do you.” I like the smell of cigar smoke, but I don’t need to tell him this.
“Can we go to bed?”
“I’ve just got a new drink.”
He picks up my drink and glugs half of it before the vodka hits the back of his throat and makes him splutter.
“That’s really rude.”
He laughs with an indignant squeak, “The number of times you’ve downed my drink to get me to go!”
“Completely different.”
“What? Because you did it to me?”
“Yes.”
“Milla, that drink is vile. I think you’re going to need a nightcap to get the taste from your mouth.”
“Pick your tiple.”
He makes me laugh. Slightly drunk, he’s much more gangly and awkward than usual, wobbling around the room, finding a bottle of his choosing but when we get upstairs to a room warmed by a roaring fire, he no longer seems to be troubled by his limbs.
“Are you sober?”
“No. But I’m not as drunk as I was acting. I had to get back to you somehow.”
It makes me laugh again and then he grasps onto my cheeks, making me look up at him, seeing my own reflection in his eyes before he kisses me. Kissing me in a way which makes every hair on my body stand on end, before pulling away to gaze in my eyes again and I get a jolt of shock through me as strong as the desire which is coursing through my veins as I realise that I want this to be a real relationship. I don’t want to just be friends. Perhaps this is the real thing and this is just the beginning. There’s something about kissing him which makes me forget to breathe and I can’t think about anything other than the feel of him. It’s okay. We have all the time in the world to figure this out. Friends or not, we’re very much lovers and tonight I have him to myself the entire night.

Chapter 13: Birkhall, January 2021 (1981, Bolehyde Manor)

Chapter Text

Birkhall, January 2021

We’d spent years flirting around each other. Yoyoing affection and attention to suit whatever was happening in our respective lives. Each time Andrew strayed with someone a little too close for comfort or those awful times when he fell madly in love with his current squeeze, I crept back to Charles. In hindsight, I’d kept him on a leash, always ensuring he would come to me the second I called and he rarely disappointed. I delighted in teaching him and attempting everything I’d ever learnt or read about pleasure and he was a keen student. It was my way of addressing the obvious imbalance of our social situations. Whilst I was careful to only ever call him ‘Sir’ in public, in private it was only when I was making fun of him and I made him subjugate himself for me. He had to dedicate himself to me entirely when we were together in any capacity, a dynamic which has never really changed on his part, yet became inescapably reciprocal over time. For both of us, I thought, it was a marvellous affair. The precise point this arrangement became love is obscure. I don’t remember falling in love with him, only desperately trying to curtail the feelings when they began to overwhelm me.
My realisation of this love is impaled with a sharp stabbing guilt and I buried it so deeply, I didn’t allow myself to acknowledge this turning point until many decades had passed. I deluded myself for years that I didn’t feel anything for him, trying to compartmentalise and rationalise him away. Even as I felt these feelings overwhelm me, I hacked at them and shoved them into a void I’d made inside me. A Charles shaped hole I pretended not to recognise, let alone acknowledge.
A good four years after my eldest son had been born, I’d had a rather inopportune pregnancy. It’s difficult to guarantee paternity when you’re sleeping with two men so I’d not ever tried for another child, not wanting to give up Charles for the security that would require and he wouldn’t leave me alone for long enough to even consider trying. So the pregnancy was a shock. Ostrich-like, I buried my head in the sand, not allowing myself to consider what on earth I would do if the child came out looking like a Windsor. Andrew, to his great credit, never allowed us to even discuss the possibility that the child might not be his, so he facilitated the fabrication of our family unit. Fortune dictated that my daughter, Laura, would resemble my ex-husband like a mirror, but I was with Charles throughout and it was solely chance.
Giving birth to my daughter was a nightmare. I knew I had lost too much blood and this labour seemed so much more difficult than my last, so much more painful. And endless. I was beyond exhausted and wanted to give up, crying as the midwife tried to coax me to push and the doctors whispered amongst themselves. I could feel the apprehension of all the people in the room–there wasn’t even a doctor present at Tom’s birth. I took it all as a sign that I wasn’t going to make it. This was the point where I realised I loved Charles. He was the thought that kept me going and I cried out for him, sobbing as my mother tried to calm me but she wasn’t him. When my daughter finally made her way into the world, the midwife brought her for me to hold. I looked at her and was incapacitated by a disappointment so severe, my mother had to persuade me to take my own daughter into my arms. By this point, I was inconsolable. I remember turning my face away and my mother forcing my daughter into my arms as I cried and then suddenly I looked at her, this tiny little baby, and I was shot through with guilt, making me cry even more as I held her little body against my chest and stroked her precious little face.
My mother took that secret to her grave and we never spoke about it. Some secrets need to remain just that. Erased for good by death. It’s too shameful to share with anyone and I can’t forgive myself for it. I won’t forgive myself for it.

1981, Bolehyde Manor

If I don’t look at him, I can hide this secret of ours from other people. I’m better at it than him. I can be quite stubborn when I want to be but I have to be careful. There’s a balancing act between being polite and normal with each other, which sends my heart to a rhythm I have no control over, and purposely ignoring him, where he panics and then tries to find out what is wrong. I’ve gone too far with the latter today and as I leave the table to check on the dinner, I feel my husband sidling up to me.
“Have you had a row?” He whispers to me, his hand like a vice on my wrist.
“No.”
“Well then cut it out. He’s getting annoyed and it will wreck the entire evening.”
“What do you suggest I do?”
“Talk to him before he blows his top?”
“How? We’re not sat together.”
“It’s not a formal dinner.”
“You want me to talk to him and clear this up openly? Are you insane?”
“Play along.” He grasps onto my shoulders. Then, much more loudly, “Camilla! Darling, are you okay?”
“I’m fine…”
“You looked like you just had a funny turn. Have you overheated? Do you need some air?”
Andrew makes me smile but I play along. “I think I just need to step outside. Can you watch the dinner doesn’t burn?”
“You shouldn’t go on your own…”
“Are you okay, Milla? Do you need to lean on me?” Charles’s voice sounds out with alarm. My husband’s eyes smirk at me slightly.
“Thank you, Sir.” Andrew’s fake ministrations are alarming in their outward sincerity. “I’ll keep an eye on the dinner. Why don’t you take her for a bit of air outside?”
“Of course. Come here, Milla…” He takes my arm and I make the mistake of looking at him, his chivalry predictable but no less touching for the fact. His eyes are so full of concern for me, I feel my heart murmur and my cheeks flush pink. “You do look a little overheated.”
“A step outside sounds a good idea.” I barely breathe as we walk out. Our ruse is preposterous. Almost every person in that room will know why we’re going outside. Almost everybody. He leads me out the back and into the gardens where we sit on a bench out of view from the house.
“How are you feeling, my dear Girl Friday?”
“Better. Truly. I just got a bit hot and flustered.”
His hands slip over mine and his eyes are looking at me so gently I wish he’d never look away. And then our faces are so close and he must be able to hear my breath as I find it leaves in short gasps; he surely can hear my heart. And then that kiss, which only just presses against my lips but soars through me and my reaction is instant as his hands run up my body until they are on either side of my face, with mine following and then reaching around his head, so I can pull him to me and I do before either of us can speak and stop us. My body’s response to the sensation of his lips against mine is as violent as anything else I could imagine. We struggle, now, to control this kiss, to keep it from escalating. I feel him grasping onto me, then smoothing out my clothing, his hands in my hair, which he then tries to soothe. I don’t dare to touch him. My fingers stay in his hair even as he lifts me to sit on top of him and our kisses are interrupted by great waves of desire which make me pull away to catch my breath, which make him moan against my lips. We both know it’s impossible. We both know we must stop. How do you explain that to your body which is screaming at you to keep going?
“Will anyone come looking for us?”
I know what he’s asking and it makes me moan into his ear. “We can’t do that.”
“We can be quick.”
I can feel him pulling my skirt up and I’m somewhere between blind panic and blind lust with his hands running up my thighs. And then I hear him fumbling with his buckle and I know I’m not going to stop him. I want him too much.
“Milla, Are you okay?”
We both freeze and I hold my breath. His fingers grasp onto my thighs so tightly, he’s going to leave marks.
“Milla? Where are you?”
“It’s my sister.”
“Oh, thank God.”
He pushes me off him and we scramble with our clothing as she comes into view. She’s not stupid. She knows exactly what we were doing. She’s not one ounce amused.
“Christ, Milla, his girlfriend is in there!”
“We weren’t…”
“Bollocks you weren’t.”
I make to walk off and she grabs my arm.
“You can’t go in like that. You need to go and splash your face or something. Gosh, Milla, you’re shaking so badly.”
And then she turns on Charles and I’ve never seen anything like it as she gives him her mind without a care for status and I watch almost open mouthed as he silently accepts it from her. “Are you satisfied now that she still likes you? Are you going to leave her be? Or are you going to have a temper tantrum again if she doesn’t give you enough attention? So what if she sidles up to her husband? You brought your girlfriend here! You both act like you’re under some sort of enchantment. Snap out of it! God knows what Andrew was thinking of, sending you out…”
Her tirade continues until she runs out of things to say and then she grabs my arm and leads me inside, and mercifully upstairs. Safe inside my room, she drags me to the bed and then wraps her arms around me, surprising me to tears. I sink into her embrace like a child, desperately wanting to feel the comfort of being loved. She holds me until I’ve gained control of my tears.
“Oh, Milla, why did you fall in love with him?”
“I’m not…”
“It’s very obvious you are.”
“It’s just fun.”
“Fun where you’re crying in my arms? That constitutes fun now? What, between you and our brother, I’m going grey.” She squeezes me and kisses my cheek. “Right, I’m going down for food. Shall I say you’ve got a headache and are having a lie down or do you want to wash your face and come back down?”
“I’ll come back down.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. I’m sure.”
She looks at me again, her eyes searching my face and then sits back down and takes my hand. “Please try to tone down the passive aggressive condescension.”
“I’m just being friendly.”
“Yes… A little over-friendly. A little too know-it-all. She’s just a girl.”
“She has queenly aspirations…”
“Yes. She does. And there’s absolutely no reason why she shouldn’t have. Do you not like her?”
“She’s fine.”
“You’re just jealous then.”
“I’m not jealous of her. She’s nice. She’s a little quiet but she listens to him. He needs that.”
“She’s an aristocratic virgin, Darling. It’s as simple as that. Neither of those qualities do you possess. She’s pretty, she’s British and she’s young. He needs to marry her.”
“But I want him to be with someone who likes him. I want him to be happy. Then at least I know he’s okay.”
“Perhaps she does like him? She seems quite doe-eyed around him.”
“He likes that.”
“Well that’s a start. You need to distance yourself from her. You’re just going to get hurt. Or she is…”
“He’s asked me not to. He wants us to be friends.”
“Well then I suggest you stop sleeping with him then.”
“We’ve already discussed this. We’ll stop if he decides to marry her.”
“And you don’t care what that makes you?”
“Redundant?”
“Desperate.”
“His mistress.”
“His concubine.”
“Alone.”
“Sad.”
“All of the above.”
“This is the price you pay for falling in love with a Prince. You really have the worst taste in men. Perhaps this will be good for you. You’ll have the time and space to find another lover, one who treats you so much better.”
“I don’t want anyone other than Andrew.”
“That’s a lie.”
“It’s not. I love him.”
“It’s a shame he loves all your friends and pretty much any other woman he can get his hands on.”
“We don’t have the most conventional marriage but it works. And I don’t have to justify this to you.”
“No… Does it make you feel better to pretend to be in love with your husband?”
“I do love him. I love our life together.”
“Okay. Okay. I’ll leave it. When you really need a good cry about it, I’ll bring round a decent bottle of wine and lots of tissues. Promise you’ll call me?”
“Okay…”

His kisses burn my cheeks as I kiss him to congratulate him. If I smile, perhaps he won’t notice how much my heart is hurting. “So, congratulations, Sir…” I don’t know what else to say. I see him wince at the title before reaching to shake Andrew’s proffered hand.
“Congratulations, Sir! Fantastic news!”
“You’ll have to both come for Sunday lunch. We’d love to have you. Can’t wait to see the ring.” The insincerities flow from my mouth like a torrent. He didn’t tell me beforehand. It comes as a shock in the form of a wound which is oozing a prickling cold through my skin. “So go on, tell us how you did it? When? Where?” He smiles at me a little shyly and then proceeds to tell us everything, reddening and looking guilty as he admits it was over a week ago and he hadn’t told me. It hadn’t cropped up on a single nightly telephone conversation?
“I wanted to tell you in person.”
“I saw you the day after!”
“Well I had to tell my family first, you know, didn’t get the opportunity until yesterday…”
“Oh, yes, of course.” My tone is cheery and doesn’t betray my thoughts. Why would you bother to tell the Mistress? Meet up with her, neglect to tell her something major like that, sleep with her without mentioning this is the last time you’ll spend together and then kiss her and leave her without a second glance. Why should she know?
“I’ve just realised, I’ve not fed the horses…” I see my husband looking awkward and backing out of the kitchen.
“Feed them later.”
He looks at me, his eyes wide, questioning. “They like their routine though.”
“They’ll cope.” I fix the most amount of venom I can manage into my eyes.
“No. I think I’ll just go and top up their oats.”
“They’ll be fine!” He looks at me uncomfortably and I change my eyes to plead with him. Don’t leave me. Please don’t leave me.
“Better to just check. Don’t you think, Sir?”
“What?” Charles hasn’t been listening to a word. “Oh yes. Absolutely.”
“Be back in a tick, Darling.”
And then I’m alone with him.

“I thought he’d never go.”
Well that explains why Andrew was so keen to leave.
“I know you must be furious with me.”
I don’t answer. He’s wrong. I’ve not hit fury. I’m still at pain. That awful gnawing pain. He reaches to kiss me and I turn my head so he only kisses my cheek.
“See. I know. I know. I should have told you. I’m sorry.”
Everyone knew apart from me. This is worse than any of Andrew’s betrayals. I’ve never felt pain this acute before. It’s blinding.
“I was going to tell you when I saw you… But then I saw you…” He shakes his head and I know what he’s trying to say, or not say. Looking back, I should have realised something was wrong. There wasn’t a moment where his lips pulled away from my body, where his hands stopped touching me. I lay trapped under him whilst his fingertips traced my face and he placed the softest of kisses over every feature, making me stare up at him, absorbed by those stormy eyes, as if he was trying to memorise every inch of my face. But he was. And I didn’t know.
“You wouldn’t have wanted to know. You wouldn’t have thanked me for telling you. I know you.”
And at that point, without warning, I feel my eyes filling with tears I can’t wish away and then I’m in his arms and I’m holding on so tightly because it’s numbing the pain somewhat and I’m trying to breathe him in because I know I’ll not smell him again and god I’m going to miss that scent. I breathe him in and as it hits my chest, it spirals and the pain is so intense.
“I’ll still see you. All the time.”
“Yes. I want to still see you.”
“And now I can ring you and there’s nothing wrong with doing that.”
“Yes. Friends…”
“Now you know how I felt.”
Which slams me with another wave of pain as I pull away from him before it’s impossible and I look at him and then we both laugh, for no reason, and kiss one short, sharp kiss with so many emotions packed into it. We don’t linger in the kiss and we don’t reach for each other again even as my heart somersaults. My poor heart doesn’t understand. It throbs at me as we sit down at opposite sides of the table. It wails at me to reach my hands across to take his, waiting, stretched out in front of him as if wrestling with the same desire. Later, as I kiss his cheeks when he’s about to leave, it resorts to mutilation, stabbing and squeezing and crushing itself when I don’t kiss him, when I don’t sink into his arms, when I don’t tell him that I love him and I’d do almost anything to swap my life right now. To not have to watch him marry someone else. Have children with someone else. Fall in love with someone else.

Chapter 14: Birkhall, January 2021 (1981, Wiltshire)

Chapter Text

Birkhall, January 2021

He’s quiet for a long time and I don’t press him, watching him continually throwing the ball for the dogs, walking at a faster pace than I usually walk. It’s surprisingly warm under the glare of the sun and I remove my scarf, almost tying it around my waist before he takes it from me and tosses it on his shoulder. That makes me smile. Don’t break decorum for anything, Camilla. Then he takes hold of my hand and slows down his pace.
“I loved you before Uncle Dickie died although that made me need you. I knew I loved you from the very beginning. I wanted Tom to be mine. I was so jealous. And then Laura… She could have been mine…”
“I know.” He’s told me this before, never knowing how it consumes me inside. It’s too close to my own secrets but I can’t tell him. I’ll never tell him.
“I was never sure whether you wanted her to be mine or not.”
“In the long run, it was better not.”
“So you always insist.”
“Yes, because it’s true.”
“I knew that I loved you, hopelessly, when you told me that you were pregnant with Laura. That jealous soup which I inhaled until a few weeks later when I realised you couldn’t have known for certain that the baby wasn’t mine, that was what made me realise. And then, the fatter you got, the more you waddled about, the less I wanted to spend time with anyone else. I didn’t care that you were grumpy…”
“I’m never grumpy.” That gains me an eyeroll.
“Or that you didn’t want to have sex with me most of the time…”
“Those are your reasons?” He ignores me because I’m being flippant whilst he’s being serious.
“But you were so distant with me.”
“That’s not true!”
“It is! You were pleased to see me when I came but you never missed me whilst I was away. You always had that look of surprise when you saw me, like you were telling me that you’d forgotten all about me and had only just remembered that I existed.”
“That’s your own lack of self esteem. That wasn’t me. I’ve always looked forward to seeing you. That’s never changed.”
“You changed after Laura was born.”
Not realising how close he is to the truth, I control the jolt his words send through me and joke, “Children do that to you,” but he ignores me except for sending me a look which tells me to stop.
“When my Uncle Dickie was assassinated, you were my only solace. I wouldn’t have gotten through it without you. I realised then how much I loved you, and needed you. I also realised that I was never going to find anyone else to replace you. Funny. I realised that my future marriage to anyone other than you was doomed, before I even met the woman I was fated to marry. By then, I believed you loved me too, though I was never certain. I wasn’t certain until you actually admitted it to me.”
“Yes, by then I was aware that I loved you. I made a great pretence about it but, yes, by then I was very much in love with you. I remember getting really jealous.”
He smirks at this. I know he’s always enjoyed it when I’ve been jealous, sometimes secretly, other times blatantly. “You made me stop sleeping with everyone else.”
“I would never have made you do anything. I still don’t.”
He raises his eyebrows at me but doesn’t argue. “Communicated verbally or not, I was very aware that these were the stipulations. But I would have stopped anyway. I didn’t want anyone other than you. I still don’t.”
“Well…” I have no response to that, “I would never have made you do that, however. So if you did, you must have loved me a little at that point, because before you had no problem sleeping around.”
“I loved you by then rather a lot. You know this. But you’re right, there were always ups and downs before then. It was never as serious before Laura was born.”
“I realised I loved you when Laura was born.” I don’t know where the words come from. I wasn’t fighting to stifle them, they just fell from my lips without thought of restraint. My heart contracts in fear. Fear that I might admit my awful secret.
He stops walking and bends down to pick up the ball. He’s crouched for slightly too long and then he stands up again and tosses the ball down the path. “You’ve never admitted that before.”
“Have I not?”
“No.” His ‘no’ is very quiet and we walk forwards, ignoring the pawing from the dogs. “What if Laura was mine?”
“She wasn’t.”
“But what…”
“...She wasn’t.”
He holds up his hands and we continue walking, him pausing only to pull the ball from the dog’s mouth and throwing it again. We walk in silence for a while, uncomfortable even as the sun shines down on us gently and the breeze rustles the pines, sending snow floating down, making the dogs wild. Other than the two protection officers walking a good hundred yards behind us, we’re alone. We’ve never been so isolated in our lives. The world coming to a stop to try to stop the spread of the virus has turned our world on its kilter. We’ve never had so much time to talk about our past.

1981, Wiltshire

I feel like I’m committing a crime as I slide through the fencing that is lifted for me and I walk along the overgrown path which stinks of fox scat and possibly valerian but more likely urine. Then, I step out onto the rails and feel like I’m trespassing. My guide snaps at me to get on the train quickly and he doesn’t help me climb the ladder and edge round to the door. I have to walk through the different carriages, empty apart from members of his security. They look at me with disdain. I ignore them. I’m asked to sit down and I wait for what seems like hours, sat down in what must be used as a bar but nobody offers me anything. I’ve never had such a cold reception before.
He shuffles through the door at the back of the carriage and even in the dim light I can see his blue eyes filled with pain. Pain and pleasure at seeing me.
“We weren’t meant to see each other again.”
“I know… I need you.”
He kisses my lips, roughly and then takes my hand to pull me through the train. I glance around at the shabby luxury of every carriage and fight the urge to light a cigarette to calm my nerves.
“This is the last time.”
“Right.”
And then we’re kissing because what else are we meant to do? I’m rewarded with the immediate overpowering rush that always accompanies kissing him. Each time he touches me, he sets me alight and all I can do is reach for him. Somehow we make our way to his cabin, in between kisses which surge through me and it’s like the first time, the last time, every time merged together in a blur of him.

“How am I meant to give you up?”
I’m not ready for this conversation although I know it’s coming. And I can’t deal with the tears which fall from his eyes. I kiss him and he moans, grasping onto me as if for life. “Don’t give me up. Just this part of us.”
“I’m making such a big mistake.”
“She’s perfect. Are you really going to find somebody else? They’ll just get younger and younger and they’ll be so much difference between you, you’ll never find any common ground.”
“I have no common ground as it is.”
“She gets on with all of us.”
“Yes. But she’s getting spiky about you.”
“Well…”
“And you don’t exactly help with it. You’re quite insufferable with her.”
“I’m always nice to her. I’ve never been anything other.”
“You treat her like a small child.”
“She is a small child.” She’s a bit like a lamb, but he needs a lioness, someone to protect him, to fight for him. I wish I could fight for him.
“And I’m getting the impression she’s not really that keen on being in the countryside.”
“She was perfect at Balmoral. I watched her. She didn’t put a toe wrong. Laughed at the right things. Played along. She was one of us.”
“One of us?” He pins my shoulders down and peers at me questioningly. I feel my cheeks flush.
“Likeminded, you know.” I feel the words stammer out and I see he knows that’s not what I meant.
“You missed out on being ‘one of us’ when you got engaged to Andrew. You didn’t even have the decency to break up with me first.”
“That’s not fair. You know it wasn’t my decision. It was announced in The Times as a fait accompli, by my father and Andrew’s brother of all people, if I believe it was their choice and not an edict.”
“It wasn’t an edict, don’t be dramatic. But you were sleeping with Andrew whilst you were with me.”
“That’s not strictly true either. I was informed by the grey suits who turned up unannounced at my flat that we were no longer together. I assumed this decision was yours, passed along from you without the decency to tell me to my face. So as far as I knew, we were no longer together. I thought you’d cast me off. I was really angry. And really hurt. And Andrew was there…”
“But then when I did get in touch, you refused to break it off with him for me. You had a choice then. You didn’t choose me. You very much chose not to be ‘one of us’. You really hurt me.”
“I’m sorry. I thought I was doing the right thing. I couldn’t marry you, I’d already been informed, and I just wanted to get married. I did love Andrew. We were getting married… Everything was arranged…”
“I would have married you.”
“Well you should have told me.”
“I didn’t realise you’d be so easily put off.”
“I’m sorry, Charles, you weren’t the one being told to back off by two men who looked like they could have killed me if I didn’t do as I was told.”
“Now you’re really being dramatic. They were two members of staff chosen purposefully to scare you off. It worked a treat, evidently. You didn’t think to check with me first before you ran back into Andrew’s arms?”
“No.”
“Why the hell not?”
“I don’t know…”
“Because you actually wanted him, not me, and this was a wonderful way to get what you wanted. What a ploy to snare a man! No better way of making him jealous.”
“I didn’t manipulate him, you’re making me out to be such a bitch, but you’re right, it made him jealous. And I loved him.”
“How’s that working out for you?”
“Better for me than for you. If you wanted me so much, why didn’t you ask me to marry you before you went away? You knew something was up, that we were going to be driven apart, don’t pretend you didn’t. I remember the conversation we had very clearly. I just thought you were paranoid. For all your talk after I agreed to marry Andrew, you never actually gave me an alternative. Why?”
“I don’t…”
“...You were scared. Admit it. You were scared that I’d say no, or, more likely, you knew I wasn’t considered ‘suitable’ and you were scared to go against your precious family.”
“I was scared that you didn’t love me.”
“Well you were correct. I didn’t. I loved Andrew.”
“What about now?”
“What?” The question makes my heart slam against my chest. I falter.
“What about now, Camilla? Do you love him, or do you love me?”
“I don’t have to prove to you that I love my husband.”
“Tell me that you love him and not me. Look me in the eye and say the words.”
“Please don’t…”
“Does he make you feel like this?”
He reaches down to kiss me, his hand grasping up my thigh and I can’t answer for the rush he sends through my body. And I can’t get close enough to him as I pull him so tightly against me, both of us desperately reaching for the other.
“Answer me, Milla.”
I can’t. As he slams me back on my back and captures my hands to stop me reaching for him, the answer is so obvious I can’t say it. He kisses down my neck, making me moan.
“Have you ever felt like this with anyone other than me?”
“No.” It’s what he needs me to say but admitting it is like opening my heart to a wave of pain. “Just you.”
I feel him groan into my neck and then kiss up to my lips again. “I love you.”
My heart spills through me like it’s wounded.
“I love you so much that my life is unimaginable without you.”
I wrap his head in my arms, pulling him down to kiss me, to stop me from admitting how much I love him.
“Tell me that you don’t love me. Tell me it’s just me. It’s all in my head. That I mean nothing to you. Tell me that you love Andrew, not me.”
I can’t. It’s too hard. I can’t say anything.
“Or is it true that you’ve never loved me. That I’m a fool for thinking you might. Even now?”
I don’t answer and I see his face crush into pain.
“God, Milla… I’m so stupid. I just thought… Why on earth would you love me? Why would I even think that you might? It’s so ridiculous you must just laugh at me.”
“No.” I have to deny it. I can’t have him thinking I don’t love him. That’s too cruel.
“What do you mean by ‘no’?”
“I mean that you’re not even slightly stupid.” My heart is banging against my ribcage, demanding to be released. It’s so loud I can barely hear his whisper.
“Why am I not? I seem to not realise I’m living in a ludicrous fantasy.”
“Because I love you.” I don’t need to tell him how much. His kiss against my lips is so soft and it sets off a slow burning through me, fanned by my heart in intense waves.
“You’re just saying that to not upset me.”
“No… I’m saying it even though it’s the last thing I should be saying to you just before you marry someone else.”
“Why? Why now?”
“Because I can’t have you thinking I don’t love you. That you don’t deserve to be loved.”
“You’re still just making me feel better.”
“Yes! I am! But it happens to be true.” His eyes look at me with suspicion and it makes mine fill with tears. “You despise yourself so much that you don’t believe anyone could ever love you. How can I not? You made me love you. I didn’t want to. I certainly didn’t plan to but it crept upon me. Charles, it’s been years, ten years, and everything is getting more and more intense. Every look, every kiss, everytime I touch you… God, just the smell of you… And I know I shouldn’t say anything, but now I have to watch you marry someone else and it’s like my heart is breaking.”
“From the moment I met you… Don’t be jealous, my Darling. No woman will ever replace you. You’re imprinted upon my heart.”
“That’s a bad way to go into a marriage.”
“It’s an arrangement, a business arrangement. I need a partner, not a love match.”
“Does she know that?”
“I’ll grow to love her. We’ll grow up together, share experiences, have children… Love will come. I don’t think anyone can really understand until they’ve lived my life. We’ll have that. That mutual understanding which no one else in the world can share.”
That feels like he has struck me. I can’t even find words to speak and then they torrent out, “Why? Why did you force me to tell you? Was it not enough that you knew? You plead with me to tell you that I love you and then you go and say that! Like it means nothing. Who cares if I love you, I’ll never understand you. You make me admit something I’m desperately trying to keep hidden in my heart and you throw it back in my face!”
“I didn’t mean it like that. I’m trying to explain why you’re so, so different. Don’t look at me like that! My heart. Don’t do that to me. Not today. Let us have today.”
I pull him down to kiss me because that’s easier and allow him to take charge because it hurts too much and I need him to love me.
“We need to stop this but I can’t. I can’t stop now.”
He breathes the words to me between kisses that I drown in. Kisses that bind me to him like roots. Good sex. Bad sex. Everything in between. It doesn’t matter. As long as it’s him. I need him to ease the pain shooting through my heart. The pain of knowing I can’t be that person for him. I will never share his life. I will never, truely, understand him.

Chapter 15: Birkhall, January 2021 (1981, Buckingham Palace & Bolehyde Manor)

Chapter Text

Birkhall, January 2021

“Why didn’t you tell me that you loved me when Laura was born? Why have you never told me that?”
“I don’t know.”
“Yes you do, you’re just not telling me.”
“It’s not important.”
“Which tells me it is and yet again, you’re keeping something from me…”
“Like you’ve never done that to me?”
“No, Camilla, no I haven't.”
“That’s a blatant lie.” Both of our voices are raised now and I see our dogs looking at us worriedly.
“Keep your voice down!”
“No! We’re in the middle of sodding nowhere. It’s as private as we'll ever be. I will not keep my voice down!”
“Our PPOs…”
“Will have to accept that we argue…”
“Camilla…”
“Just for once, can you forget about what the world thinks?”
“You know full well I’m not in a position to do that.”
“Perhaps that’s why I don’t tell you anything…”
“That’s not fair.”
“Maybe I didn’t tell you that I was in love with you as I knew you didn’t love me?”
“Yes I did! How can you claim that?”
“Once we stopped sleeping together, you stopped being interested. It changed from you ringing me constantly to me ringing you. And you got less and less interested in talking to me. Each letter you sent me after William was born was more and more formal and then there would be months between any contact.”
“Not entirely my decision as you well know. I got more and more withdrawn from the entire world, Milla, I never stopped loving you. Ever. It might not have been constantly there at the forefront of my mind but you were always there, even when I didn’t see you. When I just got to see brief glimpses of you when we were hunting and I could feel my body filling with sadness, I’d ride out to the front and pretend you weren’t there because it was easier. Those brief phone calls to tell you news which were so strained because how could I tell you my good news when I struggled to feel it in my own heart, when you were so jealous, you would barely speak to me.”
“It doesn’t matter now.”
“Yes, it does. It does matter. I was in two minds the entire time, about how hideously disastrous it was all going to be and then how much I wanted and needed my marriage to be a success.”
“Did we do the right thing?”
“What do you mean?”
“Calling things off between us.”
“Depends on your definition of ‘right’ I suppose. It allowed me to look my wife in the face and tell her we were not having an affair.”
“We weren’t.”
“But I loved you. I never stopped loving you so I was, in my heart.”
“It was an arranged marriage. I don’t understand where these ideas of love came from. She didn’t know you. She didn’t even like you. Just the idea of you. A handsome prince showing up to whisk her away from her awful family to a new fairytale life.”
“She genuinely had no clue about my family. Her first instinct was usually distrust but she thought they were on her side. They never were. Ironically, I was. At first.”
“We should have stayed apart from the second you got engaged. Perhaps she would have been able to accept our friendship and things might have been easier?”
“I wouldn’t have married her if you weren’t there for me. I felt like a fox, gone to ground and hounded by the terriers. Darling, I was far too selfish. I needed you. Regardless of what that did to Diana. Regardless of what that did to you. We were deluding ourselves by claiming we were friends. We were never friends.”

1981, Buckingham Palace

What sort of folly is it to pretend to be friends with someone you love? Other than pain, that is. I’ve hosted parties for the two of them. I’ve attempted to be friends with Diana although that was an inevitable failure. I hate her and she is obsessed with me. An obsession which is made worse by the fact that it’s not true. The Prince and I are not having an affair. It’s over. Done. And her constant harping on about it is pulling him further and further from me in his attempt to prove his innocence. I’ve been struck from the guest list from everything other than the actual wedding service, and that is only because The Prince put his foot down and said he wanted his Godson to go. Not me. I’m scheduled to see him tonight and I’m dreading it because I know exactly what he’s going to tell me. He’s going to tell me that it’s best that we don’t see each other for a little while. He’s going to echo the words I told him when he begged me not to get married to Andrew almost ten years ago. I won’t beg him. Neither of us had a choice. I was instructed once to distance myself for the sake of his duty and for crown and country. I don’t need a second reminder.

He looks gaunt when I see him and it upsets me more than I can hide.
“I’ve invited all our friends.”
Then pain hits me as I smile a false smile at him and he grimaces.
“Please don’t.”
“Darling, it’s fine.”
“I know it’s not. Your face tells me it’s not. God, I’m sorry.”
“Are you not going to greet me?”
He places a kiss on both my cheeks and even that is charged. Maybe it’s a good thing there will be others with us.

The evening isn’t particularly successful. The Prince flits between moods with a speed none of us can keep up with, which makes everything strained. We can all see how upset he is. There’s nothing any one of us can say. No one understands. Not even I. I loved the man I was deemed to marry. I wanted to marry him.
We all receive presents, opened with a dramatic flair and an excessive amount of thanks. Mine is a bracelet. He loves buying jewellery. As I turn it over and see the inscription, I feel my blood running through me violently. ‘GF’. Girl Friday. He’s called me that ever since we watched that film and although he’s not as dastardly as Walter, I see why he thinks me Hildy, desperately trying to win me back. What’s he trying to say here? Perhaps I’m overthinking it. Maybe he’s referring to our nicknames for each other. Fred and Gladys. They’re just silly. But the letters are the wrong way around. I’m pulled from my thoughts when I realise everyone is staring at me. I’ve not said anything. I was meant to say thank you for the gift, a little too exuberantly. But when I open my mouth to speak, no sound comes out and instead I start crying. Good God this is stupid. I don’t need to draw this much attention to myself. But he’s next to me and then I’m wrapped in his arms and he feels so good I sink into him.
“What do the letters stand for?” He whispers in my ear.
“Girl Friday.”
“Yes.” He kisses my neck, making me squeak. “Always.”
Then I’m in front of our friends and I can feel him. I can feel his hand on the back of my head and then I feel it run down my neck and down my body before I manage to pull away. Everyone noticed. I can see them pretending that nothing happened.
We don’t move away from each other after that. I’m pulled around to talk to different people, his hands grasping onto mine to take me to the next person. As we’re talking, his fingers reach for mine and the current between us is so strong, it’s difficult to concentrate on the conversation. And then he takes me to dance and I can’t breathe. We try to dance properly but I can’t hear the music and his hand slips down from my waist and pulls me against him. And I’m looking up at him, into those stormy eyes and I want him so badly. We kiss, very briefly and then I try pushing my head into his neck. I feel him stroking my hair.
“I’m meant to tell you that we need to stop meeting up. But I think we both know this.”
He kisses the top of my head but as his fingers reach my chin to move me, I turn to push deeper into his neck. My spot.
“Milla, I feel like I’m dying.”
My heart breaks. I can feel it tearing in two and cold rushes through my body. My hand reaches up his neck and as I look up at him, I pull him towards me. This time, the kiss burns and as I pull away, he presses against my lips again before pulling away so slightly, I can almost feel him still on my lips. My breathing is so shallow and rapid, I feel lightheaded.
“f*ck it.”
His words are forgotten as he kisses me properly and these kisses are what I’ve been imagining for months. His lips set off every nerve in my body in a way I didn’t dare to dream about. And we can’t keep our hands from each other. I have a very vague awareness that we’re in front of everyone but this is nothing they’ve not seen before. He’s not married yet. I can feel his tongue pushing against mine and I hear this noise escape from my mouth as his hand grasps onto my bottom and pulls me against him. My body pulses over and over; everywhere he touches burns.
Eventually, a little sense creeps in and we pull away enough to stop making a display of ourselves. But it doesn’t stop my fingers tracing around his face or his soft kisses against my temple, my cheek, my neck. It doesn’t stop the way my body melts against him as he grasps me so tightly, it’s like we are going to merge into one. Feeling dizzy, I pull away and head from the room but he follows me, using the darkness of the corridor to shove me against the wall and reaches where he knows I want him, making me groan into his neck.
“I want to be inside you.”
His words make me jolt against him.
“Come upstairs with me. Stay with me.”
I can’t speak, I just nod, pulling him against me, reaching for his lips again.
“Do you want to?”
“Yes.” I manage to mumble the answer into his mouth as his fingers cause me to gasp my breath.
“Last time. It has to be the last time.”
“I know.”
“And then we stop seeing each other.”
“Yes.”
His hands retreat to my waist and hold me up as I struggle to stand and his kisses against my neck make these little squeaks come out of my mouth. I don’t understand what is happening between us. Why fate chooses now of all times to light a furnace between us. How breathing him in is like a drug. I hear him moan as I slip my fingers around his neck and my heart leaps before that awful pain constricts it again and I pull him back to my lips, knowing we have no control over the intensity, holding on to him tightly as the flames fan through me.
“We need to go now, Milla.”
My chest is tight and it’s so difficult to breathe. I can feel him stroking my cheek, forcing me to look into those beautiful eyes, filled with so much pain. How am I meant to never look into his eyes like this again? How is it possible I’ll never kiss him again? Never push my nose into his neck and breathe him in?
“I don’t know how I’m going to sneak you upstairs.”
That makes me smile, even through the pain and the desire. He doesn’t realise how people love him. How they will do anything for him. “We’ll rejoin the party. You go up, I’ll say I’m going and I’ll get my coat and head upstairs.”
“It’s empty. Don’t worry.”
“We can manage a bit of subterfuge.”
“We’ve never had to hide before.”
“We’re not exactly being discrete now.”
It’s impossible not to kiss him, not to moan when his hands trace over my body. It’s like being caught in a fever. I need to feel him against me.
“I love you. I’m telling you now, before I hurt you. I love you. I will always love you.”
His arms wrap around me so tightly they constrict my breathing. “Please don’t hurt me.” I manage to gasp out the words in between these kisses which engulf me.
“I need you to help me go through with this. Don’t ask me not to marry her. Don’t do what I did to you. I can’t bear it. I need you to tell me to go through with it because I’m so scared I’m making a dreadful mistake. Milla, I want to run, I’d do anything to leave. Please love me. Please make it better.”

1981, Bolehyde Manor

I can’t get out of bed. I don’t know what’s wrong with me but I just can’t get up. Tom climbs into bed with me whilst I’m still groggy with sleep and snuggles up with me. I hold onto him under the covers and breathe in that clean fresh smell which holds just that faint scent from when he was a baby. Laura waddles in to join us and I pull her up on the bed and hold them both tightly, stroking their hair, kissing the tops of their heads. But even they can’t persuade me to get out of bed. They leave me to bother their nanny as they can’t tempt me with breakfast and I lie there, my mind whirring with images I want to shut away. That moment where he searched through the crowd and found my eyes. My heart starts pattering woefully at me and I try to forget. I’m so heavy. It takes a few moments but I manage to breathe and calm down, enough to drag my body up so I’m leaning on the pillows behind me. I pull the crumpled duvet around me although I know it’s not cold and the weight presses down on me. I’m dressed in rumpled, voluminous white and I see her taffeta monstrosity and smash my hands down into the duvet, squashing the air from it before sinking back into it, hiding my head under it, away from the light. I won’t allow myself to think about it. Maybe later I’ll go into my garden. I’ll weed out a flower bed or cut back a hedge. But then I’m filled with a leaden tiredness and I accept the embrace of my bed. I can’t bear to turn on the television. Today’s papers will head straight into the bin. I don’t want to read a book and learn about someone’s happiness or distress. I don’t have control of my own. I’m just so heavy, so tired.

The phone rings and I roll over but I have to breathe in and hold it for three seconds before I exhale and can bring myself to pick it up.
“Hello? Mrs Parker-Bowles?”
“Yes, speaking?”
“I have His Royal Highness, The Prince of Wales waiting to talk to you. Please hold the line.”
He doesn’t have The Prince on the line at all. He’s been asked to phone me and only when he’s managed that, will The Prince deign to stop what he’s doing to talk to me, possibly even after he’s finished his current pressing preoccupation. I’m left waiting for five minutes. Five minutes where my heart is somersaulting and dread is creeping through my veins like an acid, burning.
“Camilla?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“How are you?”
“Quite well, Sir. You?”
It’s the question he wanted me to ask and he launches into a detailed description of what he’s painting and how pleasant it is to be on Britannia. I feel like my heart is crumbling into little pieces, every section shooting a new pain through me. Why was I so stupid? How could I ever have thought I might fit into his life?
“I phoned to thank you, actually.”
“Oh, yes?”
“Yes. When I saw you in the church. I was so… scared… I don’t mind admitting it to you. So scared of what I was walking out to. And I saw you and you met my eyes and I knew then that I could do it.”
I don’t have anything to say to him. It’s hard enough to keep my breathing steady.
“Darling, I love you.”
His whisper down the phone breaks what’s left of my heart. “Charles, please don’t.”
“I know, I know. But I can’t help thinking about you.”
“You’re on your honeymoon.”
“I know. And all I can think about is you. Kissing you. Touching you. Making love to you.”
My heart dissolves into a river of pain stretching through me, aching in my chest, my thighs, the soles of my feet, the palms of my hands. The anguish in his words wound me. “This needs to stop.”
“I am fully aware of that. Do you not think I know that?”
I sit, in silence, trying to control the breaths which leave my mouth far too sharply.
“Would you prefer me to tell you about Diana, hmm? Tell you how that’s going?”
“No.”
“How I had to have sex with this, God, she’s barely even an adult, this woman I don’t know, I don’t want to know, as if that’s normal?”
“Please stop.”
“I don’t even know how I’m going to manage that again.”
“Oh, Darling…”
“Or would you prefer it if I told you that she is exquisite?”
I can’t answer as I hear the words barked at me in anger. My stomach knots.
“Her skin is so soft under my hands…”
I know he’s trying to hurt me. I know he wants me to react. But his words cut through me regardless.
“She makes me feel strong and powerful and in control. Every time I see her, I desire her more. Is that what you wanted to hear, Camilla?”
“Why are you taking this out on me?” And the tears start, tears I’ve been repressing, they burst from my eyes with a hot fury.
“Or would you like me to compare? Are you so narcissistic you need me to tell you which of the two of you I want more? What are you going to say if I tell you it’s not you?”
“Don’t be like this.” I hear the wobble in my voice, the pleading in my tone. He doesn’t care.
“Oh, it’s fine for you to tell me that you love your husband and feel nothing for me but when I do the same, it’s a problem for you?”
“You rang me! Not the other way round!” The unfairness burns through me.
“I could feel your eyes on me the entire time I stood at the pew. They were burning into me. And I turned around and looked for you and you didn’t have it in you to smile at me and try to encourage me. No. You just met my eyes and there was pain. Like my day wasn’t intolerable as it was. You had to just push the sword in a little further.”
“All I did was look at you. I never did anything to stop this marriage. When the situation was reversed, you begged me. You phoned me and pleaded with me and did everything you could to stop me. I didn’t do anything like that!”
“Do you know what, it is much better not shagging someone else’s cast offs.”
“Cast offs?” It’s like being stabbed in an old wound hearing his family’s objections regurgitated from those lips which promised me love. I try to squash the anger into a ball in the pit of my stomach.
“Well Andrew evidently didn’t want you. My Grandmother had to force him to marry you.”
“Don’t be so cruel.” I know even as he says it, it’s true and it hurts but it also stokes my rage and I feel it bubbling.
“But you know it’s true, don’t you? He didn’t actually want to marry you. He had to be shamed into it.”
“You think Diana wants you?” The words rush out in a torrent I’ve no control over. “Don’t fool yourself. Every woman you’ve ever been with was only with you because you’re a Prince. And even given that, they still all said no! You’ve got a wife because she wants to be Queen. It’s got nothing to do with you. Remember why she’s really there.” I want to hurt him. I want to make him feel my pain. “Say whatever you like about Andrew. I chose him. Not you. I’ll choose him over you every time.”
“I’m not an option for you to choose anymore, Camilla, go back to your complete farce of a marriage. Your only available option. But know he doesn’t love you.”
“Well I love him!”
“You’re pathetic. No wonder he doesn’t love you.”
“If you think she loves you, you’re delusional. Who would love you?”
“Remember who you call every time he hurts you. Every time you are lonely.”
“You can’t last five minutes without having a shoulder to cry on. You’re after a surrogate mother. You need to be coddled like a child. Time to grow up. There needs to be at least one adult in your marriage.”
“What do you want from me, Camilla? You bound me to you. Made me need you. You’ve spent years manipulating me for your own gains.”
“How exactly was I manipulating you? You never left me alone. Not even when I was pregnant. You never gave me a second’s space. I even had to slot in my family around you!”
“You could have just had my baby.”
“You’re such a child!” I hear the words charge from my throat like a scream. I can hear his sobs.
“You just didn’t love me. You didn’t want me to be the father of your children.”
“No. I did not!”
“Too scared of what people might think?”
“I didn’t want your baby. I wanted my husband’s.” His cry of anguish slices through me and my tears are now uncontrollable. I don’t want to hurt him anymore.
“Because you’ve never actually loved me. Just pretended. You love me when it suits you. When Andrew isn’t giving you the attention you crave.”
“I’ve never pretended…”
“All I’ve ever done is love you. You throw it in my face because it means nothing to you.”
“It doesn’t mean nothing…”
“You’ve enjoyed having me at your beck and call. I’m so stupid to love you.”
“Charles, please… That’s not true.”
“Why did you tell me you love me as I’m about to get married? It’s the most cruel form of manipulation you’ve ever done.”
He’s shouting down the phone at me now and I lose all control of my tears as I gasp my breath.
“Stop f*cking crying, Camilla!”
“Stop shouting at me!”
“This is all your fault.”
“It is not! Don’t blame me for your decisions.”
“You couldn’t leave me alone. You couldn’t bear it when I was with someone who I might have actually liked. You forced me into this catastrophe…”
I slam the phone down with a loud crash and roll over to hold my pillow so tightly to my chest as I stop attempting to fight my tears. The phone rings and I ignore it. It peels on and on and on. Eventually it stops and I breathe again but the relief isn’t for long. I bury my head under the pillow as it rings again and again. In the end, I can’t take it any longer and I pick it up. “What?”
“Mrs Parker-Bowles?”
“He can’t even be bothered to ring me himself?” I slam the phone down again and then pull it out of the wall, flinging myself back on the bed, my chest hollow except for jagged streaks of grief which fly through me.
Eventually, there’s a lull in the ringing in my brain and a numbness where my heart was. I push my fingers against my temples, trying to soothe the pain which has started there. After a while, the tears subside and I lie completely still, paralysed. I need to end this. I can’t live like this. It’s the only rational thought in my head. Why did I fall in love with him? I wasn’t meant to. It hurts so badly. ‘End it, Camilla. Be brave. He’s not going to.’ My brain commences battle. It’s fighting for self-preservation. But I’ll never feel his arms around me again. My heart wails and I clutch onto my chest as the pain shoots through me again. I can’t have an argument with him like that again. This isn’t going to get better. If he learns to love her, I’m going to die inside. If he learns to hate her, it’s going to kill me to watch. But he’s got no chance if he’s always ringing me. I’ll never kiss him again. The waves of pain from my heart intensity. I’m going to be so lonely. I’ll have no one to talk to at night before I go to bed. No one to share my day with. No one to moan to about the stupid things my children do. No one to laugh with. No one to make my heart sing. But I can’t take those angry words directed at me because he’s in pain. It’s going to be an argument I lose over and again because he’s angry that I didn’t choose him, he’s angry because I didn’t love him enough and he’s had to marry someone he doesn’t love. ‘Do it now Camilla.’ My brain is screaming at me. I can’t cope with this pain. I plug in the phone and I ring him. It sounds for an eternity and I’m about to put the phone down when there’s an answer.
“It’s Mrs Parker-Bowles, calling for The Prince.”
“His Royal Highness has been trying to get through to you for the past hour and a half.”
“I was indisposed.”
“Well The Prince is now ‘indisposed’ and won’t take your call.”
“Should I call back?”
“I don’t think so. The Prince will get in touch if he wishes to contact you.”
“Will you pass on my message?”
“I’m not an answering machine, Mrs Parker-Bowles.”
“Tell him, tell him I love him, but he needs to let me go.”
“Milla, no…”
I hear his voice with a jolt. “This is too painful, Charles.”
“I can’t let you go.”
“You have to.”
“Why don’t we just reduce contact? I can’t lose everything in one day.”
“You need to give me, and yourself, some time. No contact.”
“What about a month?” I hear the panic turning his voice into a squeak.
“You’ve just got married. A month is nothing.”
“Six months?”
The desperation in his voice almost breaks my resolve. “This is so stupid. No. Then we’ll just be waiting for the six months to end.”
“What about when I have news. Important news that I need to tell you?”
“Yes, of course, I want to know that. I don’t want to be cut off. But this, all this, has to stop. I can’t face the pain.”
“I’m so sorry for what I said.”
“So am I. But it doesn’t change anything.”
“Don’t do this because of an argument.”
“It’s not just the argument. You know this!”
“How am I meant to go through life without you?”
“Please don’t say that. Stop making it worse. It’s not fair.”
“I know… I know… I’m sorry. Important news... And perhaps I’ll just write to you. That might be easier than calling you.”
“They can’t be love letters…”
“Do you not love me anymore?”
“Of course I love you! Charles, this isn’t about me not loving you.”
“I love you.”
“I love you, too, but…”
“No. Stop. I know. You’re right. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry for what I said. I’m sorry for hurting you. I know you’re right. I’ll do what you ask. I’m sorry for everything. But I love you. I love you so much.”
“I love you, too. I’m so sorry.”
“I love you so, so much. I’ll never stop loving you.”
He sets my tears off again as I hear his, as we whisper to each other, the same words, over and over. Like they can soothe all the anguish and stop all the pain. Like each word is a kiss of apology, of love. Like we could hope to say the words enough for them to last for a lifetime.
“Tell me that you love me and then hang up. I can’t put the phone down on you. It’s too hard.”
“I love you, so much…” I don’t pull the phone from my ear.
“Milla, please. I love you.”
“I love you too.” This time I slam the phone down in its cradle and I sink back down onto the bed. I want it to encase me and then to drown me. I know why they call it heartbreak now. I’ve never felt pain like it. It’s not indignation or anger or shame. It’s just pain, shooting through me, aching, twisting and pulsing in every part of my body. And I’m not sure I’m ever going to feel anything other than this pain ever again. I crawl back to the phone one last time and dial from memory. It rings for a long time but I hear the voice and burst into tears again. “Mummy… please come round. I think I’m dying…”
“Darling, what?”
“My heart…”
“Is this about The Prince?”
“I can’t bear it…”
She sighs and I’m scared she’s going to leave me to die alone. “Okay, Darling, I’m on my way. Stay exactly where you are. I’m coming, Darling.”
“It hurts so much…” I hear the sobs leave my mouth before I realise they’re mine.
“I know… it’s okay. Shush… When I get there, you can cry as much as you need. Hold yourself together a little longer, Darling.”
“I can’t.”
“When I hang up, go and get a glass of water. Put on a film. Something you’ve seen a thousand times. I’ll come as fast as I can.”
“I can’t move.”
“Okay, Darling. It’s alright. I’m coming. I love you.”
And as I put down the phone my body starts shaking. He doesn’t have anyone to ring to comfort him. That was my role. I grab my pillow again and rock myself as these hot tears slip down my cheeks before being absorbed by the duvet I’m lying on, as my body is wracked with a pain so intense, I know it’s never going to fade.

Chapter 16: Birkhall, January 2021 (1991, Middlewick House)

Chapter Text

There was a period of about a year where I didn’t see him and didn’t hear from him at all. Life for me was the same. Andrew came back when he wasn’t posted abroad and we pretended we were a proper family. We threw parties, we went out for dinner. We were really good friends and I at least made an effort to salvage my marriage. Yet after one awful conversation where he told me that he was in love with some woman he met whilst stationed away but that he was never going to leave me because he wanted to be married to me, I cried my last tear over him. He didn’t love me in the way I wanted him to, but at least he chose me. I could live with that. We nursed each other through our respective heartbreaks in our own way. Andrew was desperate for fun and so I made sure we were constantly doing something. I was desperate for affection and he supplied me with that, whilst he was with me at least.
Meanwhile, I was slowly going mad. Whether Charles and I were in a self-inflicted separation or had lapsed into letters and phone calls again, I followed every press release, every paparazzi picture, every statement from the palace like a crazed fan. I was desperate for news, asking friends who had seen The Prince and Princess of Wales for any snippet of information. I was even a little obsessed with Diana, like the rest of the world. Her fame terrified me and I hated her. Every television clip of the two of them together made me feel nauseous even as I was aware how false it all was. I could see how awkwardly he would stand with her, these were not two people who wanted to stand together, and how strained interviews were with the both of them. Sometimes, I couldn’t hear him at all, like he had reverted into a protective shell, and other times I could hear the anger laced into a controlled tone. It did nothing to ease my jealousy. It wasn’t a surprise to anyone when The Prince dropped Andrew and I from his Highgrove set of friends, but the frequent cullings were commented upon and the few friends he had left were worried about him. He’d become a shadow in his own life and towards the end, he cut out communication with me altogether. I found out about Harry’s birth along with everyone else, on the news. It was after this, these few friends he was allowed, those he had left, they encouraged me to call him, to try to pull him out of the deep set depression he was drowning in.
The call was awkward. And short. But we arranged to meet for a walk around the gardens at Highgrove and we fell into conversation as easily as ever. He was so low. At first, I became his social calendar. I bullied him into inviting friends over, I talked him into dinner parties with Andrew and I, I insisted on going for walks to get him out of the house. Soon, we were talking every day, twice a day, every evening for hours on end. Once I lifted some of that awful blackness from his mind, everything became easier. He’d affected a habit of moaning which was lasting and his self confidence had taken a hit which we’ve never been able to recover but he found himself again and I was so proud of him. Only, it’s never just been friendship between us and it wasn’t long before that spark returned. We ignored it for quite some time, but it wasn’t going away. In hindsight, there was no way we were going to avoid what came next. We were both so in love with each other but also desperate to be loved and feel loved. We were both so lonely and so sad and we made each other happy. Nothing, not respective families, nor marriages, nor people’s disapproval could dull the need we had for each other. I remember standing one night, by the car, unable to move because he’d taken hold of my hand and he was running one finger across my palm, tracing the outline of my fingers and I thought my body might combust. We’d contrive every possible scenario to allow us to touch each other, a light nudge to make fun of each other, grasping each other’s hand to lead somewhere, standing together, shoulders touching, gossiping. It must have been obvious to anyone who saw us but nobody ever commented, not until it was far too late.

“You’re right. We were never friends.”
He smiles at me, probably because it’s the first thing we’ve agreed on in hours. “When we got back together again in the mid 80s, that felt like fate was telling me to stop and take you seriously. I was desperately in love with you. So much so, I thought I would go mad. Actually, I was going mad. You were in my every thought, I’d dream about you. I could barely breathe whilst I was waiting to see you. Do you remember that first time we kissed after so many years?”
“Remind me.”
He comes to a sudden stop and grasps my shoulders, stopping me too. I smile at him and he looks at me almost shyly. “We were walking in the gardens at Highgrove.”
“Yes… I remember that much…”
“We had escaped from all the people in the house, from Andrew in particular who was being unusually clingy with you.”
“He was upset. He’d just broken up with his current girlfriend…”
“I didn’t know that!”
“Well before, I lapped up any attention Andrew was willing to give me. By this point, I really didn’t care. I didn’t know that I no longer loved him then, I just wanted to talk with you.”
His finger traces my face so gently and his thumb brushes against my lips, making me smile at him. “Yes. I remember you choosing me. You’d never done that before. He was the one wanting to hold your hand and hold you close and you weren’t interested. You caught my eye and walked out with me. It changed everything.”
“How did it change anything?”
“Because I realised that you were available to love me, just me, for the first time.”
“You can’t have known that. I didn’t know that.”
“I knew. I knew because I recognised that you’d given him up. I know what that looks like. You looked at him differently. You looked at me differently.”
“How did I look at you?”
“Exactly like how you’re looking at me now. Before then, you’d only look at me like this if you’d let down your guard.”
Even now, after all these years, his words can make my heart pang. “I remember you teasing me. I think I was holding onto the collar of your jacket, because I’d pulled you towards me to tell you off.” My hands mirror my words. “I don’t remember what I was telling you off for… I remember my lips against your cheek and then struggling to pull away. I remember the almighty rush through me as we kissed.” This time, he pushes to kiss me and it shocks me how much heat there still is in that one kiss. “Was it you who kissed me then?” He smiles and I reach to kiss him again, a sweeter kiss this time.
“I’ve still got it.” His whisper makes me smile.
“Got what, Darling?” His nose presses against mine and I peck his lips quickly.
“The ability to make you weak at the knees.”
“Always.”
“What did I do to deserve you?”
“Lots of things.”
“Never enough.”
“Enough for me.”
“Well you have very low expectations. And you revolve your world around me because you love me and I’m so thankful.” He grasps hold of my hand and we set off again, the sun shining down and reflecting brightly off the blanket of snow. “Do you remember telling me that you loved me?”
“No.” He raises his eyebrows at me but my face is blank. All I can remember is that kiss.
“I was never sure how voluntary that was. Each time I kissed you, when you pulled away from me to breathe, you told me again and again until I kissed you and your words drowned in my mouth. It was a bloody owl which pulled us apart…”
“It scared the living daylights out of me…”
“Yes, the noise made you jump so badly. And then I saw your face properly. Your face… When we pulled away. I could see how you’d changed but I hadn’t decided what to do at that point.”
“How had I changed?”
“Your eyes. You looked at me differently.”
“I’d already decided.”
“I know. I knew then too. I’d just not made the decision to end my marriage. But your eyes… You’d never looked at me like that before. I was yours from that moment, I just wasn’t aware of it yet. I don’t know how we managed to walk back to the house. If it wasn’t for that owl…”
“You ensured you weren’t alone with me again, after that.”
“I knew not to trust myself.”
“You knew not to trust me…”
That makes him smile. “Yes… But I liked that! I’d spent all my life chasing you and now you wanted me. It was a wonderful feeling.”
“You held me off for months.”
“Well… You know I have to deliberate my decisions. In the end, it was the fear of losing you which made me realise that I couldn’t live without you. I couldn’t lose you again.”
“You clung onto me very tightly. It would have been far too difficult to break away.”
“You’re claiming that being with me was easier than breaking away? Darling, we both know that’s not the truth.”
“I’m not sure my heart would have coped with losing you again.”
“I did think in ’95, when I was being monstrously self absorbed, I did have a thought that I was doing you a favour by calling everything off with you…”
“But you didn’t call things off with me. You let someone else do it for you. I didn’t want that ‘favour’. You should have known that. That phone call… It was one of the worst of my life.”
“Unfortunately, nowhere near the worst.”
“No...”

We both pause, both recalling the dreadful night of that car crash. Horror about what was happening. Complete disbelief and shock at the news. Organising fractious families. Deciding not to wake his boys. Talking through what to say to them in the morning. Rehearsing the conversation over and again. Me, sat on my bed hundreds of miles away, chain smoking. Him, sat on his, in the room next door to his mother, who never once came to see if he was okay. We never talk about what happened. Some nightmares need to be left well alone. Instead, I squeeze his hand, before making a move to walk again.
“They were not good years…”
“No…”
“Why did you stay with me?”
“Love?”
“You stayed with me. Even when I gave you an option for out.”
“I’d been through too much to even think about it. I was far too in love with you to attempt to break away.”
“I can’t imagine my life without you.”
“I didn’t want to be without you, either.”
“There’s something about being with you that allows me to breathe. Thank you for staying with me through everything. I know this is not the life you wanted. Thank you for choosing me regardless.”

1991, Middlewick House

I’m in a bit of a daze, detangling my daughter’s hair from the short bristles of the hairbrush she’s managed to attach to her head. Mercifully, she’s stopped crying but her little whimpers of pain shoot through me as I try to be as gentle as possible. Sometimes I think she’s so grown up and then other times it’s like she’s a small child again.
“Hullo, hullo!”
I turn my head in surprise as he walks straight into my kitchen. He’s early and I’ve not had time to have a bath or get changed or even tidy up but he makes me smile as he reaches to kiss my cheeks and he’s more than forgiven. He reaches down to greet Laura in the same manner. I watch her kiss his cheeks before remembering her hair and she grasps onto me and tries to hide behind me. She’s far too old to be doing that. Charles either doesn’t realise or doesn’t choose to realise as he sprouts a funny story, with just enough comments to her to make her feel grown up, and she sits back on the stool and I continue with her hair. He helps himself to a glass of water and sits on the stool opposite me, a little gingerly, asking her questions about school, checking what she’s reading, teasing her about being a worse swimmer than him, complimenting her on her end of term exam results. He’s so, so lovely with her. I wish he would visit more often. I know he can’t.
We spend a pleasant hour chatting and giggling together, Laura’s hair eventually easing its way out of the tangle. Then she sits with us as I make a pot of tea and I watch her interactions with him with a warm glow and an iron tight brace. He is so wonderful with her. But he’d never be there. And then I chase away the thoughts from my mind with a stiff broom. At times like this, I struggle to strangle how much I love him. I fight to keep it from displaying all across my face. And his eyes are like oceans which draw me to him.
“I want a little baby brother.”
She stares at me with accusatory eyes as I look on in shock. “I’m too old for more children, Laura.”
“No you’re not.” He laughs at me and I scowl.
“Well it’d be a bloody shock!”
“A ‘bloody’ shock!” Laura repeats my words in glee.
“A bloody awful shock.” I glance at him briefly and look away.
“Have another baby, Mummy. I’ll look after him.”
“It could be a girl. Would you look after her?”
“I don’t want a sister. I want to be the favourite daughter.”
“You are my favourite daughter. My most favourite, wonderful, beautiful daughter. No other daughter of mine comes close.”
She giggles at my silliness and I shake my head at hers.
“I could see you with another baby, Milla. But Laura, I think it’d be a girl.”
“I’m not having another baby.” He’s winding me up and it’s working.
“I think you could do with a baby sister, Laura. It’d be good for you.”
“No more babies… Two was more than enough.”
“Mummy! That’s not very nice.”
“When you’ve had two babies, you can make your own decision about having more.”
“I like seeing you all round and pudgy…” His eyes glint at me devilishly and I reach my foot out to kick him. “I’d get to roll you about the place.”
“Are you volunteering for the dirty nappies too? And the sleepless nights?”
“I will happily spend sleepless nights with you.”
I can’t even respond. I shoot angry eyes at him, gesturing to my daughter and he shrugs.
“Well I’ll have to adopt a little brother then. Sir, your children are basically my brothers, aren’t they?”
I see Charles’s eyes widen and I’m almost pleased. “How so?”
“Well you’re Tom’s Godfather so they’re our god-brothers.”
I watch him stutter over his words with pleasure. Have another baby indeed! “Good logic. I’m not sure that’s how it works, however. But, I’m not your Godfather, so they can’t be your god-brothers.”
“But they’re Tom’s. And Mummy said that whatever is Tom’s is mine also.”
“Just to clarify, Laura, I didn’t say that. I said that Tom’s things are not yours but that I bought everything so technically everything is mine.”
“And you said that everything you have is mine. So Tom’s things are mine.”
“Those were very different conversations and I’m rather impressed at how you’ve construed them, but again, no. Tom’s things are his. Not yours. You need to stay out of his room.”
“How are my God-brothers?”
That makes both Charles and I laugh and he acquiesces and goes along with her demands.

After a good fifteen minutes of nagging, Laura shoots off upstairs to pack and I round on Charles. “She’s got you wound round her little finger.” My own finger flicks out, wagging at him. He’s not forgiven for the baby comment and he knows, his eyes are twinkling at my irritation. He bares his teeth and reaches to bite my finger as I giggle and retract it.
“I wonder where she gets it from?” He kisses my neck and wraps his arm around my stomach, pulling my back against his chest. I sink against him, savouring the closeness for the short time we have. “But she’s better at it than you.”
“Oh yes, how so?” I feel his nose against my neck, breathing me in.
“Well, I love you. I’d do anything for you. So I choose to do everything you tell me to do.”
I snort and his fingers clasp around my waist, threatening to tickle me.
“Laura? I don’t choose. I just do what she demands. She’s a little tyrant. I’m scared of getting on her wrong side.”
“Me too!”
He laughs as he kisses my neck again, staying there for too long, making the hair on my skin stand on end, making me press back against him. I could stand like this for hours. But we never have time. Every moment is snatched. And I sink into him, savouring the feeling of being wrapped in his arms, dreading the moment we have to pull apart.
“I’m taking her back to school in about thirty minutes. What do you want to do?”
“I don’t want to come with you.”
“I assumed you wouldn’t.”
“I’m quite capable of entertaining myself for an hour or so.”
“You could put on the dinner when I call you. Then it’s ready when I get back?”
“If you tell me what to do…”
“Of course…”
“Anything else?”
“Start the fire in the sitting room?”
“Consider it done.”
“I do also have a huge pile of washing…”
“Do you not have staff for that?”
“Well yes, but I wondered how far I could push you…”
“I’ll do your washing…”
“Don’t even think about it.”
“Dusting?
“You know how to dust?”
“How hard can it be?”
“I have a real job for you.”
“A real job?”
“Yes. An actual real job I want you to complete.”
“What are my orders?”
“I want you to go down into the cellar and choose a bottle and decant it.”
“I’m not doing that.”
“I’m serious.”
“You’re so fussy with your wine. What if I get it wrong?”
“I trust you.”
“You shouldn’t.”
“My choice to trust you. Don’t let me down.”
“Stay here with me.”
“I need to take madam to school.”
“I’ll be waiting for you to return.”
“I’d like that.” I squeeze him a little tighter, aware that this is playing at a reality we will never have but wishing for it nonetheless.
“I’ll have a glass of wine prepared for you.”
“Perfect.”
“Dinner ready for you, the house all nice and warm.”
“You’re the quintessential housewife.”
“You always do that for me. It’ll be nice to wait on you for a change.”
“I also bathe, do my hair…”
“And I come in smelly after a day’s work.” He bites my ear, making me squeal. “This time you’ll be the smelly one!”
“You could run me a bath ready…”
“Would you like me to?”
“Yes. This really is the life…”
“Okay… I will… But I’m getting in with you!”
“Oh God, it’s got to be a proper bath. Not one of your poor excuses for bathing.”
“Shush. Go and take your daughter to school.”
“And you’ll be here, waiting?”
“Yes. I want to spend every possible second with you.”

Chapter 17: Birkhall, January 2021 (1991, Highgrove & Buckinghamshire, 1971, London)

Chapter Text

Birkhall, January 2021

I turn to look at him, stopping, a thought suddenly spiking into my heart and decide that as we’re having a serious talk, I might as well address the elephant we’ve been ignoring since he recovered from COVID. “You know, I’ve not forgiven you. I don’t think I will ever forgive you for what you made me agree to.” I see his face fall, expecting his talk of love to end the discussion and hating the direction it is taking.
“We agreed not to bring it up again.”
“Well if I get upset with you, I promise I’ll put half a million into our grandchildren’s trust funds.”
“Each?”
“Are you insane?”
He laughs and inclines his head to gesture to me to continue.
“I would prefer to spend less time on Earth with you, than more time on it without you.”
“And I don’t want to die, knowing that I’ve made you sick with that awful virus and that you were going to die alone, because of me.”
It’s incredible how quickly this topic reduces me to tears and half a million or not, I’m crying and he’s wrapping his arms around me and squeezing me.
“You said you’d grant my last wishes. You promised me that you would.” His voice is soft and his fingers slip into my hair.
“I know. I know. But I’m not happy about it. Who’s going to keep your spirits up and tell you everything is alright. And that you’re allowed to close your eyes and to just rest? And that I love you but it’s okay…”
“Christ, Milla, you’ve set me off too.”
“Well at least our grandkids will be well provided for!” I chuckle through my tears. I feel his lips against my temple.
“Darling, no amount of discussion is ever going to change my mind. Just be thankful that it will probably not happen that way.”
“I am. Thank God, thank God.”
We’re quiet for a while as I regain control of my tears and feel his arms holding me tightly.
“This is why I fought for you.”
“Because I become emotionally unstable at the thought of you dying alone and in pain?”
“No. Because I love you so much that we need to have these discussions. That I need to know the precise point you fell in love with me. That I need to know what you’re thinking, how you’re feeling, that I need you to be safe more than anything else in the world. Imagine not feeling this?”
“I can’t.”
“That’s because you’ve loved me from the oft.”
“Darling, I didn’t. I can’t change facts to suit your delicate little ego.”
“But you did.”
I sigh. “Perhaps I did. But I didn’t realise I did. Is that acceptable?”
“It’s better.”
“I love you now. I love you today.”
“I’ve loved you for half a century.”
“So why are you pestering me about just a few of those years? God, we’re old. It’s so long ago, it’s a different lifetime, a different world. I love you now, in ours. I’ve loved you for two thirds of my life.”
“I’m sorry I took so long to marry you. I should have married you in 1996, the second I got divorced, that law was passed in parliament two years prior.”
“Could you imagine the reaction, had we married in ’96?”
He snorts and pulls me so my head rests against his neck. We sink together in this position, my arms wrapped securely around his waist. If I ever commissioned a statue of us both, this would be the stance.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t wait for you, half a century ago.”
“But we got there eventually. That’s all that matters.”
“I think it’s all the sweeter for it.”
“Yes, Darling. If you say so.“
Which makes me smirk as I place my gloved hand over his heart to feel the rhythmic beating and slow my breathing to match his, just the two of us, nobody to pretend in front of. My version of freedom.

1991, Highgrove

I ease myself out of the water and lie on the lounger, letting the sun dry me off.
“Why aren’t you naked?”
I smile at him coquettishly, “Preserving my modesty, Sir, in case The Prince catches a glimpse. Wouldn’t want to give him the wrong impression.”
He grins at me, “Quite right, too. Poor man. He’d not recover.”
“I wouldn’t want to scare him away.”
That makes him giggle slightly, “Perhaps I’d best check and see if you’re quite suitable?”
“Feel free, Sir…” I raise my eyebrows at him as he leans over and grasps onto the front of my costume, pulling it out and smirking at me as he threatens to release the material to allow it to slap back against my chest. “Don’t you dare!”
“Where’s the ‘Sir’ gone…”
I grasp onto the elastic of his shorts and pull him sharply, making him lose his balance and fall on top of me. “You’re such a git!” But he’s against me and he kisses me and I drown in them instead, enjoying every moment.

This has been the most idyllic afternoon, lounging beside the turquoise pool. It’s so wonderful to spend time together, hidden away from the world. Unusually for us, we’ve not spent the day in a constant conversation, mulling over events, agonising over our lives. It’s been too lovely and I think neither of us want to spoil anything about this day. I gently towel down my hair, knowing he’s watching me, ready to leap to aid me should I need help. His face has that slight touch of a frown and I know that’s because he’s desperate to help me and I don’t require his services. It makes me smile. God, I love this man.
“What are you thinking?”
“I’m thinking how much I love you.”
He scrutinises my face, looking for the glint of sarcasm and finding none, and then I watch how he relaxes back into his chair, flushed with the pleasure of my words and I find myself loving him more.
“You’re too far away from me.”
“Well pull your chair closer.” He does as I ask and we lie side by side, both of us reading a book, our heads obscured by our sun hats. I can’t imagine anything I would want more than our time together this peaceful afternoon.
The peal of a bell pulls me from my book and as I look up, he’s stood next to me, his hand outstretched to help me to my feet. I can’t help kissing him. A soft push against his lips as his fingers tangle with mine. Then he helps me pull my dress on, over my head, and leads me across the patio to a tête-à-tête, set in the dapple of the overhanging cherry tree. The cushions are already set up and I sit back in comfort, distracted by the blue of his eyes and the hand that still grasps mine. That falls as the butler arrives, bringing a jug of iced lemonade and a plate of cut fruits. They’re for me. Charles won’t touch food at this time of the day. I take the largest slice of a white peach and take a bite. It’s chilled and refreshing although the juice dribbles down my chin, making him laugh as I grab a napkin.
“Can’t take you anywhere!”
My eyes narrow at him and he chuckles, enjoying my disapproval, settling back into his chair with a smug look on his face. I flick a strawberry at him, hitting him square on the nose. He laughs again, although his face is shocked, and he promptly eats the fruit, leaving just a smudge on his nose that I wipe off with my napkin, making him squirm.

1971, London

“If you’re bringing me strawberries for my breakfast, you must be wanting my approval very badly.”
“I thought I’d make you breakfast. Then I remembered there’s nothing here so I came to bring you some fruit.”
He is smartly dressed in a suit, his hair neatly brushed and shining and he hands me over the punnet with a shy smile. I’m dressed in a long, wine-red night gown, which is almost decent, my hair wild and all over the place and last night’s makeup smeared across my face.
“Had a good night last night?”
I smirk and let him inside, my flat a bomb site and I avoid the piles of shoes and coats in the corridor and take him to the kitchen.
“I see your lipstick remains where I left it.”
My mouth opens at the cheek of his remark but he’s pushed me against the countertop and his hands are running up the sides of my body, making any witty response dissolve in my mouth.
“You’ve not wished me good morning.”
I reach up to kiss him, the response through me immediate and mumble through the words, “Good morning…” then squeal as he lifts me onto the kitchen countertop. I can feel his breath against my skin and it sends sharp ripples through me. “Why wouldn’t you sleep with me last night?”
“Because you were inebriated…”
“And?”
“I don’t want to take advantage. I want you to desire me when you’re sober.”
“I desire you now.”
His kiss is so strong, I just hold onto his arms and try to remain upright. He pulls away with a sharp tug and I attempt to catch my breath. I reach for him, my hands encasing his face but he doesn’t let me kiss his lips. Instead, I feel his fingers tugging at the straps of my night dress and I help him slip it down to my waist. I hear him gulp as he watches it fall and then his hands reach for me and we’re kissing and all I can think about is the way his hands feel against my skin and how much deeper I want this kiss to be. My fingers are grasping around his head, pulling him to me and then his hand slips down between my legs and I call out so loudly we both jump.
“Don’t stop.”
“I’ve got an appointment, I only meant to drop off the strawberries, I’ve got to go.”
He’s kissing the side of my neck, making me moan.
“Stay.”
“I can’t.”
“Do you not want to have sex with me?”
“Of course I do. I’ll pick you up later.”
“I don’t want to go dancing. Come back here, stay in with me, make love to me.”
“We’re not going dancing. And you can decide if you still want to make love to me afterwards.”
I growl into his ear which makes him bite down onto my neck.
“Full dinner attire.”
“Where are we going?”
“Pack a stay over bag. Bring your blue nightgown. I like that one. I enjoy taking that off you.”
My eyes brighten at that. “Do I get to dictate what you wear?”
“When you make the arrangements, of course.”
“You look good in a suit.” I pull on his tie, making him kiss me.
“I’m not shagging you on your kitchen counter.”
I shrug my shoulders. “I wouldn’t mind.”
“Not whilst I can still taste the alcohol on you.” He bites down on my ear, making me squeak. “I’ll see myself out.”
“Wait!” He looks at me curiously as I loosen his tie, then proceed to tie it neatly. “Better.”
“Am I suitably put together now?” His hands run up and down my thighs like he’s trying to sate himself.
“Yes.” I peck him one last time on the lips then see him out, lightly smacking his bum as he leaves, making him turn and grin at me.

1991, Buckinghamshire

“Promise me that you’ll never leave me.”
His soft kisses cover my face, my neck, as though he doesn’t dare to pull away to hear my response, as though these feathery kisses could influence my heart with something like this.
“I love you. I’m not going anywhere.”
There’s so much pain in his eyes as he looks down at me. “Promise me.”
“I can’t promise you that. I’m married to someone else, Darling. But I can promise you that I’ll always love you.”
“I won’t let you go.”
“I’m not trying to leave.”
“No. Whatever happens. However much pressure I get, I won’t let you go. Not this time. Never again. As long as you want me. Please always want me.”
“I want you.”
“Divorce Andrew. Be with me. Run away with me.”
“Oh, Darling…”
“I’ve been looking at properties in Italy. We both love it there…”
I bring my hand to stroke his face, my heart breaking at his sadness, at what he is admitting to thinking about doing. “You don’t have to do that to be with me.”
“I might. If I have to, will you come with me?”
“Live in exile?”
“Yes.”
“What about my children?”
“They can live with us.”
“And yours?”
“I’d see them for holidays…”
“Are you sure?”
“No. I’m almost certain they’d be kept from me.”
“Then no. I won’t come with you. Dismiss it as an option.”
The cry he lets out is almost a howl and I pull him tightly against me.
“Find another way.”
“There is no other way.”
“If everything fails and you’re forced out, I will come with you. But you don’t get to choose that option. If you choose it, I’ll stay here. It’s the coward’s choice. The man I love is not a coward. The man I love is brave. He stands up for what is right. For the people who have no voice. For the causes without glamour and where association is ridiculed. He doesn’t run away and leave his children to pick up his mess.”
“He can’t do that without the woman he loves by his side.”
“I’m here. I’m always here. I’m on the end of every phone call. I’ll do anything to see you, to hold you in my arms. I’m here, Charles. I’m not going anywhere. My heart is yours.”
“I’m so scared I’m going to lose you.”
“How? How am I meant to walk away from you? You made me love you. I don’t have a choice. I don’t think I’d survive losing you again.”
“But you won’t come to Italy with me.”
“I won’t let you destroy your life, your family, for me. I won’t destabilise my country. I won’t deliberately destroy my children’s lives. I never said I’d survive losing you. Please stop thinking about this.”
“I can’t. Sometimes I think it’d be better for everyone if I just left.”
“Please don’t leave me. Don’t run away.”
“But it’s the only way to be with you… I’d be running away to be with you. Do you not love me enough to be in exile with me?”
“I love you enough to know that exile would destroy you. I love you enough to know that it’s not an option for you. I love you too much to watch you become a shadow of yourself. Anyway. What would we live on? I’ve not got much money. You’ll be at your family’s mercy. You can’t exactly get a job. Darling, this is a fantasy. Not reality.”
“We could grow everything we need. Set up a vineyard…”
I don’t want to argue anymore. I can’t imagine a better way to live out the rest of my life. My heart leaps with the unexpected possibility even as I crush his dreams. “Do you think we’d be living like this?” My eyes glance about the room we’re sat in, a room far more grand than my house and far less than his. A house of our friends, empty except for us, yet gently welcoming. A fire lit in the hearth of the lounge and the morning room table set out for breakfast. Upstairs, I know our room will be freshly turned out, the sheets soft and crisp. A perfect hideaway. “Darling, we’d be living a life neither of us are prepared for.”
“We’d have an allowance. My mother wouldn’t let us starve.”
“You would lose your purpose in life.”
“I’d gain you.”
“Do you really want to be like The Duke of Windsor?”
“For you? Yes…”
His words take my breath away and I lose the will to argue with him, his eyes so dark they’re grey, locked intensely with mine, as if trying to convince me just how serious he’s being. The faint rustlings of panic begin to grip me. Is this what I want? Do I want to live in exile? Am I sure I want to be with him? And then he kisses me and my panic eases into hope. Hope I’ve never given myself permission to entertain.
“I’ll kiss you like this every day.”
His hands wrap around my back and he pushes into my hair, holding me tightly against him. As I gasp a breath, I find myself engulfed by his fantasy, “Promise?”
“Promise.” And then his arms release me just to capture my face instead and those stormy eyes are piercing into mine as his thumb strokes my lips and I can’t help but gnaw on it softly. “You’re my first thought every morning, and my last every night and then it’s pain when I remember you’re not there. Imagine not needing to be wrapped up together so tightly, because it’s no longer a novelty, it’s just one of the luxuries of life. Imagine waking up without that insatiable craving for each other, instead it’s just pleasure. Imagine never being lonely.”
I want to imagine. This is too difficult to rebuke. “We’ll fight.”
“Occasionally, yes. Like cats and dogs. But a fight is never going to break us. You’re as stubborn as a mule.”
“You’ve got a dreadful temper.”
“Never at you, Darling.”
“I take the brunt.”
“Well then tell me off. I can take it. I might shout, but I can take it from you.” He sighs and kisses my cheek. “I have my temper and you tell the most dreadful lies.”
“I don’t lie.”
“Exaggerations to the point of fantasy… I never know what’s really occurred.”
“Not technically a lie.” A sharp prickling edges down my neck. He’s correct but it’s not nice to be called out. “You have the most self-absorbed moods of any man I’ve ever known.”
“Are they worse than any man you’ve ever known?”
“Definitely.” That makes both of us smile.
“You flirt with everyone.”
That really rankles. I do not flirt with everyone. He’s the one who falls victim to every charming smile, not me. “It’s just conversation… There’s no intent.”
“I know… But I don’t like it.”
“You’re so jealous. And pot calling kettle black. You are so easily flattered, it’s easy for a woman to seduce you, you go weak at the knees and blush and heap praise and positions because they’re attractive and paid attention to you.”
“Yet only you have managed to actually seduce me…”
“Not true.”
“When has that ever happened?”
“All the time.”
“Never, Camilla, never.”
“I can name them.”
“If you can name a single woman who has seduced me, other than you, in the past ten years…”
“You’ll what?”
“I’ll do anything. Anything. It’s not happened so I can promise you anything.”
“I can think of one very notable exception…”
“She didn’t seduce me; you told me to marry her!”
“I am sorry about that but she was your choice.”
“You refuse to deal with any situation head on. You ignore it, pretend it doesn’t exist.”
“You have such crippling self doubt, you never make any decision until the point where there is no longer any choice.”
“You never tell me when something’s wrong.”
“You’re the most negative person I’ve ever met.”
This is the closest we’ve come to an argument in a very long time, but his accusations don’t hurt like I’d imagine they should. They sting like a scab being picked.
“Can you live with my flaws?”
“Is that really a question?” His fingers are still running around my face, his eyes burning into me with such an intensity I could melt, even through the hard words to each other. I reach up to halt his hands, grasping onto them and nodding. He reaches to kiss me but I interrupt, “Can you cope with mine?”
“Without a doubt.”
And then I kiss him and I let go of control, letting the passion between us take over. Somehow we navigate our way upstairs to the bedroom between kisses which blind me. It’s over far too quickly and I’m left breathless and shaking even as I reach to light a cigarette and I see him scrunch up his nose. It doesn’t stop him from running his hand up and down my leg in a daze. The nicotine rushes through me and I revel in the light headed release before I look over at him and see his face full of tears. Stubbing out the cigarette, I turn and wriggle back into his arms. He holds onto me tightly but the tears keep on falling. I wait for him to find words to explain his sadness.
“I can’t do it to my boys…”
“That’s alright, Darling…” And like that I crush my heart again. Stop dreaming. And I hold him tightly and kiss his head and run my fingers gently through his hair as my own tears merge with his on my cheeks, wanting to nurse him through every sorrow, wanting to protect him from every pain.

Chapter 18: Highgrove, May 2021 (2001, St James Palace)

Chapter Text

Highgrove, May 2021

“Darling! Come here quickly!”
It’s difficult to move quickly when you’re entangled in a net, trying to weed out and re-stake a bed of asparagus. This is the largest crop I’ve ever managed to grow and I tend them in a motherly fashion, singing to them slightly. I stop my humming and call him over. After a couple of minutes, I see him shuffle through the gate and beam at me.
“Look, Darling!” He produces one solitary strawberry as if it’s a diamond. It’s little, but perfectly formed, sitting in the palm of his hand.
“It’s very early for strawberries.”
“I know, Darling, it’s the first one, the first of the season. I brought it for you.”
“Thank you, Darling.”
“I know yours aren’t ready yet.”
There’s just the hint of a brag behind the pride but it makes me smile. I take the solitary strawberry and bite into it, cutting it in half with my teeth. Then I pop the remaining half in his mouth. It’s a little tart but that’s how I like them. “Delicious. Tastes of summer.”
“I brought you some green gooseberries too. I know you can’t resist them when they’re tarty like that.”
I reach up to give him a kiss on his lips for his thoughtfulness and pop the gooseberries greedily into my mouth. They’re so sour, they make my tongue dry up. I love them like this. He makes to return to his fruit and I give his bottom a parting slap, seeing him turn slightly to grin at me. I love doing that to him. Especially when I’m not meant to, like when we’re on television or on some engagement with the world’s media present. It makes me giggle so much. My sweet, long-suffering husband.

It’s strange how quickly you can adapt to a completely new life. One minute I was cowering behind closed doors, dreading the flash of some eagle-eyed vulture, and the next, I was courting the attention of the same editors I used to despise. I was so unsure of myself at first, feeling like such an imposter, but I’ve spent half my life with Charles and I grew accustomed to the intrusion of the media surprisingly quickly. That’s not to say I liked it, I never have and I never will, but I grew used to it. Some of those same reporters and photographers I’m almost friends with now and I’ve celebrated life events with them, congratulated marriages, babies, retirement. Life is funny sometimes.

The very first diary meeting I accompanied him on though was an eye-opener. Of course, I’d heard him moan about his staff and their expectations of him time and again, I’d even seen some of the more, fruitful, interactions, and I was intrigued to see how these meetings were conducted. His reasonings for inviting me were to begin to expose me to his life. Looking back, he must have realised that I had no idea what I was getting myself into and he didn’t want to do anything suddenly and scare me off. He needn’t have worried. I’m not a bird. I was unprepared, however. Wearing a beige suit which I picked up from the floor, hair which had just about been brushed and a token application of mascara, I felt myself up to the task and slipped into the office, one step behind him. What I witnessed shocked me, not because of the quantity of the work, which I ignored, but because of his behaviour. Although I’ve certainly seen him worse, it was the mean-spirited petulance which made my eyes widen and at one point, I think he only held his temper because I was standing there. I clocked the looks of surprise when he checked himself. Strangely, it was one of the first moments where I felt a flush of vindication. I could be useful. I wasn’t just a stain on his popularity.
My diary lay embarrassingly empty, but at the time, I didn’t comprehend conducting more than one event a day. It was enough just tagging onto his and attending the plethora of social events. I wasn’t even invited to the majority of them! I would love to show me my diary now. I would be hugely impressed with myself! But back then, I had a long way to go, privately as well as publicly.

2001, St James Palace

The second my brain welcomes consciousness, the anxiety starts. Even his lips against my forehead, waking me, do nothing to ease the frown etched upon it. The dread of this afternoon plays through my brain before he whispers good morning. It’s a huge public relations show and it’s embarrassing. I feel like I’ve hijacked the cause for my own gains, even though I know the charity gains just as much from the media circus that we will inevitably cause as I will. He looks at me worriedly as I fret and wriggle instead of enjoying our usual morning cuddle.
I’m on the path of acceptance, apparently, although the column inches don’t seem to agree. And this afternoon is to be my first event where he comes along to support me. But I’m terrified. If he hadn’t arranged to come, the circus would have left me alone. This morning, I am the needy one, clinging to his hand, demanding kisses and he suffers me. I don’t think he quite understands why I’m so nervous. After all, this is child’s play to him. For me it’s like walking upon a glass ledge, every step filled with danger, never knowing if I will fall through thin air. I push my nose into his neck and breathe him in, trying to alleviate the churning in my stomach. He wraps his arms around me and rolls over slightly so I’m trapped, stopping me from wriggling, but actually the pressure is helpful and I manage to stay still. Except for my toes, which are waggling like they have a current running through them.
“Breathe in and out slowly.”
“I can’t.”
“Copy me.”
I try but he takes so long to breathe in that I’m almost gasping by the time he breathes out again. It takes a while before I manage to sync with his breathing but by that point, I am calmer.
“Do you want me to move?”
“No!” The thought of him moving sends another rush of panic through me.
“Breathe Milla. Just concentrate on breathing. I just don’t want to squash you. Let me know when you’re ready for me to move.”
I keep to his slow rhythm and listen to his heartbeat, so steady. Everything about him soothes me. Is this what it feels like to be him? Is this what I do for him? That security and calmness. If I felt like this everyday, I would need him like the river needs the rain. I feel him adjust us so he’s not lying on top of me but he compensates by holding me tighter in his arms. I love this man.
“Would you like to go through your speech with me?”
“No.”
“Do you need to run through the schedule again?”
“God, no.”
“Would you like to talk about something else?”
I love him more. He’s running through the questions I usually ask him when he’s anxious. “No.”
“What you are doing is amazing, Milla. You’re turning your pain into good, for everyone.”
“I’m using a charity I should support anyway and pushing my own agenda.” This knife edge between promotion of awareness for a horrendous disease which claimed my mother and using the publicity for my own gain.
“Our agenda, Darling. And you know full well that me turning up to support you at your charity event will attract the world’s press. That sort of global coverage is impossible without you. They want to get their message across. They need you. You want them to get the message across. You help them. We want you to be seen as a suitable wife. We need them. It’s a symbiotic relationship. You know this. You’re just panicking. Now, I need you to answer a very serious question.”
“If you’re asking me to marry you, the answer is no. You’ve got to do it properly.”
“Oh.”
I pull my head straight out of his neck and look up at his face. He’s grinning at me and I scowl at him. “I don’t want to marry you anyway.”
“Yes, you do.” He kisses my nose. “Almost as much as I want to marry you. One day…”
“Only if I say yes.”
“You’ll say yes.”
“You’re too sure.”
“Milla, move in with me.”
“What?”
“Move in with me.”
“Which residence are you thinking of exactly?”
“Highgrove. St James Palace.”
“Am I allowed?”
“Darling, I own Highgrove. Move in. Properly. Make it yours too. Demolish it and start again. I don’t care. Just move in with me.”
“I’m not demolishing it. Like you’d let me touch any part of it! And I’m not getting rid of my house. That’s Tom and Laura’s too.”
“Naturally. But your books, your clothes, your pictures…the things that make you comfortable… bring them, or start anew with me.”
“Are you offering me an entire new book collection?”
“Darling, I’m offering you a library. Fill it with anything you want. Just make it your home. Here’s a little different. I can’t move you in here officially but I want you to feel able to come and go as you please so it needs to be home for you too. Not just when I’m here.”
There’s only one answer and I nod and reach to kiss him.
“I feel that’s romantic enough to deserve sex.”
I laugh and kiss him again. “Yes. But your timing is unfortunate.”
“It would keep your mind off this afternoon.”
“It would mean I’m not ready for this afternoon.”
“I can be quick.”
“Why do you think that would convince me to say yes? Don’t worry, Darling, I’ll be quick? Every woman’s fantasy.”
“What are you wearing later? Then I know what to look for.”
“Purple. Look for purple.”
“I’m going to kiss you, make the headlines.”
“Please don’t.”
“I’m going to kiss you when I see you. In front of the cameras.”
“I don’t want pictures of us kissing.”
“Why not? It’s what everyone wants. Give them a filtered down version of what they want and the media will explode.”
“I’m not going to kiss you.”
“Well it’s going to look bloody odd if you don’t. Because I’m going to greet Laura properly and Tom properly. Are we just going to nod at each other? Or worse, when I try to kiss you, you pull away? That won’t be embarrassing at all…”
“You can kiss my cheeks.”
“Then you need to kiss me now to make up for later.”
“I need to do nothing of the sort.” But his lips are on mine and they drown out my words as that ripple of pleasure flows through me, still, every time we kiss.
“We could give them a real show.”
“We are never doing that.”
”You’ve changed your tune. You used to have no qualms about kissing me in public.”
“That’s before those awful tapes were plastered all over the tabloids. I now value privacy very much.”
“One day you will kiss me in public and you will realise it’s not as bad as it seems.”
“I will agree to disagree.”
He chooses this moment to kiss me properly, his hands claiming my body as I giggle and squeal and pull out of his grasp. Then we’re wrestling, both of us laughing as we fight for dominance, his mock cries for help making me shove my hand over his mouth before he bites my hand and I kiss him instead. He lets me win, allowing me to pin his hands above his head as I straddle his chest.
“Lean over more.”
I laugh, watching him ogle but he bites my nightdress and tugs it until the straps are off my shoulders. Giggling, I let it fall down, lifting my arms to let it slide to my waist before grasping onto his wrists again.
“You’re going to kiss me properly now.”
“No, I’m not.”
“If you don’t, I’m going to press that button with my foot and at least two members of security will barge straight in as I’m yelling ‘help’ and you’re half naked on top of me.”
“You’re such a dick!” I grab the pillow to my right, aiming to hit him with it but, with a war cry, he tackles me and the pillows go flying before he pins me down and then he kisses me and I lose myself in his eyes, forgetting about everything else for far too long and getting up far too late.

Living with him, unofficially as it might be, has been much more stressful and a lot more lonely than I originally imagined. He’s a very difficult man and his expectations are far too high. That and we’re so, so different. I hate comparing our attributes because I invariably come out sounding childish and petulant, but his need for order drives me insane. He’s constantly pushing me, gradually allowing me to see his life and I feel like he’s testing me for how far I can accept it. Sometimes it’s annoying. Like how he can’t leave the tea cups sitting for five minutes and rings for them to be cleared. He can’t relax with mess and I’m left constantly on edge with the coming and going of staff. Sometimes it’s mortifying. Like how one evening he rang for housekeeping to tidy up the clothes we had just pulled off each other. I slipped deep into the bed sheets and pretended to be asleep as this poor woman came in and tidied up around us. He didn’t see why I was embarrassed but he’s had people executing his every whim for his entire life, why would he find it embarrassing?
I feel his hand on my thigh and I pull away from my thoughts. He smiles down at me and kisses me.
“You were away with the fairies.”
“I didn’t expect you back so soon.” I look up at his face and see the lines of stress etched into his face. “Come here. Let me hold you. I’ve not seen you all day.” I open up my arms to him but he sits next to me awkwardly so instead I help him remove his jacket and loosen his tie. Only then does he allow me to wrap my arms around him and he rests his head against my chest and closes his eyes.
“If you could just be with me, everything would be fine. I miss you so much when you’re not there. If you could be with me, I don’t think I’d find things so unbearable. It shouldn’t be unbearable. I’m not doing anything unpleasant. But I feel so alone.”
“I’m here, Darling.”
“I know… But it’s not enough. I just want you with me.”
“Most people go to work without their partner. They manage.”
“But it isn’t just work, is it? It’s all the social engagements that I can’t invite you to, the places I stay at where you’re not allowed. It’s worse when these places are beautiful or the company is great fun, because then I just long for you to share it with me and I’m doubly lonely. You don’t even come to all the engagements you could come to.”
“I have a family and a social life too.”
“Well you should fit them around me!”
“Oh, should I?”
The staff refer to me as ‘la reine’. Not to my face, obviously, but it irks me. I don’t know how much is in jest and how much is in distaste and I find myself fighting against him, pushing back at his expectations of me. It’s a constant balancing act, but for him, it feels like I’m chipping away at how he lives, fighting against his lifestyle. I’m refusing to mould to his wishes. I guess it was different for me when I married and moved in with Andrew. I was so young, I allowed myself to fit into his expectations. And he was away so often, they didn’t jar. I was also his wife, so I understood my status. But now I have my own understanding of who I am and who I should be. I’m not a girl learning who she is. But I also know what I’m expected to be, and somehow, I have to navigate my own path through it.
“I don’t see why you can’t plan your social life around me. It doesn’t seem that much to ask. It’s not like you have to go to work.”
I sigh. Another demand. And the compromise is always mine.
“This is the difference between you being my mistress and you being my partner. Twenty years ago you would have changed your life around to accommodate me without question.”
“Twenty years ago I would have attended whichever function you wanted me at and then returned to f*ck my husband.”
“I didn’t mean to make you angry. I’m sorry. But I don’t think I’m being unreasonable.”
“My life is but to serve you, my Lord…”
“Don’t be facetious. All I’m asking of you is to let me put all the social occasions I can invite you to, into your diary. Surely you can fit everything else around that?”
I twitch my nose, not liking to contradict him but not entirely happy with the suggestion either.
“Unless you don’t want to come with me?”
“It’s not that.”
“Because if you don’t want to come, then I won’t make you. I just… I’m just trying to find ways of spending more time with you.”
And just like that, I’m unreasonable and uncaring. “I want to spend time with you.”
“Then why is it a problem, Milla? I’m not angry. I just want to know why.”
“It’s stupid.”
“No, it’s not. I don’t want you to bottle up your emotions and feelings. We can’t be both emotionally repressed.”
“I feel like your escort.”
That makes him snort. “Escort?”
“You’re paying for my company.”
“Darling, I’m paying for you regardless of whether you keep me company or not. I’d be paying for you even if we never saw each other again. I’m the reason your husband divorced you. I’m the reason you don’t have any money and the reason you bought a house you can’t afford. I’m the reason you need twenty-four-hour security. I’m the reason you can’t remarry. I’m the reason your children have lost jobs, been stung by journalists, been cautioned by police, why you’ve been relentlessly pursued by paparazzi for the past ten years. I’m not paying for your company. If anything, it’s reparations. That and you have absolutely no idea how to run a household on a budget. I’ve never seen someone wrack up debt so severely and not have a gambling addiction.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t want to embarrass you.”
“Don’t be sorry. It actually turned out in our favour. They decided it was a good thing that you became a part of my household. Less of a liability.”
“I feel like I can’t afford to make a single mistake. Everything I do embarrasses you. Especially in public.”
“Oh… That’s different. I’m sorry. You’re right, you can’t make mistakes in public. You can’t put a foot wrong. The press will crucify you. But when have you ever put a foot wrong in public? Is that why you don’t want to go to my social events?”
“It’s ‘a’ reason.”
“You’re just going to have to face up to that. I can’t help you with that.”
“And I don’t feel comfortable with how everyone treats me.”
“What? As my partner? Because if anyone treats you badly, tell me.”
“Yes. Because the reality is, I’m still your mistress and I shouldn’t get that treatment.”
“Not our reality. They have to treat you as my equal when we are together.”
“They do when we’re apart too.”
“Good.”
“It’s not good. It’s mortifying and it’s not right.”
He smiles at me and sits up next to me, his eyes sparkling in a way that is impossible not to sparkle back at him, even if I’m shaken by our conversation. “Actually, Milla, I wanted to talk to you about this.” Looking a little nervous yet bright with it, he pulls out a small package from his jacket pocket and gives it to me. I start to open it but he stops me once I’ve unearthed a little jewellery box. I breathe in, panic hitting me, but it’s not a ring box. It’s the wrong shape. Exhaling, I look back at his twinkling eyes.
“I thought this might explain my thinking. I know you don’t like it but I need you to see why it’s not open to negotiation. Not from you. Not from anyone.”
I look at him warily, thumbing the box.
“Open it.”
Taking my time, I open the box. Inside is a very fine gold chain, so delicate, I’d be too scared to wear it. On the chain, is a flower.
“The flower is a Camellia.”
That makes me smile. “It’s pretty.”
“Turn it over.”
I do. I can see there’s an engraving, but it’s too tiny to read. “What does it say?”
“It says ‘mon amour, mon coeur, ma reine’. Can I put it on you?”
“I’ll be scared to break it. It’s so fine.”
“I’m constantly terrified I’m going to break you, break us. But, my love, if we do break it, we’ll fix it. If we snap it in half, accidentally, we’ll mend it. If you pull it in two deliberately, I’ll do everything in my power to bring us back together again. I need you to know that. I need you. And it’s so very important to me that you are treated the same as me. You keep on fighting it and you need to stop. How would you feel if it was the other way round? La Reine? That comes from me. You’re my Queen because I love you but I can’t control how my family treats you, how the world sees you. And it destroys me. So let me treat you with the respect you are not shown anywhere else. How the staff act is a reflection on me. They want to please me so they treat you as my wife. I’m not stopping them from doing that. I can’t. I will not compromise on how you are treated. I never will. Until you are crowned as my queen. Probably not then. It’s so important to me.”
I allow him to put the bracelet on my wrist, knowing he’s won the argument and accepting it. Sometimes he completely floors me. How am I meant to argue with him after that? “I’m sorry for causing you stress when you’re tired after work.”
“I’m always working, you have to talk to me at some point. I want you to be happy.”
“I am happy.”
“I’ve seen you happier.”
“Not in many, many years. And in truth, only when I was with you.”
“Remember, you’re my partner, not my mistress. I’m meant to please you too.”
“You do please me, Darling, but I feel like such a fraud.”
“Do you love me?”
“Of course I love you. How can you even ask?”
“You’re only a fraud if you’re pretending to love me.”
“I’m not pretending!”
“Then you’re not a fraud!”

Chapter 19: Highgrove, May 2021 (2011, Somerset)

Chapter Text

Highgrove, May 2021

Gardening used to be an escape for me. I poured myself into my garden at the first house Andrew and I bought, ignoring all the notes with tasks my ex-husband left for me to complete and relishing the challenge of independence for the first time. It occupied my mind, distracting me from thinking about which woman my husband was currently enthralled with. I spent much of the time I was pregnant with Tom out in the garden, trying to come to terms with my life. It’s not that Andrew had ever tricked me. I was never under any misunderstanding that he would be faithful; it was purely my own illusion, my fantasy that he would settle with just me once we were married. It was the coldness which really surprised me. Before, when he strayed, we would fight and I’d storm off and he’d promise me all sorts of platitudes. Now, he expected me to accept it and any form of protest was treated with disdain. I spent many bitter hours digging and trimming and planting in my garden.
Ironically, it was Charles who saved my marriage by evening out the game. He was the only man Andrew was ever threatened by before we were married and in those supposed honeymoon years, the one person who would guarantee a reaction from Andrew. Charles was never a secret. I made sure that Andrew would find out. That was good. I enjoyed the anger. I enjoyed the reconciliation more. He’d feel the need to ‘win me back’, through romance, through seduction. And even better, when I’d flirt with Charles in front of Andrew, I would see how the competition would guarantee all of Andrew’s attention, for a short period of time.
Later, I learnt to keep them both at my fingertips by just suggestion and the slightest touch, letting Andrew know that I was presently sleeping with Charles, enjoying it. I think we all got a kick from that. And then Andrew and I would retreat to our room, or back home, depending on where we were, and have the fiercest of arguments. I enjoyed them. They were the only time I got to express what I was feeling and then the making up was exhilarating. But then he went back to whichever woman he was currently bedding and I went back to stabbing the soil and tearing at the branches. And then Charles turned into a womaniser too and slept with half of London. I still wonder if they were trying to outdo each other in some way.
My garden became my solace. A refuge from the emotions brewing and simmering inside of me. The rest of my life was exactly as I had imagined it to be from being a young girl, yet false. I had everything I had ever wanted and I felt hollow. Charles made me happy because I yearned to be needed. When I was with him, I never once felt that he’d prefer to be somewhere else or with someone else and I needed that security. Amid all the parties and polo and women, Charles just needed someone to listen to him, someone to understand and cheer him up and I was very good at that. I still am.
There wasn’t a point where I thought to myself, I could fall in love with him, I need to be careful, until it was much too late, but my mother knew and my mother worried, long before I was aware of anything. He’d turn up at my house without invitation and sit with me, playing with the dogs as I pruned the flower beds, spinning a world I couldn’t imagine through his stories, a dark world with so much suffering. Then he’d talk through all his plans. I loved his plans, I love them today. They were the necessary contrast to the darkness, filled with optimism and determination and hope. They fed me, transporting me out of my small life, putting my own problems into perspective. Through the years, he brought excitement back to me, in every aspect of my life. Everything was different about him now, yet so familiar, from how he kissed me to the freedom with which he now laughed with me, and I watched him grow into the man he was destined to be.
Inevitably, there were various girlfriends and lovers. I tolerated the girlfriends, mostly, but seethed at the lovers. He was adept at flaunting them, a trick he had learnt from me, but my games with Andrew, trying to maintain his interest in me, failed miserably with Charles. Charles finds inconsistency bewildering and upsetting. Even back then he had no patience for games, or any toying with affection. He needs undivided attention, and laughter. Both of which came naturally to me. In my panic that I might lose him to another lover, I clung onto him, needy, like I never could be with Andrew, and he responded to me with none of the rejection and indifference I was used to, making me feel wanted and special. The ploy worked out well for the both of us. He got the undivided attention he needed from me, and I learnt that when I put him first, he gave me all the love and affection I was sorely missing.
As the years went by, I became increasingly anxious not to lose him, to keep him wanting me, and it came to a climax whilst I was pregnant with Laura. He supplied no resistance. I dropped my barriers and let him in and he settled with me, content with how I made him feel, increasingly gentle and loving with me. Unlike my ex-husband, who followed much more traditional views towards pregnancy, he stayed with me throughout, through the sickness, through the desire, through the tiredness.
It felt to me that I was Persephone, with two powerful claims on me. At the time, I saw Charles as the Earth, the light and happiness in my life, but in reality, he was always the King of the Underworld, his claim on me eternal, my love for him growing with the passage of time, a secret from even myself. But if I didn’t know how I felt about him by then, my mother did and tried to distract me, to put distance between us. Her attempts failed. He just visited me at her house instead, or wherever she’d taken me to get away, finding me out in the gardens and loving me until my heart felt like it was glowing.

“Darling…” His voice sounds from behind a hedge and I call him over, waiting for him to find me. “Darling, I’m leaving shortly.”
Propping my clippers against the hedge, I kiss his cheeks in greeting.
“Here, Darling.” He hands me a small basket of strawberries.
“Thank you.”
“No. They’re for Laura. I promised her the first punnet.”
“Oh. Of course. I’ll give them to her tonight when she comes round.” Charles’s relationship with Laura is just as sweet now as when she was a child and I smile at him but his face is full of worry, wiping the smile from my face as quickly as it appeared. He looks nervous. “What is it?” His face creases and I see him struggling to say what he’s about to say. My heart sinks into my stomach as I wait for him to form his words.
“It doesn’t matter now… because she is my daughter, my step-daughter…”
I don’t say anything, knowing that he is struggling but rendered mute by the direction of the conversation. Why is he bringing this up again?
“You couldn't have known she wasn’t mine.”
“She was practically Andrew’s twin.” I hear my voice turning cold, my only defence against this conversation, yet watch him wince and hate myself for it.
“But you didn’t know for sure.”
“I did the second I saw her.”
“So did I.”
“Then why are you bringing it up?”
“Because it doesn’t matter. In the end, it didn’t matter.”
“But…” I hear the word floating, waiting to be said.
He smiles at me sadly, “But it mattered then.”
He doesn't need to inform me. I am well aware. This conversation is dangerous.
“I want you to know that I have always loved her.”
“I know.”
“I loved her at first because she was a part of you, but I grew to love her for who she is.”
“I know this, too.” My tone is soft now. He’s reassuring me that it didn’t matter whose child she was, in the end. His face contracts again and I don’t want to hear what he’s about to say, I’ve not recovered from the first part.
“When I first saw her, I knew she wasn’t mine. I went home and I cried. I so desperately wanted her to be mine.”
My heart contracts with his words. Me too. Me too. But I can’t tell him and I feel my upper lip twitching with the effort of controlling my emotions.
“It was months before I could look at her without feeling bereft and now I feel so guilty. I’m sorry.”
“Please don’t…”
“I would have destroyed the monarchy, possibly the country, if she’d have been mine.”
“I know…”
“You were scared. Every time I’ve ever brought this up you’ve clammed up, why?”
“Just what you’ve said… An alternate reality that doesn’t bear thinking about.”
“What if I wasn’t Prince of Wales?”
“But you are…”
“But let’s say I wasn’t.”
“What’s the point?”
“If I wasn’t Prince of Wales and Laura had been mine, what would you have done?”
“This is a stupid conversation.”
“Yes. You would never have slept with me in the first place.
“That’s unfair.”
“Are you denying the truth in that? There’s no way you’d have dated me if you couldn’t use me to make Andrew jealous.”
“That’s really harsh, Charles, and really dismissive.”
“If I could have got you to date me, then I’d have had a chance… but the likelihood of you allowing me to take you out is remarkably low. I only got a foot in the door because I’m a Prince. Are you denying the truth in that?”
“I supposed not. If you weren’t Prince of Wales, I might have been less interested at first, but not once I got to know you. I might have dated you but I think I would have broken it off if you ever became a viable alternative to Andrew. I wouldn’t have had an affair with you either. I’d have either split up with Andrew or I would have had nothing to do with you.”
“Probably nothing to do with me.”
“I don’t know. If we were friends, then nothing would have been different, I was so in love with you, but there would have had to have been a scenario where we were friends first for that to have happened. Possibly, it would have been even more passionate because I would not have had an affair with you and that restraint… I would have done everything I could do to keep you away but without that immovable barrier of knowing that we could never be together, I think…”
“...We would have been married and popping out babies by 1989? No. You’re wrong. It would have been much sooner. I would never have left you alone. I would not have been in the navy so I would never have left you. You would have married me right from the start.”
“I’d have never been in the situation I was in with Laura, though.”
“I would have raised her as my own regardless.”
“Andrew was prepared to, also.”
“I didn’t know that. You are so secretive when it comes to Laura. You are, Darling, I’ve always felt like you’re hiding something. But that was astonishingly noble of Andrew. He is a very loyal man in many respects but I wouldn’t wish that pain on him. I wouldn’t have let it happen. In any circ*mstance.”
“I know that too.” My throat is dry and the words sound scratchy.
“Were you relieved?”
“I’m sorry?”
“When you saw Laura and you knew she wasn’t mine, were you relieved?”
I can’t answer, I seem to have left my body and I’m floating above it.
“Be honest. It doesn’t matter. I just want to know what you thought.”
“I… I…” I stutter, unable to string two words together.
“I’ve always wondered…”
“No…”
“No, what? You weren’t relieved?”
“No…” It is the only word my mouth can form. “No…” I try again, faintly.
“No, what, Milla? Why are you scared? No answer is going to make me love you any less.”
“I pushed her away.” The words seep out without permission. “I saw her and I…” The disappointment still hurts. I’ve never forgiven myself to allow the pain of that memory to fade. “I didn’t want her.”
“Can you tell me why, my Darling?”
I shake my head, frozen solid to the spot I am standing on.
“Please try.”
“I thought she was yours. I wanted her to be yours. And I saw her and I knew she wasn’t. And I hated her for it.” I can’t look at him, I’m so ashamed. “My mother had to place her in my arms by force. I just didn’t want her.”
“Because she wasn’t mine?”
“Yes.”
“It’s okay.”
“No, it’s not.”
“Yes it is. What happened to make you love her? Because I know you loved her completely by the time I saw her.”
“I looked at her again.”
“That’s all it took?”
“Don’t make it sound like nothing.”
“I’m not. But it takes some people months to even like their child. A few moments is normal.”
“No, it’s not.”
“Why did you want her to be mine? That doesn’t sound very rational for you.”
“I thought I was going to die.”
“You’ve always been dramatic.”
“The thought of you got me through it, the pain, and I was terrified that I was going to die. You kept me alive when I was so, so scared.”
“I do that too, when I’m scared, I close my eyes and I think of you.”
“So many hours of pain and the thought of you got me through it and then Laura…”
“Wasn’t mine…”
“No… And then the guilt…”
“I’m sorry. I wish you’d told me.”
“I wasn’t meant to tell anyone, ever.”
“It’s okay. I’m glad you told me now.”
“Do you hate me?”
“Of course not.”
“Do you think I’m an awful person?”
“No. And I’m glad that I was able to help you when you really needed it. I feel so useless around you at times. I’m glad I managed to help you then.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You’ve got nothing to be sorry for. I know why you’ve never told me. I understand. It’s painful but I understand. I’m sorry you’ve felt like you’ve needed to keep this to yourself for so many years.”
There’s no words to respond with. As he gently squeezes my hand, I’m surprised at how dry my eyes feel and how good it feels to have let out my awful secret.”
“Was that the main reason why you would never tell me that you loved me?”
Nodding, I dare to look at his face and he’s smiling at me.
“And because you were scared about what I’d do?”
“Yes.”
“And you felt guilty?”
“That too.”
“So are you finally going to be able to answer my question now?”
“Which question?”
“When did you realise that you loved me?”
It’s not easy to say even now, even with him looking at me, holding onto my fingers, willing me to say the words to him. I open my mouth but the words don’t come out. He just squeezes my fingers and waits. “When I was in labour with Laura and I thought I was dying and you were the person I wanted. Then. At that moment. I knew I loved you.”
He doesn’t say anything but looks at me, wiping the stray tears from my leaking eyes with his thumbs.

2011, Somerset

I love going to events with him. Farmers markets, shows, schools, village fêtes, pub openings, ship inspections, military parades, television appearances, speeches, factory openings, the lot. Everything. I love them because through the years we’ve devised our own little codes so we can talk to each other across a crowded room and make each other smirk. I enjoy leaning against him and looking at something together. I enjoy meeting people and hearing what they have to say and then telling him all about it afterwards. And I love the ride home, albeit I hate the flying, when we discuss everything we’ve seen and heard. Most of all, I love the change in him since he married me. How happy he is to talk to everyone and try on stupid hats and dance in front of the world. There’s not a person who can’t admit, as grudgingly as they want, that I make The Prince of Wales very happy. It’s a very satisfying thing to love someone happy again after so many years of sadness. And being loved in return? That’s wonderful.

“Do you want to hold him?”
“No.” The answer comes out more sharply than I intend and I back away from the hairy creature, its legs padding across the woman’s hand. There isn’t anywhere to go and I push against my husband who laughs at me as my heart beats in little flutters of panic.
“Darling, you don’t have to, I promise you.” He mutters into my ear so that no one can hear.
“Not spiders.”
“Relax.”
“I’ll relax when I’m not standing so close.”
“What about you, Sir?” The lady tries again and my husband shakes his head. That’s because of me. He knows I’d flee if he did that. And that I wouldn’t touch him until I was sure all hairs and spider essence had gone. It makes the people around us laugh. I see the photographers trying to get a picture of us pressed against each other but there’s too many people around us for a shot so I smile at them instead. They are a little like vultures. If we give them a scrap of our relationship, they tug at it, pulling for more but I know it’s beneficial for them and for us too. The world’s press vilified us; they made it so difficult for us to be together. However, they profit from our relationship now and we control the narrative.
Hullo, Hullo, Hullo. I try to talk to everyone when I’m at an event like this. I look at everything, even spiders. Take an interest in every product someone has poured their heart and soul into creating. If I see something I like, I buy it and I’ll chatter to the owner about whom I’m buying it for or what I’m going to do with it. Today, I bought some pies. Enough for lunch tomorrow at home. Something easy for Laura and I to eat whilst we sit watching my beautiful little grandchild. In, out, smile, chat, wave, pose, move on. Hullo, Hullo, Hullo.
I’ve never really come to terms with the diametric shift in public approval towards me. I still feel my stomach turning when we get out of a car, expecting the boos and the hatred. But it makes every interaction with people more pleasant because I’m expecting the worst and it never happens. It’s rather wonderful to be able to make someone’s day through just a little interest or a simple, genuine interaction. I don’t care that I’m considered rambunctious or direct. If I enter a room with force, there’s less time for people to denigrate me. If I’m always exuberant and smiley, people won’t complain about me.

Another event, another evening spent hosting a reception but I’m with him so nothing else really matters. I’m tired, I’m sore from standing on my feet all day, my cheeks ache from the constant smiling but that’s okay. He’s not trapped in his office writing and I get to spend a pleasant evening with him, talking and laughing. I spend most of my time at the reception match-making. When you put the right people in the same room, business adventures bubble. A few choice introductions and they find somebody who is currently doing exactly what they need. I engineer these moments as best I can. It’s so satisfying when they work. I get more pleasure out of this gentle manipulation than the evening itself. He knows. He encourages me. Sometimes, when I’m talking about a particular charity, I see his eyes lose focus and when he returns, it’s with an idea for collaboration with one of his. And then there’s the spontaneous occurrences which blindside both of us. I feel aggrieved that we missed them and he laughs at me.
Tonight, I’m glad when the guests are ushered out and I feel his arm around my waist as I linger at the bottom of the stairs, not relishing the need to walk up.
“Do you need a push?”
“Yes please.”
His idea of a push is to place one hand on my back and the other on my bottom but it does help and I ascend the stairs with greater ease than I anticipated.
“I can’t be bothered getting undressed.”
“I’ll call for your maid.”
“I can’t be bothered talking.”
“You don’t have to chat. I don’t always chat with my valet.”
“You’re not female.”
“Well I’ll undress you then.”
“Thank you. I’m too tired to chatter.”
“Praise the Lord.”
“Cheeky sod.”
“I thought you were too tired to talk?”
“I said chatter… And that doesn’t give you free reign with insults.”
“Pity.”
“We need a holiday.”
“You can take one whenever you want.”
“No. We. Plural.”
“I’m quite busy at the moment.”
“You’re always busy. Make time.”
“Yes, Darling.”
That earns him a look and he smiles, nodding. I have a mild panic that I didn’t specify what type of holiday but leave it. That’s a discussion for another day. I grasp onto his forearms and bring him to a stop, in front of our bedroom. “You’ve not kissed me all day.”
“Would you like me to make it up to you?”
“Yes.”
“I thought you were tired?”
“I’m not too tired to be kissed.”
He draws me close and my heart, even after all these years, sets off in a flutter. And then the kiss. I could still spend all night kissing him and he knows as he reaches to bite my lip and gnaws on it, making me giggle.

Chapter 20: Highgrove, May 2021 (2001, Ray Mill & St James, 2011, Westminster)

Chapter Text

Highgrove, May 2021

Since the beginning of that first surreal lockdown, I’ve been back in the garden for different reasons than all those years ago, what with the stress of Charles catching COVID and the global pandemic and lockdown, and coping with Charles and his crazy family whilst missing my own family and friends, but I still enjoy the simple pleasures of the feeling of the soil between my fingers and the satisfaction from the plants growing how I want them to. I remember ringing him up once, in tears, because my crop of vegetables had failed and died. He’s never forgotten how upset I was. Even now, if something dies I see him automatically reverting to that kind and sympathetic man who listened to me rather than laughing. I laugh now when something unfortunate happens like that; too many years have passed for me to take it to heart, but he never does, he listens to me and then kisses me extra softly. With a love as gentle and as constant as that, how can anything truly hurt me?

It was my garden which sustained me when those tapes of Charles and I were published in every newspaper around the globe, when the world turned against me, marred me as a Jezabel, shamed me as a whor*. The guttural hatred frightened me at first and I hid. Cue the most hideous paparazzi pictures of me, tools in hand, looking haggard and old. Why should I have to dress up to do my gardening? Who on earth cares if my hair looks frizzy as I’m digging into the dirt? With the fear came an anger which gave me the drive to continue and fight. To this day, people compare pictures of Diana from thirty years ago and I from today as if the markers of a successful relationship must be beauty and youth. People forget that Charles and I were together when we were young and the reasons we parted were not because I wasn’t deemed beautiful enough. They were for other misogynistic reasons instead. The years have aged the both of us and our love has never been based on beauty alone. That’s a ridiculous concept. Fifty years, two children and many grandchildren later, if he expected me to look like I did in my youth, we would not be together. Anyway, he’s always genuinely thought that I’m beautiful, no amount of convincing, and of that there’s been plenty, will ever change his mind. That’s what angered me back in the 90’s. Are women so unimportant as people that their worth is reduced to their looks? Are only young women ever considered beautiful? Who decides that turning point between youth and aged? Who has the right to decide what another person finds beautiful?

Charles thinks I’m beautiful because he loves me, not just my figure, or my face, he loves me. He loves what makes me, me; my character, my quirks and idiosyncrasies, how my hair poofs into a mane in the morning and the sincerity in my eyes when they’re smiling at him. He loves my bawdy sense of humour and that I make him laugh at inopportune moments, how I listen to him and the feel of my forever icy hands encased in his. Even attraction isn’t based on looks. Although perhaps initially they help, they fade into part and parcel of a person as the years go by. Other senses are far more important, the scent, the taste, the touch of your partner. That bolt of electric which goes through you when you find someone attractive, that doesn’t come from just looking at their physical appearance, and if you don’t like what your partner of decades looks like, you don’t love them, and you don’t deserve them.

It astonished me back then how much emphasis was placed on my age, my lack of Hollywood style beauty. All these men, mainly men, these journalists with vendettas against me for being a woman and because Charles chose to love someone whom they considered not to be attractive enough. I would loathe to be their wives. So then I must have bewitched him in the bedroom, for how does an old bag snare a prince? Well, do you know what, I absolutely did. It’s not a secret. Those tapes, those god-awful tapes prove that for a fact. And how dare I enjoy sex with the man I love? How dreadful of me. The rest of humanity must have the most awful time procreating. Honestly, I don’t know how the population keeps increasing.

That anger will never fully go away. But the garden helped at that time, until 1995 when Charles threw me off the edge of the cliff and I fell in freefall. The worst part was that we had discussed splitting up before he decided to do it. Practically, socially, institutionally, it was the right thing to do. We’d spoken over the problem until we both realised that there was no going forward for the two of us. There was just nothing to be done. I’d agreed, we both had, that it was the only sensible outcome to our disastrous affair. And then we both looked at each other and all the reasons why that was impossible came flooding back. There was no way we were letting each other go. So he waited until he was away and then refused to answer my calls. By the fifth time of trying to get through to him, on our personal line, I knew, and I was filled with such searing despair, I couldn’t move from where I was sitting. A pit of hopelessness consumed me: my mother had died the previous year, my husband had divorced me and remarried, I was sitting alone in an empty house I couldn’t afford the mortgage on. It was my sister who kept me sane. Luckily, my children were safely at school and university, away from the hollow mess my existence had become. I held onto my dog and cried whilst my sister forced me to eat and lit my cigarettes for me when my hands were too shaky. I couldn’t even hate him because it was our joint decision.

His private secretary called hours later, letting me know that he was, at least, safe and I was grateful for that slither of contact. Charles is very good at cutting people off when he doesn’t want to talk to them. He drops them from his life like they were meaningless. It was a terrible few weeks. My sister was the only person I would let in the house, but her insistence that him ‘letting me go’ was a ‘kindness’ just sent me spiralling into new depths of despair. In the end, the break turned out to be necessary. Both of us realised that life without the other was intolerable and we both not only understood that we must fight to be together, but also determined that we would fight to be together. It was more of a shock to me, because until that point, I had assumed that we would just carry on as we were. I was happy to be his mistress. Now I realised that I wasn’t. So back in the garden I went, chopping, pruning, planning.
It was several weeks before anyone realised we were back together. On my part, I felt embarrassed at letting my sister see my unnecessary despair. On his, he felt the judgments acutely and wasn’t looking forward to facing all the people who had been so relieved that we had parted ways. The brief interlude gave us a little peace and a little time to come up with a plan.
“When the time comes, do you want to marry me?”
It wasn’t the most romantic proposal he had offered me, nor the last, but his eyes were loving and that’s all I needed. Yes, I wanted to marry him.
“Are you sure?”
Of course I was sure. I was insulted that he felt the need to clarify. Yes, I was aware that marrying him would make me a member of the royal family. Yes, I knew that he was going to be king. Yes, I was aware that my life would become a goldfish bowl. Yes, yes, yes…
“But do you want this?”
No. Absolutely not. But all that came with the territory.
We drew up a plan, of sorts. We knew the only way we could win his mother’s approval was to first win over the public. Well… I couldn’t exactly go any lower in the approval ratings, could I? Yes, was the unfortunate answer. But thankfully we didn’t know that back then. And with the absurd optimism of two teenagers in love for the very first time, we started slowly, slowly integrating me into his life.

2001, Ray Mill House

“Am I meant to feel better about everything you have put my daughter through because you’re now living over the brush with her rather than making an honest woman of her and marrying her?”
“Papa, please...”
“No, Darling, it needs to be said. It’s my job. Let me say my piece.”
“Please don’t...”
“You can look at me as beseechingly as you want, my Darling, we are having this conversation.”
I can see Charles, ashen, and that unmistakable pout of anger fixed upon his face. My father, by contrast, is calm and his voice is level, even if his words are inflammatory.
“You show up here, at my daughter’s house, and we treat you like family, because Camilla loves you so you are, but you can’t say the same for your own kin. And I’m not suggesting that you should be responsible for them and how they treat her, but you need to acknowledge it and perhaps take some responsibility for her wellbeing. You’ve put her in an impossible situation.”
“Yes, I know.”
“It’s all very well ‘knowing’. It’s what you’re going to do about it that matters!” The argument is not new. My father has had this same conversation in many different guises with my hapless lover since 1996. Before that, it was much worse. “You’ve made her infamous. She can never have a normal life again. You’ve made it unsafe for her.”
“I’ve tried to keep her safe.”
“What? By hiring the ex-police officers to tail her about? That’s just the admittance that what I said is true. You’ve made her unsafe. Look me in the eyes and tell me that you have done everything in your power to keep her safe!”
“I’ve tried!”
“Not hard enough. The entire world knows her name. She’ll never be safe again.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You’re always sorry. Sorry for this, sorry for that... Sir, we have had this conversation time and time again. You wrecked her marriage. You put her on the front pages of every rag in the world. Sorry isn’t good enough.”
My father may be in his eighties but we all still cower in front of him. Charles is half his normal stature and his face is crestfallen.
“Now you’re shaming me because you’re making a fool of her.”
“I would never do that, Sir.”
“Your entire life is a mockery of what she deserves. I have looked on, Sir, for thirty years as you pursued her, regardless of her ex-husband, regardless of your ex-wife, regardless of how she might be perceived by the world. We were the ones who cared for her when you broke her heart over and again. We picked up the pieces, silently, because she didn’t put that on you. She had far too much consideration for you and you showed her none in return.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I know. You’ve said. But it never changed anything. And now... I don’t know what newfangled ideas you may have seen about relationships but you were brought up to marry your woman, not live with her in sin. You’re expecting her to do everything a wife would do and not giving her that security in return.” “Papa, I’m a grown woman. I can handle my own affairs.”
“Darling, you are quite exceptional, but you’re not handling this, you’re being an ostrich. I wish your mother was here to talk to you.”
“And I’d be saying the same thing to her. I love him. That’s it. That’s the only thing that matters.”
“No, Darling, it’s not.” Charles’s voice startles me. I ignore the bickering with my father and look towards him. His face is defeated and I can see the shame across his face. He knows my position is untenable but it’s not his fault and it was my choice. I place my hand on his thigh and he takes it into his, pushing his fingers through mine.
“Well, do you intend on marrying her?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“I don’t know.”
I squeeze his hand.
“Until you can answer that question, I don’t see the point in this relationship.” “I can’t marry her without my mother’s approval. So until that is secured, the question is redundant.”
“Do you want to marry my daughter?”
He sighs, resigned. “Yes, Sir, I want to marry your daughter. I have wanted to marry her for the past thirty years. I think you need to remember the part you played in ensuring I couldn’t marry her, whilst you admonish me for the present day.”
There’s a stony silence. It’s unusual for Charles to stand up for himself. It’s what upsets me so much when people berate him and belittle him. He’s given up explaining himself. He just takes every layer of abuse and continues.
“I didn’t want this for her. She didn’t love you back then like she does now. I wanted her to have a real life.”
“I would have loved her, properly. And who are you, Sir, to claim you knew Camilla’s heart? You brought up your daughter to make her own choices and then took the most important decision of her life out of her hands like she was a child.”
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry for you. But the decision wasn’t mine. I was informed that my daughter wasn’t good enough to be the Queen of England and frankly, I was relieved. I didn’t want this life for her. I still don’t. Camilla didn’t want it either. Does she now? You know she doesn’t. I can’t change the past, right or wrong I might have been. But you’re still unsure about the present. That’s what concerns me. No. That’s what angers me. You don’t think she’s good enough, but you don’t let her go. She’s in limbo and the laughing stock of the world and you’re responsible for that.”
It’s not the first time my father has brought Charles to tears.
“What is she to you? Your what? Still your Mistress? She deserves more than that. All those years. Everything she has given up for you. You allow her to be mocked and looked down upon because you refuse to tarnish your own reputation and marry her. Be damned about hers.”
There’s no more argument from Charles. He feels he deserves every word. The decision to be with me goes against everything he was brought up to think and believe. It goes against his morals, his beliefs, his religion but he loves me regardless, like the physical incarnation of Eve, but he wants me still. He thinks he is weak and selfish and a hypocrite, but it changes nothing because his heart is mine and always has been. I never argue like this with him because I realise how brave he has been to insist on being with me. He’s trying to change the entire world to create a future where we are together without destabilising the institution, the entire country. I’m not going to ask him for anything. I still can’t quite believe what he has already done for me and I will never push him because I can’t have him resent me. It has to be his decision. If that means I am never anything more than his mistress, so be it. I choose to be with him. I will accept the conditions.
The conversation makes him sombre and he doesn’t talk very much throughout dinner. Our family dinners are raucous with wine owing and conversations sparking, tonight included, notwithstanding Charles’s quietness. It’s my sister who takes pity on him, taking him aside to chat and he returns to my side looking a little more cheerful, and then my fully grown daughter sits on his lap, precocious madam that she is, and drunkenly tells him all sorts of heartfelt declarations and he holds her like he used to when she was a child and agrees with all her ramblings. Everyone agrees with Laura when she’s like this. I’m her mother and I wouldn’t dare to contradict her. He loves her as much as everyone else in the room. He would love her even if I turned around and told him I didn’t want anything to do with him. What more do I need? By the time we retreat to the sitting room, he is smiling again and I’m cocooned in a haze of red wine. I make my children moan as I insist on them sitting within touching distance and then further complain when I also demand ‘mother’s right’ in being allowed to mess with Tom’s hair and then Laura’s too as I force the both of them to sit on the floor in front of me.
“We’re not children.”
“You’ll always be my children.”
“Well we’re not babies.”
“Always and forever my babies. Stop moaning. You both like your hair being messed with. Where do you think you’re going?”
Both my children smirk as that comment is addressed to Charles.
“To the free chair, over there? Is that okay with you?”
“No.”
“I’m not sitting on the floor in front of you like these two.”
“You’re not, are you not?” By this point, my whole family are chuckling to themselves, with the notable exception of my father, and I pretend not to notice. Charles looks around him and then at Tom and Laura who are trying not to laugh, I can tell without looking at their faces.
“I’m sitting wherever you want me, my Darling.”
That makes me smile as I force him to squeeze next to me and then I alternate between the three of them with whom I am petting and all three of them pretend to complain but all three of them want me to continue. As the evening progresses, I lose my children to their cousins but Charles sinks against me, donating his head to be scratched as I absentmindedly mess with his hair, checking for lumps and bumps like I used to whenever he fell off his horse.

“I’m sorry about my father.” I whisper the words to him later, wrapped in his arms before he has to go.
“Don’t apologise.” He kisses my neck. “He loves you. It all comes from that. He’s hard on me because what I’m doing to you is wrong but he says something to me because he loves you. I can’t say the same about my family. None of that comes from love.” He kisses my neck again. “I do love you, my Darling, and I do want to marry you. I’m as sure as the day that knows it will turn to night.”
I push my nose into his neck and breathe him in. I hate saying goodbye. As much as I need my own space, the uncertainty of our return spoils what should be a happy time with my children. I have Laura all to myself for the next week and I can’t wait, but wrapped in his arms like this, I’d do anything not to have to ever let go.
2001, St James Palace
“I don’t care what they say about you. They can all go to hell!”
He has hold of my wrist and is almost pulling me along the corridor.
“You’re living here with me regardless of whatever my mother, my younger brother, or your father thinks.”
“Charles, please slow down.” His grip around my wrist is tight and he’s so angry, he’s scaring me.
“It’s a deliberate snub to you. I won’t take it.”
“Charles, you’re hurting me.”
He drops my wrist and takes hold of my arm instead, ushering me through the corridor at speed. “They don’t invite you to my own birthday party and I accept it, I play the long game but it continues. My brother is there, like the weasel he is, sat at my mother’s side, whispering into her ear.”
“What’s she said?”
“That I need to hide you away where you can’t embarrass me, the family.”
“That’s been said before.”
“That you can’t be seen to be living in any royal residence.”
“I’m not living here, officially.”
“My brother feels aggrieved that you’re here with me whilst his ex-wife is treated like a pariah.”
“They’re divorced from each other!”
“That I’m to stop bringing you to events where you can be seen or he’ll make life difficult for me. That every picture printed of you brings the family further into disgrace. That he’s going to refuse to be anywhere that you are out of principle.”
“I’m not too keen on being where he is either.”
“It doesn’t matter, Darling. I’d like to see him try to stop me, anyway.”
“Please can we slow down?”
“You’re going to interview the new butler. That will make enough of a statement. You’re going to approve every new member of staff we get. If they don’t meet your approval, they’re gone.”
“Statement for what? Charles, slow down!”
“A statement to my mother that you’re going nowhere. She will have to evict me and I can’t see that going down so well.”
“Your brother will love that. That’s exactly what he wants.”
“You’re interviewing the butler.”
“I don’t want to sit there and interview him!”
“Well you are.”
“What am I even going to say?”
“You have never, in your entire life, struggled with that.”
“I’m going to feel ridiculous.”
“Well you are currently acting it.”
I stop dead where I am and refuse to walk, yanking my arms down so he can’t tug me any more.
“For f*ck’s sake, Camilla!” He strides off down the corridor without me and I take a breath as I see him hit his thighs with his fists. Then he turns and storms back to me. I brace myself for his rage.
“I’m sorry.”
That wasn’t what I expected. I watch his rage sink into dismay, his face a second ago so red and now grey and gaunt.
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
His forehead crumples and he hides his face with his hands. I don’t know what to say.
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m sorry.”
I reach out to touch him but he shies away, repeating his lament until I grasp onto him and pull him to me. He’s so stiff as I pull his face, with his hands attached to them, into my neck.
“I promised you I’d never make you do something you didn’t want to do. I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. I was being obstreperous.”
“And I dragged you down the corridor and swore at you for what? Not wanting to interview a butler? I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay, Darling.”
“No, it’s not.”
“Now’s not the time, Darling. Let’s interview this man, together, and then you can explain to me why you got so angry.” I reach into his hair and run my fingers against his scalp. He turns to putty when I do that. A few moments later, he pulls his head away from my neck and I reach to kiss his lips softly.
“And why don't you want to do it? We need to stand up to my family. I don’t understand.” He’s still angry at me, the words sound with an accusatory tone, even given the apologies.
“And why is it so important to you that I do?”
“I don’t feel like you’re willing to take them on.”
“Perhaps I’m a little scared?”
“Well that’s stupid.”
“Shush! Everyone will hear!”
“Everyone can listen to their heart’s content.” He shouts it down the corridor and I wince.
“Shall we talk about this after we interview this man? Or do you want to have a shouting match where everyone can hear? Let them open the popcorn and enjoy the show?”
I see the image amuses him even as he struggles with his temper. “This sounds like a serious talk.”
“Yes. And it’s going to involve talking about feelings. Shall I open a whisky to ease the pain?”
“Bit drastic.”
“Which part? Talking about feelings or opening a whisky?”
“I’m a man. We don’t have feelings.”
“You, my Prince, are governed by yours.”
“Kiss me again.”
I do as he asks, lightly scratching his cheek with my nails.
“I don’t want to argue with you.”
“It doesn’t need to be an argument.”
“Why do you not want to interview him?”
“Because I feel it’s not my place, like I’m overstepping the mark.”
“My Darling, it is your place.”
“We both know it’s not.”
“I want it to be. If we just expect that you’re treated with the same respect I am, it will happen.”
“I don’t want to do that. I’ll interview this butler as I don’t want to create a scene here with you, but I’m not happy with it and we’re still going to talk about this. You can’t just decide things for me, you and whoever is advising you. I’m not chattel. We need to talk about it first.”
He’s angry with me for not agreeing with him and terrified of angering me because he still believes I’m going to leave him. I think for him, arguments signify that a relationship is failing. He doesn’t realise that our reconciliations have far outweighed the consequences of our disagreements. He needs to talk, he needs to vent, to expunge himself of whatever rotten seed he has uncovered and he’s desperate for understanding. But for him, the overpowering need is for love. When we’ve had to have difficult conversations, I have to reassure him that I love him first. We conduct any disaccord in between these reassurances as though they protect us from the harm we could do to each other. Perhaps they really do. It’s difficult to lash out in anger at the person you’ve just been comforting, when you’ve only just pulled yourself away from their soft, sad eyes. It certainly makes me look for the solutions, the middle ground, even if I express the anger. And me being angry with him makes me feel like I’m standing with a gun to the nose of a puppy. He looks at me with such sorrow and fear, I want to love him all over again.
“What do you want to find out about this butler?”
He smiles at me and takes hold of my hand. “I want to see how he behaves with you, both when I’m there and when I’m not.”
“He’s not going to be anything other than courteous in an interview.”
“Find out about him a little bit. You’re much better at that than I am. See if you think you can charm him.”
“I’m sorry? You want me to flirt with the potential butler?”
“Yes.”
“Are you insane?”
“I don’t mean flirt in that way. You just have that really charming side to your personality which makes men do anything you want them to do. It’s much better for us if he wants to serve you.”
“How come it doesn't work with you?”
“I know you. I’m immune to your charms.”
“You are, are you? Well it’s a good job.”
“Why’s that?”
“I don’t want The Prince getting jealous.”
He laughs, squeezing my hand. “Why? Do you think I give him cause for jealousy?”
“Who knows. He’s a funny man.”
He knocks into me slightly and raises his eyebrows at me. “Oh sorry, did I bump into you?”
“Oh sorry, do you not find me charming anymore?”
“Perfectly charming.” He pulls my hand and I end up in his arms. “I said I was immune to your charm, not that you had none.”
“You’re not immune.”
“I’m not, am I?”
“No.” I kiss him quickly and he chuckles so I take it a step further, “You best not let The Prince catch you kissing me.”
That makes him laugh. “I just have this feeling that he will be completely fine with me kissing you.”
“It’s very brave of you. He might chop off your head.”
“I’ll take my chances.” He reaches to kiss me and presses his nose against mine. “You’re a nutter. I’m certainly not immune to that.”
“It’s part of my charm.”

Our talks are getting very repetitive. I feel uncomfortable and he pushes me to take on more of a role as his partner. I feel that unless I’m married to him, there’s really no point. Why should I work for nothing? I will support him, but the constant appointments in my diary are really tiresome, the meetings with charities, with journalists, with his staff to make myself seem more marriageable. Noone else has had to prove they are capable to a wife to a man before they marry. It is insulting.
As I circle through my uncharitable thoughts, the phone rings and I listen as a cold seeps into my skin. A dread fills my body as I place down the telephone as this fear searches through me. All I can hear are the words, ‘knocked unconscious’ running on a loop through my head. At least somebody phones me now when something happens to him. I never had that luxury before. The only difference is that we’re living together. Perhaps there are some benefits after all, but they don’t tell me everything. I pace the apartment, not knowing what to do with myself as I wait for the phone to ring again.
“Hello? How is he?” I don’t wait for the full reply before the next words shoot staccato from my lips. “Where is he? I need to see him.”
They don’t tell me. Not when I’m being reasonable, not even when I burst into tears, as they patiently explain to me that I don’t need to worry and he’ll be home soon. I need to be with him. They don’t understand. I’m left frantically treading the floorboards, starting at every sound, rushing to the window when I hear the noise of a car until eventually he returns.
He’s grey when he walks through the doors into the apartment and his eyes are downcast and sorry for himself. He walks straight up to me and sinks into my arms. I breathe him in and kiss his neck as I wrap my arms around him, feeling the relief sinking through me as I sniff into his neck and stroke his back. He’s using me as his comfort and there’s no place I’d rather him be. He must feel the dampness of my tears against his neck but he doesn’t say anything, just holds me tighter until we’ve stood together for so long, I feel stiff.
“What happened?”
“Fell off my stupid pony.”
“Again? Charles, you need to learn to stay in your saddle.”
“I know…”
“I never fall.”
“You don’t ride as hard as I do.”
“I don’t break my bones.”
“Don’t nag.”
“Don’t fall off your horse then!”
“I’m sorry for scaring you.”
“Darling, let’s sit down and you can tell me what happened.”
It’s much later in the day that I get the real story. He lied to me. Tried to make it seem better than it was. How he thought I wouldn’t know that he’d knocked himself unconscious is beyond me but I suppose he isn’t thinking straight. That’s the point of concussion. The worst part, they all tried to keep from me. I find out through talking to his press pack rather than any member of his staff admitting what had happened, and in front of the photographers and reporters, I break down in tears as they tell me how he was knocked unconscious and wasn’t breathing until his teammate realised he’d swallowed his tongue and fished it out. Five men I’ve looked down upon as vultures pat me on the back awkwardly and bring me tissues and a cup of tea until I control myself again. This would make a good story but they won’t break my confidence. I can see they won’t and I endeavour to pay them back at some point for their discretion.

Charles is very needy with his injuries but unsure what it is he needs. The staff must hate him when he’s like this and I’m not interfering. I know not to when he’s not well. Instead, I sit sideways on the settee and read my book. He sits at the other end and pulls my feet onto his lap, absent minded, rubbing them occasionally. At some point I look up and smile at his head lolled back, little snores escaping his mouth. The noise from this wakes him up and he smiles at my eyes watching him. I beckon him with my fingers and he crawls over to me, resting his head on my chest and lying to the side of me. Pulling a blanket from the arm of the sofa, I throw it over him before checking through his hair with my fingers. I can’t feel any bumps but his poor face is grazed. I trace it so softly with the tips of my fingers. Thank goodness he was wearing a helmet. He could have died. Satisfied that there isn’t any swelling, I kiss his head gently. He’s already asleep and I settle myself where I am, not wanting to move away from him, feeling my body turn to lead with the shock of the day’s events and my inability to protect him. Here, I get to listen to his breathing, knowing that he’s okay, the panic soothing into a dead weight inside me. I get to feel him against me and guard him as he sleeps. My fingers run through his hair gently until I find myself drifting to sleep too and then I rest my hand against his.

2011, Westminster Abbey

He drops my hand as we pull up to the Abbey and takes a deep breath, cuff link, cuff link, pocket square, wave. I copy, without the checks to my outfit, just a pat to my hat to see if it’s still fastened. I’m not sure what I’d do if it wasn’t. And then we wave and chat to the Deans as we head into the Abbey, smiling like the proud parents we should be, seeing his family at the front, feeling his entire demeanour bristle. It’s no different to an event with the public really. Smile, wave, make polite chatter.

“Hello Papa.”
“Are you ready?”
“I’m not sure. I guess I can’t back out now.”
“I really think you can’t…”
They have the emotional range of stick insects. I kiss William’s cheeks. “When you see her, you’ll stop feeling so nervous.” He looks at me with eyes which don’t believe my words. “Trust me. But she’ll be nervous, so make eye contact.”
“You’ll look back on this as the happiest day of your life.” He’s so formal, even with his son. He makes me smile.
“Do you?” William looks at us with scared eyes.
“Absolutely. I got to marry the love of my life. Of course it was the best day. Darling?”
“Definitely not. I was terrified. The happiest day of my life was a different day entirely.”
“Not our wedding day?”
“No!”
“Are you honestly saying that wasn’t the best day of your life?”
“It absolutely wasn’t.”
This makes William laugh slightly, “Please don’t bicker.”
“We’ll possibly still be on speaking terms by the end of the ceremony!”
“Good luck, son. See you on the other side!”

He’s nervous for his son, recalling the spectacle of his own first wedding. I’m not. I think his son’s new wife is made of strong stuff. I think she’s going to mellow him. I’m going to use this marriage to build bridges between my husband and his son because I know how much he wants this. I’m going to make him make the effort. Take those first steps. Support him through every setback. He doesn’t know I’ve decided this, of course, but I can’t live with all this feuding. I always thought it was because of me but I’m not so sure now. I think they all hate him and use me as an excuse.

“I still don’t see why they’re here.”
“Not now. You need to support your brother.”
That’s his youngest son, making a remark which I know to be about my children.
“Why are they sat up at the front?”
“Because they’re my step-children. Now is not the time.”
“They are not family.”
“They most certainly are. You have a job to do.”
Then I have to kiss his cheeks and pretend I’ve not heard, pretend everything is fine for the cameras, for the people sitting so close they could almost hear. He’s always polite to my face, just atrocious to his father.
Neither boy respects their father because they’ve been taught not to. Sometimes consciously, where they have been told that he is weak, that he is an idiot, sometimes subconsciously, where they copy the interactions of others in his family. Charles has changed a lot since marrying me, but he’s still treated like a fool by the members who have seen him acting like a petulant child. They never stop to think that it might be their actions which trigger his behaviour.

“I don’t see why she’s here when Sarah’s not invited.”
“Camilla’s my wife. You and Sarah are not married.”
“Diana would turn in her grave if she knew Camilla was at her son’s wedding.”
He says it in front of me, deliberately so I can hear. I don’t rise. I never rise. I kiss his cheeks and I chivvy Charles to sit down even as I feel him bristle. Once we’re in the pew, we are spared from the comments at least. I press my leg against his and I chatter away to take his mind off his brother’s words.
He’s always anxious when he’s around his family and although there are ebbs and flows, they seem to follow one disaster after another, one argument followed by the next. The constant one-upmanship is draining. It makes me want to cry for him. There’s nobody on his side except for me. Every other alliance has to be carefully negotiated in order to present a united front for the world. Charles’s family is spiteful and vengeful and although I’ve been grudgingly allowed into the family, I’ve never been accepted. I find solace in my own family. Charles does too. He adored my father. He thinks the world of my sister. When we’re all together, he slips into a different life and floats along with me with a smile on his face, enjoying our time together out from under the spotlight, away from the viciousness of his own kin.

I spend the rest of the day running after little Eliza. At three, she’s perhaps just that tiny bit too young to be a flower girl but, even given his words about my children, Harry is sweet with our grandchild. He gives her a little pink plushy to hold onto to stop her crying during the official photographs and she looks at the photographer when I hold her hand. The balcony is my daughter’s nightmare and true to form, Eliza makes a break for the front the second I let go of her. Having promised Laura I’ll look after her, I grab onto our errant granddaughter and we situate ourselves at the end of the balcony, away from the main focus of the cameras. She wants to see the crowds below her and is too little to look over but my heart can’t take her so close to the edge so instead, I lift her, pulling her up by her arms to see. She hangs in what must be an uncomfortable position until my husband notices and I get a sharp signal to put her down. Before I have time to get annoyed with him for correcting me, he lifts Eliza up and into his arms, much higher than I could lift her, much more securely. She settles there, resting her tiny fingers against his huge hands and listens to him as he tells her about the planes and then clutches onto my finger as the red arrows do their flyby. I can see rather than hear the mutterings from inside, from the other side of the balcony. I look instead at my husband talking to his grandchild, which makes my heart melt that little bit more. Eliza doesn’t know that Charles is not biologically her grandfather. Why would she? He’s just her ‘Umpa’ and she adores him. The feeling is mutual. I remember how Laura used to have Charles wrapped around her little finger, well, still does. Eliza doesn’t even have to try. How like their mothers, daughters become. Charles doesn’t care. He’s happy if they’re happy. The distant muttering from the other side of the balcony has grown to gestures and I don’t know whether Charles is aware of the discontent around us but he doesn’t put Eliza down. Since marrying me, he doesn’t tend to react to the constant provocation, perhaps he feels there is no need anymore. His family don’t see how much he’s grown, how much he’s changed, but I do and my pride in him grows with each passing day.

Chapter 21: Highgrove, May 2021 (1971, Tuscany Islands, Italy)

Chapter Text

Highgrove, May 2021

I squeeze next to him outside, kissing his cheek as I pull his blanket over both our knees and adjust my cushion to sit more comfortably. He makes me laugh as he noses into my neck and I hear him inhale before wrapping his arm around me gently.
“You smell nice.”
“I smell clean.”
“Yes. It’s nice.”
He’s referring to the fact I no longer smell of smoke each time he pushes his nose against my neck. “Well I’m glad you like inhaling me.”
“I don’t think you could have given me a better wedding present.”
“Oh…” It’s the perfect evening for a cigarette, now he’s reminded me of it, and if my decision to quit the habit of lifetime was anything other than a promise to him, I wouldn’t have stuck to it. The delicious stillness of the evening air outside with a glass of red wine and the hit of the nicotine… The ex-smokers’ lament. It would simultaneously deter the midges and provide the perfect pass time. I sigh. That, amongst many other things, is no longer a part of my life. Then I want to banish my thoughts. When I had all those things, I wasn’t happy. I’ve only ever been happy when I’ve had him. I kiss his cheek to apologise for my thoughts and listen to him telling me about an anti malaria scheme in Singapore. There are several candles already burning their zingy deterrent. His mind is a hum of activity, even in these still, quiet days and he is the most interesting man on the planet. I don’t know how he absorbs all that information and retains it and puts it in some semblance of order. He’s quite remarkable.
“Do you know what I’m in the mood for?”
I raise my eyebrows at him. “I dread to think…”
He chuckles to himself. “I remember a time when you were always in the mood for anything I suggested.”
“I think you’re mis-remembering.”
“Okay, pedant. I remember when anytime I suggested something, you were in the mood.”
“On my terms.”
“Yes, mostly on your terms. I’m glad we got over that particular barrier eventually, though. I enjoy being in charge every now and then, when you allow me to be, that is.”
“Perhaps I let you now because you’ve improved?”
“It has nothing to do with that, as you well know.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t be too sure. I remember a time where I had to instruct you with everything.”
“‘Think of me as a rocking chair.’ Yes, Darling, not the crowning moment of my life.”
“Everyone has to learn.”
“Did I learn to your satisfaction?”
“Mostly.”
He chuckles again and kisses my ear. “I remember when this,” he bites my ear lobe gently, “made you so breathless, you couldn’t stand up straight.”
“It wasn’t just that.”
“I think it was. Do you remember the party where we rekindled our ‘romantic’ relationship?”
“You have a quaint turn of phrase for what we did at that party. Of course.”
“We didn’t even touch each other for the majority of the evening.”
“Yet we had a tacit agreement to slip upstairs together.”
“We didn’t talk about it either, did we?”
“No. We just stared at each other across the room.”
“I knew you wanted me. That was enough for me. I stalked you all evening, never even standing next to you but I was acutely aware of everything you did, every movement you made. I still remember every detail of the outfit you were wearing.”
“Do you? I don’t. What was I wearing?”
“You were wearing this beautiful blue floral bustier with a sweetheart neckline.”
I laugh at his description of my dress, always precise. I’d bought that dress with him in mind.
“I’m not sure if it was too big deliberately or accidentally but it meant that I could see right down your top.”
“Definitely deliberately.”
“Your skirt was floaty, as always back then, and billowed as you moved. You were wearing the highest heels I’ve ever seen you wear with those stockings with the line all the way up the back. All I could think about was running my fingers up that line.”
“You did do that.”
“Yes, later. But not then. Your hair was enormous. I know that was the fashion of the time but yours was particularly bouffant and I wanted to brush it away from your face so I could see you.”
“I just remember your eyes. I could feel your eyes burning into me.”
“Every single item of jewellery you were wearing, I had bought you. That bracelet which made you cry. That clasp on your pearls. The thin gold chain I’d given you to replace part of a necklace you’d broken back in 1969. Your earrings… I took it all as a sign.”
“I don’t remember doing that. I’m not sure that was deliberate. Probably I wanted to wear them because they reminded me of you. Or because I wanted you to know how much I appreciate the things you have given me.”
“I made you flush pink just by looking at you.”
“It was how intensely you were staring and your face didn’t hide how much you wanted me.”
“I don’t think anything could have hidden how much I wanted you.
“Dinner was excruciating.”
“I made sure you were sitting next to me.”
“Actually I was under quite a bit of pressure to shag you.”
“Really?” His tone is full of doubt.
“People like to meddle. The rationale was that it would make you feel better. Our friends kept on calling me, telling me that it would be good for both of us.”
“How much are you exaggerating?”
I laugh, he knows me too well. “Okay, I had one call…”
“...And it had nothing to do with sleeping with me…”
“Well…”
He kisses my ear. “So, let’s strip this story back about 70%, Darling...”
“Fine… Tell me what you were thinking during dinner.”
“You kept flicking your hair back. Running your fingers through it as you were talking to me. I remember having to stop myself from reaching over to do it for you each time it slipped in front of your face. And then you turned towards me slightly and all I could see were your breasts, just there in front of me and don’t try to tell me you didn’t do it on purpose.”
I smirk, not attempting to deny the accusation.
“You stopped talking when I placed my hand on your thigh.
“Bold move, that. In front of people.”
“It was under the table, nobody could see. Anyway, it was only for a moment. Your face turned bright red so I grabbed your hand instead and then I pushed my fingers between yours and it felt like the only thing in the world that was right. I squeezed your hand so tightly.”
“When did you decide you were going to shag me?”
“I didn’t. I just couldn’t stand not touching you for a second longer. After dinner it was dreadful, just staring at you. And I didn’t decide. Everybody left apart from you. You dawdled so much and then when it was your turn to go, it was impulse. I took your hand, led you to my room and then just looked at you. You could probably hear my heart beating so loudly. But it was you who reached for me and then I kissed you.”
“It wasn’t romantic.”
“No, it was completely desperate. But I still remember how you felt. I remember the feel of the clothes that got in the way as I grasped onto you and lifted you onto that dresser. I remember the heat in that kiss and then the reaction of your whole body as I pushed into you.”
“You’ve gone pink.”
“Are you surprised?”
“Are you hot under your collar?”
“With you? Always. Your turn.”
“I think that reaction was my body informing me that I needed you. That entire year where I didn’t see you even in passing. All those times before and after where we saw each other briefly and you’d kiss my cheeks and then I’d pull away. And that one time when we had a minute alone and we kissed before breaking away again in a panic. I think my body was tired of me ignoring it, ignoring you. It wanted me to not be able to stop and I couldn’t. I wanted you. My body insisted on you. It was the most intense reaction I’ve ever felt.”
“You have ever felt?”
He makes me laugh. He’s so needy. “Of course, I continued to have the exact same reaction, every single time we have had sex from that moment on… Always that good…” I grin at him with my eyes and he laughs.
“I aim to please.”
“Even now…”
“Sometimes Milla, you’re unnecessarily cruel.”
“You find my cruelty strangely alluring.”
“It’s a good job, isn’t it?”
“Oh, how life would be dull for you if I didn’t keep you on your toes.”
“A damn sight easier.”
“Grumble away. You would hate it if I changed.”
“Don’t change.” He bites my ear, making me giggle. “Why did you send me out on a four hour walk today? I’m exhausted but I’d like to continue our conversation.”
“I didn’t dictate the length of time you must be out, just that you must go out. You decided the length all by yourself.”
“You moan if I come back too quickly.”
“Yes. Because you then proceed to annoy me. No, it’s much better when you head off properly. Off you trot. You go and be at one with the goats. Then, when you return, you’re a thoroughly pleasant human being.”
“But now I’m too tired.” He moans into my ear before nibbling it and it tickles.
“Well then, shall we retire and continue our reminiscing wrapped up in bed together? All we have to do is talk, I presume you’re not too tired for that?”
His brow wrinkles and it makes me smile. “I want to do a bit more than that.”
“I’ll follow your lead.”
“You never do that.”
“That’s just untrue.” I pout and he laughs, kissing my lips this time. “Do you remember when we stayed on that tiny little boat?”
“In vivid detail.” He presses his nose against mine before moving away to drink a sip of his wine.
“I want you to tell me everything you remember.”
“See! You’re already taking charge!”
“I’ll stop. You’re in charge of everything.”
“Everything?”
“Everything.”
“Why do you do this to me when I’m tired?”
I kiss him very gently on the cheek. “Because I love being intimate with you in every form it takes. Tell me about our first night on the boat, you’re better at this than me.”
“That’s because you recount in graphic detail. Some of the pleasure comes from what I hint at, not what I directly state.”
“Start hinting.”
“Who’s in charge?”
“You are, Sir.”
“Then for once, my Darling, my wonderful wife, be quiet!”

1971, Tuscany Islands, Italy

It’s agony waiting for him to pick me up. Four o clock is exceptionally early to be going out for dinner but I acquiesce with gusto, knowing he lives on a very different schedule than my own. It doesn’t aid the disappointment when the car shows up to find he’s not waiting inside, however, and I sit in the back in a bit of a strop. The strop turns into indignation when we pull into a military airfield and then I groan, realising I’m about to be subjected to another of his flying trips. Although I’m sure he feels it’s romantic to fly me about the place, and I’m ordinarily confident about his piloting abilities, he does find me a little too distracting and I worry the entire time that he’s not concentrating on keeping the aircraft in the air when I sit next to him in the co*ckpit. Also, this dress will get scrunched up and I know he likes seeing me when I’m dressed at my best.
But when he walks up to greet my car, and takes my hand to aid me to my feet, I can see that he’s dressed in full dinner attire and I’m mollified for a moment, accepting his kiss with pleasure.
“Where are we going?”
He kisses me again, on the lips this time and leaves the question hanging.

This time, we travel by jet and my earlier fears about my dress prove to be unfounded. A half glass of red sees me through takeoff and he sits across from me, grinning at me mischievously each time I catch his eye. Eventually I can’t take the suspense any longer.
“Where are you taking me? I don’t have my passport on me.”
He just proceeds to unbuckle his briefcase, that grin on his face like the Cheshire Cat as he hands me first a parcel which feels decidedly book shaped and then with aplomb flaunts my passport.
“What the…”
“I grabbed it last night.”
“Whilst I was drunk?”
“Whilst you were sleeping soundly on the sofa, before I carried you to bed.”
“Thief.”
“Guilty as charged.”
“I would have brought it with me. There was no need for surreptitiousness.”
“Your expression made it worth it.”
“So, we’re not going to Scotland then?”
“Are you disappointed?”
“Are you really going to make me beg to find out our destination?”
“I would love to see you beg.”
“I never beg.”
“I know that.”
“Humph…” It’s the only noise worthy of the occasion. I refuse to look at him as I open my parcel and then feign disinterest at the title as I nonchalantly open the covers to read. I see his eyes twinkle as I sneak a glance at him and then I ignore him for a good hour as I sink into the Alexandre Dumas, loving the book far too much to pretend I’m actually not interested.

I know we’re getting closer by how twitchy he is getting. Out of the corner of my eye, I watch him shuffle about in his seat and I can see he is desperate to disrupt me from my book but too polite to actually do it. Letting him know that I’m no longer reading, I continue to ignore him, dramatically sighing and look out of the window whimsically.
“Italy, Darling…”
My head turns sharply to look at him and then back at the book title. “Montecristo?”
He laughs. “That was incredibly quick. Not tonight… but yes!”
A warm flood of pleasure sinks through me. “Elba?”
“Jesus Milla, talk about ruining the surprise!”
“Wait a minute. I’ve packed for tonight only.”
“I didn’t want to give away the surprise.”
“I presume I’m not going to be stuck in my evening dress or better my nightgown the entire time?”
“I was hoping there would be no need for clothes.”
I laugh, knowing he’s packed me everything I need, but also that he’s deadly serious. “I’ve been desperate to visit Montecristo!”
“I know.”
“And Elba too! Ah! The literary historical significance.”
“The maritime significance…”
“I’ve been fascinated by Josephine forever.” I watch his eyes soften as I chatter at him and I can see that he’s getting more pleasure from my excitement than if the trip included every activity he favours in the world. It makes me want to kiss him.
“Three nights. The first in a spa, the next two on a yacht.”
“What on earth is this in aid of?”
“Just you…”
“You’re never that straightforward.”
“We’re about to land.”
“You’re changing the subject.”
“I’m changing the subject.”

I wade through a path of water to walk back from the terrace where we ate dinner, my heels and stockings abandoned for the pleasure of walking over cool stone and paddling in the artificial stream. Eating never seems like the principle enjoyment for him, his eyes perpetually smiling at me, and I get the impression he would be monstrously fussy with what he’s eating if I wasn’t there to temper him. But there was nothing to complain about tonight. The beef fell off the bone, almost melted in my mouth and the accompanying wine was divine. We laughed our way through five courses until I was so full I thought I would explode and then set off on a stroll through the grounds. We’re not usually so alone and it’s exhilarating how completely satisfied I am with just him. Our jokes soon turn raunchy and I enjoy watching his cheeks turn pink and that rush as his fingers stoke mine so slightly, trailing up and down my arm. But now I can feel his eyes firmly on me and I ease the zip down the back of my dress, hearing him protest meekly that we are not in our room. The bottom of my dress was already trailing in the water and it sinks further down as I let it slip off my shoulders, making him leap to catch it, his arms wrapping around me in panic. “There is nobody here to see.” My voice doesn’t sound like my own; it’s huskier than I’ve ever heard it and I feel his lips on my neck and his hands grasping to hold my dress around my waist.
“Please keep it on until we get to our room.”
“Didn’t you hire out the entire hotel?”
“Yes, but there are still staff here.”
“I don’t mind. It’s too hot.” I tug the dress out of his hands and it drops to the floor, straight into the water. It’s too dark for me to properly see the expression on his face but I feel his hands run over my body, almost involuntarily.
“Please…” The anguish in his voice is betrayed by how he can’t keep his hands from grasping onto me.
“I’ll wear your jacket.”
“Deal.”
Our fingers fight to unbutton his jacket as he kisses me with so much want, it’s difficult to stand and then suddenly he’s wrestled the jacket onto my back, hauled up my dress from the floor and he’s trying to clasp the front of the jacket closed as he leads me down the corridor.
“You’re dangerous.”
We do bump into his security before we make it to the room, which makes me giggle as he scowls at me but as the door closes behind us, he pushes me back against it and kisses me so passionately, I forget to tease him, his hands burning against my skin.

“I am not free to do everything you want me to do.” He is still panting his breath as he admonishes me, his hands running over my body for pleasure now rather than greed, his legs tangling with mine to maintain the closeness.
“You choose discretion. Tradition does not dictate it.”
“Do you want the entire world to know about our relationship? Is that what you’re saying?”
“There are no paparazzi in this hotel.”
“But a maid could quite easily sell her story.”
“I’m sure it wouldn’t cause much damage.”
“Not to me it wouldn’t!”
“I don’t care…”
“Of course you’d care! And I’d care! I don’t want you splashed across the headlines like some form of sacrificial lamb.”
It hadn’t occurred to me and the silence between us grows until I relent and apologise.
“I don’t want you to apologise. I never said that it’s right. It’s just the reality of being with me. You’re crazy to even entertain it.”
“Perhaps…”
“Perhaps what?”
“Perhaps I am crazy.”
“No you’re definitely crazy. And it’s unbelievably attractive. I can’t always breathe when I’m around you.”
“You just don’t want anyone else looking at me. You’re jealous.”
“Not true. I want everyone to look at you. But I want them to be jealous of me.”
“Naked?”
“Not naked, no. Absolutely not. That’s for me.”
We both laugh but my heart isn’t in it, I push myself closer to him, feeling him wrap around me. “Does it bother you?”
“What?”
“That there were others before you?” I hear him sigh and I chicken out. “Don’t answer. Pretend I never said anything.”
“Yes, Darling, it bothers me.”
“Oh…”
“Your first boyfriend…”
“Oh, please don’t.”
“...I couldn’t care less about. He treated you nicely and I’m certain he would have married you but you made your own decisions and I’m so glad.”
“I would have died of boredom being his wife and I didn’t love him. I didn’t even really want the life he would have offered me.”
“A bit too middle class?”
“Something like that.”
“Snob.”
“You have absolutely no room to talk.”
“I’m currently sleeping with a member of the middle classes.”
“But you’re not going to marry me.”
“You know I’m not in a position to marry you, even if you were The Countess of Cornwall.”
“That’s not a real title.”
“Countess Camilla of Chester suits you.”
“Grow up.”
“When I’m fully grown I will have the power to bestow that title upon you, like it or not. Countess of Carrick?”
“Shut up.”
“Lady of the Isles?”
“Give over.”
“You’re accusing me of not wanting to marry you? The lady doth protest too much or perhaps she finds the idea of marriage to me to be hideous? Which is it, Camilla?”
“Both.”
“Good answer.”
“So I take it you didn’t bring me here to propose to me then?”
“No. My intentions were much more pure of heart.”
“How so?”
“I brought you here to show you what a man should do for you.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Exactly that. I am a monetary rich yet very time-poor man. Gifts are nothing for me.”
“Well… I wouldn’t mind…” He chuckles and I feel his laugh vibrate against my cheek, from where I’m resting it against his shoulder.
“And saying I’d spend every second of the time I have free with you is also disingenuous, because that’s what I want to do anyway. So I have to be imaginative. It has to mean something. I will never buy you a necklace just because it’s pretty. It has to mean something. It’s for you. If I fly you away for a few nights, it has to be special. It has to be something for you.”
“Thank you. But I do like pretty necklaces.”
“No. I’m meant to make you happy too. Look at your mother and father. They’re so happy together because they both contribute to the relationship. You try so hard to please me, to make me happy, and I feel so guilty sometimes for not giving as much back to you and then worse because you don’t expect anything in return, and you should.”
“But I’m not doing anything for what I get in return. If I’m trying to please you, that’s because I want to please you.”
“I’m simply stating that I should want to please you as much as you please me.”
“That’s an impossible pedestal. People are who they are and women have to give more. That’s just the way it is..”
“But my effort should be as great as yours.”
“I feel you’re making a point and I’m not going to like it.”
“Probably not, no.”
“Well get it over with.”
“Andrew never loved you like you loved him.”
“Wow…”
“He never deserved you.”
“That’s a little harsh.”
“It’s completely true.”
“He’s not as bad as you make him out to be.”
“So why are you not currently together then?”
“Don’t be mean.”
“I’m not. I’m jealous and I’m bitter about him.”
“I’m not with him anymore. I’m with you.”
“Thank goodness. Like I said before, your first boyfriend, I have no issues with. Andrew on the other hand.”
“You play polo with him still.”
“I loath that I have to share you with him.”
“There is no sharing involved.”
“Is there not? Are you not still friends? But I hate it. I hate the thought of you and him together. It makes my blood curl. I hate that he never deserved your love yet he treated it as a commonplace. I hate that he’s touched you, more so that you wanted him to. I’m insanely jealous of him.”
“Then why do you spend time with him?”
“Because he’s funny. And a clown. And the delight of every social event. I despise the man because of you but he’s just so… I don’t know… so…”
“Andrew.”
“Unapologetically authentic to his own needs and wants in a way that’s curiously freeing… It makes him impossible to really hate, and I try. And you can’t help being drawn to him because he seems to have this irresistible charm with women which is both infuriating and awe inspiring. And how on earth am I meant to compete with that?”
“Well you could start by sailing me to the seat of Edmond Dantès?”
“That’s an idea! I’d not have thought of that myself. Oh don’t get all tense on me.”
“I’m not!”
“Your body has literally seized up in my arms. Are we still not able to talk about him? More importantly, why are you not able to talk to me about him?”
“I just don’t want to think about him when I’m with you.”
“Do you still love him?”
“Don’t.”
“Do you want to still love him?”
I don’t move a muscle and I certainly don’t look up to see his face.
“Camilla?”
I feel like he’s backed me into a cage I can’t escape, piercing me with his insights but he’s not angry. His hand runs up and down my back firmly, reassuringly until I begin to relax with his gentle caresses.
“Milla?”
“Not particularly.” The words are humiliating and painful but he doesn’t let go of me, he just continues to stroke my back so gently.
“Just so you know, I have no intention of a fair fight. I will use everything I possibly can to my advantage.”
“What, like send him away?”
“Is Germany far enough?”
“Are you serious?”
“Deadly. Do you want me to send him away?”
I pull away from him now, pushing up on my forearms and looking down at him in shock.
“How many times has he hurt you?”
“Over and again.”
“Far too many times. Do you want me to send him away?”
“Are you banishing the competition?”
“At your word only, my Darling.”
“He’ll just continue what he’s doing in Germany…”
“But he’d leave you alone…”
“Okay.”
“What’s okay?”
“Send him to Germany. Then at least I’d not have to see him.”
“Consider it done.”
“Are you actually serious?”
“Yes.”
“You can really do that?”
“No, I can’t. But I happen to know that he’s going to be sent there soon anyway.”
“That’s a cruel trick.”
“Yes. But I’m feeling better about him now. What about you? Are you ready to talk to me about him yet?”
“You’ll get jealous and weird.”
“No. You get weird and I’m perpetually jealous. I want to know your story. Good and bad. You only give me snippets. Time to talk about Andrew, tonight, after I have flown you out to the most romantic place you’ve ever been, wined you and dined you, bedded you… Now it’s time to bare your soul, Milla. And for full disclosure, I plan to spend the next few days making you fall impossibly in love with me, regardless of anything you’re about to tell me.”

I didn’t realise how much I had needed to talk about Andrew but as soon as I start to talk to Charles, it’s like the whole torrid affair splurges out and I can’t stop. I tell him everything, far too much and then he questions me, wheedling out more details, wiping my cheeks when I cry, laughing at me when I get embarrassed. He listens to me like no one else in the world ever has and he’s angry for me at all the right parts. And then he tells me all about his silly little love affairs and I stop caring about sharing something I thought was so special and so private to my heart even as I’m aware that I’ve really betrayed Andrew tonight, in a way he’d never betray me. I’ve forgiven him for indiscretions more numerous than I can count but this is different because this feels more permanent, like I’ve let Charles inside our relationship somehow as opposed to using him to break it.

“I am not going to win in the bedroom department. Don’t think about comparing us in that way.”
It’s such a random thing to say in the midst of all this beauty, I can’t help laughing.
“I’m serious!”
It’s like comparing chalk and cheese. There is no comparison. I don’t compare them but he doesn’t want to hear me compliment him or reassure him; he wants me to listen, it’s always about that. But listening is very difficult just at this moment in time. We’re sat on deck, watching the sunset, watching the birds fly in endless patterns over the island and the gulls soar low over the water. And the sea, that’s a watercolour of light scattered by the clouds, reflected on the mill pond of the ocean.
“I’m not confident like you. You have this self belief which is unshakable. Everything you do in life, the way you talk, the way you hold yourself, the way you make love to me, everything is infused with your own positivity. You are at ease with yourself and it’s unbelievably attractive. I’m not. I have waves of destructive thoughts, of self loathing, immense floods of feeling inadequate and it comes out in the way I am with you. But there’s another side to this which turns this all in my favour, if you’ll hear me out, I will plead my case to you.”
I take a sip of my wine, my legs entangled with his and then smile at him. “What, Casanova, is your other side?”
“Obsession. I could sleep with a hundred women and learn no new tricks. But let me sleep with you a hundred times and every time I will learn something new, some new way to please you. I will never get bored with you. I don’t function like that. It’s all or nothing.”
It makes me smile at his earnestness but his need to chew over and over the same problem is mind blowing. There’s not a stone he feels secure to remain uncovered.
“Would you have married me already if I was merely a Viscount?”
“May I just point out that you haven’t asked me to marry you so this point is redundant.”
“We both know that’s a nonsense idea.”
“Of course… Nonsense. What else would it be?”
“Seriously, Camilla, would you marry me if I wasn’t who I am?”
“But you’re not so why are you hashing out hypothetical scenarios?”
“But I need to know!”
“I have a better idea.”
“What’s better than this conversation? It’s acutely interesting.”
“Do you think the rocking of this boat, if we lay with you inside me, do you think it would rock us without either of us having to move?” I watch his face turn beetroot and grin at him, my eyebrow lifting.
“You’re assuming that my obsession with sleeping with you will override the conversation we are having?”
“I’m very much hoping so, yes.”
“Well… It’s definitely worth a try…”
“We might have to try different positions… See which works best?”
“I think you were made to compliment me.”
“Oh yes?”
“In every possible way, yes. Come on then. You can’t make a suggestion like that and expect to watch the rest of the sunset on deck!”

Chapter 22: Clarence House, February 2022 (1992, Middlewick House, 1982, Bolehyde Manor)

Chapter Text

Clarence House, February 2022

I’ve always found being ill difficult around my husband. So difficult, I don’t tend to mention it to him. But lying in bed this morning, watching the light begin to glow around the curtains, I feel so dreadful, I turn over to wake him up. My chest is tight and when I try to say his name, I erupt into a bout of coughing which wakes him more effectively than I was going for.
“Darling?”
He helps me to sit up and fluffs up the pillows behind my back and then, without asking my permission, reaches over for the phone and mutters into it.
“I’m fine.” I splutter, dissolving into coughs again. Putting the phone down, he turns to me and rubs my arm very firmly. A good rub. With a lot of vigour. My skin feels sensitive and where he’s rubbing is painful but I won’t ask him to stop. Instead, I take his hands and squeeze them before shivering which sends him faffing for a blanket. After he switches on the lamp, he fusses with me, tucking the blankets around me. His face is grey with worry.
“I’m not going to die. Stop panicking.” But then I’m coughing again and I can see that fear in him. Bloody COVID.
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry for infecting you. It’s my nightmare come true.”
“It’s not your fault. And I’m going to be fine. I’m triple vaccinated.”
“Thank God I can be with you.”
It does cross my mind that perhaps this is going to be a very long day but then there’s a knock at the door and a footman comes in with a tray. I’ve long given up about staff in our bedroom but my husband does usually ask me beforehand so he gets a look from me which he ignores.
“Your Royal Highnesses,” the footman pauses, that pregnant pause to emphasise his words, to subjugate himself, “the doctor’s on his way… and here’s the hot water and drugs he recommended you take now, Ma’am.”
“Thank you, Martin.”
There’s then a ridiculous facade between him and my husband in their eagerness to aid me. Both of them feeling like it is their job to hand me tablets and hold my glass of water. They bristle at each other, both considering the other the inferior choice and then they subject me to another round of pillow fluffing. To add to Charles’s indignity, once they both finish messing about with me, Martin turns on Charles. I wouldn’t like to be my husband’s servant. He too has tablets to take and pillows to be plumped and he’s effectively ushered into bed next to me, a hot drink placed in one hand, his pride in tatters, a reminder that he too is ill. I take his other hand and turn my head to try to smile at him. That takes all the fight out of him and he concentrates on holding my hand very firmly and sharing conspiratorial glances with Martin, who’s ceased being a threat to his order of life.
There’s a performance again just before the doctor arrives because my husband wants to be fully dressed to see him, yet refuses to leave me. He also does not deem this an occasion to dress himself so I get a fabulous show of his very embarrassed valet. Why on earth he feels embarrassed about dressing my own husband in front of me is anyone’s guess but I watch him getting pinker and pinker at the ears with a mischievous pleasure. Eventually, I can’t resist it and brave the coughing. “You know, James…”
“Ma’am?”
He stops to look at me and I clear my throat. “You’re acting like I’ve never seen my husband naked before.”
The pink shoots down his neck most satisfactorily.
“The entire world knows intimate details about our personal life, so who’s modesty are you trying to preserve?”
“It’s not very pleasant in the morning…” He stammers at me.
“Oh, I don’t know. Sometimes it’s very pleasant in the morning.” That earns me a look from my husband which I ignore and James’s pink cheeks turn scarlet. Then I have a coughing fit which makes both men panic and I have Charles firmly rubbing my back whilst James reaches for the phone.
My husband is exhausting when I’m ill. He fusses with me, firmly stroking me because it makes him feel better. He barks at the doctor who tells me the usual remedies you use with a bad cold and helps me to sit up in a way which eases my chest. Once he goes, I have to reassure my husband each time I cough and he watches me like a hawk as I attempt to eat breakfast and frowns when I consent to a fruit smoothie as I can’t face anything more substantial.
“When does Emma get here?”
Emma is my favourite. Charles gets jealous of Emma. He must be worried about me today because there isn’t a trace of sarcasm as he tells me ten minutes.
“You can go to your office and get your work done when she arrives. She’ll look after me.”
Emma is naughty. That’s why we get along so well. But she’s also capable and gentle with me and the only person I want looking after me when I’m ill.
“I’ll come and check on you at lunch.”
“That would be nice.”
He kisses my forehead, the first time he’s kissed me this morning and I smile at how different it is the other way round, when he is bedridden and I have to soothe his frazzled nerves because he won’t let anyone else near him.
“If you feel worse, call me straight away.”
“Of course.”
“I’ll tell Emma.”
Poor Emma. She’ll have a good fifteen minute hand over before he releases me to her competent hands. Then I get a pang of panic about him going and leaving me and I ignore the doctor’s orders about easing my chest as I nuzzle against him and he wraps me in his arms. It’s so nice to lean against him and place my head into its spot, nestling my cheek on his chest and pushing my face into his neck. His hand gently strokes my hair and I feel my eyes drooping. I must feel worse than I originally thought but I don’t mind when I’m lying like this. This is the way I would choose to go.

Charles must go and work. I understand his urgency to get all his affairs in order so that he can hand over to William. His life’s work, fifty years of it, must be passed on and we all realise that time is running out. I had begun to believe that The Queen would live forever, even knowing that mortality catches us all. Although, I do believe that she will hold on until the Jubilee, her stubbornness and determination will ensure that she endures. Even death respects that. Following the death of her husband, her demise has been so quick that I wonder if her true ailment is a broken heart. Perhaps I’m projecting my own feelings upon her. For my entire life, she has not seemed to possess any sentiment akin to love, certainly not towards Charles, and it’s him I judge her for. Certainly, she has been a monumental monarch, but part of that responsibility should have been in raising the next. That was one task she willfully neglected, the one thing I still find difficult to forgive her for. Perhaps I never will. Everything else, I have tried to leave in the past for it seems wrong to hold grudges against a dying person. For the past twenty years, I have been a dutiful daughter-in-law, loyal, supportive. I have stepped in to calm and temper Charles at her behest. I have taken on the role of a senior royal diligently and never had my name sullied in the press, by my doing, from the moment I said my vows. No other person can claim this. My reward? She seems reasonably pleased to see me when we show up for family dinners. To the world, she is magnanimous, for she agreed to smooth the way for me to be addressed as Queen when she dies, but in reality, it was in return for Charles paying for his indulged younger brother’s out-of-court settlement. Scheming and dealing right to the end, for her favourite son, trading for him something I should have by right of marriage. Ironically, retracting the condition he insisted upon to approve my marriage to Charles, that I would not be Queen, and she acquiesced. But she’s dying and for all my anger at her, that terrifies me.

It’s reminiscent of watching my own mother deteriorate, back when I was so much younger, as my life imploded, before my children were fully grown. It seemed such a cruelty that my loving mother could not stand the pain of the slightest touch. This mysterious, dreadful disease stole her mobility, her joy, her love as she retreated into her nightmare chains of pain. I needed her then, and she couldn’t hear me. She needed me but I couldn’t reach her. She withdrew into a haze of the person she once was. I contrast my wonderfully caring, forgiving mother, whom I lost so many years ago, to the wonder that is my mother-in-law. Charles is so proud of her, through it all and he loves her, despite it all. We muddle through in our own way, spending Christmas together, knowing it’s probably the last. She’s never once displayed that deathly glazed look of someone stupefied on painkillers but I recognise her pain and my heart bleeds for her. I watch her suffer and I see my own mother, through her distance, through her reserve, and I need to do everything I can to help her. I can’t stop myself from plumping up cushions, helping her to sit, holding items for her, trying to aid her in any way I can. She allows me to do this and I’m aware it’s her choice. I can only speculate about her reasons.

1992, Middlewick House

“Darling?”
“Yes?” It’s a murmur down the phone as I’m pulling out of a deep sleep he woke me from.
“Darling, there’s going to be something in the papers tomorrow.”
“Yes…” I’m not interested. There’s always something in the papers. I didn’t need to be woken up for that.
“It’s an excerpt from that biography about Diana.”
Even less interested. “I couldn’t give two hoots what there is to say about her.”
“You’re named in it as my mistress.”
Any residual sleep evaporates as shock takes over. “What?”
“We can’t deny it. It’ll just be ‘no comment.’”
I don’t say anything. It hasn’t yet sunk in.
“Are you still there, Darling?”
“Yes.”
“Darling, it gets worse.”
“How?”
“The rumours circulating are that the source material, it all comes from Diana.”
A cold rinses through my body.
“This is going to be bad, Darling.”
“What was she thinking?”
“I genuinely don’t know. That she wants to destroy me?”
“This isn’t going to destroy you.”
“As long as it doesn’t destroy us.”
“It’s not.” He doesn’t respond and I listen to his breathing. For once, I have nothing else to say to him.
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s not your fault.”
“You know it is. But thank you.”
Again, there’s a pause. I hear him start to say something and then the words trail off.
“Darling, I have to go. The switchboard is flashing at me relentlessly. I love you. Whatever happens. I love you.”
“I love you too.”
“Talk in the morning. Bye my love.”
I press down the button with a sigh and then crawl back into bed, shutting out the world with the feather pillows pressing down onto my head and the blankets blocking out the cold.
I have the foresight to dress before stepping outside to collect the morning paper and as I hear the tell-tale sound of a clicker, I rush back inside, hearing men call out my name, followed by questions and insults, from the bottom of the drive. This is his life, not mine. Burying my head in the sand, I pour myself a cup of tea and make the mistake of turning on the television. Her face, and mine, is plastered all across the breakfast news channels and I turn it off, panic gripping my throat as the phone rings. I know it’s him. “Hello Darling.”
“Darling, have you seen?”
“Yes…”
“Well you need to start answering the phone properly. What if they get your number?”
“I knew it was you.”
“It might not have been.”
“But I knew it was. Darling, I’m under siege. There’s practically a football crowd outside my house.”
“I’m in hiding at Sandringham.”
“At least you get some peace.”
“Not really. Everyone seems to want to talk to me or lecture me.”
“Are we going to have to stop seeing each other?”
“We can’t see each other. Not at the moment. Not until it blows over.”
I feel a disconnect with my body. Not being able to see him feels like going without solid food. It’s life without enjoyment or fulfilment. How many times are we going to be pulled apart? “I’ll miss you.”
“With every atom of my heart.”
“I can’t bear not seeing you.” There’s no tempering this love. Like magnets, we pull together again, the force stronger each time. But my heart. How much more pain is it able to weather?
“Me neither.”
“It will blow over.”
“Will it?”
“I hope so.”
“What if it never does?”
“Don’t say that, Darling.”
“You’ve not read it, have you?”
“No…”
“I suggest you do.”
I put the phone back in its cradle and pull my knees to my chest, rocking slightly, trying to soothe the jagged streaks of anxiety shooting through me. Then I pick up the newspaper and feel my heart contract as I read the headline and then again as I skim through the prose.
I reach for the phone again but my hands are so shaky it’s difficult to press the numbers and I give up, putting it down again. I need to tell Andrew. The thought sends a ripple of fear through me. Before I’m close to garnering the courage required to make that phone call, the phone rings again.
“Hello?”
“Hello my Darling girl.”
“Mum.” Her voice is such a relief to hear, I feel the tears start to fall from my eyes.
“Darling, are you okay? We’ve just had a call with The Prince… We’ve read the morning papers…”
“It’s just awful,” I manage to stammer and then I burst into tears properly, my body shaking in shock.
“It’s okay, Darling. Your father’s on his way round. He’ll be with you in an hour. Go and get yourself a glass of water and put the kettle on and he’ll be there by the time you’re done.”
“Andrew…”
The Prince is ringing him, Darling. Don’t worry.”
“Tom… Oh God, he’s going to be crucified…”
“Can you pull him out of school?”
“Do you think I should?”
“I’m not sure, Darling.”
“And Laura too. Children are so cruel.”
“You can get her tonight.”
“Yes, but I’m not sure which is worse. Does it make it more ‘real’, more ‘legitimate’ if I collect them? Perhaps I’d better wait until the weekend?”
“If you think so, yes, that’s better.”
“I’ll see what Charles thinks.”
“And what Andrew thinks? As they’re his children?”
“Yes… Andrew… Of course…”
“I’m sorry I can’t come, Darling, it’s too painful to drive in the car, but your father will be there soon.”
“It’s okay.”
“None of it is okay. I’m so sorry for you.”
“I didn’t mean to embarrass you…” My heart breaks at the pain I’ve caused my family, my children.
“You’ve not embarrassed us.”
“Yes I have.” My mother doesn’t say anything and hot tears run down my cheeks and I cry silently. “I’m sorry.”
“No. You’ve not embarrassed either your father or I. We are not embarrassed of you because of the appalling behaviour of others. I would be embarrassed if you had written those words in the paper, but I’m not embarrassed by you. You’ve done something as old as time. I’ve never tried to stop you, how could I? Our Grandmother made her money through being the mistress of the King. You aren’t even that calculated. You just love him and he loves you. How could I be embarrassed that you love someone?”
I can’t answer her, it’s too difficult to keep my tears silent.
“Don’t be ashamed of loving him, Camilla. Don’t you dare be embarrassed. Be angry. That’s better. Be angry that this has been done to you and then rise above it. I raised you to be better than this.”
“I don’t…”
“I’m too tired, Camilla, I can’t talk you round this, that’s your father’s job. Do you still love him, The Prince?”
“Yes!”
“Do you still want to continue your relationship with him?”
“Of course.”
“Then my last pearl of wisdom before I put the phone down is that you need to reassure him. Don’t let him give up on you because it’s difficult. Spend your time now before your father arrives to write to him, or telephone him, he’ll need the words of support from you more than you realise. Love is not always equal. He’s going to need you to be the one to dismiss your own feelings and troubles to tend to him. We’re here. We’re here for you. If you want him, support him.”

1982, Bolehyde Manor

The cessation of calls between The Prince and I didn’t last long, even after our massive argument following his wedding. I put down the phone and sink my head into my hands. If I even knew what I was playing at, I would feel better. It’s so painful to hear his voice, and these phone conversations are kept short as both of us find it too difficult. Yet I long for them. I long to hear his voice. It’s worse not to hear it. Then I think back to just a few months ago, before he got married and I miss everything about him. I miss every conversation we used to have, three, four times a day, how we never seemed to run out of words to say to each other. It’s such a giant void inside of me. We’ve not entirely given up on talking to each other but I never realised how difficult it would be to return to being friends, especially when being friends with him involves so much more than any other relationship I’ve ever had. I don’t know where to draw the line. Not when this hope inside of me tells me that this isn’t over, it’s just on pause.

“Camilla?”
“Hello…” I don’t know how to address him without pain. It’s easier not to.
“How are you doing?”
“Yes… Fine… You?” We’re so unimaginably distant with each other. Both scared to express any feelings.
“Oh… fine… fine… You know how it is…”
I don’t know how it is. That’s half of the problem. “How is…everything?” It’s so difficult to find the words.
“Camilla…”
My heart sinks with dread from how he says my name. He’s anxious. I can tell from that one word.
“Diana’s pregnant.”
“That’s great news.” My heart is no more. I was expecting it but to actually hear it…
“Yes. The best…” His voice is completely monotone.
“Congratulations, Sir, you must be so happy.”
“I needed to tell you… Didn’t want you to read it in the papers.”
We’re both completely lost for words. I can’t express another platitude. They stick in my throat, strangling me. “I’m sure you must have a long list of people to call.”
“You were first.”
“Thank you for calling, Sir.”
“Please don’t call me that.”
“What am I meant to call you?”
“By my name, please, Milla.”
“You probably need to ring everyone else…”
“Camilla, please…”
“Okay… Charles…”
“Thank you…”
“Bye.”

Perhaps I should try to spend more time with my husband? Numb the loss in his arms, but chance would be a fine thing. He is completely enraptured with his latest squeeze. High on the fumes of lust and excitement, like I used to be. Except, unlike Andrew, I went back to the same man time and again. I’d made love to him for years upon end, secretly, openly, secretly again and it was never enough. Andrew can do what he likes. Who am I to say anything? If he hadn’t hurt me so deeply, all those years ago, I would never have found such happiness elsewhere and, conversely, he might never have married me. We’re together because we let the other live. But now I’m hurting and I’ve lost both of them through playing a game I had no real wish to play.

“Hi…”
“Hello Dar…Charles… How is everything?”
“Do you know what? Actually, it’s okay.”
“That’s great to hear.”
“We’re actually getting on.”
“Oh wow…” I feel my heart contracting and that awful rush of jealousy flows through me like a cold tide.
I hear a cruel little laugh down the phone. “It’s bloody awful. I just wanted to say something different for a change.”
“Oh…”
“Don’t sound so happy about it.”
I don’t reply, just listen to him breathing down the phone.
“Tell me something happy.”
“There isn’t anything.”
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have rung like this…”
“It’s okay.”
“We both know it’s not.”

Life is hollow, but I can’t revel in it. I’m not built to be one of those women who takes to her bed in a dramatic flurry and never gets up again. I’m just missing someone to care for, not a limb. I watch them from a distance, following every move she makes obsessively, hearing the disconnect between them in every television interview, watching him hurting as she upstages him at every conceivable event. I can’t pretend I’m not glad. My husband gets my unrivalled attention whenever he comes home but he’s not as needy and he doesn’t like me fussing around him. My children probably find me insufferable as I smother them in all the love I need to give. That has backfired spectacularly.

“Hello…”
“Hello, Charles.”
“It’s really good to hear your voice.”
“I’ve only said two words.”
“That’s all I needed.”
“Tell me what’s wrong.”
“It’s awful. I’ve just had the most dreadful argument. I don’t know how I’m getting it so wrong.”
“Tell me what happened.”
“I can’t…”
“Well how can I make you feel better?”
“I don’t know. Just talk to me.”
“What would you like to know?”
“When everything stops hurting?”
“I don’t know the answer to that question.”
“Then tell me about you. Tell me everything about your day. Let me pretend I was there with you.”
“You sound a little like my son.”
“Tell me about Tom. I’ve no idea how he’s getting on. I need to know…”

Tom has not settled at all at his boarding school. He howls in the car as I drive him there on a Sunday night. His housemaster and I are on first name terms due to the frankly ingenious ways Tom manages to convince people that he is ill. I write him letters twice a day and against everyone’s advice, except his housemaster who would have to calm him otherwise, I also allow him to call me every night. I was late to pick him up once at the weekend and I found him sobbing in the boot room, head inside his coat and it took me a very long time to calm him down again. He’s such a sensitive little boy. Andrew says he’s being a wimp and he’ll grow out of it, which is half true, but doesn’t make it any more pleasant for either Tom or myself. I’m not going to send Laura until she is much older, but she’s so contrary that she’ll probably be begging to go by the time she’s eight.

“I dread going home.”
My heart sinks, yet again. These short calls which come when he’s in despair fill my heart with boulders of dread. “What’s happened?” It’s almost a whisper down the line.
“She threw herself down the stairs.”
“Oh God, the baby?”
“Fine…”
“Her?”
“Also fine…”
“Purposefully?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because we were having an argument about having lunch with my mother and apparently I was unreasonable to say she must attend. I didn’t understand how unreasonable I was being.”
“So she decided to show you?”
“She claimed our argument made her feel so desperately misunderstood that it was the only solution available to her. She was overcome with disgust with herself and needed to make things better for me by removing herself from the equation.”
“So she was in a fit of rage and wanted to hurt you in the worst way possible?”
“Please don’t say that.”
The rage which fills me is the most intense furnace. “You know that’s the reason though, don’t you?”
“Please don’t. I can’t think about it.”
“You don’t throw yourself down the stairs when you’re that pregnant without knowing you’re going to probably damage your baby.”
“She’s not thinking straight.”
“She’s thinking perfectly straight. Now, you’ll tiptoe around her, do everything she wants…”
“She wants me to stop ringing you.”
“I wonder why?”
“She thinks…”
“...She’s scared that I might persuade you otherwise.” She knows perfectly well that I’m not going to support her. This is about control.
“She thinks we’re sleeping together.”
“She’s wrong.”
“I know she’s wrong. But I can’t persuade her that we’re not together.”
The puzzle pieces slot together so nicely now. Am I grossly uncharitable to suggest that this is a master play in manipulation? He’s not going to fight her over this. It’s far too dangerous. She wins and I hate her. “So what does she want now? No more phone calls? Are we going down that route again?”
“Yes…”
I want to scream. He’s right, of course, to do anything else is unthinkable. We barely talk as it is. I’m not composed enough to say anything.
“I’m allowed to call you to let you know anything important.”
“How very gracious.”
“And I’ve promised that calls won’t be longer than five minutes.”
“Oh well, time is up then.”
“Yes, it is…”
And he cuts off the line without saying goodbye and I can’t stop the streams of angry tears down my cheeks.

Andrew and I are friends. After the first ten years of waiting around in what felt like sharp spikes of agony for him to finish whatever love affair he was currently venturing upon, I settled into a much easier smarting, laced with a resentment which made me keep Charles on a leash, to make Andrew jealous, to get my own back. Now, I don’t care. It’s nice when he’s home. I enjoy the company, the laughs, the little domestic fights. I enjoy our life together. I don’t miss him when he’s away. The sort of fighting Charles alludes to is beyond me. Why would anyone want to live like that? Loveless fights between two people who really don’t understand each other, who have no inclination to try to understand each other. She’s from a new generation quite different to ours. A generation which believes that they are first and foremost individuals, with a child-like expectation of their rights without any idea of the responsibility these rights entail. He’s a throwback from the last generation, the war generation of country and duty before everything, of the divine right to rule and stoic faith in the anglocentric structure of the world. But also a champion of my own generation, questioning everything from love and marriage to how society is structured, from the rights of the disadvantaged, of working men, to the rights of women. He grew up in the 60s but his world is so bound by tradition, he missed out on the revolution of the age, finding his own version in the relative freedom of the 70s. And now he’s being dragged kicking and screaming in both directions, not truly at peace in either camp as a traditionalist or a modernist. He doesn’t need a fight when he gets home from work. His entire life is a battle. She pretended to listen to him, pretended to be that supportive person he so desperately needs. The act only slipped when it was far too late. He’s now grieving the loss of the support I used to provide for him. If he wasn’t so broken, I could take comfort in knowing how much he needs me, but not giving him what he needs feels like the most excruciating cruelty. Standing by, watching him drown, when I know I could save him. This impossible love is so painful. There, acknowledged, and ignored. Willfully silenced.

“Did you get my letter?”
“Yes.”
“You’ve not replied.”
“I’ve not got round to replying.”
“Well I’m phoning to let you know that I’m jetting off for a good few weeks now so there’s no point in replying.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Did you even read it?”
“Of course I read it.” I treasure every letter he sends me. From that very first note on the cessation of our phone conversations. Simply scrawled, ‘There was no mention of writing...’
“Prove it.”
“My heart’s in the Highlands…” I recite a line of the poem he wrote in his letter to me.
“Sorry. You did read it then.”
“That’s my poem, by the way, not yours.”
“You can’t claim a poem. It could have been written for me. It’s the place I love most in the world.”
“You think that poem is about a place?”
“Yes… What else could it be about?”
“Where are you currently staying?”
“Birkhall.”
I wait for him to click and I hear a sigh down the line. I shouldn’t have said that. I shouldn’t even think about it.
“I can fly down. I can be with you by tonight…”
“No, Charles…”
“I’ll charter a plane for you. Come to me.”
“Stop making this so difficult.”
“You said it.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”

Life now feels very slow. And very boring. As much as I hate flying, I have to admit the rush I got from being in the belly of a plane, feeling his hands grasping onto me, knowing there were twenty people behind a very flimsy door was exhilarating. I flouted my position with a recklessness which sent a slither of elation through me, kissing him where I wasn’t meant to, making him laugh until he was doubled over when he needed to be quiet. Even his moods I enjoyed. Unpredictable and severe and I took such a thrill from being able to calm him, temper him and then his gratitude towards me was as strong as his love for me. I think I spent years intoxicated on life. I remember getting suddenly struck down with Mumps whilst we were staying at Birkhall and the drama of that, fleeing in the dead of night and every aid panicking that I’d infected him and he would be rendered infertile. I remember feeling desperately worried and yet us both being struck with a fever of hilarity at the sheer ridiculousness of the situation. I miss the conversations which could range from a ludicrous recount of a disastrous sexual encounter, to the life chances and opportunities of a particular sector of society, to the nuances of a line of poetry within seconds. I was expected to have an opinion on everything, to debate any topic which could be conceived of, to challenge him or agree with him on everything from the next episode of Coronation Street to the agricultural and fishing policies of the day. His mind constantly roaming, then focussing on one topic until we had picked it to pieces in at least three different ways before returning to the same subject three months later with a new perspective. I watch him with his wife and it fills me with bitterness because she’s so puerile, she can’t possibly keep up with him. I watch her drink in the adoring crowds with distaste. It’s not meant to be about her. And now she’s waddling around the place, painfully pregnant, making sure every camera lens is on her. It’s meant to be about him. I would never have done what she’s doing. Can’t she see how she’s overstepping her position? Doesn’t she understand the hurt she’ll be causing him?
By my bed, I have a little bureau. Stuffed in there are all the letters from him I need to have with me at all times. The really important ones that I can’t live without. I don’t even read them that often. I just need to know they’re there when I fall to sleep. Tonight there is a new one. It came with the post this morning and I rushed upstairs and shoved it in my bureau as if I was hiding it from someone. There’s no one but me in the house, well, no one who is capable of reading anyway. But I needed to squirrel it away until I could give it all my attention. He still requires every ounce of my concentration, my entire focus. That delicious thought of his letter sustained me the entire day. I’m not usually able to resist, but today I knew I needed to wait, to savour it. I take a glass of wine to bed with me and snuggle into the pillows after carefully slicing the envelope open with a knife. I have to hold my breath as I pull out the pages of his carefully written prose. It’s just as crammed full with pages as I’d dared hope and I allow my heart to leap around in a painful joy. It’s like living on the sidelines, hardly daring to look at him, desperate to feel him, wanting to love him more than anything in the world, knowing I can never be with him.

“Camilla, Darling…”
“Charles?”
“Yes!”
“Well…tell me the good news…”
“Darling, he’s a little baby boy, my baby son and he’s beautiful.”
“Oh, Darling, that’s wonderful. Everything you hoped for. Is everything okay?”
“Yes! He’s perfect. Came out howling. This slimy, purple screaming thing. Darling, he was like an alien at first and then they washed him off and he looked like a normal baby then, his face all squished. He looks just like me. And Diana’s doing fine. She really was incredible. I never realised how traumatic childbirth was. You never let me know just how awful it was.”
“Well… I wasn’t married to you.”
“But you should have told me.”
“Get off the phone. Go and see your wife and son.”
“She sent me away. And William’s sleeping. So now I’m ringing round telling everyone.”
“William?”
“Yes!”
“That wasn’t the name you wanted…”
“No… Diana thought… Anyway… I had to tell you first. But I do need to go and ring my mother.”
“You rang me before your mother?”
“For my sins…”
“Are you at the hospital?”
“Yes.”
“Go!”

It’s got to be over. Even if I can barely admit it to myself. I sneak out of the back door, away from my husband, my family, to hold my head in my hands and cry until there is nothing left in my heart to cry about. The next day I unlock the guns from their storage and hike out to the back fields, shooting endless rounds into the wall as if it could do anything to alleviate the emptiness and rage inside. Andrew joins me but as I open my mouth to tell him to leave me alone, he raises his gun to his eye and shoots at the tattered remains of my target. I watch him raise his eyebrows up at me in challenge, and I take a step back, annoyed, before firing a bullet and staring back at him. He takes another step back and repeats the process. Again and again we step back, until the pause between the shots is prolonged and quiet and I have to breathe in, feel the direction of the wind in my face, compensate before pulling the trigger. We walk back to the house shoulder to shoulder, neither of us saying a word.

And then there is silence.

Chapter 23: Clarence House, February 2022 (2002, Windsor Castle & Birkhall, 1972, Dartmouth)

Chapter Text

Clarence House, February 2022

“Have you kept every love letter he’s ever sent to you?”
I raise my eyes at Emma, who is meant to be cleaning away my lunch, but is instead nosing at what I am reading. “How do you know it is a love letter?”
She shrugs. “I recognise the handwriting… and your face… you were smiling so softly.”
She makes me smile and I remove my reading glasses. “Not all, no. Why do you work here Miss Marple? You’re evidently too smart for this place.”
“Oh, I enjoy looking after the elderly.”
Before I have time to close my mouth from the cheek, she bobs, irreverently, and backs out of the room. But she’s done her job, like usual, just managing to lift my spirits when I’m feeling down. No, I’m not feeling down. I’m feeling ill. It’s the tiredness which gets to me. I can only manage sitting up for twenty minutes before I have to lie back down again and then I panic that I’m never going to get any better.

The first time Charles ever saw me ill, he didn’t know what to do. Illness was considered a weakness in his family and in order not to spread any ailment, they retreated into their quarters until they were better. During his own childhood illnesses, Charles was sent away with his nurse and convalesced out in Norfolk at the house of a family friend. As a consequence, he didn’t have an inkling of what to do with me. I was suffering from a bad case of tonsillitis and really, all I needed was someone to snuggle with on the sofa. I certainly didn’t get that with Charles. He treated me like I had the plague, sitting awkwardly on the opposite side of the room. Bloody useless! I got annoyed with him and sent him away. To my surprise, he started sending me presents. One hour, I received the obligatory bouquet of flowers, the next, I received a giant teddy bear. He was sweet. Useless, but eager to please me. Why I expected anything more from that emotionally repressed twenty-three year old boy, is beyond me.

From then on, if I was sick, he didn’t visit but I grew accustomed to the care packages. As the years went by, they grew more practical. It took a weekend trip to his uncle’s estate, where he was struck down with the flu for this to change. He was dreadful. He shouted at me for being so stupid to be in the same room as him and then cried as I refused to leave him and sat next to him, reading, stroking his head with my free hand. He’d never had any affection shown towards him whilst he was ill. He wasn’t aware that this was something people did. He told me afterwards that he thought as a little boy that people were angry with him for being sick, that’s why he was sent away, and that explained the lack of visitors.

After that, I became the go-to person when he was feeling unwell. I never minded. Although he has a dreadful temper, especially when he’s ill, and moans constantly, I actually quite enjoy nursing him because he’s so appreciative. What I don’t enjoy is his determination to repay my kindness, like-for-like. My husband is the most insufferable nurse. He doesn’t leave me alone for five minutes and he’s so anxious about me, sometimes I pretend to feel better to get some peace. In his old age, he’s gotten much worse. The fussing is unbearable.

During the Christmas holidays, this anxious hovering sent his mother to distraction. She got so exasperated with him, at one point, she sent him to fetch me. To him, she claimed that I was really ‘gentle’ with her and that she wanted to chatter about less taxing things, like the horses. My husband didn’t think this was odd. It didn’t cross his mind that his mother and I have never really been friends. Obediently, he left me with her and happily went to work. I received a glare which told me that she blamed me for her son. I will happily take that blame. Then we sat for an hour in peace, not saying a word as she dozed and I read the paper. When Charles popped in to visit, I’d nudge her awake so it looked to all intents and purposes like we’d been sitting chattering. Usually, I chatter away to alleviate any awkward silence but I realised she needed quiet so instead I sat without talking. For her, it was peace and I felt strangely honoured that she felt comfortable enough around me to just be. This became a staple of our day for the time we spent with her. It made Charles very happy to see how much we cared for each other and neither of us were willing to dispel his illusion.

At the moment, it’s me receiving all this loving attention. Luckily, he’s able to work so I, at least, get time to sleep and relax. I’m also used to him and his strange ways. It’s only love, really. After almost twenty years of marriage, I’m well used to zoning him out. An additional bonus is that he no longer finds it insulting, instead he takes amusem*nt from it.
“Hello Darling.”
I smile as he enters the room. “Come to check on me?”
“Of course. How are you feeling?”
“Better for you being here.” It’s true. I’m a softie inside.
“Emma told me that you’d sent her out for insubordination. I’m never sure whether she’s pulling my leg or not.”
“She is.”
“She needs a talking to, that girl.”
“She called me old…”
“Send her home. She shouldn’t be speaking to you like that.”
“No. She made me laugh. Let her work for you this afternoon, as a treat.” She will loath working with Charles. It’s the perfect punishment.
“Oh. Okay.”
He’s so innocent, he makes me laugh. Everything about him makes me laugh. I spend my life chuckling, giggling, smiling because of him. I keep him calm, he keeps me happy. We’re both better when we’re together. I temper him, he bolsters me, I’m the optimism to his pessimism. We balance each other perfectly.

2002, Windsor Castle

The deliberations and disputes about me that occurred when his Grandmother died were deafening but my voice wasn’t thought necessary throughout. Charles fought for me to be with him at the funeral, his brother was adamant that I should be barred and everyone else expressed their own opinion, somewhere in between and very loudly. I think Charles used me as a vehicle for his grief and for the first time, I felt the change in the power dynamics. It was like his mother had finally grudgingly accepted that her son will be the next king. I was going to be allowed to attend his Grandmother’s funeral. I wouldn’t be able to sit next to him, but I would be there, a few rows back.
We both knew the day was coming. There’s no cure for old age and time has a habit of catching up with you, regardless of how well you’ve managed to hide from it. My poor Darling is distraught and I spent the service trying to send him love, being ready to catch his eyes the few times he turned to look at me. The second we reach the castle, away from prying eyes, he reaches for me, in front of all his family members and everyone at the wake, and holds onto me tightly. I remain by his side the entire day where he bristles with a strange energy which explodes whenever someone does or says anything he doesn’t like. Each time, I squeeze his hand and talk to him softly until his eyes meet mine and I watch the rage dissipate temporarily. When it’s time for me to go, he holds onto my arm with a vice grip.
“I need you. Stay.”

So I say goodbye to my sister, to my ex-husband and our children and walk through with my Darling to enter the lions’ den of his immediate family. The sight of me causes all conversations to stop and they stare but it’s a matriarchy so when his mother picks up her cup of tea and turns to continue her conversation, everybody else follows suit. William is the first to greet us, looking strangely grown up and very embarrassed and then the rest, with lesser enthusiasm as Charles snaps and scowls at everyone.
“Don’t you dare genuflect.” The words are hissed into my ear as we circulate the room, ending with his mother, whom I do curtsy to. She says a few scant words to her eldest son and moves away to chat with the offspring she prefers. I feel his hand trembling. There is no one here actually happy to see him. Not one person warm and welcoming, knowing he was especially close to his Grandmother. I reach up to kiss his cheek and he smiles down at me. A weak smile. I try to convey how much I love him through my eyes. “Stop fighting them, Darling.”
“But you can see what I’m faced with.”
“You’ve won. I’m here.”
“They won’t talk to me.”
“Darling, you’ve been in the most horrendous mood. I wouldn’t want to talk to you either. Look at poor William. He was so embarrassed at your behaviour.”
“I think we should go.”
“No. I think you should control yourself a little and we should try to talk to people. Pick five. Then we’ll go.”
“No. Stop manipulating me. It’s my family.”
“Or I’ll go and talk to them without you.”
He glares at me, a look which sends people into shivering wrecks but it doesn’t work on me. I glare back until his face breaks and I know I’ve won.
“Okay. Five.” I move to turn around but he grasps my arms again and I’m back to facing him, his cheek against mine as he reaches my ear to whisper in it, “I love you.”
“I love you too.”
His nose presses against mine as he meets my eyes.
“Ready?”
“Ready.”
And I link his arm to rejoin the others in the room before he jumps straight in with the children. He winks at me as he chats with them and I hold up one finger, laughing. He rolls his eyes and I watch him, smiling.

“You must be some sort of a witch, Mrs. Parker Bowles.”
“Camilla, please.” The correction is automatic and I pull my eyes away from Charles to look at the tall man who’s stood next to me and I bob. “Your Royal Highness.”
“I don’t think so.”
Of course not. Why would he attempt to make me feel comfortable? But I won’t allow him to bully me like he bullies his son. I can be equally disarming. “You think I’m a witch?”
“Yes. A witch.”
There’s an awkward pause before I realise he isn’t going to elaborate on his statement. “Well, I’ve been called a great many things, but ‘witch’ is one of the more mediaeval. What precisely brings you to that conclusion? Is it the warts on my nose?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Warts aren’t a sign of witchcraft. A mole or a birthmark on the other hand…” He looks at me appraisingly, “You’re actually surprisingly pretty up close.”
“It could be an enchantment spell.”
“Ah. That is a valid point.” He half smiles at me and there’s another pause as we both look toward Charles, talking now to his favourite niece in a much better temper. “My son often needs a good talking to. I’ve never witnessed him change his behaviour as a result of one. You’re going to tell me it’s not witchcraft, it’s something corny like ‘love’, aren’t you?”
“No, it’s just sex.” The words slip out before I censor them but then he laughs and I chuckle along with him.
He makes to say something and then stops.
“What is it?”
“No, I can’t say it; it’s not appropriate.”
“Don’t stand on ceremony.”
He breathes out through his nose sharply then tilts his head to the side in acquiescence. “Well you must be bloody good at it.”
“It’s my witchy powers.”
“Ahah! So my first aspersion was correct!”
“Guilty as charged.”
He chuckles, looking down at me. “You can come again, Mrs. Parker-Bowels.” Then he reaches down to kiss my cheek before walking to talk to someone else, still chuckling.

2002, Birkhall

“This, is ours.”
I walk through the stone porch I’ve visited many times before, his hand in the crook of my back.
“It needs a bit of work but that’s not a problem.” He pushes me into the hallway before realising neither of us have taken our boots off and then we’re back to the porch.
“We need a bench for removing our boots.”
“Yes! We’ll get a bench.”
“I meant now!” He helps me to sit down on the stone steps as we remove our boots and then ends up with my foot in his lap as he attempts to unknot my laces.
“I want you to redesign the house.”
“No.”
“Darling, I want it to feel as much yours as mine. This is our first house. Well technically second because of Highgrove, but our first joint home.”
“You don’t want me to redesign it. It’s got too many memories. If I redesigned it, it would lose its character. In fact, I happen to know from when I did redecorate Highgrove that you fought me on every decision and change I made, and what you did allow me to do, you moaned at me for. I’m not touching Birkhall. It’s not worth the aggravation.”
The look on his face is one of shock mixed with something else I can’t place.
“Are you doing my boot or not?”
“Attempting.”
“Why don’t we hire an interior designer, get them to salvage what they can and then see if they can keep the mood of the house. I can’t do that, Charles. I don’t have the eye for that. My sister is the one we should be talking to.”
“Okay. I was just trying…”
“...But we need to choose our room and redo that. I don’t really want to be reminded of your Grandmother when I’m making love to you.”
That makes him laugh.
“Have you done my boot yet?”
“Nearly. How did you get them so tightly wrapped?”
I shrug, “It’s a talent.”
“Clarence House will be different. It’s like a living museum and it needs to become a working state house.”
“I don’t mind.”
“You need to mind. It’s going to be your house.”
“Darling, it’s not my house.”
“Officially, Darling. Yes, it is.”
“Oh, that’s going to go down well.”
“I don’t care. And I want you consulted on everything.”
“Wait a second. Oh, thank you,” He pulls the boot off my foot but we don’t make a move to stand up. “You’re telling me that I’m moving in with you. Officially?”
“Yes. As you already do live with me, unofficially, this is the next logical step.”
“Am I allowed a say in the matter?” He glares at me and I stop being petulant.
“And I’m sick of you having to sneak about everywhere. I want it to feel like home. I want us to have a real home, albeit several homes in our case. And I want us to build them together, properly.”
“Which means, Darling, that you can’t hand over the responsibility to me. You need to have input because I know you and it’s very important to you and far less important to me.”
“I trust you.”
“No, you don’t. We can do it together if you absolutely insist.”
“But it’s meant to be your home too.”
“I presume I’ll have my own rooms?”
“Well… Yes…”
“So you do your rooms, I’ll do mine.” He looks at me so disappointedly, he makes me smile.
“Diana liked decorating our houses.”
The smile disappears from my face rapidly as shock kicks in.
“I’m sorry, Darling.”
I sit rigidly, unsure whether to react or not.
“I don’t know why I said that. I’m so sorry.”
It’s like being attacked by a cold mist.
“Darling, please say something.”
Everybody in the world compares me unfavourably to his ex wife, I’m the ultimate Mrs de Winter. I never expected him to.
“Please… Shout at me… Tell me you hate me… Please… just… I choose you… A million times over.”
I swallow and breathe. I didn’t realise I’d stopped doing that. I need to control myself. It shouldn’t matter what the world thinks. “Please don’t use that to score a cheap win over me.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
“Some of the crap I put up with for you…”
“I know… I know…”
“There’s a line…”
“And I bulldozed through it. I’m sorry. It was an unforgivable thing to say to you. I don’t even know why I want you to agree to decorate. You’re perfectly correct in how I’m going to behave about everything. And that makes the comment worse. Please forgive me.”
“I’ll work on it…”
“We could sell Highgrove? Start completely afresh?”
“No! We’ve already redecorated that and that’s your house, with all your memories of your children. Plus, you’ve worked so hard on those gardens. Don’t even think about giving it up. How many miles of hedgerows have you planted over the years, in your time off? How many hours?”
“That’s land rented off the Duchy. And unfortunately, it’s yards. Not miles.”
“I was more meaning it’s your hobby. You put the world in its place when you’re outside working. Plus it’s got the stables.”
“You don’t need to convince me. But if you want me to get rid of it, I will.”
“It has always been more my house anyway. I found it for you.” I see the relief on his face and I appreciate the gesture more. He would be heartbroken if I asked him to get rid of his house, his gardens. Especially his gardens. Even if I hated the property, or its associated memories, I’d have to hate him too to force him to sell it.
“Ray Mill House?”
“That stays as it is. That’s mine.”
“Not ours?”
“Highgrove isn’t ours.”
“It very much is. There’s not one part of it that doesn’t remind me of you. But fine, you want your own space.”
“And an inheritance for my children...”
“You know I’ll look after them, if God forbid, anything happened. And you. If anything happens to me.”
“Thank you, but it’s not necessary.”
“It very much is. They’ve got trust funds. They’ll both be able to access them when they’re thirty. That was simple. Yours is a bit more complicated. At the moment, yours is a little like a widow’s pension. So there until you either die or remarry.”
“So you don’t want me to remarry?”
“No.”
“You’d prefer that I was old and alone and lonely? I don’t want to be alone, Charles.”
“I think the idea is that your new husband would support you then.”
“I’ll get married just to spite you. You can’t buy me.”
“I knew you’d say this. I debated not telling you the conditions but I wouldn’t want you to have a nasty shock. If you decide to remarry, my love, choose someone nice this time. If you go back to Andrew, I’ll haunt you both until you die. In fact, I’ll put a clause in the will that if you remarry Andrew, he’ll have to pay back every penny I spent on you. He’s far too tight to do that. He’ll never agree to marry you!”
“I’m perfectly contented living in sin, as you should be well aware.”
“You’re not. But don’t think about Andrew as an option.”
“I won’t go back to Andrew, I promise.”
“Girl Friday, you’ve promised me that before.”
“I meant it then. I’ve got the foresight now to never do that again.”
“I’m going to come up with a list of names. Nice, kind, respectful men. Unattractive also. You can marry one of them if I’m dead so you’re not lonely.”
“Hand it over. It’s about time I got myself a nice husband.”
“No. It’s locked in my will. You’re not allowed to marry someone else whilst I’m alive. I’m actually deeply upset that you’d marry someone else if I died.”
“No you’re not. Because you know that I’ll never love anyone like I love you. I’d be marrying for companionship.”
“Dogs give you companionship.”
“Not the same.”
“No. They’re ten times better, you’re right.”
“Exactly. You should look for someone, if I died. You need someone on your side.”
“No.” He looks at me so sincerely, I reach over to kiss him.
“You’re allowed.”
“No. If I can’t have you, I don’t want anyone. Speaking of which, Ray Mill House. I want to add more security.”
“You’re always wanting to add security. Do what you like but if I start to get friends and relatives complaining…”
“I know, I know…” He takes hold of my hand and starts playing with my fingers. “I’m still sorry.”
“I know.”
“Are you going to sit and stew on this until it finally comes out in a jealous rage? Not that I’d blame you, by the way.”
“Something like that.” I pat his thigh. “Let’s go and choose our bedroom.”

1972, Dartmouth

“It’s all so bloody sudden.”
He’s stood in his captain’s uniform, looking really rather dashing, but his face is strained and anxious. “Well it’s a wonderful compliment to you.”
“No. You see it’s not. I was meant to be treated like everybody else. That was the whole point. And you can’t be fast forwarded to a better position. You have to earn it. I’ve not earned it.”
I drop a daisy off the side of the bridge into the little rushing stream and wait for it to be flung out of sight. “Darling, isn’t that just telling you that you’re doing really well?”
“No. Nothing is ever that simple.”
“Well when must you leave?”
“Next week. For eight months, Milla. How can I bear to be apart from you for eight months?”
His arms wrap around me and I feel his nose against my neck. It is very sudden and he’s so upset about it, all I want to do is cheer him up. “It’s just life. But I’ll write to you. Every day.”
“You don’t sound like you’ll even miss me!”
“Of course I’ll miss you.” I kiss the part of his face closest to my lips as an old pain resurfaces. “How do I know you’ll not be off with a different woman in every port?”
“How can you even say that? How can you even think it?”
“That’s what men do when they go away.”
“I bloody won’t.”
“I don’t think they can help themselves.”
“You mean Andrew can’t help himself? I’m not Andrew, Darling.”
That stings. Jellyfish tentacles across my skin.
“He’s going to come back when I’m away. Probably pretty soon considering the mess he’s made with his conquests in Germany. Question is, what are you going to do then.”
“Nothing.” I hear my voice sounding sullen. I hate that he knew what I was talking about. I mean it though. It’s one thing putting up with Andrew when I thought he was the only person I’d ever love. Now, it seems silly. I’m not about to mess things up here, this calm and supportive relationship I’ve come to rely on. This man who shares all my secrets and all my passions.
“Is that a promise?”
“Yes, that’s a promise. I’d never do that to you. You’re too lovely. I never want to hurt you.”
“Those aren’t quite the words I wanted there, Milla.”
“But they’re true.”
“So no other women, no other man?”
“No others.” That’s the biggest relief. I didn’t realise how much I needed fidelity in a relationship. I don’t mind him going now. The thought makes me chuckle. “You’re going to get very frustrated.”
He laughs. “I’ll manage. That makes me feel slightly better about leaving you, though. I will get shore leave in December…”
“Come and stay with me. At my parent’s house. They’d love to have you. And then I get you to myself.”
“I’ve got an entire week before I’m expected for Christmas.”
“Perfect. I won’t have seen you for so long. Please come.”
“Will I be able to make love to you there?”
“Yes. You can even stay in my bedroom with me. They’re almost completely okay with that.”
“Don’t you need to ask them?”
“I know it will be fine.”
“Wouldn’t they prefer Andrew?”
“Stop worrying about Andrew!” I’m not used to him being jealous like this. I don’t think I like it. I try to put him out of his misery. “They’re so happy I’m not with him, they’ll accept you regardless of everything.”
“Everything?”
“Well your rather unfortunate title. And destiny.”
“Unfortunate?”
“Yes. But don’t worry. They don’t hold it against you.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
“Yes?!”
“I decided to be with you anyway.” This is easier territory. We’ve had this conversation time and again; I tease him about his title, he retaliates, telling me I’m a commoner, we both laugh and then we have sex. Not today.
“Most women dream of becoming a Princess.”
“Is that what you’re offering me?”
“Now, now.”
“I like the man, not his title.”
“Surely the title helps?”
“We both know that’s not true. I’m not the biggest fan of waving.”
“What about if you’re waving with me?”
“Are you asking me to wave with you?”
“Hypothetical.”
I wonder if he’s considering asking me to marry him. It seems the sort of thing to do before you leave your girlfriend to go on a long sea voyage. My heart is beating with a strange irregularity. “Who knows? Why think about something unless it’s happening?”
“Maybe one day.”
That makes me start. He’s thinking about proposing.
“Perhaps you’ll fall for one of my brothers and you’ll become a Princess.”
“That’s beastly.” I pull away from him but he was expecting it and grabs hold of me, trapping me against the stones of the bridge and then kisses me until I feel I’m drowning in his kiss.
“I’m not looking for just a Princess, am I?”
My heart forgets itself, lurching as his fingers trace the contours of my face. “I suppose not.”
He reaches to kiss me and moans as I bite his lip, my fingers running up his thigh before he grabs hold of my hand, we are in public.
“God, if you’d not already slept with me, I would have married you just to do that. You didn’t play your cards right, Milla.”
“What a romantic notion.” I roll my eyes but he’s too busy securing my hands to see. “Anyway, perhaps I wanted to see what I was getting myself into?”
“Did I have to prove my ability in order to love you?”
I close my eyes as he kisses my neck firmly, enjoying the rush. “What does love have to do with anything?”
“I would have loved you either way. It’s impossible not to love you.”
His words cushion me in a way I’ve not felt before and then shock breaks through. “Are you telling me that you love me?”
“Yes. Have I not told you before?”
He’s so nonchalant, it makes me giggle. “No!”
“I’m pretty sure I have. In fact, I tell you regularly.” He grabs hold of my hand and we set off, slipping down onto a small rabbit path by the side of the stream. We walk a little further, out of earshot of his protection officers, out of sight amongst the willow trees waving their branches as a curtain for us.
“You tell me during sex. That’s not the same.”
“I wasn’t aware there was a different meaning for the word at different times of the day.”
“No. But in the middle of sex is not the same.”
“Well I’ll have to make sure I tell you at other times then and not just during sex.”
“You can tell me then too.”
“Oh right. So you want to dictate when and where I say it. Is that the problem?”
He makes me smile. His words might be spiky but his eyes are gazing down at me with more love in them than I’ve ever seen shining at me and as we come to a halt, I realise that I want this more than anything else. “No. You need to say it all the time. Or I won’t believe you’re really saying it to me.”
“Okay, my Darling. I love you.”
“Please come back to me.”
“Of course I’ll come back to you.”
“I’m going to miss you, so much.”

Chapter 24: Clarence House, February 2022 (1992, Middlewick House, 1972, Sussex)

Chapter Text

Clarence House, February 2022

I’m so desperately bored, I sign what feels like a thousand letters of thanks from people wishing me a speedy recovery. There’s some I’ve not got round to from last month also and I make sure to write a response on these ones as I’m feeling guilty, but I can’t do anything taxing, my brain hurts. The morning passes reasonably quickly and after lunch, I enjoy my nap yet wake just as tired as before. Charles irritates me when he comes to take tea with me but I try not to let him realise as that would hurt him. He’s whining about the press never letting go of his adulterous past but I’m beyond caring. Like he has as much vitriol about it as me, anyway. Then I feel guilty again because I realise he wasn’t talking about himself. He was talking about me and he’s bothered by the way I’m being presented as though I came into his life and stole him from his ex-wife like he had no say in the matter. It’s never been any different. There is nothing unusual about our inchoate longings for each other but I’ve long accepted that his family are placed onto a pedestal they invariably must fall from. What’s really upsetting him is that these attacks have arisen from the words his son has said about us. Charles deals very badly with attacks against me and the upset is heightened by the instigator. It’s a relief when he leaves me to return to his work. I am not feeling well enough to console him through the latest barrage of attacks.

The recrudescence of our relationship was as natural to us as breathing. We didn’t celebrate it but nor did we ever really feel the need for contrition for its existence. The problem was the impossibility, but that did nothing to dampen the adure, it just heightened it. I’d been sleeping with him again for about a month before the magnitude of our situation really hit me. Before that point, I’d revelled in the thrill of it all, savouring every touch, every kiss of our illicit affair. Being able to love him after so many years of restraint was intoxicating. It hit me whilst I was sitting in my living room, cigarette in hand, wine glass in the other, watching the television. He appeared on a news report, looking gaunt and angry, the reporters capturing his mood and the silent aggrievance of his wife like a window.

He’d left me hours before in a haze of kisses, his hands gripping me like I belonged to him, the heat between us never fully sated. He’d phoned me three times since, the first as he needed company, sat alone in his office, the second to arrange our next rendezvous, the third so he could hear my voice before he had to go to an engagement with his wife. We couldn’t be apart from each other, not even for a day without contact. As much as my sister tried to persuade me that it was just the flush of novelty of an affair, I knew it wasn’t. The initial highs of a love affair don’t span decades. I was desperately in love with him and it was wholly reciprocated.

I saw him then, grey-faced and angry and I wanted to save him from everything, from her. But it was also the news report which informed me I couldn’t. Not properly. He was just as trapped now as he was when we cooled our relationship after his marriage. I don’t tend to dwell on the impossible, leaving that task to him, but the waves to the crowd and the chants of ‘Diana!’ made me feel nauseous. Conscious, also, of the need for discretion and perhaps more importantly, it dawned on me the need to be careful. That was a sobering thought. At that point, if I’d have gotten pregnant, he would have left everything for me. I know him, and I can’t claim the thought didn’t tempt me. To just be with him… That first lunerance, that overpowering need to be together was like madness. I was only sane in those brief moments where I lay in his arms and we kissed each other so gently. I couldn’t stand to be apart from him.

The day after that appearance, he drove to my house and we didn’t get further than his car before our lips met. I remember crawling up the stairs because his hands wouldn’t let me go and my legs refused to stand, not making it past the small landing with the need for each other. I defy anyone to feel what we felt and ignore it. For us, it was impossible, the time apart just made the need stronger, the reward for succumbing too intense to resist. But it wasn’t compatible with reality and that tore him to pieces. I could survive being his Mistress; he couldn’t keep me as one. He cried down the phone each time he knew that Andrew was coming home to me and he told me that he’d never touch his now ex-wife again. I believed him. Nobody other than me has ever felt right to him and he was so jealous of Andrew, he made our life at times very difficult. Sometimes it felt like living in a delirium.

This time around, we thought we were much more discrete. The friends who took pity on us knew, but we felt that we never flaunted our relationship. Naively, we thought that we guarded the secret tightly, keeping the looks, the innocuous touches to ourselves, that even our close friends didn’t see the evidence of our affair. We’d sit together, enthralled in each other’s conversations at parties, thinking we were the perfect example of two old friends, before sneaking off together, clandestinely, giggling when we escaped together. He slipped the surveillance of his protection officers like a fugitive on the run, imagining that they didn’t know where he was, fooled staff at Highgrove by pretending he was settled for the night in an elaborate ruse, or unplugged the security alarms so that that I could sneak into the gardens to meet him or to smuggle me into the house. We even felt comfortable enough in our delusion to go on holiday together as part of a group of friends. The paparazzi photos of the two of us which zoomed around the globe were completely justified–we were friends. It was nonsense. Everybody knew and our friends were quietly sympathetic. Looking back at our struggle with the immense assault of love makes me smile now at how young we were. The lows were impossibly unsurmountable and the highs were weightless and limitless. We couldn’t imagine anyone else suffering as much as we did or feeling the extent of love that we felt. It was us against the world. In a way, it always has been. This inexplicable bond ties us together and loosening the knots felt like mutilation.

As the years went by, the madness subsided, but the passion remained, it’s still here today. Over the course of the advancing decades, it’s changed, evolved, but it’s never ever faded. I can’t imagine ever allowing it to; it’s far too special. When she was clearing out her attic over lockdown, my sister found some old recordings, birthdays, Christmas, that sort of thing. There were several tapes where Charles and I could be seen, deep in conversation, so preoccupied with each other, we didn’t notice the camera recording us. My sister laughed in my face when I told her we thought we were being furtive and as the tapes played, it wasn’t difficult to see why. It’s not what we were doing, it’s how that gives us away. The intensity of the conversation, the way our bodies turned to each other instinctively. The way I threw my head back in quiet laughter and he looked at me like I was the only other person in the world. The bond between us was a neon flashing sign. My hand rested so my fingers touched his and the strain to stay apart is evident on our faces. We showed every emotion we were feeling. We looked like two people desperately in love with each other, painfully so. No wonder our friends were sympathetic.

My favourite moment is a short video of us dancing together back in the late 80’s, and my technologically minded sister combined the clip with a much more recent video of us in the same pose, smiling at each other with our eyes. We’ve spent our lives communicating our love through our eyes.

1992, Middlewick House

My daughter doesn’t know what to do with herself. She’s being rude and weepy and standoffish and clingy all at the same time. Like a shadow, she’s following me round, not letting me out of her sight. I’m trying to tidy up the kitchen and she’s getting in my way.
“Laura, sit on a stool. I’m trying to sweep up and you’re getting in the way.” I try to make the tone of my voice gentle but she takes offence, scraping the stool out from under the table and sitting down on it heavily. I ask her about school, which gets short, snappy responses, and I know I’m skirting the real issue. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“I know this week must have been difficult for you.”
“I’m fine!” Her voice is laced with venom and pent up anger but when I leave the room to nip to the bathroom, she’s there behind me.
“Laura, I need the loo.” I look at her, gesturing for her to go out and I see her eyes tear up before she turns around. I sigh, not sure what to do with her.
I manage to calm her by enlisting her help in the kitchen and the mundane tasks keep her mind busy. I ask her about her best friend and she launches into a tirade about her family and the wonderful time she had staying with them. She’s jealous and she wants me to feel the same. She wants me to feel some of her pain but it has the opposite effect. I’m glad she has somewhere to go where she can be an ordinary child. It’s very difficult for us to do anything together as a family. I spoil everything for them.
I’m so relieved when Andrew comes home, I sink into his arms, staying there until Laura walks into the hall and then her anguished cries pull both of us apart with a shock.
“Get off her! What are you doing?”
“Laura…”
“It’s all a lie, stop pretending!”
“We’re not pretending.”
“Yes you are!” She practically spits the words out at Andrew and he glances at me, worried, as Laura takes my hand and frogmarches me into the kitchen.
She’s being awful with Andrew, purposefully ignoring him when he tries to talk to her and making sarcastic comments when he attempts to talk to me. I can see how hurt he is with her behaviour but neither of us seem to be able to stop it. She won’t let Andrew anywhere near me, acting like my personal bodyguard, jealous of any conversation he has with me.
The phone rings and she flies to answer it. I continue peeling potatoes, listening out for who has rung.
“Stop ringing us!”
That makes me start. I drop the potatoes in the pan.
“Why can’t you leave Mummy alone?”
I rush over and she’s slammed the phone in its cradle. I don’t say anything to her out of shock and she screams in my face, “I hate him!” before bursting into tears and running off. I pick up the phone and he’s still on the line.
“Hello?”
“I think Laura hates me.”
“I think she’s very upset. Darling, I have to go…”
“I need to talk to you…”
“Not just now, Darling.”
“I miss you.”
I lower my voice to a whisper, “I miss you too.”
“Is she there with you?”
“No. She stormed off upstairs.”
“Get her to write to me.”
“I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”
“I’ve broken her trust. I’ve hurt her. She has a right to be angry at me.”
“She doesn’t understand.”
“Well have you sat down and talked to her about it?”
“Apply your parenting skills to your own children.”
“Did she have a clue that you and Andrew weren’t happy together?”
“We’re good friends, Charles.”
“That’s not all that constitutes a happy marriage, as you well know.”
“We’ve never let them see anything.”
“So she’s in shock. And she doesn’t understand.”
“I didn’t ask for your advice.”
“I’ll ring you back later. 11pm?”
“No. Andrew’s here.”
“Are you telling me you still sleep in the same bedroom?”
“Well… Yes.” It’s never occurred to me not to.
“I can’t…” I hear a strange anguished sound down the line. “Just… get Laura to write to me. Bye.”
There’s a loud click as he puts down the phone and I sigh, putting the phone back in its place, knowing he’s upset with me now, too.

“Have you honestly just been on the phone to The Prince and left your daughter to cry alone in her bedroom?”
I look up at my husband and get a flash of rage I’ve not felt in a long time. Swallowing it, I manage to mumble, “I don’t see you up there, comforting her.”
“It’s not me who’s upset her.”
“So why is she angry at you?”
“I don’t know.”
“Don’t you think she might have twigged?”
“I don’t see how. I’m much more discreet than you. And it’s not my fault.”
“I’m going to talk to her. I’m going to tell her everything.”
“She’s too young.”
“She’s old enough to be hurt by it.”
“She’s being a drama queen. Tell her if you want. But keep me out of it.”
“Andrew, that’s not fair.”
“This was caused by you, not by me. Tell her your story. Mine is my own to tell, should I wish to. And I certainly don’t wish to tell our fourteen-year-old daughter all about it. It’s hardly appropriate.”
He turns out to be correct. After the anger at him, during the most awful conversation I’ve ever had with my daughter, it is the best parenting decision I’ve ever made. Accepting responsibility as opposed to blaming someone else is surprisingly liberating. I give her the choice to hate me but only after hearing my side of events. I tell her the broad outline from the very start and don’t try to make myself sound any better. She asks me outright about Andrew and I swerve, “I fell in love with The Prince and he fell in love with me. It’s as simple as that. It’s not to do with your father. He’s not angry with me; we haven’t lied to each other; we’re not upset with each other. You might not like this or understand it, but that’s our choice to make. I never expected this to become public, though. And that’s hurt you and I’m so sorry.”
“Why Sir? You knew he was married.”
“I did. We made the decision, it was our choice, mine and his alone, to see each other again. He’s been my best friend for a very long time and we realised very quickly that we love each other. I didn’t stop it. I knew it was wrong and I did it anyway. It wasn’t a mistake; it was a decision. But it’s not up to me to police someone else’s marriage. That’s his responsibility. Our relationship stretches back to before they even met, to before I married your Daddy.”
“Why did you marry Daddy, if you loved Sir?”
“I loved Daddy very much. And I didn’t love The Prince back then. That came later.”
“Do you not love Daddy anymore?”
“I still love him. We’re good friends.”
“Do you not love us anymore?”
“Of course I love you, Darling. Love for your children is a very different thing. That just grows. I think it’s impossible to not love your children. I will never stop loving you.”
“I hate him. He’s breaking up our family.”
“No he’s not. We’re not splitting up.”
“I wish I never knew him.”
“Please don’t hate The Prince. His crime is that he loves me and you can’t control who you fall in love with. He’s loved me since we first met. He didn’t mean to hurt you. I know he didn’t. He loves you too. He always has done. You’re the daughter he never had.”
“I never want to see him again. Every time he visited, he was trying to wreck our family and steal you away. He never leaves you alone. He made you fall in love with him so that now he can take you from us.”
“You can’t make anyone fall in love with you. No matter how much you might wish it. I fell in love with him because of who he is, not because of something he did. But I will never be taken away from you. Never.”
“But why did you get together then, if you loved Daddy?”
“No, Laura, you’re too young and I’m too old. There are some things I can’t discuss with you. And my relationship with him is one of those things. It was my choice, however.”
“I just feel like he must never have cared about me to do this to our family.”
I sigh. “Why don’t you write to him?”
“I’ve got nothing good to say.”
“That’s okay. Tell him how you feel.”
“Then he won’t love me anymore.”
“It doesn’t work like that, Laura. He told me to ask you to write to him. If you’re angry with him. Tell him. He wants to know. Why don’t you write down everything tonight? And tomorrow you can read it and decide if you want to send it, or if you want to edit it or rewrite?”
“Did Daddy hurt you?”
“We’re good friends. And he’s your Daddy. He loves you.”
“I know about Rosemary. I’m not stupid. I know she’s not just Daddy’s friend.”
That makes me start and I’m stuck in a really awkward position because I promised Andrew I’d leave him out of it. “That’s not my story to tell, and it’s got absolutely nothing to do with me.”
“Of course it’s to do with you.”
“No, Laura, it’s not. And it’s not up to you either to police my marriage. Your father and I do not have secrets from each other.”
“But you do from us!”
“Yes… Do you tell me everything about any boyfriend you have?” Her scarlet face tells me I’ve hit a nerve.
“It’s not the same.”
“It’s exactly the same. And it’s okay. That’s your life. It’s not my job to vet your boyfriends… or girlfriends… This is not the Edwardian period. Love whoever you want. I will continue to love you and support you through everything. That’s my job. I’m asking the same from you and I know it’s a lot, it’s too much, and I’m sorry, you’re too young. So let’s get rid of that expectation. You don’t have to be okay with it. Be angry, if that helps. Be as upset as you want. It’s my job to support you, not the other way round. I will continue to love you and support you, whatever you feel towards me.”

If the conversation doesn’t cure the atmosphere in the house, it goes somewhere to improve it. Laura is still visibly upset but she’s not launching into fits of anger. Tom next, when he returns home from school tomorrow. Laura shoots to her bedroom after supper and I’m left with Andrew, who’s looking at me guiltily.
“Did you take all the blame?”
“Yes…”
“I’m going to have to talk to her, aren’t I? At some point she’s going to find out anyway.”
“I think she knows already. She asked some very pointed questions. She mentioned Rosemary.”
“She’s going to loath me. What on Earth can I say? What did you say?”
“The truth, simplified.”
“Which is?”
“That I had a relationship with The Prince for most of our marriage. That you knew and we were happy with it. That we stopped seeing each other when he married Diana and then when we did get back together, we fell in love.”
“Christ, Milla, why did you tell her you are in love with him?”
“Because it’s true?”
“She doesn’t need to know that.”
“I think she does. She understood that part more than what went on in the 70s.”
“It’s a dying lifestyle.”
“I can’t say I’d choose it if I was able to go back in time, with hindsight.”
“I’m sorry.”
I look at him, my husband of twenty years, in a strange sort of shock. He’s never once apologised to me.
“I know I hurt you. I didn’t want to stop. I used to like it when you were with The Prince because you’d not get annoyed with me. You used to use him to make me jealous and I enjoyed the game. I’m sorry for hurting you.”
“I’m sorry for embarrassing you.”
“This is not your fault. You shouldn’t have fallen in love with him but I don’t want you to apologise for that. If I’d loved you properly, you’d never have thought about The Prince at all. When I found out that you loved him…”
“I’m sorry.”
“No. Don’t apologise. I was looking for affirmation anyway. I broke into your bureau and read all your letters. The ones from him, the one you were currently writing to him. I read everything. This love leapt from the pages. The one from you was the worst because you used to love me like that and it was very obvious you no longer do. I drove back to my flat in London and I was a state. That was the worst day of my life. Nick was worried about me.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t want to hurt you!”
“It was five years ago. I’ve gotten over it. But I did that to you all the time. Year in, year out. I’d fall in love with every other woman. And you knew. I didn’t give a sh*t about you knowing. So this is about 80% my fault.”
I don’t argue with him, although I should. What I feel for Charles now is nothing to do with Andrew.
“Tom…”
“I know.” Another cold weight sits in my chest, waiting to have a much worse conversation, knowing I’m going to lose the love of my son.
“Let me take the blame with him.”
“What? That’s not really truthful.”
“Yes it is. I don’t want him to hate you and I think he will unless I tell him the truth. He’s almost a man now and I think he’s going to take what you did and twist it in his young brain into hate. I know what young men do. It’s so easy to blame women. I don’t want him to have that anger against you. I don’t want it to poison his own relationships.”
“It might poison your relationship with him.”
“Yes. But he’s such a Mummy’s boy that I think the other way round might destroy him. And he is my son. Let me do what I think is best.”
“He needs to hear my side too.”
“After I’ve spoken to him.”
“Okay.” I reach to kiss his cheek and I realise what I said to Laura was very true. I do still love him. But as a friend. There’s nothing else left. My heart doesn’t belong to him anymore.
“I was wondering if we should have separate bedrooms now. I thought it might be less confusing for the children. But I’ve decided against it.”
“Do I not get a say?”
“I think if we do that, then our marriage is over. I don’t want it to be over. Do you? Now that your Prince is separated from his wife?”
“No.” He can’t divorce me. What would I do? Become a hermit and live in an enclave?
“What were you going to say about separate bedrooms?”
“I thought it might be disruptive for the children. More change.”
“That’s coldly unromantic, Milla. Are our days numbered?”
“No. I’ve never changed my mind about wanting to be married to you.” The tight grasp of panic grips me. Could I see Charles as a divorced woman? All that’s flashing through my mind is Wallace Simpson. Married, I’m almost allowed to be his mistress. But single, I’m a threat. I’d lose him. He wouldn’t fight for me. “I don’t see why anything between us needs to change. We both have our own lives outside the marriage but it’s not a secret.”
He reaches to kiss me and I want to scream. I’ve never been so deceitful. I want the marriage, not him, so he needs to be satisfied with me. Reaching my arms around his neck, I grip my heart so tightly it’s struggling to beat but it still manages to send slithers of pain through me. Maybe it would be easier to pretend, imagine I’m kissing the man I love instead but that feels even worse so I’m back to shoving him behind a door in my heart, pushing against it with all my might to keep him locked away.

I wonder if this is what it feels like to live in a zoo. I’ve stopped attempting to go out because I’m blinded by a sudden onset of flashing lights and the pervasive noise of those clickers. I don’t know what they are expecting to see. Sometimes the paparazzi follow me in the car and it makes me cry, these tears that slip down my cheeks but then I hate myself for crying. They don’t deserve to see me cry but I feel so trapped. I drive around until they get bored or I manage to lose them. By then, any joy I felt from leaving my house has drained from me and I’m left with a numbness which is becoming more pronounced and a loneliness so pervasive, I feel empty.
My family are wonderful. My father pops around constantly for a cup of tea, for a chat, checking in on me. His statement to the marauding paparazzi summing up his feelings about the entire affair. “In this family, we keep our traps shut.”

My sister has practically moved in with me and I’m inducted into her working world from the comfort of my kitchen table, offering my opinion on her interior design choices like I have any inclinations towards natural aptitude in this area. My ex-brother-in-law does my shopping for me although expects a cooked meal in return–he is a single man now, after all. Even my husband has been uncharacteristically understanding. He feels aggrieved for me for what has happened, like the rule books have been tossed in the air and obliterated. When he does come home, he’s been really supportive and cheerful and tries to take my mind off the paparazzi stationed outside. And Charles…
He rings me. Whispered conversations filled with pain and shame and anger. Letters smuggled to me where he bares all the torments of his soul wide open to me and I have to wait until I’m alone to open them because I can’t control the squeezing of my heart and the tears which flow freely. My husband walked in on me once whilst I was clutching the phone to my ear. I was sitting on our bed and I couldn’t stop crying, these silent tears which fell as the man I love sobbed at the other end of the line, hundreds of miles away from me. I saw my husband looking at me but I didn’t stop talking, the reassurances too important, and then I dropped my head, too ashamed to look at him as Charles whispered again and again how much he loved me and I couldn’t say it back and I felt like my body was ripping apart. Later, Andrew came and held me, wrapped both his arms around me and held onto me tightly as I lay mute, no more tears left to cry.

“I think it’s time you saw him, Darling.”
I look at my sister as I hack away at my garden, snipping, pruning.
“You’re so miserable without him.”
“It’s not a good idea.”
“Darling you’re wasting away and chain-smoking. And I can see how much you miss him. It’s in your eyes.”
“What if we get caught?”
“You’ve never been caught.”
“But it’s impossible to see him. I get followed everywhere.”
“Go with Andrew. They won’t follow you then.”
“Andrew’s not going to like that.”
“On the contrary, it was his suggestion. None of us like seeing you like this, Andrew included. I don’t think any of us really realised how much you love The Prince until now. Except possibly Andrew, who wasn’t surprised, just sad for you.”
“I’ve completely wrecked my marriage too.”
“What is there to wreck? And I don’t think you have. You’re really good friends even given everything. That is, if you still want your marriage?”
“Of course I still want it.”
“But now The Prince has separated from his wife…”
“It makes no difference. He’ll never divorce her.”
“But if he did…”
I know what she’s asking and I dampen that jolt of hope through me. That fantasy of being with him which I can’t allow myself to ever contemplate. It makes reality too painful. Just today. Concentrate on today. Focus on standing up and talking to other people. Shut the thoughts away. Bury the pain.
“Oh, sh*t, Camilla…” She tries to take hold of my hand but I need to chop something, take all the errant branches of a tree and hack them off. I need control of something in my life.

As I sit in the passenger seat, my body sends rushes through to my brain, demanding to be allowed out to run, needing some reassuring touch. I rub my thighs but the nervous energy dissipates only to reappear somewhere else. As gallant as Andrew is being with me, he isn’t happy about this and the silence between us is slightly awkward. I light a cigarette, then another, then another. Then I panic, knowing Charles hates the smell of smoke so I open the window to let it out, try to cover it with my perfume.
“Please stop fidgeting.”
I look at him guiltily and he sighs.
“Close the window, it’s blowing a gale. He is not going to care how many packets of cigarettes you’ve inhaled.”
I pull the sunscreen down to check the mirror and try to flatten my hair.
“Where are you staying tonight?”
“I don’t know.”
“I’m at Rosemary’s. I can’t pick you up.”
“I don’t expect you to pick me up.”
“Do you want me to arrange a ride home for you?”
“I don’t know.”
He chuckles at me. “Christ, Milla, you’re acting like you’re on a first date. You’ve been shagging the man for the past twenty years. If he hasn’t arranged somewhere for you to go, let me know before I leave and I’ll make sure you get home safely. I’m sure Nick will happily take you home. Please don’t shag him though, no matter how hard he tries.”
“He’s our brother-in-law. Surely that’s a line he wouldn’t cross?”
“Technically, ex-brother-in-law now, although I can’t really blame my sister for that. So, no, unfortunately Milla, he may feel you’re fair game.”
“I don’t think he would try anything. We’re good friends.”
Andrew raises his eyebrow at me and we both smile. He holds my hand for the rest of the journey and then kisses my cheek before we get out of the car. “He’s going to be inside, waiting for you, snapping at everyone around him. I don’t know why you’re worrying. He loves you.” And on that note, he gets out of the car, waits for me to join him and we walk together into the house.
Andrew isn’t quite correct. When I see Charles, he’s busy chatting and laughing with our friends and for a dreadful moment I am flooded with the realisation that he doesn’t feel the same as me. Then he spots me and I watch as the conversation stops instantly and his eyes focus on me with such an intense energy, I feel like the world around us blurs into the background. Suddenly, he’s marching towards me and before I have time to open my arms, he’s kissing me and my body combusts. His hands are in my hair and caress my face, my neck as I try to stand upright, reaching up on my toes to push against him, feeling dizzy with the feel of him. That first frantic kiss subsiding, we nuzzle against each other, whispering ‘I love you’ and ‘I’ve missed you’ into each other’s hair, ears, neck, lips, over and again. Then I’m wrapped tightly in his arms and I breathe him in as deeply as I can.
“I can’t go that long without seeing you.”
“I’ve missed you so much.”
“I can’t bear to be without you.”
“I want you with me all the time.”
“I love you. Truly, this has been too hard.”
“I love you. I love you. I love you.”

We don’t shock anyone. The dozen or so people here already know and have probably seen us before, although not quite as open as this. There seems no point in hiding it anymore. For now, it’s the usual struggle of wanting desperately to be alone together, where we can talk and kiss as freely as we want, whilst we mingle and talk to everyone else. Our hands reach to clasp onto fingers which caress and it’s so difficult to pull my eyes away from him, it’s like our absence from each other has reverted us to another phase of our lives where we reacquaint ourselves with each other. But this time, desire is dwarfed by this burning love, which changes everything.
I can tell Andrew is trying to get my attention and I manage to pull away from Charles with a sharp pang as he continues his round of people. I find myself welling up even as I try to control myself, walking out into the hall where Andrew has his coat on.
“Darling, why are you crying?”
“I don’t know.”
He wraps me up in his arms and strokes my back. “I only came to say I’m heading. I really wish you weren’t in love with him. This would all be just a laugh. A scandal to gossip about.”
I don’t reply, the shock at what Andrew is saying to me hitting me and I try desperately to stop the tears from falling but fail. I see Charles staring at me from down the hall, crying in my husband’s arms and then I close my eyes, wanting to bury my head in the sand. “I’m sorry.”
“I will take about 80% of the blame.”
That makes me laugh a little, a splutter, “How chivalrous of you.”
“Darling, you know me. But talking of chivalry, your own knight in shining armour is making strides towards us. Is he going to put me in the tower for making you cry?”
“I’ll stand up for you.”
“You best. You won’t find another husband like me.”
“I don’t suppose I would…”
“Sir, have you come to relieve me? My wife is obviously devastated that I’m leaving. Perhaps you can console her?” He doesn’t let go of me and for once I’m glad. He might be an errant husband but he’s a good friend and I feel safe in these arms I once loved. “Is weepy here ready to let go of me yet?”
“Perhaps you need to stop making her cry?”
“No, Sir. She’s certainly not crying because of me.”
“No. I don’t suppose she cares enough about you to be crying over you…”
“Charles, stop it! Don’t be such a dick.”
I feel Andrew start as he releases me. I’ve never dropped the required addresses before, not in public, not even with Andrew. I’ve certainly never let anyone glimpse our actual relationship. I see Charles smile at me slightly, even after my rebuff, as his thumb wipes away the remains of my tears from my face and Andrew slinks away to his own lover.

“After dinner, we will slip away and I’ll get you all to myself.” His nose trails down my neck before he bites down into my shoulder. It’s been so long since I’ve seen him, every touch feels new.
“One very important thing, Milla.”
“What?” I can hardly breathe as his lips kiss up my neck and his hands grasp onto my sides.
“I will never allow you to sleep with your lover.”
“That seems a little unfair if you persist in keeping your mistress. She does have needs…”
“I meant, when we are finally together, I don’t want a relationship like you have with your husband.”
I try to ignore the pangs which shoot through me at his words. I can’t afford to hope. “So what do you want from me?”
“I want you. Only you. And I want to be the only person you love. I never want to share you. I never want you to sleep with anyone other than me. I want monogamy, Camilla, with you.”
“That’s an interesting proposal…”
“Don’t joke. I want you. I want to be with you. I want you to myself. Divorce him.”
“Are you planning on getting divorced?”
“It’s not that simple.”
“Yes, it is. I’m not asking for a divorce. I’m not splitting up my family for you. I’m not giving that up for you to run away scared when the papers embarrass you. You’ve not seen me in months because your advisors say that’s the best thing. It’s not the best thing. I’ve missed you…” I stop as my voice breaks and I feel his arms around me, holding me as my nose brushes against his. “We’re like a river, dammed, and you let it happen. You didn’t stand up for me, for us. You cowered under pressure. You let me go…”
“I didn’t let you go. I won’t do that ever again.”
“...and now you make demands on me?”
“I can’t stand to see you with him. It makes my skin crawl. How he gets to be with you and he chooses not to. He has everything I want in his hands, everything I love at his fingertips and he has never treated you well. He has never deserved you.”
“And you think you treat me better?”
That shocks him. It takes all the wind from his sails and he stares at me in horror. “I will treat you better. I know I’ve not seen you, but I’ve never stopped loving you. I have to prove that you are not the reason I want a divorce.”
“Why? What difference does it make? And why haven’t you told me? It’s a decision that affects me but you made it for me?”
“Please can we not argue? I want to love you. I want to make love to you. We’ve not seen each other in so long and I know it’s my fault but please, can you just love me? I need to feel that. I almost can’t remember what it’s like. Some of this is irritation at each other because we’ve been apart. Can we fix the easy part first?”
And I know I’m a walkover, but I sink into him because he’s right, I want to love him more than anything else. I want to make love to him until we’re too exhausted to move and then sink into his arms and stare into his pale blue eyes until sleep claims me. Everything else can wait.

1972, Sussex

I see him running towards me with a guilt which sits in my stomach. I know from his letters and the joy in his eyes that he’s missed me much more than I’ve missed him and I’m ashamed at how I’ve referred to him to my other love. He’s sweet and lacking in maturity, but he loves me and doesn’t deserve my indecision. He doesn’t deserve my deceit.
“What’s wrong, my Darling?”
“Nothing.” He stares at me with such soft concerned eyes as his fingers trace my cheeks and I remember why this isn’t an easy choice. “Nothing!” I smile at him through my eyes, reassuring him and he kisses me, making my thoughts trail away.
“I’ve missed you.”
“I’ve missed you too.” It’s not a lie. I have missed him more than I should allow myself to miss anybody. I need to remember that this is not the relationship I’m destined for. It’s just that whatever sweet words Andrew makes over a phone call hundreds of miles away, he’s probably still making them whilst lying in bed with whichever woman he is currently ensnared with. Charles is here and he wants just me. I can make him happy.
“I went to sleep each night thinking of you.”
“Did that not get boring?”
“Oh, no. You’re never boring. Especially not in my mind. You do all sorts of things there.”
“What sort of things did I do?” I watch him blush and shake his head and I reach up to kiss him again. Brushing my lips over his cheek, I rest them against his ear lobe and whisper, “If you tell me your fantasies, I can make them reality.” Then I bite his ear.
“You are like a siren.”
“No. Run your hands all over me. Feel me. I’m real. And I want you.”
“No… I’m certain I want you more.”
“Tell me… Anything… Whatever you want…”
“We’re at your parent’s, Milla.”
“Oh, now I really want to know.”
He laughs at me with this look of surprise in his eyes and takes my hand, kissing it before pulling me to walk with him. “Remember I was in the tropics…”
“What do they do in the tropics that we can’t do here?”
“Lie outside, on a beach, staring up at the stars, completely naked.”
“Who were you doing that with?”
“You.”
“I wasn’t there.”
“It doesn’t mean I couldn’t pretend you were. As I gazed up at the stars, trying to listen to the sound of the waves, rather than the sounds of the bars along the strip. You would have found it funny, I know you would. You would have been doubled over laughing at the other, less romantic, sounds of my fornicating compatriots, practically blinded by the excesses of alcohol and desperate for the touch of soft, warm flesh. I, on the other hand, turned it into a romantic novel where I imagined we were alone on the beach, and I could touch you and kiss you, and make love to you.”
“Was it all a romantic novel?”
“Certainly not. You know, they dragged me into a brothel!”
“Dragged?”
“Well, okay, invited… Don’t look at me like that. I certainly didn’t do anything with anyone. It was an odd encounter.”
“What happened?”
“Well we all sat down on some sofas which had certainly seen better days and I was contemplating putting down my handkerchief to avoid sitting on it. If I hadn’t thought it would seem rude, I would have. And then we were served drinks but I didn’t dare to touch mine. Who knows whether they wash things. And then they brought out the women who paraded in front of us.”
“Any take your fancy?”
“No. I’ve already told you.”
“I didn’t ask you if you did anything, just if any took your fancy.”
“Well I guess, objectively, some of them were attractive. But they didn’t really speak to us, except to tell us to touch them, and you know I’m not too fond of women when they’re not particularly intelligent. Anyway, the one who was destined for me took the hint and went off in a huff after the rest of the men who were that way inclined headed off to wherever they were taken.”
“And how did you feel afterwards?”
“Bemused I guess. I’m glad I went. It was an experience.”
“Yet you didn’t experience anything?”
“Yes I did. I got to experience the whole brothel atmosphere.”
“You’ve still not told me what you imagined doing to me when you were alone in your bunk.”
“I’ll tell you later.”
“Tell me now. I want to think about it all day, all evening, every time I look at you so by the time we’re alone together tonight, we’re both so desperate for each other, it’s agony to be silent whilst you’re pushing into me as hard as you can.”
“You’re a minx anyway.” He’s laughing at me now, and he takes my hand, squeezing it as we walk through the gardens.
I’ve never really thought about how beautiful my parents’ gardens are. How much work must go into them to keep them looking so perfectly manicured. For them, it’s an endeavour of love. Charles and I compete, naming each flower, him better at the Latin, I better at the common name. I know far more than he does. I also know that he will study until he is at least my equal.
“Tell me how you navigate in your fancy boat.”
“Ship.”
“Do you climb into the crows' nest to watch out for icebergs?”
“Hmmmm…”
“I bet you’re really good at tying knots now.”
“Absolutely.”
“Or are you found scrubbing decks?”
“Do commanding officers often scrub decks?”
“I wouldn’t know, my Darling, why don’t you enlighten me? Tell me all about your dangerous job.”
“It’s not dangerous.”
“Tell that to the Titanic.”
“It’s a sight different from the Titanic.”
“Is it unsinkable?”
“No ship is unsinkable.”
“Then it’s dangerous.”
“If you wish.”
“Tell me, sailor, tell me about your voyages.”
“Okay, wench. Or damsel in distress. Which one is it?”
“Can I be both?”
“Certainly.”
“Sweep me off my feet then.”
“As you wish.”
I hear a shriek leave my mouth as he picks me up and carries me across the lawn before planting me on a stone wall. There, I wrap my legs around him and push against his lips, savouring the rush of excitement through me.
“Are you a wench now?”
“Yes. Have your wicked way with me.”
“I’m a gentleman.”
“No you’re not.” I pull him closer to me and my words drown in kisses which pulse through me.
“I told my Grandmother about you.”
My heart almost stops beating in shock. “What did you say?”
“That I’ve found a girl I can’t bear being apart from.”
“How did she take it?” I can imagine exactly how she took it. I can imagine exactly how well I was received. I try to wipe every thought from my face.
“She just listened to me. She’s wonderful like that. Unlike the rest of my family.”
“Why did you tell her?”
“Because you’re special.”
“I’m not. You are, though.” More’s the problem. Why couldn’t you be an ordinary person? Would I be interested in you if you were?
“She mentioned that Andrew is back soon.”
“He is.”
“Well… What are you going to do about it?”
“I haven’t thought about it.”
That makes him smile a little wryly. He’s always accusing me of sticking my head in the sand. I wish I was this time. It would be much better than lying to him.
“He’s not good for you.”
“Don’t even think about dictating to me what I do.”
“I’m not dictating. I’m just stating what is blatantly obvious to the entire world. He’s spent the past how many years messing you about? He’s not worth your time and attention.”
“And you are?”
“Yes. He’s not worthy of you.”
“Your sly tone tells me that you’re jealous.”
“Yes, I’m jealous.”
“Good. I want you to be jealous.”
“Don’t play games with me, Camilla.”
“I’m not. I like that you’re jealous.”
“I’d prefer that he was the one jealous.”
“Andy’s jealous of no man.”
“I’m not a man.”
“He’s not jealous of a Prince either.”
“Because he doesn’t love you like I do. I can’t help it. I want you for myself.”
“Shut up and kiss me.”
“With pleasure.”

The week passes like sand slipping through my fingers. I know I can’t stop it from falling. I can’t clench my fingers together tight enough. Not when he’s turning my hands palm up to kiss them and I have to reach up into his hair and pull his lips to mine. It’s like being in a daze. We walk for miles, unpicking every problem in his life, ignoring mine. Sometimes he sees my brow furrow and his eyes looking down at me intensely take my breath away. I can’t tell him that I’m not allowed to love him when he’s looking at me like that. Instead, I kiss him, a kiss which is more intense than I can admit, and we pull away wanting more. When we’re not walking, we’re riding, all around the Downs, galloping for the thrill before allowing our horses to walk to rest. If it were summer, I would have taken him to swim, naked in the lake, but it’s winter and the lake has a thin coating of ice in the early morning. Instead, we dismount and I grasp onto him with mittened hands and he pushes his nose against mine and I forget to breathe. He grasps onto my scarf and unwinds it, folding it in half and hooking it around me, pulling me closer as he kisses down my neck. And I close my eyes, even as the sun shoots pink rays across the sky, forgetting about everything other than the feeling of his lips against my skin, unwilling to admit this is all this will ever be. Knowing he will remain in his chains of privilege and duty and honour and that I don’t belong in that world.

Chapter 25: Clarence House, February 2022 (2012, Sandringham, 1982, Buckinghamshire, 1992, Highgrove)

Chapter Text

Clarence House, February 2022

“It’s you who’s the prisoner, isn’t it.”
The question is posed as a statement and I wait, knowing him well enough to let him formulate his thoughts. He swaps his seat and pulls another chair closer to mine. Sitting down gingerly, his face peers worriedly into mine but he doesn’t elaborate. I offer him my hand and he takes it, kissing the back of it tenderly before holding it between his. Mine is completely obscured as it draws in the heat from his soft hands, my fingers so tiny compared to his. “I chose the incarceration. I won’t complain about it.” Even those few words irritate my chest and I draw back to cough, trying to clear the fluid in my lungs. He’s on hand, offering me a glass of water, his blue eyes grey in concern. I can’t clear the sensation of drowning. The coughing just seems to aggravate it. I breathe in, feeling the breath catching and try to stop the coughs from escalating.
“I’m going to make sure next week’s events are cancelled too.”
I don’t argue. I just smile at him with a little nod. I’m exhausted.
“Maybe we can go for a little walk around the gardens? Get you up and about again?”
“Not today.”
“I wasn’t meaning today.” He reaches over to pat my knee and I rest my hand on top of his.
“I’m a real prisoner at the moment.”
“What would you do if you were feeling better?”
“Work.”
“I’ve rubbed off on you, haven’t I?”
“It was either work or die of boredom. I quite enjoy working now. I feel I have a purpose. I’ve found my purpose.”
“It would be nice to spend more time with you.”
“It’s your choice not to.”
“I know. I almost got used to it during lockdown. That’s what a normal marriage is like, isn’t it?”
“I don’t think we’re that unusual. Most people go to work. They only really see each other when they go to bed, that hour before bedtime.”
“I don’t always see you then.”
“Your choice, my love. I don’t force you to work.”
“You used to come and make me come to bed.”
“Sometimes you’d get absorbed in your work and didn’t realise the time.”
“You don’t do that anymore.”
“Mobile phones have their benefits. That, and I think you’re just the tiniest bit more sensible now. And I like having the bed to myself.”
“You don’t feel trapped, do you?”
I look up into his questioning eyes, knowing that my answer is important to him. “I’m trapped, but I’m trapped with you. I’ve said the same thing over and again; I chose this life because I chose you.” I stifle the cough that’s irritating my throat and I can see he’s not satisfied with my answer. His eyes are peering at me in worry. “How could I turn around to you and say I feel trapped? I understood what I was getting myself into. And don’t,” I hear him start to interject and cut him off, “say something “woke” like, ‘but you should be able to live your life how you want’ because that’s just not true. There are compromises which have been made and there are rules which I cannot and will not break.” Still his eyes are fearful and I fight the flicker of pain at his lack of self-confidence and a flash of anger towards his son for making him doubt himself, making him doubt me. “I understood the system I married into. It’s not my place to bulldoze through traditions and cultural and societal expectations. I’ve changed enough to suit myself. I’ve caused enough damage, enough change for one person. When I married you, that stopped. It’s about you now. And I will curtsey to you on the day of your coronation. I choose to. I want to. You will be my King. And not, I’m sorry, because I believe in the divine right of the monarch, but because I chose to make my life with you, because I need to ensure stability for you, for your son, for our grandchildren. So, if I’m trapped, I’m trapped in a life of my own making, my choice. The one I’ve fought for, you’ve fought for, for so many years. And I’m very happy to be here. I’m so lucky to have you, to still be here.” I dissolve into a fit of coughing after my speech and he strokes my legs until I stop and he takes hold of my hand again. “Anyway, it’s the best retirement home in the country. Your mother’s sorting out the disabled access. I have help getting dressed, getting washed, all food is delivered to me, doctor on standby, entertainment at my fingertips. Everyone wants to visit. I want fresh air? I catch the next flight to Birkhall. I want peace and quiet? I get flown home to my garden. I want to see the grandchildren? No problem. What more could I want?”
“Me?”
“You, of course. I was assuming I had you. You’re not allowed to divorce me, anyway. You’re stuck with me for life!”
“Do you remember when we had that awful argument?”
“Which one?” That earns me a look and I chuckle to myself, which sets off the coughing again. After I regain my breath, he continues.
“When you broke your leg.”
“When you were a complete dick about me not being able to accompany you?”
“I’ve said I was sorry… I never told you but my father decided to pay me a visit.”
“Was he unwell?”
That makes him smirk, “Concerned about us.”
“About us?”
“Yes.”
“Why have you never told me this?”
“I was angry with him.”
“Tell me something new.”
“And I was pissed off with you at the time.”
“What did he have to say?”
“He tried to give me marriage advice.”
That makes me laugh, properly, and the coughing sets off again. “What…” It’s difficult to speak. “...was his advice?”
He doesn’t answer, stroking my knees instead until the coughing stops. “You’re not allowed to laugh.”
“I’ll try not to.”
“It sets off your coughing.”
“I won’t laugh.”
“He tried to make me see why I was being unreasonable. That was in the form of a letter, of course. The visit was all about you. About how happy you had made me. About how much he liked you and how I should appreciate you.”
“Bet that went down well.”
“Red flag to a bull. The second time…”
“There was a second time?!”
“...was after we had made up. Of course, he didn’t know that but he came through the door and shook my hand then grasped hold of my shoulders and squeezed them. It’s the most physical contact I’d ever had with my father. I was in shock.”
I roll my eyes at him.
“He said, ‘The problem with loving a woman is that it makes any disagreement worse. Who are you meant to confide in when that person you rely on is not available?’”
“Was he checking whether you had found someone else?”
“Yes.”
“Your poor mother.”
“You’ve never said that before.”
“Don’t worry. I’m not about to make a habit of it. And for your information, if you decide to get a mistress, I’m not making friends with her, and you will never see me again.”
“You did with Rosemary when you were with Andrew.”
“I was in love with you!”
“Don’t worry. I’m very aware I’m not allowed a mistress. You’re disappointingly modern.”
“Not funny.”
“It is a little. I don’t want a mistress, my Darling. I’ve got you.”
“I didn’t go through all that for you to find someone else.”
“Neither did I. I’d never hurt you like that. You know that. Anyway… Back to my story… My father also told me that you ‘glow’ when you’re happy.”
“Right… I’m not sure how to take that.”
“The way it was intended. He told me it was my responsibility to keep you glowing. That the secret to a happy marriage was to make you happy.”
“Randy old bugger.”
“He wasn’t meaning it that way, at least I don’t think he was. There was also a lecture about my anger issues, being obnoxious and being incredibly selfish so obviously I left the meeting in a temper and didn’t talk to him for months. But the responsibility part, that’s the best piece of advice he’s ever given me. And now, it’s rather wonderful. Because when you’re really happy, he’s right, you do glow, so I get to see you looking at your most beautiful, and it reminds me of the one time my father understood me, our first genuine connection, over you.”
“You’ve kept that from me for ten years?”
“You can’t possibly be annoyed with me for that?!”
“It’s alright, I’ll get some shimmer highlighter. Then you won’t realise when I’m annoyed with you because I’ll be ‘glowing’!”
“When you’re better, I’ll make you glow for real.”
“I’ll hold you to that.”

2012, Sandringham

“You follow him around like you’re a pet dog.”
“I believe you told me to do so?”
“Since when did you listen to what I say?”
“I always listen to what you say. I’m not my husband.”
“You do not, Camilla, you do not.” He chuckles at me, making me smile.
“I hang onto your every word. Follow every direction.” My father-in-law glares at me but I’m used to that iron stare by now and I smirk up at him.
“I preferred you when I terrified you.”
“Whenever did I give you the impression that you terrify me?”
“No, Camilla, this is quite unacceptable. You’ve at least got to pretend to find me intimidating or quite frankly, you’re no fun whatsoever.”
“You can always go and talk to Sophie.”
“Yawn.”
“You’re really not meant to say that.”
“Oh, now you’re telling me what I should or should not do, are you? I’m not your husband, you can’t pillow-talk me, unless you’d like to?”
My mouth opens in fake outrage but my cheeks betray me and turn pink. I notice his glint in triumph and realise he’s won our little spat. Of course, my husband chooses this moment, when I’m bright red, to come over and join the conversation.
“Have you finished flirting with my father?”
“I’m not!”
Charles isn’t annoyed. He throws a handful of nuts into his mouth and winks at me. His father isn’t flummoxed either; he takes a sip of his whisky and I see him contemplating his next jibe.
“I wasn’t flirting…” I protest meekly, enjoying the patter.
“You’ve got to be charitable towards the more senior members of the family, Darling, give them some way to relive the vigour of their youth.”
“Are you worried I’ll take off with your wife? How interesting!”
Once upon a time, small little wind ups and any sarcastic comment would be enough to send my husband into a blind range. Now, he just continues popping nuts into his mouth and his eyes are twinkling. I listen as his father attempts to wind him up but Charles brushes it off and counters with his own barbs. Eventually, my father-in-law inclines his head and nods towards me.
“Camilla, where is my son and what have you done to him?
“Tranquilliser in the wine, Sir.”
“Traitor!” Charles hisses at me.
My father-in-law laughs, “Good game. But who is my sport if you’re not playing?”
“Sophie?”
“Wet fish, how dull. No, I require the occult.”
“I thought I saved that for the bedroom?”
“I’m sure you perform other enchantments. He’s like a slave, ‘Yes, Camilla, no Camilla, whatever-you-say Camilla…’”
“Are you really implying that my husband lacks a mind of his own?”
“No, he just puts you above it.”
“Are you jealous? Would you prefer more influence over your own spouse? Is this the underlying issue?”
“That’s cruel.”
I shrug. “When have I ever claimed to be nice?”
Charles kisses me on the cheek before rolling his eyes at the two of us. “Do you two ever stop bickering?”
“We’re not bickering, are we Camilla?”
“Apparently, we’re not bickering.”
“You can’t hog her anymore. I’m claiming her. I’ve been asked to make the rounds and I’ll be damned if I’m doing them solo whilst you two enjoy yourselves.”
“My son, removing my only form of entertainment…”
“Go and talk to your own wife. Stop commandeering mine.”
“She was a good choice.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Camilla. She was a good choice of wife.”
“I am standing right here.”
“I know.” He nods towards me, his face suddenly serious. “You, on the other hand, have exceedingly bad taste. What you see in my son…”
“Oh, here we go again…” Charles moans, making me smile.
“I’m merely stating my approval.”
“We’ve been married for seven years. It’s too late to add your approval now.”
“I gave my permission then. I give my approval now. She was a good choice.”
“She’s the best decision I’ve ever made.”
“That we can both agree on.”
“I am still standing here!”
“Hush, chattel.” That’s directed at me, below the belt but designed to rile me.
“I’m getting Sophie…”
“I take it back. My apologies.”
“Will the two of you please stop? Camilla, I need you. Please come with me.”
“Camilla, I need you…” His father imitates him, cruelly well.
“I need you too, Darling, I’m coming.” There’s only so much I can take of him winding up Charles before I’m hit with the urge to protect. His father knows this and I see him chuckling at me as I take Charles’s arm to talk to guests together. From the corner of my eye, I watch him slink over to his daughter and hear them both laughing. I think I might actually like him. Who would have thought?

His mother is another story. I’ve never managed to get past the formalities. Not that she isn’t pleasant towards me, she is, but there’s always a distance. A distance which perhaps I perpetuate with my own falseness. It’s easy for me to chatter and laugh but with her it is difficult because Charles slides into his petulant mode when she’s around, whining about perceived injustices and vocalising his petty complaints. Inevitably, I take his side, which puts us at an impasse. The few occasions I’m left on my own with her, I’m either a nervous wreck or I babble nonsense. Irritatingly, she seems to like Sophie and that’s lorded over everyone somewhat. She sits and listens to Sophie’s mindless chatter and appears to be enjoying herself. Not that I’d want to be doing the same. The water under the bridge is too deep.

1982, Buckinghamshire

I watch him as he rides in front of me, watch him succumb to the anger in him as he lashes his horse for the slightest indiscretion. He’s racing ahead. I won’t drive my horse that fast. Not for so long. It’s cruel.
“It’s gone to ground.”
I hear the call but my attention is on him, ahead of me in his scarlet livery. He’s so disappointed and angry. I hear the quad bike and the yapping of the terriers but he is beside himself. I gently nudge my horse beside his.
“Would you like to head back, Sir?”
“No, damn it. I want to ride.”
“If you go the same speed as me, I’ll ride on with you for a bit.” He’s so heavy handed with the reins. His poor horse.
“No, I don’t want to go at your precious little Molly’s speed. You coddle her like your own child.”
“Glad I didn’t have to give birth to her though.” It makes him smile, even through his temper. “Bit painful, I’d imagine.”
“Fine, yes, let’s go.”
His horse reaches to bite Molly and I pull her away with a click of my tongue. “Bad tempered?”
“Bloody awful. Dreadful ride.”
I listen to him moan as we follow the path. He is in the slough of despond. Everything is inclement and designed to irritate him.
“Would you prefer to walk than ride?”
“No. I’d just try and shag you and you’d say no and I’d get angry with you. Stay in your saddle.”
“Right… Sounds the safer option.”
As we continue to trot, he quietens and then slows down to a walk, giving his horse a freer rein which means I have to keep my distance for Molly’s sake.
“Everything is beyond awful.”
“The ride wasn’t so bad.”
“I’m not talking about the ride. Why are you so far away? I don’t want to shout.”
“Your horse keeps biting Molly.”
“Perhaps if she wasn’t being such a co*ck tease…”
“I’ve not done anything, Charles. All I’ve done is listen.” He tightens the reins and I push Molly closer to him.
“You haunt me, Camilla. You haunt my dreams.”
“I’m sorry.”
“And you’re everywhere. You don’t leave me alone.”
“This is my hunt pack. Not yours.”
“And I suppose it’s your polo set too.”
“Yes. Or rather, I go to Andrew’s. You know that. You choose to come anyway.”
“Oh, so now it’s because I can’t leave you alone?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You meant it.”
I sigh, hating the argument, hating how much it affects me. “It still hurts to see you.” I admit it with a jolt of pain, needing to break through his anger.
“I need to see you. Even if it’s just in the distance. You help me breathe.”
My heart chooses that minute to roll into a tight ball and spasms through my upper body. We ride in silence for a while until he nudges us into the trees.
“Dismount. I need to see you, Milla, properly.”
“It’s a bad idea.”
He ignores me, swinging his leg over and jumping down whilst the horse is still walking. “Get down.”
“No.”
He yanks the reins from my hands and brings Molly to a standstill. “Camilla, get down.”
“No, Sir, I won’t.”
“I will pull you down.” He ties his horse’s reins to a branch and walks Molly to another, away from the bite of his. Then he stares up at me. “Your choice. Dismount or I will pull you down.”
I know he means it and if he pulls me off, he’ll catch me and I’ll be wrapped in his arms. Sighing, I dismount on the opposite side to him with a larger drop than I expected, making me squeal as I topple over. He’s with me in a shot, pulling me back to my feet but it’s too late. I’ve already got mud all down my cream jodhpurs. He doesn’t let hold of my hand as we lean side by side on the trunk of a fallen tree, the contact with his fingers sending a spark through me, pressing against his side just to feel him against me.
“It’s like living a nightmare. I can’t make her happy.”
I don’t say anything, I just listen, squeezing his hand to encourage him.
“She hates everything. Everything and everyone I love. She screams and shouts and cries at me about everything and then I lose my temper with her and I shout back. It’s awful. I’m monstrous. I end up giving her everything she asks for. It’s easier. But she’s not happy with it. She wants more.”
“What do you mean?”
“She hates my friends. She’s going through them, one by one, and then I can’t see them anymore.”
“Charles, that’s not okay…”
“It’s fine. Honestly, I’d be fine if it just made her happy… But I’ve had to give up Harvey… and I know he’s just a dog… and we’ve got William now so it’s stupid to be so sentimental about an animal…”
All I want to do is hold him. My heart pangs so acutely.
“I miss you. I miss you like the tides miss the moon. You pull me to you, fiercely, and then when you’re not there, there’s nothing, like there’s nothing worth moving for.”
A little tentatively, I reach to wrap my arms around him and pull him to me. I feel him gulp but I hold on until his arms wrap around me and he squeezes me tightly. It feels like the only thing right in the world. My helmet is in the way but I manage to put my face against his shoulder and I breathe him in. His jacket is damp but I can smell him through that so I concentrate on him. His neck is cold and sticky with sweat but I want to nose into him. Pulling away from me slightly, he unclasps the strap of my helmet before removing his hat and I can see his wet hair plastered to his head. It doesn’t stop me pushing my nose against his neck, deeper this time, wanting to feel his skin against mine, and I feel him kiss the side of my neck like my body is coming alive. This is much more dangerous. I know if we start kissing, we won’t stop. His thumb caresses the back of my neck, igniting my skin and I can hear his breathing heavy in my ear.
“She’s right about you though.”
“We’ve not done anything.”
“But we both want to. We’re right not to see each other.” He kisses the side of my neck firmly and I hear my breath leave my mouth as a gasp. “We’re not ready to be friends.”
His words hurt. And so does the gentle way his fingers caress my neck. It’s agony. It’s him that pushes me away, detaches my face from his neck by pulling me in front of him but my body sinks against him, pain shooting through to my heart.
“Look at me.”
His eyes. His eyes are wrenching through me but the pain doesn’t stop my fingers from tracing over his face as his grasp onto my back, holding onto me tightly.
“I love…”
“...Don’t say it.”
“I love you.”
I kiss him just once, almost to capture his words and hold them against my heart. A soft, gentle kiss as I stroke his face. It’s agony to pull away but we do.
“I’ll try to stop stalking you.”
“Please don’t stop.”
“I have to keep ringing you. I need to hear your voice. It keeps me sane.”
“I’ll write back each time you write.”
“Once a week.”
“Your letters light up my life.”
“How am I meant to love her when I’m so in love with you?”
“It is possible to love more than one person.”
“I don’t think I’m wired that way.”
“Stop trying to get over me. My love for you will always be there in the background. I am never going to stop loving you. It can simmer there forever. It just can’t spark into flame. Try to nurture another flame.”
“I don’t think I can.”
“Find everything you do like about her. Put it together and hang onto that. You might find it easier now you have a child together.”
“I doubt it.”
“Tell me about William.”
That’s easier. Talking about our children is much safer ground.
“I wish you could meet him.”
“Don’t wish that. There’s something especially difficult about watching the person you love interact so well with your children.”
“I love your children.”
“I know. Tom misses you.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s not your fault.”
“How’s Andrew?”
“Usual. I don’t see him very often. When I do, it’s fine. We’re fine. We’re friends.”
“I hate that now I’ve left you, you’re no longer loved. You deserve to be loved.”
“Do you suggest I try to find someone else?”
“No.”
“That’s not particularly kind.”
“I couldn’t bear it. I love you too much.”
“Luckily for you, I can’t even contemplate someone else. But it does concern me that you’d rather I was unhappy and alone than happy with someone else. Perhaps I should set a deadline? If I’m still this unhappy by the time I’m forty, I’ll find someone else.”
“Me. Have me.”
His kiss hits me like a shot as my body rewards me by shooting flames through me. It’s been well over a year since we’ve kissed like this but there’s no let up in how he makes me feel. I hear the moan leave my mouth and then we’re grasping onto each other, trying to desperately deepen this kiss, not able to get close enough. Somehow, I pull away and I feel him nod his head as we avoid each other’s lips, knowing it would take nothing to ignite everything again. We’re both breathing heavily and I can see how pink his face is.
“We shouldn’t do this. It’s not fair.”
“I know.” I let my head rest against his neck and I feel him stroking my hair.
“Let’s go, Darling. This is wrong and it’s too difficult.” He kisses the top of my head firmly.
“Try again next year?”
“Try what?”
“To be friends.”
“Yes. Another year. Then there’s a goal. It’s not quite as vacuously soul destroying to not see you. A year to try to resolve this.”
“And then we’ve always got the year after…”
“Perhaps I should set an expiry date?”
“What do you mean?”
“You said when you turn forty, you’ll look for someone else? Darling, if we still feel like this at forty, perhaps we should start listening?”
“That’s five years away.”
“Papa did tell me I only need to give it five years. Get the breeding over and done with.”
“God, I’m glad I didn’t marry you.”
“Your husband didn’t restrain himself whilst you were having his children, did he? Actually, Milla, neither did you if I recall correctly. You were with me the entire time.”
“It’s not the same.”
“No, it’s not. You’re right. The difference is I love you yet I know it’s not right to be with you whilst my wife is having my children. I can’t forgive Andrew for doing that to you, even if you did love someone else. Diana isn’t in love with someone else, though. That makes it unthinkable.”
“She isn’t in love with you, however.”
“She thinks she is. That almost makes it worse.”
“She loves the position, the attention it garners.”
“She loves William.”
“Wow. A mother who loves her son. Who’d have thought? Most mothers hate their children…”
“Now, now. I thought you were trying to persuade me to love her a minute ago… Forsaking all others… Forsaking you…”
“Yes… I was…”
“If I had you, I wouldn’t even think about anyone else. I still feel like I’m betraying you with my wife. And I realise how contorted that logic is. Not seeing you hasn’t changed anything.”
“Perhaps another year will.”
“It won’t for me. I hope to God it won’t for you.”
“We need to get back. My father will be wondering where I am.”
“You’re avoiding the conversation. But you’re right. Tell him you fell off and we walked the rest of the way.”
“I didn’t fall off!”
“Your jodhpurs say otherwise.”
“I’d be more muddy than that if I fell off.” I realise what I’ve said too late as he grabs hold of me and lifts me up. I’m shrieking, fighting to get down but he’s too strong.
“Where’s a good place to set you down? What about here?” He leans forward, hovering me over a wet patch of mud and I cling to him like a monkey. I feel my hair touching the floor and I grasp around his neck, making him lose balance as we both topple into the mud. The cold water seeps into my jacket and I scream but he’s on top of me and we’re kissing and I wrap my hands around his head and ignore everything else. The sort of kiss which reaches through me and demands more until I’m aware that I’m sinking too deep in the mud and I push him away.
“Help me out.”

It’s not as easy as it seems. Our hands are both slippery and I’m so badly stuck. And then there’s a rush of people and horses around us as our friends jump down and help me up, laughing at me for falling off, laughing at how stuck I am and then how coated in mud I am when they pull me up. Laughing as they tell us how they followed the sounds of my screams and watched The Prince’s attempt to pull me up and then his spectacular fall headfirst into the dirt on top of me, splattering mud everywhere. Charles slinks off, hating the humiliation, as I laugh with them, retrieve my helmet and accept help back onto Molly. My hands are shaking and I’m shivering. I need to go home.

1992, Highgrove

I wake up to unfamiliar surroundings and a very familiar pressure against my forehead. “Too early.” I feel the feathering of kisses around my face and complain, “Let me sleep.”
“Sleep when we’re not together.”
I pull his head so his face is in my chest and it stops him momentarily as he nuzzles into his new environment. Then the kissing starts again. I can ignore those light kisses across my chest, the trailing of his tongue, but then his hand starts to explore my thighs. I close my eyes and pretend not to register the reaction my body has to him.
“Relax, Darling. Don’t do anything.”
I’ve never been very good at lying back and letting him take charge. He says it’s because it’s the only thing in my life I have any control over. I disagree. I just know what I like and have a better sense of adventure than him. I remember him laughing at me when I provided that particular rebuttal but I have no intention of handing over power. I’m almost awake now and he smirks at me as I watch him. It doesn’t take much to guide him. I’m not even sure that he notices.
“I saw what you did!”
Perhaps he does notice. “So what are you going to do about it? What you were doing, which you know now I don’t like as much, or what I want you to do?”
He laughs at me before doing something else entirely, making my entire body react to him, causing me to gasp my breath. There’s a knock at the door and I hear him growl, repeating the movement which sends a shockwave through me. Perhaps they’ll go away? Of course they don’t and the knock sounds again placing me in a strange position with my mind knowing we need to answer the door and my body incapacitated by the feeling of him. Eventually, the knocking becomes so persistent, it is impossible to ignore. I can see he’s angry and I run my fingers over his face as he moves to kiss me. I kiss him softly and whisper, “It’s okay.” But he shakes his head in annoyance.
“Give me a minute.” He shouts the words towards the door then as an aside to me, “This better be serious.”
He looks good in the morning. I like his hair floppy and stuck up all over the place. His cheeks are prickly with a dark shadow that I enjoy running my fingers over. He kisses me one last time with an earnestness which makes me melt and I squeeze his tight shoulders and push my fingers into the muscle there. He climbs out of bed and walks to the chair where his clothes were thrown last night but as he looks back at me he smiles. “See something you like?”
I stretch out my arms and yawn nonchalantly, “No.” making him chuckle. I want to run my hands down his back. I want to claim his bottom for my own.
“You’re ogling.”
“Prove it.” The trousers he pulls on obscure my view and I scrunch up my nose as he puts on a shirt.
“Where are your clothes?”
“Wherever you pulled them off.”
“Here.” He throws me his undershirt. “I don’t want anyone else to see you like this.
“Charles, I’ll be naked from the waist down.”
He shrugs. “Stay where you are, then.” He waits for me to put it on then allows the person at the door to enter. “What is it?”
“Your Royal Highness, there’s a fire at Windsor Castle.”
“Is my mother in it?”
“Charles!”
“What I meant to say, was, is my mother okay?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Has anyone been hurt?”
“No, Sir.”
“Then why have you disturbed me?”
“Sorry, Sir, His Royal Highness, The Duke of Edinburgh insisted.”
“My father, or my father’s office?”
“Your father, Sir.”
“Golly, must be serious.” It’s impossible to miss the dry sarcasm in his voice and his lack of concern is chilling.
“Tell him that unless he expects me to be pouring buckets on the flames myself, it can wait until morning. Leave us.”
He waits until the door shuts before climbing back on the bed and sinking into my arms, head on my chest. I stroke his hair, letting him come to terms with his thoughts.
“For once, I can understand why my father is so upset. My father is concerned because my mother loves it. This has nothing to do with me. He rang because he’s an old man and he’s had a nasty shock. My mother will be beside herself. Do you know, Darling, I just can’t bring myself to care. I hate Windsor. I hate it because my mother loves it.”
“You hate it, Darling, because it’s under the flight path of Heathrow.”
“That too.”
“Noisy aeroplanes disturbing your beauty sleep…”
“If it survives, the first thing I’m going to do on my mother’s demise is to open it to the public. It can earn its keep and she’ll turn in her grave. Balmoral too!”
I snort but then turn my attention to the stubble on his cheek which I’m scratching with a nail. It makes a very satisfying noise. Each time I venture close to his lips, he gnaws the side of my finger gently, making me giggle. “Do you want to know what I think?” I reach down his back and pull at his shirt, pulling it up and over his head.
“Probably not.”
“Rude.” He settles against my chest again and this time my fingers focus on running my nails up and down his back until he’s almost purring. “You’re like a cat.”
“No. I’m like a dog. Cats are far too emotionally independent. I’m totally reliant on you for love. What do you think?”
“A dog probably is a better match.”
“No, you asked me if I wanted to know what you thought.”
“Oh, yes, I think you should ring your father. You’re right, he is an old man now, it will probably calm him.”
“After what he said about you to my wife?”
“It wasn’t personal.”
“‘I cannot imagine anyone in their right mind leaving you for Camilla.’”
“He has a point.”
“He does not!”
“Yes, Darling, he does. And you weren’t in your right mind when you came back to me. But it isn’t about me. It’s about you, about your position, about the necessity of your fantasy marriage. Why would you jeopardise all that for me? That’s all he meant.”
“He was being derogatory about your looks.”
“Because obviously I’m old and fat and ugly in comparison. Your father is just echoing the thoughts of the nation.”
“How are you so blase about this?”
“I’m not, but what can I do about it?” What am I meant to tell him? That being stripped down as a person, unfavourably, to my physical attributes is the standard attack on any woman who dares to not be born as society’s current ideal? Or am I meant to worry him by admitting that the constant attacks on my appearance on the telly, in the papers, make me feel exposed and humiliated? The first will anger him, the second will upset him. He doesn’t need me to add to his pain. No. I opt instead for humour. “Do you know what, Charles, I’m glad your father doesn’t find me attractive.”
“Me too. Apparently he’s quite the rake. I don’t want to fight him for you.”
“Why? Worried you might lose?”
“No. I can’t take this conversation. If you tell me now that you find my father attractive, we’re done.”
“Your father is attractive!”
“Camilla!”
“What? He is!”
“Please stop!”
“I bet he’s good in bed too!”
“Ahhhhhhh!!!”
“I bet a fair few can testify also!”
“Stop it!”
“I’ll stop it if you agree to phone him later this morning.”
“Why, Milla, why?”
“Because he tries. He gets it terribly, terribly wrong, but he does care about you. So ring him.”
“I’ll ring him only if you promise never, ever to mention that you’ve thought about bedding him.”
“I’ve never wanted to, don’t worry.”
“So the thought just pops in your head?”
“Do you never just wonder whether someone is good in bed?”
“Not my parents!”
“Your mother is awful. She doesn’t even enjoy sex.”
“Please stop.”
“If you’re at a dinner party and you’re frightfully bored, look around you and decide. It livens up the evening.”
“They’re Heads of State!”
“Are you telling me now they don’t have sex?”
“Oh good Lord, now I’m going to be thinking about this…”
“Your sister… enjoys it… extremely competent at it… but is restricted to about four positions from which she will not stray.”
“Do you know this or are you imagining?”
“I know this!”
“Oh my God, you’ve not discussed me with Andrew have you?”
“No, my love. It would be considered bad form.”
“Andrew has moral standards?”
“No, I do. Your brother, Andrew…”
“Quick, rough and then needy about whether she’s had a good time or not…”
“Good one! Other brother, Edward?”
“I don’t think he has sex.”
“Probably not.”
“Your brother, Mark?”
“Absolutely filthy. Probably very able but extremely conceited about it. I bet he rarely enjoys himself.”
“You.”
“Me? You know. That’s not the game.”
“Has to be in control. Is afraid to let go because she’s still too scared to be vulnerable.”
“I let you take control.”
“Not often, my Darling. And mostly when you’re upset. You may be very good at it but sex should be more equal. We should try it out sometimes.”
“Maybe.”
“I would very much like to because I’d like you to trust me, to get beyond that wall you’ve erected around yourself. What do I need to do for you to trust me?”
He’s shocked me into silence at how he’s seen through me, deeper than even I let myself go. He’s right. It’s my way of protecting myself. I can’t trust him. I’m not in a position to be able to trust him. He could decide at any given moment to give me up and I can’t do anything about it. My only defence is to ensure he is happy and to try to establish some form of barrier. But the hurt on his face is unbearable. I feel like my insides are exposed, like he’s just reached through me to hold onto my heart. His hand caresses my face, followed by a kiss that grounds me to the sheets I’m lying on.
“I promise you that I will never leave you, Milla.”
I make to protest but he kisses me again and I can’t.
“I don’t care how bad things get. I will love you and I will fight for you and I will be with you until the end of my life.”
“You can’t promise me that.”
“I can. I have. And I will. Until death us do part.”
“But…”
“No. No buts. My marriage is over. It’s a complete disaster. It’s now a full out war. I think that book she released is just the beginning and I’m almost certain she’s out to destroy us both. She wants us to fail. And I’m so sorry. But I will never give you up. She doesn’t understand the depths of my love for you. If she did, she would never try to part us, nobody would.”
“She rings me… Late at night…”
“What?”
“Sometimes she breathes down the phone and doesn’t say anything.
“Why haven’t you told me?” I hear the anger in his voice and ignore it, willing myself to continue.
“Sometimes she tells me she’s sent someone to kill me.”
“Ring the police!”
“You know I can’t.” It’s a stupid thing to say. Can you even imagine that conversation? They probably wouldn’t care. They’d think I’d brought it upon myself.
“Darling… I’m so sorry.”
“Andrew picked up once. She told him that my affair with you was killing her.”
“What did he say?”
“Something along the lines of, ‘You have no shortage of men’s shoulders to cry on. Never ring again.’ Since then, she’s called less often. But it’s more vicious. I can take the threats to myself. But she describes where my children are sleeping, never says anything, never makes a threat, but her just mentioning them… I don’t think she’d harm them, not in reality, but it’s like someone bludgeoning my heart and then injecting it with a fear I can’t describe.”
“Why haven’t you told me?”
“I didn’t want you to make a decision about her based on me.”
“You were a part of that decision anyway.”
“It would have influenced you.”
“Yes, it would. It bloody would! Camilla, for God’s sake, you needed to tell me this!”
I feel my lip twitching with the strain of keeping my emotions checked..
“If you can’t trust me with this…”
“…I’ve just told you!” My words blurt out louder than I’d intended.
“Yes… Yes you have.” His voice is softer now. “But I’ll stop it. She won’t ring you again.”
“How?”
“By doing what I promised myself I’d never do.”
I just look at him. His eyes are wretched but he looks down at me with a softness I can trust to sink into.
“I’ll scare her. I’ll increase security for our boys and for her. Tell her that a lunatic has been threatening your children and that MI6 are now involved. I’ll say whoever it is, when they’re found, they’ll disappear, that I’ve given the order. Feed into her paranoia. That will stop her.”
“You scare me sometimes.”
“I’m sorry. You know I can’t actually order someone’s death?”
“You probably could. Did you never have to in your time in the navy?”
“No. And no. I couldn’t sit there and order someone’s death. I’d never live with myself. It goes against everything I believe in. Do you really think that of me?”
“No. I don’t think I could love someone that ruthless.”
“Don’t keep things from me again. There’s no need anymore and I want you to tell me when something’s wrong.”
“You’re asking a lot of me today.”
“Yes. I’m trying to prize out your secrets, your insecurities when all around us the world is falling. I want you to fall with me, Darling. Try not to stop yourself from falling. I promise you, when we land, we’re together.”
“I’ll do my best.”
“I’ll do mine.”