Pas-de-Calais, France
April 2017
The prince had returned to the stage
"I never thought I'd ever get to say this, but this place is nearly as fancy as your palaces are," I inform Ken as I tie the hotel-branded silk robe around my waist, revelling in the feel of the soft material against my skin.
'This place' is the suite in a hotel near Bethune, France. It occupies the buildings of a former monastery and while I normally can't tell one set of Catholic monks from the other, I know just from looking at those buildings that these were not the kind of monks that lived a life of austerity.
"No-one does luxury as well as the French do," Ken admits easily. "Louis XIV invented that sort luxury, after all."
"I know," I inform him as I sit down at the table opposite him and survey the breakfast spread out between us. "I've been to Versailles and I regret to inform you that it beats Buck House any day. Granted, the hordes of sweaty tourists did take away from the experience a little, but Alain knew some lovely spots in the park that weren't at all crowded."
Ken raises an eyebrow playfully. "Alain, huh?"
I throw a piece of toast at him.
"Who else do you think showed me around Paris?" I ask rhetorically.
"Am I to understand that you've seen all of Paris and have no desire to ever return there?" Ken teases.
I throw another piece of toast for good measure.
"I never said that," I clarify. "How could a person ever get tired of Paris?"
Ken grins. "City of love and all that, you mean?"
I incline my head. "Quite."
"City of luxury, too," he adds, returning to the original subject of our conversation. "The Ritz is something else, though of course, in my family, we prefer the Four Seasons King Victor."
King Victor, of course, is his great-great-grandfather, who had a whole street in Paris named for himself after World War One, which in turn inspired the name of the hotel. It was all explained in my guidebook, back in the day.
"Having stood in front of both to take pictures and try to glimpse someone famous going inside, I can tell you that the Ritz looks much fancier from the outside," I tell him, while popping a piece of bread in my mouth.
He laughs. "How's this? I'll take you to stay at both and then you can decide which one you like better from the inside."
"Is that before or after you take me to see Venice?" I challenge, but I do so with a smile.
"Touché," admits Ken, grinning. "I did promise we would visit Venice and I'll make good on that promise one day. Maybe we could go there on our honeymoon."
"No, we couldn't," I reply coolly, leaning back in my chair. (How can he joke about honeymoons when we never even formally agreed to get married?) "The public attention would be out of this world."
Ken smiles wryly. "Indeed it would be. Your tourist days are well and truly past you now, I'm afraid, and I never had them in the first place. But I'll figure it out, somehow. We'll go to Paris and to Venice and stay at whichever hotel you like and I'll have them close down Versailles for us so you can see it without the sweaty tourists."
Hmm… tempting!
"And Prague, please," I add, smiling sweetly. "Prague is gorgeous and I must see it again. And Budapest, too! Can we go to Budapest? I always meant to go and never did. Oooh, and Neuschwanstein. We have to go see Neuschwanstein!"
"That one's overrated, actually," Ken tells me and takes a sip of his coffee. "I went there on an official trip to Bavaria some years ago and from the ground, it's just another castle and not a very large one either. The true effect is only revealed from the air. Though…" He pauses briefly, "though I suppose I could organise a helicopter ride for us…"
"Sounds like we have a plan!" I announce, laughing. "I mean, we won't ever get to actually put it into action, but it's fun to plan and dream nonetheless."
Instead of joining into my laughter, Ken grows serious, a frown appearing between his brows. "We will get to do it. I don't know how yet, but I'll make it happen. I promised you, didn't I?"
Reaching over the table (and nearly knocking over a pitcher of orange juice in the process), I cover his hand with mine. "It's okay. It doesn't really matter either way. The world is a big old place, but you know what they say about homes and hearts. I enjoyed exploring all those cities and their sights, but on balance, I'd much rather be with you."
Ken doesn't answer immediately, instead enclosing my hand in his and raising it to his lips to press a kiss to my knuckles. "That big, old place you just mentioned?" he finally remarks, his voice a little bit hoarse. "I'm the luckiest man in it."
I twist my hand slightly in his grasp to let my fingertips graze over his face. "We're both lucky to have each other," I tell him simply, keeping my face serious and putting the smile in my eyes. Ken smiles back, his expression tender and loving.
Maybe now…
There's a loud knock on the door, making both of us jump.
Ken rolls his eyes as I squelch the sudden disappointment rising like bile in my throat.
"Sir?" Oliver's voice calls through the door. "I just wanted to remind you that the cars leave in an hour."
Because today, no-one waits, not even for the Prince of Wales, for today is about something bigger than us.
Today marks the 100th anniversary of the Battle of Vimy Ridge and while history was never my strong point in school (it needed Owen and his vast historical knowledge to get me interested in the subject at all), I am enough of a good little Canadian to understand the importance of it. While just a minor battle in the grand scale of the war, Vimy Ridge has been called the 'coming of age' of Canada, shaping the country's identity as an independent nation. I don't really know about that (and have never able to unsee the irony of the fact that such a bloody and costly battle should be the foundation stone of Canada, this most polite of nations), but I do know enough to realise that today is a very important day indeed.
It is the importance and, yes, the visibility of today's event that has me fretting – and not for the first time – when we sit in the car a little over an hour later and are being driven south.
"Do you really think it's okay that I'm here?" I ask Ken as I nervously fuss with the hem of my dress. It's steel grey and manages to nicely strike a balance by being both fashionable and appropriate. Owing to the importance of today, I went through several dress rehearsals before settling on it and while I suddenly find myself doubting that it was a good choice, the rational part of me knows that the dress is fine and that the doubt is just down to general nerves.
Still.
"I'm very sure that it's more than okay that you're here," Ken reassures me with a smile and folds my hand in his.
Thus deprived of one hand, I instead use the other one to tug at the Royal Victorian Order pinned to my dress until he catches that one as well, holding both my hands in one of his. "It'll be okay," he promises.
"But someone might take offense at me being there!" I protest. "I mean, I'm just your girlfriend and –"
I don't get any further though, because Ken interrupts me. "First of all, you're not just my girlfriend. You're not a 'just' anything. And second of all, why would anyone object to you being there?"
"Because normally, only spouses get to go to official events," I reply. It brings us dangerously close to that touchy subject of marriage once more, but I shall brave it in the interest of making a point.
We've actually been over this before, trading the very same arguments we're using now. It's really very nice of Ken that he's so patiently going through it all again to reassure me instead of telling me to stuff it.
"Says who?" Ken asks, just as he asked the last time we talked about this.
"You know… people," I answer vaguely.
"For the royal family, my father makes the rules and as you know, he was very much for you coming along," Ken points out reasonably.
He's right there, I must admit. I have a feeling Ken cleared it with his father before even asking me to accompany him, but when we officially broached the subject, Owen was very enthusiastic about it. When I timidly tried to point out the lack of a, well, marriage between Ken and me, he merely said that as a Canadian, I had every right to be there and when I tried arguing that there's a difference between 'being there' and 'accompanying Ken', he blithely remarked that it was an event to commemorate something that happened a century in the past but that it didn't mean we all had to behave like we still lived a hundred years ago.
Knowing that Owen's support is not to be doubted, I change tracks, "But we're in France now and it's the French making the rules here. I don't think the French President ever brings his girlfriend along to official events."
"No, but he often brought along the old one before they broke up because he cheated on her," Ken deadpans.
I give him a side-eye to show that this is not something to joke about. He smiles in a vaguely apologetic sort of way and gives my hands a squeeze before releasing them.
"You're fine," he promises. "We're fine."
"And the Canadian government won't mind either?" I ask with yet another twinge of anxiousness. After all, despite us being on French soil, it's officially the Canadian Prime Minister who hosts today's commemoration.
"They said they didn't, especially with you being a countrywoman," Ken replies with a shrug. "Besides, I think they liked the additional attention your presence will generate."
I snort. "Like they need me being there for this to garner attention."
"Oh, but they do," he assures. "Vimy Ridge might be a big thing in Canada, but not to the rest of the world. Outside of Canada, today's events were never going to be worth more than few lines buried deep in the inside of a newspaper. With you being there, it instantly raises the profile."
I'd protest, but I know he isn't wrong. I've seen the itinerary and I know all the trouble those in charge went through to plan this commemoration, staging many events spanning several days and inviting several thousands of people, which should really be enough to make this front page news. But at the same time, I also know that it will be the pictures of me by Ken's side at an official event that will draw attention of people that wouldn't otherwise give a fig about what is happening on some random hill in the middle of France.
It feels weird to have that sort of recognition, that sort of… power.
"It shouldn't be about me," I point out because I feel that it ought to be said.
"And it won't be," Ken assures. "But there are audiences that they only reach by riding your coattails. I mean, you don't think even the Mail with their obsession with all things world war would write more than a short blurb about this normally, do you? It's you being there that'll make them push it to the front page."
"No pressure," I mutter, weaving my hands together.
Ken gently nudges my chin up so I have to look at him. "There's no pressure at all. You just have to be yourself today because I know that being yourself, you will be wonderful."
"The Mail might disagree," I argue, thinking back to some of the more unkind articles written in that very newspaper about me. Rationally, I know I shouldn't let them get to me, but after nearly half a year of being unfavourably compared to Amy on totally unfair and/or entirely made-up grounds, I find it hard not to care at all.
"Perhaps," Ken concedes. "But then, since when did we ever care about what the Mail thinks?"
"You make a good point well," I acknowledge after a moment of hesitation and raise a smile for him.
He grins. "I try to my best."
Leaning towards me, he gives me a quick kiss, his lips lingering for the briefest of moments on mine before he draws back again. "And now, please stop fretting. There's nothing wrong with you being here, you'll be great no matter what you do and there's really no obligation to do anything at all. If you want to, you can stand in a corner all day and not speak to anyone!"
"Wouldn't the Mail have a field day with that," I remark drily.
Ken laughs. "It would certainly give them lots to speculate about." Then, growing more solemn, he adds, "But seriously, you don't have to get out of this car if you don't want to. If you'd rather, I will have someone take you back to the hotel and we will tell everyone you suddenly fell sick with a bad bout of stomach flu."
It's the unexpected reminder of the very illness that brought us together in the first place that draws a smile from me finally. "The Mail would love that as well," I point out, but this time, it's mostly in jest.
Sensing my shift towards a more positive mood, Ken smiles brilliantly. (God knows, I do love his smile.) "Then let's give them reason to only write nice things about us."
The snarkier part of me wants to point out that the British tabloids have never needed a reason to write unkind things about anyone, but firstly, he knows that perfectly well and secondly, the car lurches to a stop in that very moment, reliably putting an end to that particular conversation.
Even if I wanted to, I guess it's too late to turn back now.
Less than a second passes before the door on Ken's side of the car is opened and just a moment later, my door opens as well. He gives me a final reassuring smile before turning to get out of the car. I take a deep breath and follow his example.
We emerge in a car park surrounded by trees that lies in front of a glass-and-concrete structure that I know to be the visitor centre at Vimy Ridge. Ken got out of the car on the side immediately next to the building, meaning that I first have to walk around the car to stand next to him. (They might say that having a girlfriend there is okay, but this is firm proof that protocol isn't truly dead.) As I do, I sneak a glance at our surroundings.
There aren't many people gathered, which doesn't come as a surprise given that the majority of visitors will already be at the memorial proper. By one side of the car park, they have cordoned off the media and when I look at them from the corner of my eye, I spot two or three TV cameras among the usual melee of photographers. Standing close to the entrance of the visitor centre are about a dozen young men and women dressed in white shirts and dark green jackets. These, I take to be the student volunteer guides that were mentioned in the information package put together by Melissa.
When I look at them, I see the students react by nudging each other and murmuring among themselves. Following an impulse, I smile and raise a hand in a slight wave, leading them to wave back enthusiastically. Some even have little Canadian flags they now raise into the air, making me laugh softly.
While I'm still walking around the car (and gauging the situation as I do so), Ken is already greeting some of the people who assembled for exactly that purpose. When I appear at his side, he doesn't turn his head, but his hand immediately comes up to rest on my back, providing a reassuring and guiding presence. There's really no need to introduce me to the people here (I read the preparation material, after all – several times), but he does it anyway and that's a nice touch, I think. There are several other important-looking men and a few women in line and it's only after we've greeted them all that Ken's hand gently propels me forward and into the building.
It is here, I understand, that we will meet the French President, the Canadian Prime Minister and the Governor General and the prospect makes me feel a little jittery. These are very accomplished people, after all, and I'm just –
But no.
What is it that Ken said? I'm no 'just' anything!
Deep breath and head high, Rilla. You can do this!
"You'll do splendidly," Ken murmurs, as if reading my thoughts, his thumb lightly stroking my back.
And, well… I don't know about splendid, but I certainly seem to be doing alright.
The French President is a little stiff, but unfailingly polite and I sense his approval when I break out my rusty French for him. (The French, as I well know, always want you to give a stab at speaking their language. There's no more reliable way to get a blank stare from a French waiter than to put your order in English. They want you to try, at the very least, even if you completely butcher their language in the process.)
The Canadian Prime Minister is the youthful, genial type of politician who has turned approachability and relatability into an art form. He shakes my hand enthusiastically and declares himself delighted to meet me in a way that somehow manages to appear both well-practiced and genuine. I guess that that, too, is a talent.
It's his wife though, who puts me more at ease by taking my arm and telling me firmly, "You'll stand with us."
'Us', it turns out, also includes her oldest son and the wife of the Governor General of Canada. The former is a slightly awkward pre-teen who only mumbles a greeting and the latter is an elderly woman whose disposition matches her cheerfully patterned dress. (At least with her in the picture, no-one can accuse my own grey ensemble of not being suitably solemn!)
Before we head to the actual memorial, the schedule calls for a tour of the short exhibition in the visitor centre and the preserved trenches and tunnels stretching out behind it. To guide us through the trenches, one of the students steps forward, introducing herself as Jeanne.
"The Battle of Vimy Ridge was the first time in the war that all four divisions of the Canadian Corps fought as one unit," she explains. "The French and British had tried to take the ridge in prior years because of its tactical advantage and unobstructed view over the surrounding area, but it was the Canadians who took it in April 1917 with some British assistance. All in all, an estimated 170.000 soldiers fought on the Allied side in the battle for the ridge, about 3600 of whom died and about 7000 of whom were wounded."
None of this is news to me, who I have studied the folder provided by Melissa, but I must admit it's more engaging to hear it explained than to simply read the excerpts from rather dry military books. Jeanne appears to be very enthusiastic about the subject, too, which is probably why she got chosen to show us around.
"I must ask you to always stay in the marked areas, because there is still unexploded munition in the ground. It's too dangerous for humans to walk there, which is why we keep sheep to graze and keep the grass from over-growing," Jeanne adds and points to a warning sign that is erected at the rim of a grass-covered crater.
"Are these left from the war?" Ken asks of the crater, even though I know he knows the answer. He's asking mostly in the interest of providing Jeanne with a good, attentive audience.
"Yes, these are mostly artillery craters," she confirms. "There are many of them still around here, as there are old trenches and tunnels. Most of them are closed off, but these trenches here were preserved for visitors to get a better feel of the soldiers' experience."
She nods at the trench by our feet. It's lined with concrete made to look like sand bags and there are a comfortable few steps leading down to the bottom of it. It can only be a slight approximation of what the trenches used to look like during the actual war, but I'm still grateful for the existence of those steps, because I'd hate to have to wobble down a ladder in my purple high heels. (Court shoes would have been more sensible and I knew that in advance, but I have a promise to myself to keep!)
Ken is first to follow Jeanne into the trench before turning around and providing a steading hand first to me then to the other two women. I smile at him gratefully in passing, vaguely aware of the cameras around us going Snap, Snap, Snap.
"The Battle of Vimy Ridge was part of the larger Battle of Arras, which in itself was the beginning of the so-called Nivelle Offensive," Jeanne continues once all eight of us are safely inside the trench. "Originally, the offensive was to start on April 8th in 1917, but as that was Easter Sunday, the French asked it be postponed a day. On April 9th, the weather was icy cold, with snow and sleet making the situation even more uncomfortable for the men starting into battle.
"What would you say was instrumental in securing victory in the battle?" the Canadian Prime Minister wants to know and I have a feeling he's employing the very same strategy Ken did – ask a question you know the answer to to show that your listening and interested in what you're being told.
I don't hear what Jeanne has to say to that (not that I need to, because Melissa's notes on the subject were extensive, to say the least), because the Prime Minister's wife leans towards me slightly and remarks quietly, "It's hard to imagine what it must have felt like for these poor men."
"Yes," adds the Governor General's wife, having overheard the comment, "especially with the weather being as glorious as it is today."
And indeed, the weather is about as different from a hundred years ago as it possibly could be, with a bright sun shining down on us, making me feel almost uncomfortably warm in my long-sleeved dress. This, plus the concrete-enforced trenches with their visitor-friendly steps, means that despite us walking the same earth, there are little similarities now to then.
"My great-grandfather fought at Vimy Ridge and my grandfather said his father felt the snow actually was an advantage because it limited the view of the defending soldiers," I relate carefully. "They had the higher ground and would normally have seen the Canadians approach, but the snow made it harder for them to get a good overview."
Remembering what Grandpa John said about his father having fought in World War One, I called him a while ago and asked whether he could tell me anything about his father's experience in the war. It turned out that not only did he fight at Vimy Ridge, it was also where his brother – Grandpa John's uncle – died.
"How interesting, to hear it almost first hand!" exclaims the Governor General's wife, looking like she means it.
"It was very interesting," I confirm. "My grandfather said that his uncle actually died during the battle, though they never found a body. His name should be somewhere on the memorial and my grandfather asked that I take a picture for him if I find it."
"We'll all look for it," promises the Prime Minister's wife. "What was his name?"
"Randolph Blythe," I reply. "Corporal Randolph Blythe. He was with the second battalion."
We don't get to look for great-great-uncle Randolph's name immediately though, because once our tour of the trenches is finished and we reach the memorial, there's the official part of the day to go through first. The Canadian government pulled all the stops to make it a memorable event, with several distinguished speakers, with different musical acts ranging from a lone piper to a full choir and with actors taking on the roles of soldiers and their loved ones to read from letters and diaries. Most touching, however, are the thousands pairs of combat boots placed all around the memorial by students, each representing a fallen soldier.
One of those pairs, then, represents Grandpa's uncle Randolph and why shouldn't it be the one that Ken places himself before he begins his speech?
It's a good speech, beginning with what I know to also be a nod at not only me but also my family and friends when he says, "In the past years, I've been blessed to get to know your beautiful country very well and feel grateful for the warmth and openness with which I've been received every time. We're here to remember the lives given by brave men for their country and to commemorate a battle that was pivotal in shaping Canada as a nation, but more than anything, I feel it's that caring, supportive nature that defines Canada and Canadians to this day and that's something you should be very proud of."
After that, he goes on to mark the importance that Vimy Ridge held and still holds in Canada's history as a nation, but mostly focuses on the fact that the only lesson learned from war can only ever be peace. Not for nothing are the most senior figures in the monument those representing Justice and Peace. (Melissa's notes identified every single of those figures, but I'm afraid I didn't retain them all.)
"Somehow, it's more convincing from him because he fought in a war himself," whispers the Prime Minister's wife as we sit and listen to Ken speak. I've never looked at it this way, but as I gaze up at Ken standing next to the figure of Canada Bereft – unveiled by his great-great-grandfather more than eighty years ago – and addressing the thousands of people sitting below him, I can't disagree.
It is next to that very figure I find myself an hour or two later, when the official part of the commemoration is over and Ken has been whisked away by Oliver to mingle with the guests (veterans and schoolchildren, mostly, with the usual smattering of dignitaries). I myself wandered off to go looking for Randolph Blythe, but stopped sometime during my search to instead study the larger-than-life figure that stands overlooking the plains to the east. (And it's only here, looking for miles and miles into the distance that I get why in a war, it would be much preferable to be on this ridge than below it.)
Still looking closely at the figure's face, I sense Ken coming up behind me before I hear him. "Feeling proud to be Canadian today?" he asks.
"I don't know," I reply slowly, keeping my eyes on the cloaked stone figure in front. "I'm not even certain… I'm not even certain this memorial is meant to make me feel proud. I mean, sure, those two pillars are very… confident, shall we say. Their sheer size makes it impossible to overlook them and maybe that's meant to represent pride, but she isn't proud. She's meant to represent Canada and she's just… sad."
"She's the most honest thing about this entire memorial," Ken agrees as he steps up to stand closely behind me and look at the figure's face as well. "We can speak all we want about the bravery and honour and greatness of the fallen, but ultimately, the most honest feeling representing their loss is just that – sadness."
His arms slides around my waist and I turn away from the figure of Canada to look at him, only to find him still gazing at the figure's face, his brow furrowed slightly. I take that opportunity to study him, silently reflecting that his own war experience might have made his speech more convincing but that it also makes events like these harder for him. There will be a lot to unpack, I think, both for me later today and for Otto during their next session, but that's okay. That's what we're here for, Otto and I, each in their own role and their own way.
Perhaps feeling my eyes on him, Ken tears his own eyes away from the stone figure and looks at me instead. When our gazes meet, a genuine smile lights up his face and I'm heart-glad to see it.
"Come one now, let's leave Canada be for a moment. Hanson said he found that uncle of yours." His arm still secure around my waist, he leans forward and kisses my temple.
It's that picture, of the two of us standing next to Canada Bereft, that makes the newspapers the next day – and unusually, there's not a single unkind word to accompany it.
The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'Winds of the Old Days' (written by Joan Baez, released by her in 1975).
To DogMonday:
Oh, yes, that's absolutely true! Pinkham turning to Rilla to make the decision very much builds on the foundation she laid the previous year during Owen's illness. It wasn't just a time when she lend support to Ken and his family, it was also the time when she gained the trust of the royal staff. As you say, they got to know her as someone who's willing and able to make decisions in a calm and informed way while also returning the trust put into her by trusting the staff to make sensible suggestions and take practical steps to achieve them. One of my main goals in writing Rilla step up during Owen's illness was to show her gain the staff's respect not because of her position but because of her behaviour. Pinkham turning to her now is definitely one of the effects of that and a visible sign of the trust and respect she's gained among the staff.
Speaking of staff, in case you're interested, here's a list of Ken's current staff (as based on that of William and Kate):
- private secretary: Oliver Warboys
- assistant private secretaries: Melissa Johnstone, Andrew Stead
- personal assistant: Charlotte Ross
- chief communications officer: Arlene Parish
- deputy communications officers: Emmett White, Roisin Deegan
- equerry: Felix Shuttlewood
- housekeeper: Wendy Franklin
Oliver is officially in charge of Ken's staff, though Arlene ranks equivalent to him. She's the oldest (in her 50s) and most experienced among them. Oliver is in his mid- to late 30s and the others in their 20s and 30s. Most of them worked for another royal, one of the palaces or the government before being hired for Ken's office, so they had some prior experience and, most important, the royals knew they could be trusted. Ken's always been their employer and he's generally a bit reserved, so there's a more formal relationship between him and the staff, but Rilla is the type to build proper friendships, which is what we saw in the last chapter. Obviously, when her positions shifts, so will her relationship with the staff do, at least to a certain point, but I'm sure she will be able to keep it on a friendly, trusting level.
Regarding Vimy, I imagine this chapter addressed most of your thoughts about that ;). There wasn't quite time to squeeze an engagement in, but Rilla got to officially accompany Ken without being relegated to a seat several rows behind him. It's unusual, but a) Owen was all for it, b) Rilla's Canadian connection is undeniable and c) the French are known to be a bit more relaxed about rules regarding romantic partners anyway.
My first exposure to WW1 and all those battles also dates back to RoI! I was 11 years old and I still remember picking my father's brain to try and understand the broader context of that war. When he didn't provide enough satisfactory answers, I went and bought heavy non-fiction books to read, which might have baffled my poor parents just a tad... ;)
To Guest:
I'm glad you like Lottie, because that makes two of us =). It's fun to write her and I think she functions well as an opposite to George. She's so polite and well-behaved while he's pretty ecolomanical - as all cats are, if we're being honest...