New York City, USA
October 2010
Don't I know your name?
Normally, when people know they are about to meet royalty, they make sure that the place is tidy, that their hair is combed and their clothes achingly appropriate. Because, as archaic as the entire system might be, there's still something about it that makes people want to present their best side.
Looking around my messy apartment, then down at my slouchy sweatpants and ratty shirt, and knowing that there's exactly nothing I can do about any of that, I feel the sudden urge to laugh. Because by the looks of it, I, who I always like to look my best in any situation, am destined to greet royalty while looking a mess for the second time in a row.
If that's karma, I'd like to know what I did wrong, at the very least.
Still, there's nothing else to it. Chin up, Rilla, and smile. Because as Grandma Bertha is wont to say, you might not always be able to change a situation, but what counts is what you make of it.
A firm knock on the door.
With one last look at my apartment (if I have just one wish, please let there be no underwear lying around) I turn to open the door – and am greeted by the side of a darkly clothed person wearing a black motorcycle helmet, mirrored visor hiding their entire face.
(And even as I stand there, I can hear Dad's warning to always look through the spyhole first ringing in my ears – but that's no use now, is it?)
But then my visitor reaches up to remove the helmet, revealing himself to be a certain British prince.
"Thought I'd come to kidnap you, did you?" he asks with a smile.
"No," I answer breezily. "I am perfectly aware that you'd send your martial arts-trained hitmen to do that. Can't have the royal hands get dirty, can we?"
He laughs. "Indeed not."
"Where are they, by the way?" I enquire, peering past him into the hall, but it appears to be empty.
"The martial arts-trained hitmen? Waiting downstairs. Though I'd guess at least one of them climbed up the fire escape," he replies casually, and at first, I think he's joking, but no, he appears to be quite in earnest.
I raise an eyebrow. "Aren't they worried about leaving their precious charge alone with me?"
He shrugs, then shakes his head. "From what I gather, they consider you harmless, so long as kept away from alcoholic beverages."
Oh, ha ha.
He meets my sarcastic smile with a real one.
"So, you did look me up after all," I point out. Because I only gave him my name an hour ago and even for martial arts-trained hitmen, that's not a long time to check someone's entire background.
"I didn't. They did," he corrects. "It's their job. But I ordered them long ago not to show me the files under any circumstances, not even when I order them otherwise."
There's a story there, I realise. But I don't quite know how to ask for it – he is a virtual stranger, even if years of seeing his pictures on magazine covers makes it feel as if he isn't – so I don't comment.
Instead, I take a step back and invite him to follow "Do you want to come inside?" Because it would be impolite not to ask (and if there's anything Grandmother Marilla drilled into us, it's the importance of manners) and besides – in for a penny…
"Thank you," he nods, stepping into the apartment and closing the door behind him. I can see him glance around quickly, but then his eyes focus back on me (and more than ever, I am uncomfortably aware of the state I'm in).
"I didn't exactly expect company," I apologise with a little gesture at the place.
"It's fine," he smiles. "It was rather impolite of me to drop in on you so unexpectedly." (Say what you want about royalty, but Grandmother Marilla would be simply delighted by his manners.)
"Where can I put these?" he asks, raising his helmet with one hand and a dark garment bag I hadn't noticed before, with the other.
I reach for both, then make a 360-degree turn, looking for a place to put them. There's nowhere immediately obvious, so I compromise by hanging the garment bag on the back of the bathroom door and balancing his helmet in a stash of books next to my wardrobe.
"Why the terrifying get-up anyway?" I enquire as I turn back to him. "For a moment there I did think you were a kidnapper."
"Sorry about that," he apologises, sounding as if he means it. "It's just one of very few ways for me to move around without being recognised. Not even the best paparazzi can see past that helmet. Wearing it, I could be anyone."
"But don't they recognise your motorcycle after a while?" I wonder, frowning slightly.
He nods, looking a little surprised and, for some reason, almost… pleased? "They do, actually. If I ride my own, I can't be sure that one or the other won't notice and tail me. That's why I have them rent me one if I want to travel unrecognised. By the time the press knows that one, I have moved on to the next."
Hm… clever. And yet, how awful, having to resort to such measures just for a bit of privacy.
"In that case, you shall be forgiven for scaring me," I decide. "Now, would you like something to drink?"
"Sure. What do you have on offer?"
Err…
Frowning, I turn to look at my kitchenette. "Well… I do have some rather abysmal tasting instant coffee and I think there's still some tea or another in one of the cupboards, but to be honest, I'm afraid of starting a war if I so much as show you that one."
(Does tea have an expiry date, I wonder?)
He laughs quietly. "In the interest of international peace, maybe just give me a glass of water then?" he suggests.
"That'd be tap water," I warn.
He nods his approval and I move over to the sink to fill a glass. Walking back towards him, I cast a critical eye around the room. "I'd offer you a seat, but…"
But the only two chairs in the room are positively laden with clothes (the kind that are not dirty enough to warrant washing and not clean enough to go back into the wardrobe), and as there was never any hope of fitting a couch or even an armchair into my little Shoebox, I basically live in and on my bed most of the time anyway.
Well. In for a pound, right?
"Wait a minute," I ask as I hand him the glass.
Extracting a colourful quilt from under my wardrobe (one of Grandmother Marilla's friends just loves quilting), I walk over to the bed, smooth out the covers (making sure to hide my nightie beneath them) and spread out the quilt to cover the entire bed. I even spy two throw pillows (a housewarming gift from Nan, if I remember correctly) on the top of my wardrobe and place them on the quilt for good measure. It's not much, but it's the best I can do.
With a rather theatrical bow, I turn back to my visitor, whom I know was watching me throughout. "If it pleases you to take a seat, Your Royal Highness?"
Lightly shaking his head, he comes over to carefully sit down beside me.
"Is that the correct way to say it? Your Royal Highness?" I enquire, mostly so as to say something.
"And 'Sir' thereafter," he confirms. "But you can just call me Ken, really."
I bite my lip and for three or four seconds, we look at each other silently. Then his mouth quirks up in a smile. "You have admirable self-control," he notes.
I laugh. "Do you get them often? The Barbie and Ken jokes?"
"More often than I care to count," he answers with a groan. "Back at Eton, my classmates were known to randomly leave Ken dolls lying around for me to find. At least they did until they graduated to scantily-clad Barbie dolls when we were about fifteen."
I don't know whether to find it comforting or disconcerting that even at a posh school like Eton, teenage boys are as immature as anywhere else.
"Actually, I once went on a date with a girl called Barbara," he adds thoughtfully. "She was nice and sweet and funny and the sole reason why I didn't ask her for a second date was her name."
I blink. "You're joking, right?"
"Wish that I were," he answers, sounding pained. "But no, I'm dead serious. I foresaw all the Barbie and Ken-allusions the press would come up with if they got so much of a whiff of me dating a girl called Barbara and… I couldn't do it."
It sounds fickle, but somehow, I can't blame him.
"Why did your parents name you Kenneth anyway?" I wonder instead. "Surely, they must have realised they were setting you up for a lifetime of doll-related humour?"
Ken shrugs. (I must admit, it's weird to think of him simply as Ken, and dolls don't even enter into it.) "I don't think they considered it much. I'm named for my mother's brother. He died a couple of years before I was born."
I nod slowly, searching my brain for information on the Queen's brother. "I think I have heard of him. He died very young, didn't he? Some heart disease or another?" But I can't be sure, really.
"His heart gave out alright," he confirms with a wry smile. "He wasn't ill though. Or not in that sense."
When he notices my questioning gaze, he shrugs. "They found him in a nightclub loo, needle still sticking in his arm."
Right.
"I… I'm sorry. I didn't realise…" I stammer.
He shakes his head and gives me a quick smile, though it is gone as fast as it came. "That was the idea, actually. My mother was still married to her first husband then, but neither he nor my grandfather had any interest in the public knowing that the sole heir to the Earldom of Holderness died from an overdose. Between them, they paid a pretty penny to keep it out of the press. And after my parents married, that was that anyway. The palace knows to keep stuff like that well and truly buried. Not that everyone who's anyone doesn't know about it, but they also know better than to ever mention it where it could be heard."
I open my mouth, realise I have nothing at all to say to that, and close it again.
He turns to look at me. "You should really consider journalism as a career, by the way," he informs me casually. "You have a way to make me say much more than I ever intended to." But the corner of his mouth is raised in a half-smile, letting me know that he doesn't really mind (much).
"What can I say?" I reply breezily. "It's a gift."
"I'm sure it is," he agrees, "Miss Cinderilla."
"Sussed that out, did you?" I ask with a laugh.
He nods. "Took me a moment, but yes. Though you did your best to throw me off with that message today, didn't you?"
For a moment, I'm not quite sure what he means, but then remember that when I messaged him my address, I didn't write down my full name but substituted my initials instead.
"I'm curious though," he continues. "How do you go from B.M. to Rilla?"
"Easy. That's Bertha Marilla in full," I explain.
He makes a thoughtful sound. "Speaking of unusual names, right?"
I groan quietly, and he laughs. "Not a fan?"
"Not particularly, no," I admit. "I don't mind being named for either woman, don't get me wrong. It's more… there are prettier names out there, aren't they? My sister is called Diana, which is ever so much nicer."
To his credit, he doesn't agree, instead asking, "Who are you named in honour of then?"
"My grandmothers. Or, two of the three," I clarify.
He raises an eyebrow in question, making me laugh as I realise that that was hardly self-explanatory.
"See, it's like this," I begin, "Bertha is my Mum's mother. Her husband, my grandfather Walter, died from cancer when my Mum was just a teenager, so she's lived with us for pretty much my entire childhood."
He nods, his expression pensive – even a little wistful, maybe? "Must be nice, having your grandmother around to take care of you all day."
"Hardly! Grandma Bertha was never one to sit at home and watch the kiddies. She worked as teacher for most of her early life – that's where she met her husband, too – but once Mum was out of college and standing on her own feet, she started on a second career as a journalist. She was great, too! Had some really juicy stories back in the day. She is really good at getting people to admit to things."
"So that's a hereditary trait, I see," he interjects, causing me to smile.
"Who knows? Maybe it is," I concede. "Anyway, what I'm saying is, though she certainly helped looking after the lot of us, Grandma Bertha wasn't the kind to knit and bake cookies all day. And once she decided we were old enough not to need her around anymore, she switched over to being a travel journalist. Most of the year, she's travelling the world, testing special trips designed for elderly people. So far, no-one seems to have cottoned on to the fact that she's hardly the prototype of an 'elderly person'. If a tour doesn't involve a hike up a volcano or some deep-sea diving, chances are she will declare it to be boring."
He laughs. "Hardly your typical grandmother then," he states.
"Well, no. But then, neither was yours," I point out, thinking of the late Queen Alexandra, who died when I was just a toddler but who reigned for long enough to give rise to the name of 'Alexandrian Age' to describe the decades she spent on the British Throne.
A beat.
"No. Neither was mine," he agrees. And though his voice remains pleasant enough, there's a suddenly change in his posture, a stiffening, that warns me not to ask any more questions on that particular subject.
(I suppose he's just enough years older than me – four years? five? – to actively remember her, even if I don't.)
"Anyhow," I therefore revert back to the previous topic, making sure to sound especially cheerful, "that's where Bertha comes from. Marilla is my father's stepmother – which explains the three grandmothers."
"So it does," he nods, his body relaxing, and gives me a smile.
Seeing as apparently, my grandmothers are an acceptable topic of conversation, even though his is not, I add, "My father's mother died when he was born – which, you know, you wouldn't think that still happened in 1950, but she very much did die in childbirth, so... you know. Anyway. A couple of years later, my grandfather John married his old childhood sweetheart, so Marilla is really the only mother my Dad ever knew. She and my Granddad had a set of twins of their own a little while later, my Uncle Davy and Aunt Dora."
"They're both still alive then? The grandmothers you were named for?" he asks, sounding genuinely interested.
I nod. "Hence why I always go by the nickname. If someone calls me either Bertha or Marilla, I'm more likely to look behind me and wonder what my grandmothers are doing here."
"Rilla," he repeats slowly. "It's interesting. Unique. No dolls by that name either."
"No," I admit, laughing. "No, there aren't. And besides, even with the names I've got, I suppose it could have been worse."
"How so?" he wonders.
I take a second the get the wording right. "Not wanting to sound disrespectful, but I could have been settled with the name of Dad's mother. I mean, I get the sentiment of honouring her that way, but…"
"But it's not a pretty name?" he finishes when I break off, borrowing my expression from earlier.
"It's Millicent, so… no, not a pretty name," I admit with an apologetic shrug. "I was lucky in that my parents had already given it as a middle name to my sister Nan, I reckon. That's how that particular cup passed me by."
"If it hadn't, you would have been a Milly," he points out. Once again, his expression is amiable enough, and yet…
And yet, as I look at him a little closer, I see a particular glint in his eyes.
Is he… is he teasing me?
I give him my best haughty glare, just in case, and he laughs.
"When it comes to names, you're the one sitting in the glass house, not me," I inform him.
He shrugs, unconcerned. "As with you, it could have been worse for me as well."
I eye him dubiously, eliciting a smile from him. "How's that?" I want to know.
"At least my parents had the presence of mind not to call me Albert. It was a fine name for a prince back when Victoria's consort lived and even back in the '50s when my uncle was born, but nowadays…" He lets the sentence hang, merely raising a meaningful eyebrow.
It takes me a moment to piece together name and title, but when I do, I give a surprised burst of laughter. "That's hardly a subject for polite conversation!" I chide him.
He grins, but when he speaks, it's all pretended innocence. "The Prince Consort? I'll have you know that he was a very educated man. Some even call him a visionary. There's nothing wrong in bringing him up in conversation."
"No," I reply, meeting his act of innocence with one of annoyance. "Not the Prince Consort."
"My uncle then?" he queries, and even as he speaks, his mask of polite cluelessness is already starting to slip, revealing the mirth beneath. "You know… yeah, you might be right on that account. We do not much talk about Uncle Al in polite society."
"Glad we got that cleared up then," I deadpan.
He smirks.
"Are they in any way connected, what do you think?" I wonder, if only to prove that I'm not prudish, whatever my sister says.
"We-ell," he answers, drawing out the word. "Uncle Al is certainly named for the Prince Consort. As for that other thing… I could always ask him if he knows anything about that."
"You wouldn't!" I exclaim, not quite knowing whether to be amused or aghast.
He makes a show of shrugging, as if to say that yes, he totally would. (Which I take leave to doubt, honestly!)
"Speaking of inappropriate things I am meant to find out for you," he states instead, grinning when I look up indignantly, "I looked into those accusations against Anne Boleyn and her brother."
"That was my exclusive," I mutter.
"And I'm sure you'll find plenty else to chat about with the ghost of Anne Boleyn when you meet her," he replies easily. "You could find out her date of birth, for one. Apparently, historians have been at each others' throats about that one for ages."
"Noted," I nod. "Now, what did your sister find out about those accusations?"
His face registers surprise. "Persis? She didn't find out a thing. From what I gather, she took one look at those old documents and their spelling and decided she wasn't that keen on knowing after all."
"Who else did you talk to then? Do name your source, please," I ask, as primly as possible.
"Why, Anne Boleyn's ghost, of course," he answers, deadpan, and laughs when I roll my eyes at him.
"Ghost stories aside," he then adds, more soberly, "I had my private secretary contact a Cambridge professor specialising in Tudor History. From what she said, the accusations against Anne Boleyn – those of incest and adultery – are largely believed to be untrue nowadays."
And somehow, much more so than the potential inappropriateness of princely names, that sentence drives home quite how… different his life is from mine. I don't even know if it's the private secretary or the fact that he can just randomly contact Cambridge professors about historic trivia – and get an actual answer! – but something about it reminds me with a jolt that the man sitting beside me on Mrs Lynde's quilt will one day have his own life studied by historians.
When I don't reply, he turns to look at me curiously. "I'd ask if a cat got your tongue," he states, not unkindly, "but by the looks of it, the cat is still waiting to be let in."
He nods towards the window and indeed, on the other side of it sits a disgruntled-looking George. It is immediately obvious from his expression that he's been trying to catch my attention for a while now.
"George!" I exclaim, hurrying over to the window to let him in. "I'm sorry. I really didn't see you there," I apologise, but he just stalks past me, not even deigning to spare me a glance, his expression one of obvious disdain. (And I suppose he has a point, doesn't he? Prince or no prince, I let myself get distracted by a man, when George is of the opinion that he's the only male worthy of a place in my life.)
"George is quite an unusual name for a cat as well," remarks the man in question from where he is still sitting on the bed, watching George and me with obvious amusement.
I shrug. "Oh, it's really George the Third," I reply by way of explanation as I walk over to the kitchenette to set out some dry food for my feline overlord.
Ken laughs. "Of course. Because that's such a normal name for a cat, isn't it?"
He, too, has a point, I must say.
Seeing as George seems intent on ignoring me, even as he starts devouring the food I offer him, I instead return to where my visitor is sitting. (At least he's in a much better overall mood than the cat.)
"What happened to George One and Two?" he asks as I sit down next to him again, drawing a knee up against my chest.
"They never existed," I explain. "George is the first of his kind – and, if he has his way, the last as well."
"Clearly," nods Ken, quite as if this was the most obvious thing in the world. "Am I to take that to mean that he is named for my most revered ancestor then?"
Uh-huh. Different alright…
"He's both very regal and absolutely mad," I reply with a shrug. "I thought it fitting."
"Indeed," he agrees, very amiably in light of the fact that I not just insulted my own cat but his royal ancestor as well.
"His grandeur is immediately obvious," he adds thoughtfully. "What makes him mad though?"
I wave a hand around breezily. "Oh, different things. He likes to be creative in his endeavours of insanity. My last boyfriend, for example, apparently had ears that just begged to be bitten into. At least George thought so."
In what I think is an unconscious gesture, Ken raises a hand to touch his own ear. "Why did he do that?"
"Would that I know," I answer with a wry smile. "I'm not sure George needs a reason. He's never done it with anyone else before or since, but every time poor Tristan so much as sat down, George was sure to sneak up on him, jump onto his back with no warning and try to bite his ear. He once memorably even assaulted him by jumping down from the wardrobe. And I don't think I slept through the night even once with those two in the same room."
"I can imagine," agrees Ken, laughing softly. "The real – nay, the human George III was once rumoured to have shaken the branch of a tree in greeting, believing him to be the Prussian King."
"Ouch."
"Right you are. Especially seeing as his doctors were prone to treating him with caustic poultices," relays Ken.
I pull a face. "Caustic? That's not nice." Then, louder to where George is still audibly munching on his food, "See? You only ever get shouted at and that's more than enough to send you off into a sulk."
But, true to form, George doesn't even raise his head. Because apparently, for a cat considering himself a king, the visit of a royal prince is all in a day's work.
The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'Tangled Up in Blue' (written by Bob Dylan released by him in 1975).
To AnneShirley:
Your reviews make perfect sense! They're very lovely and much appreciated, too :). (You sure I can't persuade you to open your own account? We could chat much easier that way.)
I'd say your most burning questions about Rilla's various grandmothers should be answered by now. There's still more to say about them and we will meet them in due course, as we will meet the entire family. I haven't written that yet, but it should be fun!
No, Izzie does not forgive. Not boys. On principle. ;)
Ah, yes, Robert is quite unfortunate. He's a lovely man and means well, he just has (unknowingly) really bad timing. He's definitely quite the catch though, even if Rilla can't see it, and I have decided he will go on to marry a lovely Dutchwoman and have three children with her and live a long and successful life. How does that sound?
I'm glad you like Mrs Weisz. She kind of walked into this chapter and refused to be cast out again. She's an... opinionated character and won't be told no. Hence why she stays and why we definitely haven't seen the last of her! She and Rilla do a good job of caring for each other, and we all know Mrs Weisz likes to snoop, so what's betting she already knows there's someone at the door for Rilla?
I widened the age gap between Nan and Jerry a little for this story (from 3 years to 4.5), when I spaced out all Blythe and Merediths children over a greater time span to give both Anne and Cecilia a bit more time to breath. I had to keep the age gap between Jem and Faith steady at two years for story purposes, so that pulled Nan and Jerry a bit further apart. But I think it makes their relationship a bit more interesting because Jerry is already pretty settled and Nan's endless studies keep her in limbo. I have some interesting plans for them.
By the way, I definitely should have liked a name that can be shortened to cat name-diminutives, so you should count yourself lucky there! My name never got shortened to anything, which can be quite boring.
