Windsor, England
February 2013
Ice cream castles in the air
Persis groans audibly. "Ken is going to kill me."
"I don't think he will," her father replies mildly.
He's casually leaning against the kickboards – the riding school's wooden outer limit – and looks… utterly normal. Still like himself, of course, still like the King, but… not like a king, if that makes any kind of sense.
I didn't expect him to turn up wearing some kind of crown, but… I also didn't expect him to wear jeans, boots and a duffel coat. I certainly didn't expect him to just turn up, period! (Doesn't he have a parliament to open somewhere?)
Persis makes a harrumphing sound of disbelief, but her father has already turned to me. "We meet at last, Miss Blythe," he remarks with a smile and a nod.
For a moment, I just stare at him. Then, remembering some of my manners, I try to reply but the only thing that will come out is a squeak.
Feeling my face heat up, I wish desperately to be somewhere, anywhere else, but apparently, the universe is done granting my wishes today. As it is, I remain sitting on a dozing Roman, continuing to make an absolute fool of myself.
"It's okay. It's just Daddy," Persis helpfully supplies from the side. To her father, she says accusingly, "See why Ken is going to kill me? She wasn't supposed to meet you without him there. Don't you know he's kept her to himself for so long because he's afraid of us scaring her away?"
"Or the opposite," points out her father cryptically. (Which makes me think he might be more adept at reading his son than Ken gives him credit for. It's them usurping me that he's afraid of, much more than them scaring me away.)
Clearing my throat, I find that I have regained function of my voice. "I'm honoured to meet you –" quick, how to address him? – "Your Majesty? Sir?" It comes out as more of a question.
"Just Owen is fine," is his relaxed response and, well… I guess that simplifies matters somewhat?
"He'll still kill me," Persis grumbles, urging Lizzie to walk closer to where her father is standing. Of his own accord, Roman follows.
"He won't," the King – Owen – and I promise at the same time. When our eyes meet, he offers me a smile and I tentatively return it. (This is very strange!)
"Could you even stop him?" Persis ponders, frowning deeply.
Her father chuckles softly. "I probably couldn't, but I do think Miss Blythe could."
"Call me Rilla," I blurt out quickly. "Please."
He inclines his head, his eyes crinkling up. "Very well. I am pleased to finally meet you, Rilla. We've all been curious about you."
I take a deep breath, unconsciously twisting a strand of Roman's mane around my index finger. "I didn't…" I begin, before trailing off.
"I know," assures the Ki– assures Owen. "Persis was quite right in saying that my son has been keeping you to himself a little bit."
Yeah. He has.
It would be disloyal to say that out loud though, so I settle for, "I'm very glad to be here. It is incredibly nice of Persis to allow me to ride Roman, especially what with how rusty I am."
"You did well," Persis chimes in. She has picked up Lizzie's reins again and is currently making her perform a turn of the haunches.
"It looked very good," her father agrees. I'd be lying if I claimed not to be pleased, even if I'm reasonably sure that they're just trying to be nice.
Leaning forward, I pat Roman's neck. "He did great," I declare. "He was very patient with me."
"He's a very gentle horse," agrees Owen, before asking, "Shall we take him back to the stables then?"
I blink. He meant what he said about helping me?
Swallowing, I force myself to reply, "yes, sure", before dismounting the horse, hoping it will give me a moment to collect myself. (It might seem strange, given that I'm literally living with a future king but… but this is the current King and somehow, the idea of him helping me with anything is just odd. Seriously odd.)
"Can I interest the two you in a cup of tea later?" I hear Owen enquire from the other side of Roman's neck. Unsure how to answer, I busy myself with the stirrups and wait for Persis's reaction.
"I still want to take Tomato over some jumps today and do some elasticity training with Scotty," she demurs. "And I'm having the farrier over later to look at possible new types of horseshoes for Blue."
Her father makes a thoughtful sound, seemingly deliberating that answer. "Have you been to Windsor before?" he wants to know and it takes me a second too long to realise that the question is not likely to be directed at Persis.
"No. No, I haven't been," I answer hurriedly.
With the left stirrup safely secured to the saddle to stop it flapping around, I have no option but to walk around Roman and pull up the other one, daring a quick glance at Own as I do.
"Would you enjoy a tour?" he queries further.
A… a tour? Of the… castle?
"Uh… sure. I mean, um… I'd like to," I stutter in reply. Roman turns his head towards me, probably to check whether I'm done embarrassing myself yet.
"Very well." Owen smiles at me. "How about we let Persis take care of her horses and I give you a tour of the castle? The paying visitors should be leaving as we speak, so we'd have it to ourselves."
I… what?
While I'm still struggling for words, Persis nods thoughtfully. "Good idea." She pauses for a moment. "Is Mum there?"
"She's visiting Genie," Owen answers.
Another nod from Persis, before she suddenly pulls a grimace. "Ken will kill me doubly for this."
"Happily, scientists have deemed that to be impossible," Owen informs her. To me, he adds, "Shall we?"
And really, what choice do I have but to take up Roman's reins and follow him?
We walk back to Roman's box, where I exchange the bridle for his halter and tie him to a steel ring secured in the wall.
"I hope I didn't catch you by surprise too much with my appearance," Owen remarks conversationally as he takes saddle from Roman's back.
The instinctive reaction would be to deny, but that'd also be patently untrue. So, I offer a tentative smile and admit, "A little bit."
"I apologise," replies Owen. "It was bad manners not to give you a warning."
"No. No, it's fine. Really," I hurry to assure him, hanging the bridle to a hook next to the stable. (Internally, I'd like to pinch myself. Have I really just been called upon to judge the manners of the King?)
He acknowledges it with a nod while placing the saddle over the chest-high door of Roman's box. "Thank you. I hope you will understand when I say that I have been looking forward to meeting you. My children are all very taken with you."
"Really?" The question has left my lips before I have time to remind myself that it probably isn't the done thing to question a monarch. (Which makes me wonder… should I have curtseyed or something? Should I do it now?)
"I believe we can all agree that Kenneth is," Owen points out with a smile.
I laugh, almost despite myself. "Yes. I like to think so."
"He is, I can assure you," promises Owen, handing me a grooming brush. "Teddy also had nothing but nice things about you."
Now that, I can believe.
"I doubt Teddy says not-nice things about anyone," I remark.
"You are not wrong," agrees Owen. "He is quite possibly the kindest of my children."
I don't have any trouble believing that either. Not that Ken and Persis are unkind, per se, but there is a gentleness and a nice-ness about Teddy that I don't think they – or most other people, me included – can match.
"Persis also responds well to you. She only allows a selected few people to ride her horses," Owen adds while choosen a hoof pick from the grooming box.
"It's an honour." It is, too, and I know it.
"She is surprisingly talkative around you as well." Owen's voice is slightly muffled as he leans down and takes up one of Roman's hooves. "Normally, she is shyer around a person she has not met often, but in your presence, she appeared uncommonly comfortable."
I absent-mindedly pull the brush over Roman's coat as I watch Owen set down the hoof again and straighten up. "She was such a bright, happy girl in her childhood…" He sighs and trails off, shaking his head slightly.
"I like them, too," I blurt out, if only to make the awkward moment pass. "I mean, I obviously like Ken, but I mean Persis and Teddy. They're really nice."
"They will be pleased to hear that," Owen assures me with a smile, having composed himself in the fracture of a second.
We work in silence after that, him picking out the other three hooves, me brushing down Roman's bay coat. Afterwards, I send the horse back into his box with a pat and a treat. Owen insists on carrying the saddle back to the tack room for me before tactfully withdrawing to allow me to change back into my normal clothes. Once I have re-joined him, he motions for me to leave the mews through a back gate.
Walking beneath a collection of trees, we near the castle which seems, somehow, to grow ever taller the closer we get. There's a tower ahead, its double door flanked by two guards wearing red uniforms and those ridiculous high, furry hats. As we pass them, they spring into action, saluting Owen snappily while still staring straight ahead.
Weird.
I mean, seriously. It must be weird, right? To have people salute you and bow to you wherever you go. (How come I have never asked Ken about this?)
"After you," Owen invites, motioning for me to enter the castle. I take a deep breath and step inside, sending a quick prayer to the heavens that I won't make a fool of myself or break something valuable. (Oh God! This place must be full of priceless stuff!)
Owen leads me up a staircase and through a collection of smallish rooms that look very ornate to me, but apparently aren't worth another word to him, leading me to assume that in the grand scheme of things, they are unimportant.
As we walk, we pass several people wearing a blue uniform of sorts with red and white accents (very patriotic!) who I take to be… well. Servant really is an odd word, isn't it?
The moment they see us, they stop whatever they're doing and go to stand with their backs to the wall, inclining their heads downwards into a funny little bow. Owen smiles and nods at each of them, greeting some by name, but it's only after we've moved past them that they relax again. It's similar to how the grooms melted away in the stables earlier, only much more pronounced.
"Trappings of the job," Owen remarks wryly when he sees my peering at one of the – one of the employees.
I feel tempted to ask how he feels about it, but I don't think it's the done thing and anyway, I've just remember something Grandmother Marilla said when she first met Ken. "We defer to the position, not to the person," I murmur to myself.
"Quite," agrees Owen.
He holds open another door for me, revealing a seriously long hallway. It has blue-grey carpets, blue-grey upholstery, blue-grey wall hangings beneath – for a change – gold-framed portraits, and it has marble busts. So many marble busts! I wasn't aware there was anywhere on earth with this many marble busts – nor do I know why anyone would want them in their home.
"We call this the long corridor," Owen relates.
Staring at the endless parade of busts among a sea of blue-grey, I blurt out, "Of course you do. It's huge!"
Realising what I've said, I feel myself redden. I really need to work on thinking before I speak. What might normally be perceived as reasonably funny in other circumstances clearly won't cut it here, in a castle, in company of a king.
But when I dare a quick look at Owen, I can see that he looks amused. His eyes crinkle up and it suddenly strikes me how much he looks like Ken when he smiles. (Or, I guess, the other way around.) Maybe that's why I return each of his smiles almost instinctively.
"It's certainly aptly named," he concedes, meaning the corridor. After a moment of deliberation he adds, almost conspiratorially, "We might rename it the Marble Bust Hall. What do you think?"
"A very fitting suggestion," I agree, feeling my smile widen.
As we start walking again, Owen adds, "The length of the corridor has served many an ancestor of mine well when the weather was adverse and they still desired a game of battledore and shuttlecock."
Shuttle-what?
When he sees my face, Owen starts chuckling. "Badminton," he translates.
"Then why not call it that?" I grumble, then bite back a groan. Again with the not thinking first!
But Owen looks distinctly amused. "Why indeed?" he asks, clearly rhetorically.
And, well, I guess there are worse things than being amusing, right? Being dull, for one. I'd hate to be dull.
We're nearing a bend in the corridor and Owen points to our right. "This stretch of rooms is guest rooms, sometimes still used for visiting dignitaries or simply for family or friends. Straight ahead is the King's Tower where Leslie and I have our private apartment." He points at a closed door right where we corridor bends.
"The children each have a tower for their use," he continues. (A tower! Just imagine!) "However, these days, only Persis sleeps in hers with regularity. Teddy sometimes comes down for the holidays, but we rarely see Kenneth here anymore."
I take a deep breath, swallowing against the lump in my throat without much success. "That's my fault. He returned to live in Oxford because of me," I admit, trying to keep my voice steady.
To my surprise though, I can see Owen shake his head vehemently. "Please, don't think that for a moment. This has nothing to do with you." He sounds very sure, even resolute, but there's something else in his voice, something I can't quite name.
For a few moments, we walk in silence, before Owen reaches out to open a door to his right. "The Blue Room," he explains, taking a step back to let me look inside. (It is, in fact, very blue.) "This is where Prince Albert died."
Remembering a long ago conversation, I feel my face heat up and desperately hope he won't notice.
Thankfully, Owen just keeps talking. "Victoria kept it untouched, ordering that warm water be brought to it every morning and his clothes and shaving kit be laid out."
"Obsessed much?" I remark drily, drawing a smile from him.
"She was, a little bit," he acknowledges. "His son, Edward VII, later turned the room into a study." Which it still is, judging from the furniture.
"So he wasn't a fan?" I ask.
Owen shakes his head. "Albert had a difficult relationship with his oldest son." Again, there's that almost imperceptible catch in his voice that makes me feel like I'm witnessing something not meant for me.
The door closes with a click and I am ushered along the corridor again, before we stop in front of another doorway. This time, Owen invites me to go inside a room that is entirely white and gold, with enormous chandeliers hanging from the ceiling. It was very obviously built to impress and though I've visited other castles and palace before (including the place they all so disrespectfully call Buck House), I can't help but be impressed.
"These are semi-state rooms built for George IV," relates Owen as he motions me towards another interconnected room. This one is decked out entirely in green and gold, the chandeliers being possibly even bigger. Yet, it's the third and last room of the set that turns out to be the grandest, with its red walls, red curtains and red upholstery, and everything traversed by an intricately carved golden ceiling.
I turn around and take in my surroundings. The sheer opulence is very nearly oppressive, but I aim for sounding casual when I ask, "So these are the White, Green and Red Rooms?"
"Drawing Rooms," amends Owen. "And this colour here is more accurately called 'crimson'. But yes, your conclusion is correct."
"My conclusion?" I repeat, a little confused.
"That no-one could possibly accuse us of being creative when it comes to the naming of rooms," replies Owen, his eyes crinkling up in amusement.
I feel my shoulders relax slightly and even have the presence of mind not to point out that they get a pass because it's not like naming the hundreds and hundreds of rooms in various castles is a problem most people face. Really, who is even allowed to judge?
We move into the next room, introduced to me as the State Dining Room, as is also apparent from the massive table in the middle. It is set for no less than… four, eight, twelve, sixteen, twenty… twenty-two people!
"Above us is the Prince of Wales tower," Owen tells me, pointing to the gilded ceiling. "That's where Kenneth has his rooms. Teddy's are in Chester Tower above the Green Drawing Room and Persis has hers in Clarence Tower above the Blue Room."
For a moment, I wonder why he tells me that. Unless… unless this is him preparing me to find my way around this place. For, you know, potential future visits. (What a thought!)
Leaving the dining room, we pass through a funny octagonal room before reaching a narrow hallway that is lined on both sides by cabinets filled with… is that china?
Huh. Who cares about china?
"The China Corridor," remarks Owen and when I look at him, I can see a distinctive twinkle in his eyes.
"Again with the creative naming, I see," I observe, not quite able to hide my smile.
"We do a little better with regards to naming when it comes to some of the State Rooms," he replies, opening the door at the end of the corridor for me. "Alas, I am afraid this room is simply called the Grand Reception Room."
I raise an eyebrow. "Where people are received, I presume?"
"Precisely," confirms Owen, nodding for me to step through the door.
When I do, the first thing I am confronted with is an absolutely massive green vase. It is almost taller than I am!
"Ah, yes," says Owen in a tone suggesting he quite forgot that the vase stands there and only now remembers it. "It was given to Queen Victoria by Tsar Alexander I of Russia in 1839. It's made of malachite and one of the largest of its kind outside Russia."
"There are even larger ones?" I ask in disbelief.
"I believe the Hermitage in St Petersburg has some even larger pieces," confirms Owen.
Fancy that.
For a moment, we both appraise the vase in all its massive splendour, before a sudden thought strikes me. "What does it do?"
Owen turns to me. "Pardon?"
"What does it do?" I repeat. "I mean, what is it for? What purpose does it serve?"
Evidently, that was not the question he expected. Frowning, he looks from me to the vase and back at me. "Do you know I've never asked myself that before," he replies in wonderment. "I believe it simply… stands there."
"Okay." I shrug, raising my eyebrows at the vase (and, yes, definitely judging it for its general uselessness.)
"Shall I tell you a secret?" Owen adds, lowering his voice, "it's too heavy to move. Victoria put it here and every subsequent monarch has left it standing in that exact same spot because we can't move it."
I glance at him, trying to figure out if he's serious, but although there's a smile playing on his lips, he appears quite sincere.
"Really?" I ask, the thought so utterly ridiculous that I can't help laughing.
"Regretfully, yes," answers Owen drily. I shake my head in disbelief.
Leaving the vase to its grand purpose of being, we walk through the room into one that might just be the largest room I've ever seen. It's… gigantic!
"St George's Hall," states Owen. "It's more than 55 meters long." (See? Gigantic!)
"And finally somewhat creatively named!" I remark. He acknowledges it with a smile.
"Look at the ceiling," he continues. "It depicts the coats of arms of the knights of the Order of the Garter, our highest chivalric order."
I do as I am told, tilting my head back. "I've heard of that one, I think."
"Make Kenneth show you the robes before he comes down for the ceremony in June," suggests Owen, chuckling. "They're very historic, of course, but also quite comical to look at."
"Comical?" I repeat questioningly.
"There are plumes," he answers simply, as if that explained everything. (Maybe it does.)
After exploring St George's Hall, we pass through Waterloo Chamber, which apparently holds the largest seamless carpet in existence. It's so heavy it needs 50 men to carry! Next, we cross the Grand Vestibule which, weirdly, has lots of weapons arranged in geometric patterns on the walls. (As far as interior design goes, it's a choice and one I can't wait to tell Nan about.) From the vestibule, Owen leads me through a collection of smaller but no less fancy rooms holding lots of antiques and probably priceless paintings. As we walk, he gives me so much information that my head starts to buzz.
Still. It's… the way he tells it, it's almost… dare I say that it's… interesting?
(Yeah, I know. Me finding historical facts interesting. The mind boggles.)
Finally, we reach a blue carpeted room at the end of which stands – a throne.
The throne that belongs to the man standing next to me.
As far as pinch me-moments go, this one sure is up there.
"The Garter Throne Room," states Owen. "The carved ivory throne was a gift to Victoria from India. Along the walls are State Portraits of several monarchs wearing Garter Robes."
Including, above the mantelpiece, a portrait of him. (There are, indeed, plumes involved.)
It's not Owen's portrait that draws my attention though (it would be awkward anyway) but that of a woman hanging next to his. I am more familiar with photos of her as an old woman but here, the late Queen Alexandra is shown both young and beautiful.
He follows my gaze. "My mother. It was painted shortly after she inherired the throne from her grandfather in 1937. She was not quite twenty-two years old."
"What happened to her father?" I ask. Because even I know enough to know that if she succeeded her grandfather, something must have happened to the intermediate generation.
"She and her sister, my Aunt Tanya, were orphaned as children and raised by their grandparents, King Victor and Queen Mary," explains Owen. "Or Eddy and May, as they were known to the family."
There's something reassuring about the knowledge that even kings and queens have nicknames, isn't there?
"Their father Prince William – Willie to family – was killed by a tiger during an Indian tour in 1924," Owen continues.
I grimace. "Ouch."
"Oh, he partook in a tiger hunt, so I presume it had to be either him or the tiger," Owen replies, sounding utterly unconcerned about it. I guess that's understandable given that it happened long before his birth.
Whatever the reason, he is unconcerned enough that I dare joke, "Survival of the fittest?"
"Quite." He smiles.
My gaze drifts back to the portrait of Queen Alexandra. She looks very serious, almost a bit sad. But then, I guess anyone would be sad if they lost their parents so early and had an empire foisted on their shoulders at twenty-one.
"What happened to her mother?" I ask.
"My grandmother and her new-born son, Prince Nicholas, died from complications during child birth," Owen answers. "That was in… 1918."
"So did my grandmother," I tell him, still looking up at the portrait. "Only my father survived. Obviously."
Owen makes a thoughtful sound. "It is… difficult for a child to grow up without a mother present."
Once more, I have a feeling there's so much hidden in those words, if only I knew how to decipher it. It's not a wholly unfamiliar sensation either. Like father, like son, really. It's not only the smile they share.
There's a knock on the door and both Owen and I turn to see a tall, thin man enter.
"Ah, Elphinstone," greets Owen with a nod.
Elphinstone? Is that his first or his last name? (Is it even a name at all?)
"Sir," replies the unfortunately named Elphinstone.
He doesn't offer an explanation for his appearance, but Owen does not seem to need one. Turning back to me, he explains, "I have an evening engagement, so I must leave you here. This is the last room of the tour, but please feel free to continue to explore for as long as you wish. If you have any questions or need assistance, everyone here will be happy to help you."
"Um, thanks. I mean, thank you," I stutter. (Did he really just give me free reign to snoop around the castle as I wish?)
"Persis is staying for the night, so I have organised a car to take you home whenever you are ready," Owen adds. "When you come here to visit her and her horses next time, maybe we can take that tea together?"
"I'd like that," I reply, my smile absolutely genuine. "I really enjoyed, you know, this." Meaning the tour and getting to meet him and everything else I have no words for.
Owen returns the smile. "So did I." He reaches out to shake my hand, then turns to follow a departing Elphinstone. The door closes softly behind them and I am left alone, in the Throne Room of Windsor Castle.
This time, I do pinch myself, looking at my surroundings in wonder. Let no-one ever say my life hasn't changed since I stumbled into Ken at that party in New York!
My thoughts must have invoked the proverbial devil, too, because in that exact moment, my phone rings and even before I've taken it out of my bag, I know it's Ken.
"Hey," comes is voice after I've picked up. "Where are you?"
Where am I indeed?
Of their own accord, my eyes move to the ivory throne. "I believe it's called the Garter Throne Room."
A pause, as he processes that. "She took you into the castle?" There's a slight catch in his voice and I instinctively think of his sister's lament about how he was going to kill her.
"Not Persis," I amend quickly. "Your father gave me a tour."
"My father?" he repeats. This time, I recognise his tone as one of surprise.
"Uh-huh." I nod at the empty room. "It was fascinating. He knows so much about this place. It's really impressive. And super interesting, too. Did you know it has over 1000 rooms?"
For a second or two, there's silence on the other end of the line, but then I can hear him laughing softly. "I did, actually."
Right. Of course. He grew up here, didn't he? (And one day, all of this will be his. His throne to sit on. His portrait hanging over the mantelpiece. It's a… it's a strange thought.)
"In case you told him you enjoyed the tour, I hope you're aware that you've thereby volunteered to have him take you on a tour of every royal residence in the country," Ken discloses. He sounds distinctly amused at my expense. "And I must warn you that there are quite a few of them."
"I did enjoy the tour," I insist. (I really did, much to my own surprise.) "And I wouldn't mind him taking me to see some other places. It was fun and he's very nice."
I hear Ken swallow. Then, softer, he says, "I'm glad you two are getting along." I can tell he means it.
"We did," I reply honestly, before adding more teasingly, "You're still my favourite though."
He laughs. "That's what I wanted to hear. And given that I am, do you have an idea when you're coming home to me? There's less gilding, but I can offer dinner and a hot bath."
As he speaks, I'm already heading for the door. "Give me an hour."
Because no matter how beautiful and interesting and impressive all of this is, it is also somehow unreal. It's a fluke moment. My life is in Oxford with Ken and hearing his voice, I have a sudden longing to get back to him. To get back home.
The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'Both Sides, Now' (written by Joni Mitchell, released by her in 1969).
To Mammu:
Glad that you like Persis :). She does truly struggle with her confidence and being a princess probably makes it even harder for her. She struggles with the public aspect of her role and that just makes her feel more unsure about herself. With the horses, she's in her element and she knows she's as good rider, which makes it an environment that helps her believe in herself.
I do, indeed, know a thing or two about horses. I got my first horse age 9, which is longer ago than I care to acknowledge ;). Currently, I have two horses who I see about every other day. (I had the dentist there just this morning, which is always... an experience. Let's just say horses aren't any more enthusiastic about a visit to the dentist than most humans are.)
You got your wish! It was the King and not some random ex-boyfriend. Now, I absolutely have plans for some of them to pop up again in the future, but not quite yet ;).
To JoAnna:
Sorry about the cliffhanger! In my defence though, it wasn't planned. Originally, I planned to include the content of both the last chapter and this chapter in one single chapter. Considering that today's offering turned out to be one of my longest chapters yet, that was a naïve and delusional expectation, but it was my plan. When I realised the plan was never going to work out, I needed a good point to cut it into two and that's where the cliffhanger came into being ;).
"Rusalka" is an opera by Dvořák. I myself am not an opera expert by any means, but it's my friend's favourite, so I chose it for Leslie's horse. I decided that everyone would have a theme for naming their horses and so Leslie got the operatic theme (for her own riding horse and the family's race horses). Owen has detectives (for the carriage horses) and Persis has royal references-cum-weird nicknames for her tournament horses. And then there are the Eds (the polo ponies), just because it amuses me.
