London, England
November 2014
Can you teach me how to dance real slow?
"Anne? Rilla?" Dad calls from downstairs. "Are you ready to go?"
"Just a minute," Mum's voice floats back.
I take a step back to critically survey myself in the mirror. Giving my dress a final tug and my hair a final pat, I decide that I'm as ready as I'll ever be. A parting nod at my mirror-self and I turn on my sparkly heel to make my way down the stairs.
Mum's 'minute' seems to take longer than the accustomed sixty seconds, so I arrive downstairs before she does. Dad waits in the hall, all decked out in a smart tuxedo, a neatly tied bowtie and extra-shiny shoes. When he sees me, a smile lights up his face.
"Could it be that this is really my daughter?" he jokes.
"Same old me," I promise, laughing. "It's just the packaging that's new – or rather, old. Vintage."
"I won't pretend to know what you mean by that, but I know without a doubt that you look beautiful," he tells me, smiling warmly.
"You scrub up well yourself," I return the compliment and walk down the last few steps. He takes the hand I stretch out for him and moves me into a playful twirl.
As I turn, my dark purple silk dress (or rather, Lolly Faversham's dark purple silk dress) lightly swishes against my legs. It is truly a scrumptious garment and when I don't think too hard about how old and expensive it is, I almost dare to breathe.
There are footsteps on the stairs and moments later, Mum appears on the landing, pausing briefly for dramatic effect. She's wearing a floor-length cream dress made from raw silk, with her shoes and clutch a dark forest green. Her hair is pulled into an up-do and she has a string of pearls softly gleaming against her skin. In short, she looks spectacular.
Dad seems to think so, too. If he was smiling before, now his face is positively shining with admiration. Mum beams back at him and seriously, the sweetness of it very nearly enough to give me toothache.
I give them a few moments to make eyes at each other, before clearing my throat loudly. They turn to look at me, Dad grinning over both ears and Mum winking conspiratorially. I roll my eyes at them both.
Mum comes down the stairs. "You look lovely," she tells me sincerely.
"So do you," I reply, meaning every word.
Raising her hand, Mum touches the rose brooch I used to pull my hair back on one side. In keeping with the style of the dress, I styled my hair in long, glossy waves, with 'just' the brooch as an adornment. (But what a 'just' it is!) It meant sleeping in rollers and heat-curling my hair today, which was a pain, but the effect is as desired. Luckily, when it comes to hair and makeup, my fingers are still as nimble as they ever were.
"Is this real?" asks Mum, indicating the brooch.
"Ken's great-aunt loaned it to me," I answer, a little defensively.
"So it's real," Mum deduces.
The brooch is real. It is, in fact, as real as it gets. Easily as long as my thumb, it depicts a blooming rose and a bud on a stem. The craftsmanship, as far as I can tell, is exquisite. The stem and leaves are set with white diamonds, while the actual flowers are made up from small diamonds in a light-yellow hue. There are also two larger yellow diamonds, both easily the size of my thumbnail. Even without the provenance, I wouldn't want to estimate its worth and with the provenance… well, it's very nearly priceless.
"Who made it?" asks Dad, eyes twinkling. "Tiffany? Cartier? Black, Starr, Frost? Gorham?"
Of course. Trust him to throw that song at me. (I didn't even know Marilyn Monroe's singing was his cup of tea!)
I pull a grimace. "No, and not Harry Winston either."
"It was worth a try," remarks Dad, chuckling to himself.
"It wasn't a good one," I inform him. "This brooch was made by Faberge."
Mum frowns at me. "Fabergé as in Fabergé Eggs?"
"Uh… yes. Exactly as in Fabergé Eggs," I admit. "It belonged to Ken's great-great-grandmother."
"And who would that be?" asks Mum. Her expression tells me that she already has an idea.
"Ah…" I hesitate, but know it's no good. "That would be Empress Alexandra of Russia. Her husband gave her the brooch on the day of their coronation. She later gifted it to her daughter as a wedding present."
Dad blinks at me. "Her husband… the tsar?"
I shrug, then nod. Instinctively, my hand flies upward to touch the brooch, but I divert it just in time to fiddle with the sizeable yellow diamond studs in my ears instead.
Mum steps closer to peer at the brooch. "So, this belonged to a Russian Empress?" she asks, a strange note in her voice. "And now you're wearing it?"
"It's a loan!" I repeat, quite as if that changed anything.
Mum makes a thoughtful sound, before stepping back again. "It's a beautiful piece," she assures me with a lop-sided smile. "And you wear it well."
"It's terrifying," I admit, grimacing slightly. "This entire get-up is. I keep thinking I will fall into the drinks table and ruin it all."
My fears, of course, are not helped by the fact that nothing of what I'm wearing is actually mine. Even the sparkly shoes and matching clutch are loaned from Di and I know they cost her a pretty penny, too.
"You won't fall into the drinks table," Dad promises loyally.
"You're too graceful for that," agrees Mum and rubs my shoulder comfortingly.
From their lips to God's ear!
Gathering myself together, I pull up a cheerful smile, banning all mental images of destroyed drinks tables and ruined silk dresses. With a quick look at the clock hanging on the wall, I ask, "Shall we get going? Our car should be here already."
"We have a car?" wonders Dad, as he helps Mum into her coat, before shrugging on his own.
I pull on my white opera gloves first (I adore the decadence of them!), before slipping into my winter coat as well. It really is mine, too, which is strangely reassuring.
"Ken's friend Hew is driving with his wife's family and offered us the use of his car and driver," I explain to my parents as we leave the house.
"That is nice of him," remarks Mum, a little surprised.
"It sure is," I agree. Opening the gate and stepping out onto the street, I immediately spot a sleek dark limousine waiting by the curb. The driver stands next to it, but springs into action upon seeing us and proceeds to open one of the rear doors.
Also springing into action are the photographers gathered on the other side of the street. They know what day today is, of course, so they're out in full force. Ignoring the flashes and the shouts, I slip into the car and slide along the backseat to make room for Mum. Dad takes the passenger seat in front.
"To Buckingham Palace, Miss Blythe?" asks the driver, once we're all safely in the car and the doors securely locked.
"To Buckingham Palace," I confirm. "Thank you."
He catches my eye in the rear-view mirror and nods to acknowledge my thanks. Starting the car, he pulls away from the curb and carefully drives along the road. Dimly, I hear the shouts of disappointments from the photographers behind the tinted windows, but I can't say I feel very sorry for them. (Though the vain part of me does hope they got a good shot. If I have to be in tomorrow's papers at all, it would at least be fair if I looked good in them.)
London is as congested as usual, so we need a while before the gates of Buckingham Palace come into view. Gathered in front of them is a sizable number of people, despite the typically rainy London weather. Today's double birthday party has been widely reported, so I guess they're trying to get a glimpse of people arriving. The tinted windows prevent anyone from getting too good a look at Mum and me, but Dad and the poor driver have quite a few pictures taken of them before we drive through the gates and into the safety of the palace grounds. The guard at the gate peers into the car once and, upon recognising me, waves us through.
I direct the driver to enter the central courtyard and stop the car under the porte-cochère for us to get out and into the building without getting wet.
"I never realised the palace was so big behind the façade," Mum comments and looks through the windows of the porte-cochère at the courtyard.
"They usually are," I reply, shrugging. "Kensington Palace looks positively small from the front, but it's really this huge complex of buildings."
"That is where Ken lives, isn't it?" Dad wants to know.
"Yes," I confirm, "KP is where Ken lives."
Ken invited my parents over for dinner at Wren House last night, cooking up quite a storm beforehand. He considered asking one of the several cooks in his family's employ to do the cooking, but ultimately decided to do it himself. It meant that the food wasn't as fancy, but it gave the evening a personal touch. (Besides, fancy food never fills you up anyway. You eat the caviar with the champagne foam topping, but still find yourself dropping into a chip shop or getting some curry on your way home.)
A liveried footman – I'm pretty sure his name is Paul – holds open the entrance door for us and nods when I smile at him in passing. The Grand Hall and Marble Hall don't evoke much of a reaction from me anymore, but I can see Mum and Dad looking around with interest. I direct them up the stairs, pointing out some paintings and knickknacks as I do.
"You really do know your way around this place," Mum observes after I introduced her to the painting of Victoria, Duchess of Kent, who was the mother of Queen Victoria.
"I'm here quite regularly, though mostly over in the private quarters," I explain. "But you should know that! I told you I have dinner with Ken's family once or twice a week."
"We do know that," soothes Mum as we ascend the stairs. "It's only…"
"To see it is different from just knowing it," finishes Dad for her. "Even for your mother and her very active imagination."
Mum looks at him over her shoulder, her expression playfully indignant. "I'm sure I don't know what you mean to imply by that!"
"Nothing." Dad grins. "Nothing at all, Anne-girl."
With a huff, Mum turns around again – and finds herself face-to-face with Roman Marble Albert. "Huh? Who is he?"
"Fetching fellow," jokes Dad.
"This is Prince Consort Albert, husband of Queen Victoria," I introduce. "And before anyone asks, no, I don't know why he's in this get-up. Apparently, he just fancied having a statue of himself dressed as a Roman solider." I nod at the statue's counterpart. "This over there is Victoria herself."
Dad's eye are twinkling with amusement as he asks Mum, "What do you say, Anne? Should we also have matching statues made of us? Maybe with more of a Greek design?"
"Not much of a difference between Roman and Greek," I mutter. Mum doesn't even deign Dad's suggestion with an answer, just giving him a look that makes it easy to imagine what it was like when they first met at that anti-war rally, all those years ago. (Luckily for Dad and his head, there's no protest sign in sight.)
Leaving the Guard Room with its marble statues behind, we enter the Green Drawing Room – and are immediately ambushed by Tatty.
"Rilla!" she exclaims brightly. "And Rilla's parents!"
Immediately, two dozen heads swivel around to look at us. I smile awkwardly at no-one in particular, before Tatty reclaims my attention.
"You are a vision," she declares, placing both hands on my shoulders and holding me at arm's length to survey my appearance. "We chose well. The dress is gorgeous on you."
"It's a beautiful dress," I agree. "And so is yours." It might not be vintage, but Tatty's red dress is both very pretty and not at all inconspicuous.
Tatty waves her hand airily. "It will do."
Turning to Mum and Dad, she thrusts her hand out for them to shake. "And you're the Drs Blythe. I love your hair!" The last is obviously addressed at Mum. Dad has a good head of hair for his age, but it's not spectacular enough to evoke such strong feelings as love in anyone who isn't Mum or a star-struck intern at his hospital.
Mum touches her hair with a small smile. "Thank you. That is nice of you to say, Miss…"
"That's Tatty," I introduce, deciding not to bother with titles. I know Tatty doesn't care to be addressed as Lady.
"Oh!" Recognition lights up Dad's face. "We've heard a lot about you."
"And I about you," asserts Tatty with an easy smile. "If Rilla is to be believed, you're the best parents to ever –" Looking over at me, she suddenly breaks off and whistles softly. "Look at that! Someone let you play with the jewellery box!"
My hand flies up to touch the rose brooch. "Great-Aunt Tanya lent me this. The earrings are Leslie's. She said they were a gift from some Arabian sheik, but that she's never worn them."
"No." Tatty shakes her head. "Everyone knows that the only coloured stones she wears are rubies. That sheik ought to have done his research."
"Or his people should have," I amend.
Tatty shrugs, then nods. "Or them." Her attention, however, is already drawn elsewhere. "Look, there's Katie."
When I follow her gaze, I do, indeed, spy Katie on the other side of the room, standing with Adam and Chris. Adam is his usual dorky self in a slightly too large tuxedo, whereas Chris is so dapper that he looks like he's auditioning for a lead role in an adaption of The Great Gatsby. Katie wears a light green gown and a small diamond tiara with a geometric pattern – and is it just me or does her face look a little fuller than the last time I saw her?
I turn to Tatty and open my mouth, but she just grins and shrugs. "I don't know anything either."
Well. I guess we'll have to wait and see.
"Do you want to meet some people?" I ask my parents, shelving any questions regarding Katie for the time being.
"My parents are around here somewhere. You've met them, haven't you?" Tatty wants to know, looking at Mum and Dad.
"Oh, yes," confirms Mum. "Your parents were so kind as to invite us for tea the other day. They're lovely."
That they are. Rolly and Genie have been utterly kind and generous to me this past year and they extended that kindness to my parents without hesitation.
With Tatty and me walking in front, we make our way through the room, stopping here and there to greet people and make small talk. (Tatty, I can't help noticing, deftly steers us away from Mark. I wonder what happened there?) My parents are no novices when it comes to working a room, so they easily shake hands and smile and talk, even when confronted with nobles and ministers and royals.
The real stars of the show leave us waiting for a while, causing Tatty to grumble in annoyance Luckily, at least there's a buffet prepared to keep us from going hungry (and I even forgive them the inclusion of champagne foam). With our plates laden with delicacies, we make our way to the Music Room. We're just chatting with Steve, Fiona, Pamela and her husband Herman, when a footman by name of Scott motions for us to convene in the Picture Gallery.
"Finally," mutters Tatty.
The royal family know how to make an entrance, you have to hand them that. Only when all guests are gathered along both sides of the Picture Gallery, with Owen's siblings and their families in front of everyone, does the door to the small Ante Room open for the main royal family to enter.
Owen and Leslie are first, he in the customary tuxedo, she in a spectacular midnight blue gown and the rubies-and-diamonds Strawberry Leaf Tiara that she told me once belonged to Queen Victoria. Their children are behind them, Teddy in yet another tuxedo and Persis in a patterned evening dress and a sparkly diamond bandeau tiara.
My eyes, however, are immediately drawn to Ken and he, too, searches the room until his gaze lands on me. When it does, a brilliant smile appears on his face. I mirror it instinctively. From somewhere, a memory floats to the surface of my mind, reminding me of the day when he told Mrs Weisz that Kenneth means handsome. He does his name justice, today more than ever, and there's a little flutter in my chest when he comes closer.
Nodding and smiling, Leslie and Owen pass by their guests, who bow and curtsey in return. (It feels a little like a ceremony from bygone times.) They slow their steps briefly to bestow wider smiles and murmured greetings upon my parents and me, but don't dwell with us, nor anywhere else. This is not the time or place for individual conversations.
Ken, following after his parents, grins when he stops next to our group and holds out an arm for me.
I take a deep breath.
"Are you good on your own?" I ask my parents, feeling a little anxious.
"We're fine," Dad assures me.
"You go ahead," Mum encourages.
"I'll look after them," promises Tatty and nudges me forward.
So, I step from the line, link my arm through Ken's and fall into step beside him. My dress swishes lightly around my legs and the brooch suddenly feels heavy in my hair. I'm aware of every step I take and every pair of eyes on me (the girlfriend as part of the procession!). For a moment, I feel nervous, but then Ken reaches up to cover my hand on his arm with his own and the warmth of his touch calms me. Looking up, I find him smiling gently and return the smile, even if mine feels a little shaky.
With Persis and Teddy behind us, we follow Leslie and Owen to the Ball Room, which honestly looks like something straight out of a Disney movie tonight. It is here that Owen is handed a microphone, tapping it once for attention when everyone has trickled in to fill the room.
"Good evening," he greets the assembled guests. "On behalf of my family, I want to extend my warmest wishes to you and thank you for coming here tonight to celebrate this milestone occasion with us."
His eyes find Leslie's and he smiles lovingly. "I know I speak for everyone here, when I wish my beloved wife a very happy birthday. Leslie, my darling, I still remember the day I first saw you, because from that moment, you were the only woman I could see. You're as caring and as beautiful as you were then and sometimes, when I look at you, it's hard to imagine it wasn't just yesterday that we met. I wouldn't want to miss the intervening years for the world though and I can't possibly express how grateful I am that you chose me to be the man to spend those years with. Here is to many more!"
Awww.
I dab at my eyes with my fingertips and when I glance around the room, I notice I'm not the only one. Leslie certainly has tears shining in her eyes when she reaches out to take Owen's hand between both of hers. A moment passes as the two gaze at each other and they might as well be the only two people in the room.
Finally, without letting go of Leslie's hand, Owen looks up at Ken and is eyes lose none of their tenderness. "We're a few days too late for his actual birthday, but as you all know we're here to celebrate my oldest son as well. I also remember the day I first met him, and while I can't deny that I have never been as terrified in my life, before or since, the moment I first held him was also the one of the happiest moments of my life. Ken, I feel incredibly privileged to have been allowed to watch you grow into the compassionate, clever and kind man that you've become and I couldn't be prouder of you."
Awwwwww.
Leslie is crying outright now and I'm also blinking furiously against the tears threatening to fall. Beside me, I notice Ken is breathing a little heavier and clutching my hand a little tighter. On my other side, Teddy yelps quietly when Persis digs her fingers into his arm.
"I hope everyone enjoyed the food," Owen continues, his tone now much lighter, "and I don't know about you, but I think a good dinner is best followed by some activity and what better option could there be than dancing?"
On cue, the musicians in the corner strike up a waltz (at least I think it's a waltz) and Owen kisses Leslie's hand gallantly before leading her into the middle of the room. Everyone else retreats to the side to give them space – everyone but Ken who is, instead, leading me forward as well.
Does he intend to…?
I dig my heels in.
"Ken!" I hiss. "Kenneth! No! Stop! Ken!"
He turns, his expression quizzical. "Why not?" he asks.
"I can't dance!" I insist. "Not like this!"
"But we practiced it," he reminds me, gently tugging me forward again. "You dance beautifully."
We did, in fact, practice ballroom dancing these past weeks, with Leslie serving as a model for me to copy and with Great-Aunt Tanya providing running commentary from a settee. I managed not to trip over my own feet by the end of it, but…
"That was different!" I insist. "There are people here! I will fall over and make a fool of myself!"
"You won't fall over," promises Ken as he draws me into his arms. "I won't let you."
His eyes crinkle into a smile and it's almost be enough to reassure me, but then I make the mistake of looking up at Leslie and Owen, who are sweeping gracefully around the floor in elaborate circles. Immediately, I freeze.
Ken has followed my gaze. "They're show-offs," he declares. "Don't mind them. We'll do it our way. Slowly."
And we do. His parents might fancy themselves to be the next Ginger Rogers and Fred Astaire, but Ken and I keep it simple, not moving very much at all. When I find that our way of dancing is unlikely to make me fall over or make a fool out of myself, I slowly start to relax.
"Has anyone told you how beautiful you look tonight?" Ken's voice is low against my ear.
"Several people," I inform him as I look up to meet his eyes.
"Hmm," hums Ken, "did they also tell you how incredibly sexy you are?"
That makes me laugh softly. "No, you're the first."
He looks rather pleased with himself and I shake my head at him, but I can't help smiling.
Ken carefully turns us, his eyes never leaving my face. "I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair," he murmurs, holding my gaze.
That makes me laugh, though judging from his slightly offended expression that's not the desired reaction. "Well, that is nice for you, but unfortunately, I have a minor in literature," I tease. "I know where you stole that line."
He considers me for a second, then leans forward until his lips are right next to my ear. "Or maybe," he drawls, his breath making my skin prickle, "I was counting on you knowing the rest of the poem?"
I do know the rest of the poem.
And because I know it and because his closeness is sending shivers down my spine and because my face is suddenly feeling warm and because there are still hundreds of people watching us, I move closer and hide my face against his neck. The laugh rumbles through his body and thus, through mine.
Only you, evergreen, ever sun, ever moon.
(Let no-one say I don't know my Neruda!)
Ken draws me closer still and kisses my temple. Breathing in deeply, I grip his hand a little tighter. I turn my face from the safety of his skin, but don't move away, instead leaning my head against his shoulder.
I love you only because it's you I love.
We dance in silence for a few moments and I just begin to let my thoughts drift, when I become aware of something else drifting as well – specifically Ken's hand along my bare back. I look up and raise an eyebrow at him.
"This is a beautiful dress," he remarks casually.
"And it would look good on your bedroom floor?" I add, grinning at the contrast of the clunky pickup line mere moments after he quoted Pablo Neruda at me. "Come on, you can do better than that!"
"It would look good on any floor," Ken insists. "Especially –" His finger traces along the seam of my dress and his voice drops lower "– because I can't imagine you're wearing much underneath it."
Immediately, my mind flashes back to the gruesome fifteen minutes I spent squeezing myself into a cleverly cut spandex monstrosity – and I promptly dissolve into giggles. "Oh, you sweet summer child!"
"What? What?" Ken frowns in confusion.
"You're just – so like a man," I manage to get out between laughs. "You men really think we wake up like this, don't you?"
"I have had the fortune of waking up next to you many times," Ken declares grandly, but with twinkling eyes, "and while you don't always look like this, you're always beautiful."
"Flattery, flattery," I sing-song, but in reality, I don't mind the compliment at all. Just the opposite, in fact.
"Well deserved," replies Ken cheekily and moves me into a little twirl.
I gasp in surprise, but manage to stay on my feet long enough for him to catch me again. His arm securely circles around my waist, his hand holds mine tightly and his gaze is warm and loving as we continue to sway to the music.
Because I don't know any other way of loving
but this, in which there is no I or you.
It should feel surreal – me, wearing priceless jewels and an expensive dress, dancing the night away in a palace, in the arms of my very own prince – but it doesn't. In fact, it feels exactly right.
It feels like my very own Cinderilla moment, only that it doesn't end at midnight.
It's today, it's today.
The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'American Pie' (written by Don McLean, released by him in 1971).
To Anne:
Hello and thanks for being in touch and your kind words! I'm very glad to hear you're liking the story so far and hope you will continue to enjoy it. I have quite a few twists and turns coming up, so there should be a lot more chapters to read and - hopefully - enjoy =).
To Guest:
You'll laugh, but before starting to write one, I never touched modern stories either ;). I feel very honoured that my story convinced you despite ite modern setting and made you review! (It's much appreciated, too. Reviews make any writer's day!) I promise I have every intention of finishing this story - though not any time soon - and I'm pretty good about updating, too. I post a new chapter every Wednesday at 10pm MET (that's 4pm EST for North American readers) pretty much like clockwork, so if you want to, look out for updates on all Wednesdays. In the meantime, I hope you will continue to enjoy the story and thank you for your praise and very kind words!
