Windsor, England
September 2015
See how deep the bullet lies
With a sharp pull at the reins, I bring Jack to a skidding stop. He follows my commando immediately, throwing himself around when I ask him to change directions and align himself with Ken's horse.
"Would you stop that?" I hiss at him.
Ken doesn't reply immediately. His horse, a young black named Eddard, is clearly intimidated by Jack and tries jumping away to the side, but Ken keeps him in place. Eddard snorts nervously, but stays next to Jack, allowing Ken to look at me.
"What do you mean?" he asks.
I scoff. "You know what I mean!"
"No," he replies, somewhat testily. "I don't know what you mean."
"Of course you do!" I snap. "And I'd thank you to stop doing it!"
Ken raises an eyebrow. "Stop doing what, exactly?"
"This!" I vaguely wave my polo mallet in direction of the playing field. Jack is unfazed, but Eddard rolls his eyes and prances slightly to the side.
Bringing his horse back into position next to Jack and me, Ken gives me a long look. "I have no earthly idea what you're talking about."
"You're not playing properly!" I accuse him. "Whenever I have the ball, you don't defend against me!"
"You're imagining that," Ken responds, his tone almost dismissive.
I gnash my teeth in frustration. "Don't treat me like I'm stupid! I might be new to this whole polo playing business, but I did my homework. I'm playing offence and you're playing defence and you should not allow me to break through as often as you do!"
He shrugs. "Maybe I'm just rusty? It's been a while since I played."
Out of the corner of my eye, I notice the ball rolling my way and vaguely hit it into direction of Tatty, who gives me an odd look. I ignore her and turn back to Ken instead.
"Even if you were rusty, you'd still be better than that," I inform him. "You're deliberately letting me win and I want you to stop!"
"I'd hardly be letting you win specifically. You're part of a team," he points out coolly.
I grip my mallet tighter and just about prevent myself from hitting it over Ken's head. When I speak, I have to force out the words through gritted teeth. "Stop. It!"
Ken looks at me briefly, before reaching forward to brush Eddard's mane to one side of his neck. "You're new to this," he finally remarks.
I narrow my eyes at him. "What is that supposed to mean?"
"You haven't played polo often. It's your first real game. I'm just trying to accommodate for that," Ken explains, still not quite meeting my eyes.
"You're… You…" I splutter, indignant. "God, how patronising can you even be?"
"I'm not being patronising," he immediately tries to defend himself, looking back up at me. "I'm just –"
I cut across him. "You are! You think I'm such a bad player that you won't play properly against me!"
"I didn't say that!" Ken snaps back hotly. "I didn't even think that!"
The ball rolls our way again, but even though I think it was Owen who played it, meaning it to go to his son, Ken makes no motion to hit it. Instead, I send it back into the middle of the field, not even caring in whose direction it moves.
"Then stop mollycoddling me!" I demand. "Just play as you'd normally play. Stop treating me like I'm some kind of useless idiot!"
"I'm not –" begins Ken, but I've heard enough.
Pressing my calves against Jack's body, I ask him to go forward and he responds immediately. Jumping into a gallop, he quickly brings us back to where the other six pairs continued playing during Ken's and my discussion. Being the great polo pony that he is, Jack immediately gets back into the game the moment I let him and with me concentrating on doing my best to prove Ken wrong, both Jack and I throw ourselves right into the fray with abandon.
By the time they call for a break before the last chukka, I'm sweaty and breathless and no less angry than before.
"You okay?" asks Tatty as we ride to the side of the field to switch horses.
I shake my head to ward her off, but Tatty wouldn't be Tatty if she was so easily deterred.
"Ken and you looked like you had a disagreement earlier," she remarks with customary directness.
Leaning forward, I pat Jack's neck and consider how much I want to tell Tatty.
"He's not playing a very strong defence against you," she points out when I don't answer, showing that she's got a pretty good idea what the matter is.
"No", I agree tightly. "No, he isn't."
Tatty makes an understanding noise. "And you're annoyed at him because of it."
I nod my head jerkily. "He thinks that because I'm new to this polo playing business he needs to give me some sort of advantage."
Bringing her horse to a halt, Tatty looks at me closely. "He's correct that out of everyone playing today, you have the least experience playing polo."
I give her a withering look and swing my leg over Jack's back to dismount, effectively bringing the horse between us.
It's not wrong to say that I'm the rookie and I know it. I'm only participating at all because Persis can't – for obvious reasons – and I was asked to step in for her. It's a charity game with a male team playing a female team and all riders have royal connections of varying strength, so there weren't many alternatives. Accordingly, I spent the last few weeks training how to play polo, but even so, I know I'm the least experienced player on the field by far.
"I was already given the best horses," I argue as I duck under Jack's head and look at Tatty. "Jack doesn't care who sits on top of him, he just wins anyway. And Zuleika might be super moody, but she knows the rules better than most humans do."
The last is said with a nod to Persis's mare Zuleika, who's really a little too old to still be participating in games but who was pulled out of retirement to look after me during two of the four chukkas, just as Jack was tasked with babysitting me through the other two. With those two horses and their vast skill and experience, I really don't need special treatment from Ken on top of it!
"Point taken," concedes Tatty. "But I imagine he's probably just trying to be considerate?"
I swallow down the acidic remark on my tongue about how he's a little late to start being considerate of my feelings. Instead, I shrug non-committally and turn to lead Jack towards the groom, receiving the reins of Zuleika in return.
Thankfully, Tatty doesn't press the issue. I know she's holding in a whole avalanche of comments, but she does hold them in. She watches me closely as we both mount our respective new horses and ride back onto the polo field, but she keeps her mouth shut as we do.
Once we've reached the middle of the field, she briefly reaches out to squeeze my arm and grins. "Come on, let's beat them and show them us women are the better players!"
That's always a sentiment I can get behind, so I find myself nodding and smiling despite myself.
"There's the spirit!" declares Tatty proudly, before commanding her horse to set off in a light gallop. Zuleika and I follow suit, neither of us sparing a glance for Ken approaching us from the left. Let him eat our dust!
Satisfyingly, we do end up winning the game with a score of 5-4 (or, in Tatty's words, we showed the men who's boss), which really just goes to prove my point.
With the game over, Ken and Owen are immediately being dragged to join Leslie at the main grandstand to smooch some rich donors. Guards Polo Club in Windsor Great Park is the royals' home club and thus attracts a lot of spectators and members who don't care one iota about the sport itself, but just pay a whole lot of money to get close to a real royal once in a while. I know that no-one in the family is wild about these people, but when enough money is raised for charity, they know to grin and bear it.
I take the opportunity to slip away and help the grooms with getting the horses settled for the journey back to their stables. The royal grooms are used to having me work alongside them, so my assistance is received with grateful smiles and nods, but no undue hoopla.
I'm just brushing down Jack, when, out of the corner of my eye, I see Ken stepping out from between two horse trailers. Despite being well aware of his presence, I don't turn around, instead concentrating on brushing the dried sweat from Jack's coat.
"Rilla?" Ken asks after a moment. "Can we have a word?"
I shrug, still not looking at him. "I'm finishing up here, but if you want to talk, go ahead and talk."
Ken doesn't reply immediately, instead just standing there while I continue to brush Jack's coat, maybe a tad more forcefully than necessary. Thankfully, for Jack, it feels like a massage either way and he shows it by letting his lower lip hang in a relaxed way.
(When I quickly let my eyes dart around the place, I realise that the grooms are gone. Looks like Ken shooed them away before coming to talk.)
A long moment passes with me grooming the horse and Ken just standing there, perhaps trying to determine how to broach whatever it is he wants to speak with me about.
"I'm wondering what I can do to make this better," he finally says.
Briefly, my hands still above Jack's back, before I quickly resume the brushing.
"I don't know what you're talking about," I respond, still turned towards the horse.
"You're mad at me," Ken states and it's not a question.
"I don't want you to mollycoddle me," I inform him coolly.
He sighs. "I didn't mean to."
My fingers grip the brush a little tighter. "Well, you did."
Ken takes a few steps forward, coming to stand next to Jack's head, and absent-mindedly starts stroking his nose. His new position means that I can see him from the corner of my eye, but I don't turn my head, instead concentrating on continuing the brushing.
"I'm just trying to –" Ken pauses. "Look, I'm trying to get this right. I'm trying to look out for you."
I can tell he's trying to catch my eye, so I crouch down to brush the dust from Jack's legs. "I don't need to be protected," I tell him sharply.
What I mean is, I don't need to be protected by him.
"I never meant to imply that you needed to protection. I just –" He breaks off and when I dare a quick glance, I can see him shaking his head slightly.
"You just what?" I ask as I straighten and walk around Jack's hind quarters to brush his right legs.
Again, there's no direct reply. Ken waits until I've finished with the legs and have no other chance but to stand up, before carefully remarking, "I'm wondering… is this okay for you? Being around horses like this?"
I incline my head and finally look at him. "I don't understand?"
"I just meant with what happened to Blacky," Ken explains. "That must have been terrible for you."
I turn away abruptly. "I don't want to talk about it."
"But –" he begins.
Shaking my head forcefully, I interrupt him. "No! I don't want to talk about it."
He wasn't there when it happened and when I needed him. He doesn't get to use this to try and score points now.
There's a pause and when I turn my head slightly, I can see Ken pushing a hand through his hair in frustration. His jaw is moving slightly and I know he's trying to work out what to say. I half-heartedly brush Jack's already neat coat and wait until it breaks out of him, "What do I have to do, Rilla?"
I frown at Jack's gleaming fur. "I don't know what you mean," I inform Ken tightly.
He laughs mirthlessly. "What do I have to do for you to stop blaming me?"
"I'm not blaming you!" I retort quickly – too quickly, perhaps.
"Aren't you?" he asks, his voice strained. "Because it seems to me that ever since I came back, I haven't been able to do anything right."
Well…
I put a flat palm against Jack's silky fur and absorb the heat coming from his body. Jack turns his head and gives me a slight nudge with his muzzle.
Raising my head to look at Ken, my attention is instead drawn by Leslie, standing behind him in the shadow between the two horse trailers. She's watching us with an unreadable expression on her face and I wonder what she heard.
"Leslie," I greet her loudly. "Can we help you with anything?"
Ken starts and quickly turns around to face his mother.
There's a brief moment of hesitation before Leslie steps forward. She looks from me to Ken and back to me again. When our eyes meet, I raise my chin slightly, refusing to be the first to look away.
"They want to start with the awards ceremony," Leslie finally says, moving her gaze from me to Ken once more. "I offered to come fetch you."
Which is to say, she had an inkling that we were arguing and didn't want anyone else to go, for fear what they might overhear.
"We'll be there in a moment," I tell Leslie, making sure that my voice sounds relaxed and upbeat. "I'm just finishing up with Jack here." I raise the brush to indicate what I mean.
Another moment of hesitation, but then Leslie nods. "Very well." She briefly touches Ken's arm and looks at me quickly and quizzically, before withdrawing and disappearing among the horse carriers.
I wait for several seconds until I'm reasonably sure that Leslie is gone, before dropping the brush back into the box by my feet and turning to face Ken. He's watching me closely, but his face betrays no thought.
"You're imagining things," I inform him firmly. "I was annoyed that you didn't treat me as an equal player during the game, but that's it."
"Are you sure?" he asks, not sounding convinced.
I nod and walk up to stand in front of him, resolved to convince him that everything is okay and knowing just the trick how to achieve it. "I'm very sure. In fact –" I lightly put a hand on his chest and push him back against the horse trailer "– in fact, if we weren't all sweaty and gross, I'd show you quite how sure."
I let my voice drop lower as I speak and stand up on my tiptoes. Ken looks down at me and I can see the doubt reflected in his eyes, but when I lean forward to kiss him, he responds readily enough. His lips move against mine and his hands on my hips pull me closer against his body. I slip my arms around his neck and push a hand into his hair and reflect, once more, that talking is really overrated.
So overrated, in fact, that I make sure to keep Ken from talking for the rest of the weekend. (Well, not from talking altogether, just from talking about uncomfortable, icky subjects.) He does try once more, that very night, but I know how to distract him and afterwards simply remind him that the christening is in the morning and that as a godmother, I have to be up bright and early.
That's not even a lie, so I end up rising before him the next day and get busy dolling myself up in the bathroom (one of the bathrooms, I should say). For the occasion, I splurged on a light blue summer dress that I could ill afford, but that I talked myself into buying by arguing that I can get a lot of wear out of it after today by dressing it down with some boots and a leather jacket. For now, I'm pairing it with a silver fascinator borrowed from Tatty, a silver clutch I've owned for a while and a pair of gorgeous silver pumps that I also couldn't afford. The effect is quite fetching, if I may say so myself, and if there was one upside to half a year of near-isolation and several months of kale diet, it's that I saved a fair bit of money during that time.
Humming softly, I give myself a last once-over in the bathroom mirror. With a satisfied nod, I decide that I'm suitably dressed up and won't be an embarrassment to little Puddles Healy, which makes me feel rather pleased. I enjoy looking good and it always improves my mood to know I'm well-turned out, even more so for such a joyous event as today's.
Leaving the bathroom, I cross the hall towards the sitting room, where I find Ken waiting for me. When he sees me, a smile lights up his face. "You look beautiful."
I incline my head, not being able to hide a little smile. After all, every woman likes being told she looks good, especially when she made an effort.
"You don't look half bad yourself," I reply while surveying him in his morning coat. "Is that a new waistcoat?"
Ken looks down at the garment in question. "Yes. I figured I should make some effort for Katie's daughter."
"She's three months old," I remind him amusedly, shaking my head slightly. "It's not like she'll care."
"And yet, look at you," he retorts with a chuckle. He's clearly teasing now as he indicates my attire, which took more effort than his and which Puddles won't at all care about either.
I nod, laughing. "Touché."
Our eyes meet across the room and suddenly, it feels like there's something there. The laugh slips from my lips and I can see the humour leave is eyes as well as we just stand there and look at each other, really look at each other for once. Unconsciously, I rub my hands together and notice they're clammy, while my mouth is oddly dry. My heart, meanwhile, feels all weird and I can't tell whether it's an ache or a longing or a little bit of both.
"Rilla…" His voice sounds as funny as my heart feels.
I swallow heavily, unable to decide whether I want him to continue or whether I'd prefer for him not to say anything. Thus, I remain frozen in the moment, not knowing what to do.
Ken takes a step forward, stretching out a hand towards me and it's almost close enough to touch. I stand there, unmoving, my entire body on alert, when –
Beep beep, makes my phone.
His hand drops, I turn away and the moment is gone.
My heart spins once, before settling down again, as if not knowing whether to be disappointed or relieved. Maybe, it is, again, a weird mixture of both.
"Anything important?" Ken asks casually as I pick up my phone from where I lies face-down on a shelf.
Quickly, I check who the message is from, before slipping the phone into my clutch. "It's from Sam. I'll read it later," I answer, equally casual.
"Sam," repeats Ken slowly, an unreadable expression on his face.
"Yes," I reply and my own voice suddenly has an edge to it. "I told you about Sam. We volunteer at the youth centre together. Remember?"
"I do," confirms Ken without quite looking at me. There's a brief pause, before he adds, "Maybe you'd like to introduce us sometime?"
Now I'm the one hesitating, before finally shaking my head. "I'm really not sure you'd get along."
Ken frowns, but it's from confusion rather than annoyance. "Why not?"
Once more, I don't answer right away. Instead, I look at him in his expensive, bespoke morning coat, standing in his exquisitely furnished sitting room in his very own tower in a castle he will own one day.
More importantly though, I look at the reflection of myself behind him in the window. I look at this woman with the perfectly coiffed hair, the elegant clothes and the jewellery that once belonged to empresses and queens, who thinks nothing of moving around palaces and castles. Next to her, I conjure the imagine of the girl with ratty t-shirts and unmade hair who hangs around in dinghy pubs and messy basement flats while drinking stale beer and smoking hand-rolled cigarettes of dubious content.
They might as well be two different people.
"Just a hunch," I tell Ken and turn away.
For a moment, I think he'll try to pressure for an explanation or, Heaven forbid, for us to have the conversation we didn't have yesterday (for good reason!), but he just sighs softly and walks past me to hold open the door. I give him a smile that turns shakier than I'd like for it to be and slip past him, skilfully looking the other way and swinging my arm out of reach when he tries to take my hand.
We walk silently through the long corridors of Windsor Castle and I absent-mindedly reflect that if there's one advantage to castles and their sheer size, it's that it gives one a lot of time to compose oneself before having to face other people. Thus, by the time we reach the courtyard and the fleet of cars waiting to take us down to the Royal Chapel of All Saints further south in Windsor Great Park, I'm all smiles, as befitting a godmother on the day her goddaughter is christened.
I haven't even had a chance to say good morning to anyone, when Tatty – fellow godmother and more nervous today than the actual parents – already pounds and whisk me away toward the car that she requisitioned for use of me, Katie, Puddles and herself. The notion that Adam might like to be with his wife and daughter on the way to the christening clearly doesn't enter her head. Raising my eyebrows at Katie, I silently communicate that very question, but she just laughs and shakes her head. Puddles gurgles happily in her arms.
Puddles, it must be said, isn't really named Puddles. That is, it's not among the names the nice bishop will christen her with today, though I have little doubt that she'll be stuck with it from now to all eternity. To blame, of course, is her Uncle Chris and I'm not entirely sure Katie has forgiven him yet. (Adam, it appears, seems to think it hilarious, but only when his wife isn't looking.)
Her real name is Jemima – or, in full, Jemima Augusta Caroline, with the middle names being in honour of both her grandmothers – and it really does look like Katie and Adam didn't see it coming when they picked the name. Tatty took one look at the baby and declared her to be Puddle Duck, which Chris promptly shortened to Puddles and that was that. And what with how fond the English upper-crust is of weird nicknames, not even her father's firm middle-class background is enough to save her, so Puddles she will remain from here-on out.
(Lucky thing she's cute.)
Alas, no matter the nickname she's stuck with, we do need to get this child properly christened with a bunch of other names before God, so we're all bundled into cars and driven down Great Walk, past the fetching equestrian statue of George III standing on a hill, and to the private Royal Chapel of All Saints. It was, as Owen once told me, a firm favourite of the late Queen Alexandra, though I know Teddy to be fairly unimpressed by the architecture.
It's also not Westminster Abbey, size-wise, and the guests aren't as numerous as you might expect for a half-royal child, but with the entire royal family turned out in their finery, I imagine it's quite the sight anyway. (Or it would be, if we weren't on private property and if the only photographer snapping away hadn't been hired by Katie and Adam for that very purpose.) Standing in front of the chapel next to a very excited Tatty, I use the opportunity to get in a belated round of greetings, garnering me lots of smiles and nods from the entire family, plus a wave from Great-Aunt Tanya and even a stiff little nod from Aunt Mary. (I still don't know what her problem is.)
"Do you want to take her?" asks Katie when we're all being shooed into the church and offers Puddles to me.
"Of course!" I reply, feeling a little touched. "Do you want to come to me, Puddles?"
The baby gurgles some more as I take her. There's a little bit of spit running down her chin, which Katie wipes away deftly with the sleeve of her no doubt expensive suit.
Puddles herself is dressed in the royal christening gown, which is a plainly ridiculous lace-y affair worn by all royal babies since Queen Victoria's time. It requires some extra manoeuvring until Puddles and her overlong, overly fussy gown are safely in my arms, but once it's accomplished, she seems rather content there. (And, of course, immediately proceeds to drool all over my dress. So much for reusing it after today!)
The christening itself is very lovely and touching, though as the bishop recites the name, I do think I can hear Chris, sitting in the front row with Katie's and Adam's immediate families, distinctly mutter, "Puddles." His sister whips around to glare at him, but Chris just grins and tips his top hat at her.
Juggling the baby slightly in my arms, I let my gaze drift over the assorted guests. Owen and Leslie are in the front row on the other side, as befitting their status, together with their children and a beaming Great-Aunt Tanya who seems absolutely tickled pink by everything going on. Further back are other family members and various friends, most of which I've met before.
Near the back, I spy Ken's friend Mark, who has a rather soppy smile on his face that makes me take note immediately. Turning my head slightly, I look at Tatty out of the corner of my eye and see Mark's smile mirrored on her lips.
"Finally grew some strings, did you?" I mutter when the bishop's back is turned and raise both eyebrows meaningfully.
Tatty's smile becomes a grin as she shrugs and then nods. "I think strings have a habit of doing that," she whispers back, but doesn't at all look displeased by the fact.
"So I hear," I reply, smiling and shaking my head at her. She just beams back at me and reaches out to stroke Puddle's pudgy baby fist.
Still smiling, I turn back to the guest, letting my eyes drift over them again – until they land on Ken and I feel the smile slipping from my face. If Mark's expression was all soppy, Ken's is… so much more than that. Outwardly, his gaze is fixed on me and the baby, but I'm not sure he even really sees us – or rather, if Puddles is really the baby he sees. His face is full of wistfulness and longing and it makes my heart do the weird thing again.
Abruptly, I turn around and hold out the baby for Tatty to take. "Hold her please, will you?"
The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'Running Up That Hill' (written by Kate Bush, released by her in 1985).
To Guest:
Yes, Ken's back! I promise he's not going anywhere anytime soon either. Now, as for Rilla... ;)
