THE QUEEN. It’s really the queen. Oh, doesn’t she look lovely. And the duke! I can’t believe it!”
Jesse and Janet have been on the pavement across the road from St. Paul’s since early evening yesterday. Janet would have it no other way. They were both glad of their hastily purchased sleeping bags because the night was cold and quite dark. But everyone was friendly, sharing food and blankets, waving flags, singing “Rule, Britannia.”
Almost zero sleep and an anxious, gray dawn, neighbor consulting neighbor on the footpath, offering memories of other rain-blighted royal weddings, but it had been a wonderful day so far.
“Can you really see through that thing, Mum?” Jesse’s annoyed with herself. They should have bought two, but the periscopes were so expensive.
“It works a treat, even if they were bandits.”
Janet shakes her head. London! The money! Everything’s outrageous these days. But she manages to squeeze her daughter’s hand as she wields the long, ungainly tube of cardboard above their heads. Crammed between so many others all equally desperate to see the groom arrive, it’s not easy scanning the steps of the cathedral.
But Janet is so grateful, and so happy to see the future king of England on his wedding day that she dares the gray skies above St. Paul’s to do their worst. Let it rain! Here she stands, free of the clouds of the past—free to stand beside her child sharing what Jesse had always planned. “There he is! There he is!”
“Where?” That mighty surge of sound is made of one word: “Charles!”
The small figure of a man, dwarfed by that immensity of stone, turns at the top of the steps and waves.
Janet gives a satisfied sigh. “Oh, isn’t he handsome? The press are so unfair to that poor man. Charles! Charles!” Waving enthusiastically, Janet’s got her face jammed against the viewing window. “Look! He’s turning this way!” She waves again. One hand among so many.
Jesse waves too. The actual king of England-to-be. And then she remembers. Part of her blood family has a history as long as the Windsors’. Longer, maybe. But Eva? Where did you come from? Who were you? How did you just disappear?
Janet nudges Jesse. “You know, I heard a million people are here today. Doesn’t surprise me a bit.”
Jesse’s jerked back to the present. “No. A million? Amazing.” She stands protectively behind her mother, trying to make a bit of space for her. Janet’s such a tiny woman. Anyone looking at them both would never think they’re mother and daughter. Big as a fridge, ridgy-didge. But the taunt from school days doesn’t hurt anymore. She likes being tall. Mack’s taller.
“Rory’s sister? What?”
That had been a moment. It was after Mack had found her in the inner ward.
“Yes. It’s true. But do you want the best news?” Poor man. Stunned got nowhere near the right word.
“There’s more?”
Jesse’s heart had lifted, she had felt it physically. So the old saying was true. “Yes. There really is. You’re not my brother, Mack. Not full, not half, not even a bit. We are not related. Period.”
He had snorted. “I could have told you that.”
“Oh, really?”
“We don’t look a bit alike.” That amiable grin.
Jesse feels that urgent hand on her sleeve again. “Yes, Mum?”
“You’re not listening.” Janet’s jumping, yes, jumping up and down. “She’s here. Look!”
There she was indeed, as the crowd surged and craned and roared. A girl in a fairy tale, getting out of a glass coach, on her way to meet her prince.
“Oh! The dress, look at the dress.”
Jesse craned and angled with the rest of them. She wanted to see it. Something released in her heart. She was enjoying herself. Actually, really enjoying herself. Nothing would ever surprise her again, but fairy tales? What was all that about?
The small black-and-white TV brings the wedding into the kitchen at Hundredfield. Panning shots of the crowds in the cathedral, then a high point of view as the groom and his brothers walk into position at the high altar.
There’s a tight shot as Andrew sneaks a look toward the West Door and nods to Charles just as the picture goes to snow.
“No!” Alicia hurries to the dresser, fiddles with the rabbit ears. The picture settles. She edges back to the table, eyes fixed on every flicker.
“Hello. I’d forgotten it was today.”
Alicia startles. “Rory! How could you forget a thing like this?”
He’s standing just inside the back door. She didn’t hear him come down the stairs.
Surprised, she’s uncomfortable. So is he. “Come in. I can turn it off, if you like. I mean, what’s another wedding? Seen one, seen—”
“—them all.” He nods. “Yes. But why don’t we watch it together? We can pass it on to the grandchildren.”
Something complex passes across Alicia’s face. “Yes. Yes, please stay. That would be nice.”
With all the movement on the screen, all the noise, and Richard Burton’s voice-over of the action, it’s still curiously quiet in the kitchen at Hundredfield as Rory joins her at the table.
“Lovely girl, if a bit young.” Rory’s doing his best. He thinks Alicia doesn’t notice as he keeps glancing at her face.
“I know just what we need.” Alicia hurries out of the room. She calls out from the passage, “Where’s Mack, by the way?”
Rory stares at the little screen as if there’ll be questions about the dress. “With Mum. Been a rugged couple of days.”
“Knew we had a couple left.” Alicia’s returned with a very, very large bottle of Bollinger. “Nineteen fifty-six. Not exactly cold, but not too bad.”
Rory gets up. “Let me.”
“I’m sorry about Helen. She’s a proud woman. I suppose she did what she thought was best.” It’s a big admission, but for a moment, when she hands him the bottle, Alicia’s expression wobbles. “Glasses!” She hurries to the cabinet. A collection of less-than-grand odds and ends of crystal is on a shelf.
“I, Charles Philip Arthur George, take thee . . .”
Rory times the pop of the cork to the moment when the archbishop says, “I now pronounce you man and wife.”
“Can you hear that? They’re all cheering! The whole of London!” Alicia turns to him with delight. “The whole world too. It’s real, then. The fairy tale. Just like you said.” She’s trying to catch champagne as it foams from the neck of the bottle. “He looks a bit serious, though.”
“Wouldn’t you? Man’s just got married in front of the world. Can’t back out now.”
“Hello, hello. Anyone home?” The door bangs open as Mack tows Hugh Windhover into the kitchen.
“I thought you were with Mum?”
“I was.” Mack’s not commenting.
Hugh clears his throat. “Lady Alicia. You’re looking, ah”—it would be a lie to say she’s looking better. The black eyes are a rich green-purple now—“brighter than when I saw you last.”
“I am.” Alicia hands their visitor a glass. She lowers her voice. “Sorry to waste your time, Hugh, but I don’t think we’ll be selling. Circumstances have changed in the family.”
Rory, dispensing champagne, hears family. He smiles at his sister.
“I’m very pleased to hear it. Hundredfield should stay with the Donnes, Lady Alicia. That’s my honest opinion.” Hugh’s suddenly aware that the others are watching them. “And you haven’t wasted my time.”
She looks at him, surprised. “No?”
He takes a sip of the champagne. Smiles appreciatively. “No.”
“Oh, look. He’s going to kiss her.”
Standing behind the chair that Alicia’s sitting in, Hugh murmurs, “Sensible man.”