I absolutely loved the royal equerry story! I know it was just posted but any chance we could get an update soon?
You can read Part I: The Crown Equerry here.Â
I am so excited to continue this tale about Queen Claire!Â
Her Royal Highness (H.R.H.)Part II: An Accidental Queen
It wasthe first time she had indulged herself in this habit since hercoronation. Â Before the coronation, whenthings were not normal but still her normal, she rode alone withsome regularity. Â Living here with her Uncle Lamb escaping for anevening ride had been tricky, but it had been far from impossible.
Lamb waswholly committed to looking the other way. An unspoken agreement meant the house staff did the same, making thesight of Princess Claire slipping out of the palace in riding boots well afterdark a not unfamiliar sight. Â Clad inriding boots well after dark, hair bound in a tight bun at the nape of her neck,she would spirit away down the rolling, manicured lawns of the palace to thestables. Â After dark, they were quiet andempty. Â
Theritual was almost a religious experience to her ââ the quiet whispered greetingto her horse, saddling her, riding her, cooling her down, and getting her backinto the stable and settled for the night.
Butsince Claireâs coronation, the unspoken agreement had been more or less disregardedand she had been confined to the palace at night. Â Surrounded by priceless treasures of anempire caught in a permanent ebb and flow of influence and importance, thewalls of the palace and its hundreds of rooms were stifling. Â Though thoroughly aware of her privilege, shehad come to think of it as a gilded cage.
HRHPrincess Claire Elizabeth of York had never been the odds on favorite to becomethe Queen. Â She came upon her role ratheraccidentally. Â
HerUncle Lambâs coronation was well before she was born and long before he hadbeen ready (he said). Â He had been young â barely twenty ââ when his mother passed away from cancer. Â At the time, everyone (press, public, family) had just assumedthat the young king would someday marry. It was not for a lack of trying ââ an impersonal royal matchmakingthrough diplomacy and whispered observations of âoh well sheâs very prettyâ met only with laughs and smirks. Â Andwith the assumption of marriage camethe corollary assumption that Lamb would have children. Â He would fulfill that which was chief among hisroyal duties: have children. Â Then from thatlineage would come the next king or queen.
Clairehad never bothered herself with such assumptions or the point when the failurefor him to abide by them became a talking point. Â To her, she was just Uncle Lamb.
He washardly a king at all in her eyes, though she knew the formalities to beobserved in the public eye. Â Behindclosed doors, he had just been her goofy uncle who gave generously atChristmases and birthdays, told silly jokes with bad punchlines, traveled a lotfor work, and showed up on the television periodically, looking somber andtalking about pride in country. Â
But thenthere was the accident that tore away nearly everything that she knew. Â
Claire,at six, had not known that the world could change in a moment. At least until onecold afternoon. Â She was asleep betweenher mother (Her Royal Highness PrincessJulia Louise, heir presumptive to the throne) and father in the back seatof a state car. Â Her older sister (Her Royal Highness Princess Anne Catherine)was pressed between her mother and the car door, also slumbering. And then abridge fell out from beneath their motorcade, well above a snowy creek.
Shealways found it funny that something so profoundly disruptive could exist asonly a distant, fragmented memory. Â Whentrying to recall it (something she rarelydid), she was bombarded with only a series of disjointed recollections ââfull technicolor and visceral. Â
The icecold water burning her throat when she gulped for air.
Thescreams of her mother (âHenry ââ thegirls⌠save themâ) that made her eardrums ache.
The roughhands on her arms, wrenching her away from her father, out of the water, andonto grass. Â
Thescratch of a tartan blanket over her as she shivered violently, her teethfeeling as though they would grind themselves into dust.
Thesterile bite of hospital air and the soft, winter-chapped lips of the nurse whostood over her, whispering âyouâre alive,love, youâre alive.â
Thesearing ache when she tried not to bealive any longer ââ violent compressions on her narrow chest that shiftedher bones. Â
Thedoctor who smelled faintly of cigarettes imploring her to âbreathe god dammit.â
Darkness. Cold. Emptiness.
She woketo her uncleâs broad thumb drawing small circles on her shoulder through astiff green hospital gown. Â Being part ofthe royal family did not save her the indignity of a tie-back hospitalgown. Â She was emotionless as her eyesdarted around the sterile room (tubes inher hand, Lambâs warm touch, the hum of a fluorescent overhead light, the smellof cleaning fluid and layers of illness).
But thenthe realization hit her.  Her Uncle Lambhad no reason to be here, here exceptâŚ.
Andalthough she was young, she knew immediately that they were gone forever.
Her mother(Julia). Â Her older sister (Anne). Â Her father (Henry).
Thosememories, while technicolor and visceral, were not what she rememberedbest. Â More vivid than that tumble intothe creek was the moment when Lamb told her that her entire world had vanished.
Shemoved into Buckingham Palace and goofy Uncle Lamb awkwardly transitioned into afather-like figure. Â She went to boardingschool, kicking and screaming, crying every time she left to anyone who wouldlisten. Â It was only when she was caughtsmoking cigarettes in the girlâs lavatory that Lamb brought her back to Londonfor good. Â It had been Christmas. Hisdisappointed eyes glared at her over half-moon spectacles when he said, âYouneed to manage your reputation. Â Yourfuture rides on it.â
At thetime she had not grasped what he meant. But then, shortly after she turned fifteen, media chatter started thatthe King was a âconfirmed bachelor.â Â Claireguessed what it meant. Â Nonetheless, Lambsat her down, brushed the back of his hand over her cheeks, and explained theconcept of a euphemism (something she alreadyknew). Â He told her that he was notromantically interested in women (somethingelse she already knew).
âWill we see the king marry?â thedoe-eyed reporter had asked, a finger nervously twisting at the cap on his pen.
With alaugh, Lambâs response had been short: âIwould not count on it.â
It wasonly then that the chatter about Claire started.She was no longer just the unfortunate child of a dead royal. Â The lanky, awkward little thing ââ an orphan ââ was not really a placeholder heir presumptive. TheKing would not have children. Â She was it.
And thenhe died. Â Quietly, unexpectedly, warm inhis bed. A heart attack took him well before his time.
Thenewspaper headlines were none too flattering when Princess Claire Elizabeth â whohad been the third in line to the throne â was thrust into her new role.
Chiefamong the headlines: The AccidentalQueen.
Photographsof her from the boarding school materialized, no doubt from the stash of anunidentified, so-called friend. Cigarette dangling from her lip and skirtrolled at the waist to be shorter, every paper published it with the label: The Party Queen.
Readingit, Claire had thrown a vase against the door and screamed. Â No one came to see what was the matter. Â After a full meltdown in the bathroom, sheexited wrapped in one of her motherâs robes to see that the face had been sweptup and the flowers put into an identical cut crystal vase.
She wassuddenly stuck on the thought that both vases (the broken and the unbroken) were hers, but neither truly belonged to her.
âWe willtake care of it maâam,â was the official line given to her as she prepared forher coronation. Â The newspapers becamenotably more generous in their coverage after that.
Gallingas the unflattering press had been, she threw herself into the work of a queenwith a certain abandon. Her dedication gnawed her other dreams, things she hadonly been allowed to dream as one with a laughably distant claim to the throne,clean from her bones.
The dayshe broke ââ running down the hill, tear-streaked and needing a releaseââ had been a long and her every move choreographed by others. Â
She had awokento the sound of bagpipes and immediately forgotten whatever dream she had beenhaving. Â The only shadow of it was thewarmth of a touch on her cheek, the sensation of wide-open space, and sky asfar as the eye could see. Â Then that toodissolved.
Shebathed, perfumed herself, sat staring as her hair and makeup were fixed andclothes laid out for her to dress.
Then itwas on to responding to a small selection of letters from the public (adoration, condolences, the sharing of personalstruggles), the red box (telegramsand state papers for her review and approval), and a series of meetings (the identities and positions of each visitorwhispered into her ear along with a brief explanation of the meetingâs purpose).
A lunchwith the Argentine ambassador (sea bassand vegetables, a glass of wine) and then preparing for an engagement withthe Prime Minister of Canada (a tiarapinned into an updo that straightened her curls and did not move, red lips, abillowing ivory dress, and elbow-length gloves). Â
Andfinally, a brief telephone call with Frankââ the war hero introduced to her by Lamb and who she was to marry comeautumn. Â Frank was âjust fine,â he said and when they hung up there was no proclamationof âI miss youâ or love. Â âJust fineâ was how she felt about thematch.
Scrubbingthe day from her skin in a too-hot shower, she was struck by the fact that shehad not made a single choice in the preceding forty-eight hours. Â Save how she wanted her morning eggs, she hadlittle say in much of the last week. Â Shehad not even applied the red lipstick smeared across her palm or mascararunning in black rivulets down her cheeks and over her neck.
Everythingin her day had been cursory. At the end of it all, she found herselfyearning for depth with an ache soacute it felt as though it would split her breastbone clean in two. Â
Thoroughlyexhausted, but thrumming with need for a piece of herself, Claire finished her shower, toweled off, and took off downa back stairway that she had never before taken. Clad in black clothes fit fora caper in the night and with damp, unbrushed hair, she made her way to thestables.
Andthere, like a breath of fresh air, she stood ââ her beautiful girl. Â Long lines, sweet disposition, and aneagerness to please. Â It gave Claire ajolt of emotion. Through absence, she felt that she had neglected the poorcreature. Â However, Brimstoneâs earsflattened as Claire smiled and clicked her tongue softly, leaning over thestall gate. Â All was forgiven.
âThereyou are, you good girl.â Â She sighed asthe horse nudged her hand. Â âI havemissed you, my beautiful love.â
Just asshe moved to pop a hip against the gate ââ the only way to get the blastedthing to open without a screwdriver ââ she had been interrupted.
âCan I help ye?â the voice called to her.
âOh fuck off,â Claire muttered, browsfurrowing. Â She had made it this far andto be taken from her plans by a groom. Â Well, the thought was enough to make her seered.
Warm,broad hands took her by the upper arm and she turned, her face contorting. Â He was a hulking thing of a man with broadshoulders. His collar unbuttoned and shirtsleeves rolled to the elbows, shecould tell that he had an immense amount of power hiding beneath the cleanlines of his work shirt. Â He stooddumbfounded, staring at her for more than a few moments before releasing her. Â He had fiery crop of hair. Â It looked mussed by a hand, a tick used todistract a mind deep in thought.
For amoment, she bantered with him about her stables,her horses, her desire to take Brimstone out. She still hated having staff. Â And then, her mind fuzzy from champagnecocktails and too little food, she had given in, said to call her âClaire,â andagreed he could follow her. Â She mentallykicked herself. Â Had she really told theman to call her by her given name? Had she really relented that easily?
With thematter of her taking the horse out settled, Colonel James Fraser set to ridebehind her at an appropriate distance, she climbed onto Brimstone, mutteringonly to herself, âYou are losing it, Claire.â
Heproved himself an unobtrusive riding companion ââ hanging back an intentionaldistance and allowing her to put some space between them. Â Her initial disappointment of not being ableto take Brimstone out alone faded incrementally and she found her mind driftingto the past, a place she had found herself dwelling quite frequently of late. Â
Years ofriding Brimstone. Â
Lambâsinsistence that he give her the horse outside of othersâ presence, his coolfingers resting lightly over her eyes as he beseeched her to âkeep them closed, just a bit more then,squirt.â Â The feeling when she openedthem and saw the horse. Hers.
Thegilded horse-drawn carriage kept just kitty corner to where she had saddledBrimstone. Â An ornate monstrosity ofriches that had carried her from the palace to Westminster Abbey for hercoronation, her heart aching with the loss of her uncle and her gut churning atthe thought of her new role.
The accidental queen, indeed.
Eventuallyshe as almost able to forget that Fraser was following her. Â
Theymade it a fair distance before she brought Brimstone back towards thestables. Â Her hands carried her throughthe routine of readying Brimstone to be put back in her stall.
Fraserinterrupted her. Â The damn bloody Scot.
âShelikes ye.â Â He was closer than she hadthought. Â Lifting Brimstoneâs saddle off,she sighed at the heft of it. The back of his hand brushed over her knuckleswhen he took it from her. Â
Shestepped around to the front of her horse.
âWell, Iwould hope so.â Â Claireâs eyes driftedshut for a moment as she reveled in the soft nudge of Brimstoneâs nose againsther neck. Â âI did all of the work withher. Â Did you know that?â
âI didnaknow that, maâam.â Â
Fraserwas apparently wise enough to have not taken her earlier bait. Â
Somethingin her, though, wanted him to say her name. Just to hear it. To lend even a momentâs more normalcyto the evening before she had to tromp back up the hill and into her gildedcage.
Theyworked in tandem to finish untacking and grooming Brimstone. Â The silence was companionable and she smiledat him when he passed her a curry comb. The fact that he did not offer to just do the work himself struck her. Â And she was deeply appreciative.
Brimstonewatered, cleaned, and tucked in for the night with a handful of apple slicesand a kiss to the nose, Claire turned to leave, wiping at the sheen of sweatthat had sprung up on the back of her neck.
âYourmajesty?â Fraser called after her, his voice firm and somehow tentative all atonce.
Sheturned on her heel and continued to walk backwards. Â âYes, Colonel Fraser?â
âYeâre afine rider.â
Sheoffered him a quick smile before turning and continuing back to thepalace. Â Although she was returning toher gilded cage, it somehow felt as though she had opened a door.