Other than that, all went well for the newlyweds. At the reception, Charles Chandler took a liking to anthropologist Mary Clare Gitlin. After they had both overindulged in champagne, Charles was heard several times to say to her: “If only I’d met you sooner!” And many of the local guests took home a delightful souvenir, a paper wedding napkin bearing the autograph of the Channel Four Weather Princess.
The Dawson newlyweds had arrived in Edinburgh on Tuesday morning, where they had enjoyed having the house to themselves, except for one indignant Siamese cat, who insisted on being held at every possible moment to compensate for his week’s abandonment. Apparently, Dr. Grant, who had fed him diligently twice a day, had neglected to provide the proper subservience that Traveller considered his due.
Two days of relaxation followed-sightseeing and recuperating from the flight and the wedding ordeal. The sixth of July had dawned gray and unappealing, but nevertheless a glorious day for Elizabeth, who insisted upon singing “God Save the Queen” to Her Majesty in absentia over breakfast. She spent much of the rest of the day getting ready for the Royal Garden Party.
Shortly before three the Dawsons drove to the palace of Holyroodhouse, with a little placard in the window of the Micra proclaiming them to be official guests for the occasion. There they joined the crowd of other distinguished guests, all beetling toward the entrance to the grounds. The men were in morning coats or military uniforms, while the women, in flowery silk dresses, strove to appear summery despite the weather.
“Do I look all right?” asked Elizabeth, pulling her white wool shawl more tightly about her. After much shopping along the Royal Mile on the previous afternoon, she had chosen a dark blue dress with a V-neckline and puffed elbow-length sleeves.
“You look fine,” Cameron assured her. “Just don’t trip!”
“My shoes are all right. It’s the hat that takes getting used to,” his wife replied, pushing the white straw bonnet firmly back into place. “I’m not used to wearing one.”
Several minutes later, they had joined the sea of dignitaries on the palace lawn. In fact, one could hardly see the lawn for the dignitaries. They stood in neat rows a few feet apart, creating a path through which the Queen would walk to greet certain selected guests.
Three marquees had been set up to accommodate the guests: the one topped with three gold crowns belonged to the Queen and her entourage; the gold-spike one was the diplomatic tent; and the silver-ball ornaments signified the public marquee, at which the eight thousand guests might be given tea and a cream cake, should they feel sufficiently composed to venture eating.
“Where is the Queen?” asked Elizabeth, peering at the royal marquee.
“She doesn’t appear until four,” Cameron told her. “Shall I attempt to get you some tea?”
“I’ll come with you,” said Elizabeth, who wanted a closer look at everything.
At the public marquee, uniformed Crawford’s waiters, brought in for the occasion, dispensed the refreshments. While Cameron waited in line, Elizabeth strayed a bit for a closer look at the Queen’s marquee. There, superb flower arrangements adorned the trestle tables and a magnificent gold tea service stood, attended by pages in black and footmen in scarlet tailcoats. Even in the royal tent, tea would be served buffet style.
“I don’t think I could manage to eat with eight thousand people watching me,” murmured Elizabeth. “I see why the Princess Margaret calls this a zoo tea.”
“I expect they’re used to it,” murmured Cameron.
As they walked back to find a place in one of the long lines, a tall young man in a morning coat with a tie identical to Cameron’s approached them with a smile of recognition.
“Hello, Cameron!” he cried. “How good to see you again!”
“Hello, Adam,” Cameron replied, introducing his bride. “I must thank you again for going to all that trouble over my invitation.” Turning to Elizabeth, he said, “This is Adam McIver, an old friend of mine from Fettes. It was he who managed to get you in today.”
“Think nothing of it,” said Adam, smiling at Elizabeth’s echoed thanks. “Many congratulations on your wedding. Cameron and I had many good times together. I remember when a gang of us used to meet in the garden at the Dawsons’ house to plan our expedition for getting the Duke of Edinburgh Gold Award.” He pointed to his tie as an indication that they had succeeded in meeting the fitness and service requirements for receiving the youth award. “Cameron, I think the last time I saw you was here at the palace when we received that award.”
“What was Cameron like as a teenager?” asked Elizabeth.
Adam smiled. “A bit shy, I think, and much less good-looking. He always thought I was stuffy. But we in the diplomatic corps go in for subtle humor. Well, it’s very nice to meet you, Mrs. Dawson. I’m glad you came to Edinburgh for your honeymoon, rather than to some more obvious place for newlyweds, like Ibiza or Rome.” His eyes twinkled.
Cameron, catching the reference, looked stern. “We did consider Nome, Alaska,” he said carefully. “Tell me, Adam, do you get to do much traveling in government service?”
“Alas, no,” said Adam. “But my sister’s flatmate is an air hostess. Good to see you again. I really must dash.” With that he wormed his way through a knot of people and disappeared from view.
“It really was kind of him to see that I was invited,” said Elizabeth. “Should I write him a thank-you note?”
“Only for the wedding present,” said Cameron. “I believe he sent us a used gnome.”
At precisely four o’clock, the military band struck up the national anthem, and the Queen and various members of the royal family appeared on the steps to the garden.
“She’s much smaller than I expected,” whispered Elizabeth. “She looks so… human.”
The Queen, looking like a perfectly ordinary matron in her green straw hat and summer dress, proceeded down the steps, followed by other members of the family.
“Each of the royals takes a row,” whispered a tall blonde woman standing next to Elizabeth. “So you’ll get quite a good view of whoever comes our way. You’ve not been selected to meet her, have you?”
“No,” said Elizabeth. “You mean she doesn’t speak to everybody?” She had spent days trying to think of just the right thing to say to Her Majesty.
“Oh no. Only to a certain few. They’ll have been notified in advance and the ushers know to fetch them out of line.”
Several minutes later the Queen walked by and stopped to chat with an army officer and his wife, who had been directed to the center of the aisle by an attending usher. Elizabeth later explained that she didn’t know what came over her, but that probably it was the Southern bride’s royalty fantasies. After having gotten one’s own way for weeks on end and been the absolute center of attention, it is difficult to revert immediately to one’s usual humble self. Certain of her relatives unkindly remarked that sudden wealth does unfortunate things to some people’s personalities.
Anyway, it wasn’t much of a gaffe, Elizabeth reasoned, because the Queen is an intimidating presence even for diplomats and heads of state. Those invited into her presence may have fantasies about rushing up to her to say hello, but these impulses evaporate entirely when one is actually in proximity to Her Majesty.
But the new Mrs. Dawson felt that the occasion was so momentous that it should not go unmarked. For just an instant as the Queen was finishing her conversation with the military couple, she glanced up at the crowd and straight at Elizabeth. In that split second, flinging a millennium of social protocol to the winds, Elizabeth smiled and waggled her fingers at the Queen in a half wave. Solemnly, Her Majesty nodded in Elizabeth’s direction and turned away.
“Isn’t it amazing?” whispered Elizabeth after the Queen continued on her way. “It gave me chills just to be within ten feet of her. I suppose I should have curtsied, but I was too flustered to think at all. I wish I could have actually met her. Oh, well,” she concluded cheerfully, “I suppose I’ll have anot
her chance when you get your knighthood!”
“Not bloody likely,” said Cameron Dawson.
Sharyn McCrumb
***
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The Windsor Knot Page 19
