Falling for Prince Charles

by Lauren Baratz-Logsted

  • • •

  “Bad at maths; loved history—well, hardly surprising, that.” The Royal face lit up here at the memory. “And astonishingly good at charades and playing dress-up.”

  • • •

  “I sometimes think that, were it not for the fact that I was groomed to become a human Switzerland, I might have become something of an adventurer. I jumped out of a plane once; and I loved to fly. But I had to give all of that up. You see, it took all of the fun out of it, always feeling as though I should be worrying more about what I was doing, because whenever I was doing anything, there were always at least a couple of million people worrying about what I might be doing.” The Prince gave a puzzled frown of his own. “If you take my proper meaning.”

  • • •

  He stole a peek at his watch and then crisply shot his cuff, discreetly re-covering it. My, I have been nattering on, he thought to himself. Out loud, he said, “Oh sure, there are other family members that I could go on about. My grandmother, for instance, is an absolute honey.” His face clouded. “Although, one does find oneself wishing that she wouldn’t drink quite so often or puff on those cigars.” But then the resilient smile made a comeback. “Still, she is nearly one hundred, so perhaps she knows something that the rest of us don’t.”

  • • •

  “So, when one gets right down to it, those are the nuts and bolts of the whole affair: Father could be a trifle chilly, while Mother was just a wee bit preoccupied.”

  • • •

  Daisy, who had remained inordinately silent during this Monarch Notes version of the princely bio, had been ingesting all of this with just a modicum of salt. It didn’t do to pass judgment without first hearing both sides of a story or, at the very least, observing all of the principals firsthand. Besides, she held her own preconceived notions concerning the functioning of dysfunctional families.

  Biology was not destiny and, as far as she was concerned, people could not be preprogrammed in, say, the same way that a computer could be. Despite the almost overwhelming evidence to the contrary—what with the apparently Rachel-like effects of alcohol on her own system and her aberrant attraction to all things septic—she believed that a particular set of DNA or, for that matter, the circumstances of a person’s individual upbringing (both familial and societal), merely predisposed one to be a certain way. But a propensity in one direction was not the same as an actuality, hence the scientific distinction between potential energy and kinetic energy.

  Daisy herself could be said to be a classic case of unexpressed potential energy.

  So, as anybody with half a brain could clearly see—was how the mental debate that was going on in Daisy’s slightly pickled brain wound down—the combined double whammy of nature and nurture necessitated nothing.

  And, in the best of all possible worlds—one without twisted ankles or expensive champagne—she might have voiced all of this far more cogently and graciously to the Future King of England, had it not been for her damned furry tongue. What she came out with instead, in a sentence eerily reminiscent of Bonita, sounded more like: “Even Jack the Ripper’s mother was not completely to blame.”

  Then she raised her hand delicately to her mouth and, quite demurely, hiccupped up some Perrier Jouet. As she did so, she caught sight of the time. “Gotta run.”

  Her choice of words was uncharacteristically inaccurate, but they served their purpose in extricating her from the Royal presence, returning her to Pacqui’s side, and freeing her to face the night.

  The British Monarchy—for the time being, at least—was none the worse for wear.

  10

  In the cab, Pacqui commented on the oddness—and odds—of the fact that he hadn’t run into Daisy all evening. “It was truly as though we were living in parallel universes. But,” he added, laughing at his own joke, “the honor was all surely in the opportunity of being permitted to be driving Miss Daisy.”

  A most preoccupied Miss Daisy failed to respond.

  “I wish that the evening did not have to end,” Pacqui lamented a short while later, scampering ahead to open the door of the Hotel Russell for his lurching companion. “Perhaps,” he asked, hopefully, eyeing the sneaker, “you might be so kind as to consider going for a jog with me tomorrow morning?”

  Briefly recalled to reality, Daisy ruefully glared down at the other foot, the ankle still visibly swollen beneath the sock. “How about a brief stroll through Hyde Park instead?”

  11

  “Find me the woman who was wearing the trainer with the pink laces!”

  “An’ when I find her fer ya, Sir?”

  “There is a message that I should like for you to give her for me. Bring me some writing paper and a pen.”

  The necessary materials having been produced, the Prince set about composing his missive. Periodically, he could be seen to be chewing on the top of the pen. And, providing background entertainment, he could be distinctly heard to be muttering throughout.

  “Ask her… ask her… Oh, dear God! Do you think she could possibly be married? Did not see a ring, but then, whoever knows? How to circumnavigate that sticky wicket. Hmm… A guest! Invite her to bring the trusty old guest! If she brings a husband, then my goose will definitely be cooked, as Father is so fond of saying. But then, I suppose we could always… No, no, must not purchase trouble. We shall cross that drawbridge if and when our carriage delivers us there… Done! What do you think?”

  Sturgess read in silence for a moment, finally answering with a certain degree of pride. “I do believe that ya have a wee touch o’ the Robert Burns in yer soul, Sir.” Then he thought again of the highly irregular young woman that they had encountered that evening, and for whom the letter was intended. “But are ya quite certain in yer mind, Sir, that ya do not want ta sleep on it fer a coupla nights? Perhaps, it would be wiser ta… shall I send fer Teddy, then?”

  “Blast Teddy!” There was a wild gleam in the Prince’s eye. “Full steam ahead!”

  12

  As Sturgess exited the Royal bedchamber, gently shutting the door behind him, he determined to put the Master of the Household onto the task of running Daisy Sills to earth.

  Sturgess’s own official responsibilities were quite sufficient to occupy all of his time, what with always having to attend to the Prince’s needs, not to mention the personal responsibility he felt about keeping His Highness out of trouble.

  Besides, it was high time that the Master did something to earn his keep.

  13

  The Master of the Household, not used to being roused out of a sound sleep at four o’clock in the morning with a Royal request, was grumpy nonetheless. Replacing the receiver with a clatter that was loud enough to wake his equally grouchy wife, he grumbled aloud something to the effect that Sturgess had, yet again, overstepped his bounds. Not only that, but the man was clearly barmy. For, as anyone with half a grasp of palace protocol could tell you, it was the proper duty of the Chief of Palace Security to run human beings to earth, not the Master of the Household. When the Master arose, in an ungodly short period of time, he would be passing the champagne bucket in that general direction.

  “Damned Scots,” the Master muttered, punching his pillow—as opposed to, say, his wife, who had an unfortunate talent for always managing to punch back even harder. “Share a stinking Parliament with them, and they bloody well behave as though they thought that it was them what owned you.”

  14

  Daisy was dreaming about Determinism.

  The inevitability of events? the Dream Daisy pondered. Day following night? Who needed it?

  There was a man singing something. And the sounds seemed to be coming from outside.

  Entering through the connecting door, Bonita crossed to the window by the bed, where she benevolently proceeded to raise the window itself without drawing the blinds—the better to hear what the man was singing without actually allowing in any invasions of sunlight.

  “‘Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer,
do…’” This lyrical, if somewhat strident, Pakistani rendition came wafting in through the crack.

  Bonita, peeking through a gap in the drapery, beheld the form of Pacqui, who was joyously serenading from the pavement below.

  “My, we were a busy little beaver last night, weren’t we?” she enquired of the nearly comatose form beneath the sheets. Her hand hovered threateningly close to the cord that hung beside the sash. “Shall we just draw these nasty old drapes, then?”

  Daisy, ungluing her lids, fixed her friend and companion with one very bloodshot eye. “Don’t even think about it,” she glowered.

  “And how are we feeling today?” Bonita seated herself on the edge of the bed. “Fresh as a dai—”

  “Oh, put a sock on it,” came the uncharitable reply, as Daisy clutched onto her head with both hands as if, somehow, were she to hold on tightly enough, she might be able to prevent the whole thing from splitting apart.

  A knock came at the door, adding mental insult to mental injury, and Bonita accepted the proffered item from a green-liveried porter. She examined the stunningly red crest of the Royal Family, as it appeared on the most impressive and official Buckingham Palace stationery, before relinquishing it to a suddenly much more conscious Daisy. “What did you get up to?”

  Daisy tore at the seal on the creamy envelope and read the following in silence:

  Dear Miss Sills,

  How lovely it was for me to make your acquaintance last evening. I am hoping that the encounter was not entirely unpleasant for you, and that I will be successful in persuading you to repeat the event. That is to say, not the exact same embassy party—for, they do tire one so; and besides which, even those who are blessed with the staunchest of constitutions at times can grow weary of satay. But, perhaps that is neither here nor there. Rather, I had in mind the notion of pursuing our acquaintance at some other, as yet to be specified, event.

  In the not too distant future, I shall be playing in a polo match at Smith’s Lawn. Perhaps, if the idea does not seem too tedious to you, you might consider coming to watch me compete? Or, conversely, if that does not suit, perhaps you might do me the honour of accompanying me to the races at Ascot in a few weeks’ time?

  I look forward with eagerness to hearing from you. You can reach me at any time at the above address. Just send your messenger around.

  Sincerely,

  Richard Blake

  or, if you prefer it,

  Charley

  P.S. Oh, by the way: Should you feel the need to bring a guest along with you, I would understand completely. All appropriate accommodations would, of course, be provided.

  “I think that I’ve just been invited out on a date with the Prince of Wales,” a stunned Daisy commented, passing the pages back for Bonita’s perusal. “And I’m taking you with me.”

  Bonita was puzzled. “But why does he call you ‘Sills’?”

  Daisy gave a noncommittal shrug, as if to say, “Who can tell with those madcap Royals?”

  Bonita busied herself rummaging through Daisy’s meager wardrobe. “Tsk, tsk. Won’t do. New life; new clothes.” She poked her head out of the closet. “Have to do something about that ankle, too.” Diving back in again, she began tossing out garments right and left. Daisy thought that she heard her friend merrily singing something along the lines of, “Hi-ho, hi-ho, it’s back to Harrods we go…”

  And her foggy brain perceived it as being distinctly peculiar that Bonita’s song was in no way inharmonious with the tune that was still making its way into the room through the scarcely opened window.

  “‘I’m half crazy…’”

  June

  1

  A cloud-challenged, cerulean sky hung over the emerald expanse of the Guards’ Polo Club at Smith’s Lawn, not far from Windsor. Trite, perhaps, but what the hey?

  If anyone had been paying attention, they might have noticed that a man in a navy-and-white player’s uniform could be seen trotting up to where two women stood waiting on the sidelines.

  “Charley!” Daisy called, waving.

  The unrefinedly sweating Prince broke into a wide grin as he pulled up short alongside of the duo. “Miss Sills! How splendid of you to come!”

  Daisy could feel Bonita’s eyes boring a hole into the side of her face at the mention of “Miss Sills.” Turning her attention briefly to her friend, she shrugged her shoulders as if to indicate that people were always making such mistakes in life and, anyway, certainly one name was as good as any. Then she decided it was high time to nip this problem in the bud. “Make it Daisy,” she said, turning back to the Prince. “I think Miss Sills was an opera singer.”

  “And a wonderful one, too.” The Prince gave Daisy as covert as possible—but still, a rather unregal—once-over. “What a lovely dress,” he commented.

  The teal-and-white polka-dotted dress that Daisy wore created a startling counterpoint with her auburn hair. It was a good thing for her that Harrods had such a large stock of sleeveless summer dresses with crew-necked collars, she thought, feeling for the talismanic Star of David that was hidden beneath the material. That almost nonexistent birthmark was still troubling her, and it was a great source of comfort to know that she would be able to, so stylishly and so easily, cover it up—for an entire summer, in fact, should it prove necessary.

  On Daisy’s feet, the ankle having since healed, were a pair of matching spectator pumps. “So this is why they call them that!” she had interjected that morning, putting them on prior to leaving for the match. “They’re so that you’ll look good, just in case anyone else is watching you, when all you’re really doing is watching someone else doing something!” To one who did not know her, she could at times appear to be something of a fashion Neanderthal, but it was, quite simply, that her life had never had a call for any such items before. And yes, a rather lengthy expedition to Harrods had taken place just as Bonita had promised. Only this time they had left no survivors.

  Bonita, in her new orange tweed, was dressed in a manner completely out of sync with the time of year and the temperature but that somehow, as ever, perfectly suited her character. She cleared her throat loudly, in a studiedly obvious manner, in the hopes of drawing some of the disgustingly besotted couple’s attention onto herself.

  “Oh, how rude of me!” Daisy cried, acting quickly to correct the error. “Bonita, I’d like you to meet Charley; he’s the Prince of Wales. Now, then: Sturgess says that we have to call him Your Highness or Sir, but I don’t think that’s going to be necessary.”

  The confused look on Bonita’s face informed Daisy that, in the fuss of the last few weeks, she had somehow neglected to mention who Sturgess was. Oh, well, she thought. There would be time to get into all of that later.

  “And, Charley, this is Miss…” And here Daisy pulled up short, for once totally at a loss. She realized with a certain degree of astonishment that, in all of their travels together, the opportunity had oddly never arisen for her to learn of her friend’s last name.

  “Chance,” Bonita filled in the blank, shooting Daisy a quick glance and giving a disturbingly familiar shrug to her own shoulders, as if to indicate that Daisy was right and that one name might serve as well as another. She extended her hand, flashing the tiny-teeth grin. “Miss Chance.”

  “Charmed,” came the accurate response, as he graciously accepted the hand. “And you are…?”

  “Daisy’s governess.”

  “You could say that she taught me everything that I don’t know,” Daisy put in.

  Charles was feeling relieved. For, although Miss Chance appeared as though she might be politely termed “formidable” at best, at least her name wasn’t “Mr. Sills.” Surely, that had to count for something.

  “You ladies must be tired from standing for so long. Would you care to sit down?” He indicated the lawn, but then, eyeing Daisy’s dress, he shook his head as if at his own stupidity. “No, that will not do at all. You might get that lovely frock soiled.”

  He cast abou
t, seeking a suitable solution, and he surprised himself with his own alertness by coming up with something right away.

  “Upsy Daisy,” he said. “On to the bonnet.” And he placed his hands around Daisy’s waist, lifting her up onto the hood of a sleek silver car parked nearby on the grass. A quick shake of the topknot indicated that Miss Chance had no desire to be similarly hoisted.

  When Sturgess came upon the odd little grouping a short time later, carrying the requisite post-match fresh towels and limeade, he was shocked to find that American woman seated on top of the Prince’s brand new Aston Martin, with His Highness hopped up there alongside of her. And on the ground beside them stood another woman who, from what Sturgess could see of her, only presaged even worse things to come.

  As the appropriate introductions were made, Sturgess cast a withering glance on Daisy and her equally diminutive companion. Weren’t all Americans supposed to be tall, like Texans? Perhaps the Yanks’ overzealous passion for compact technology—computers, discs—had finally crept into the gene pool. For it appeared as though they might, at present, be breeding dwarfs over there.

  “Love your country,” Bonita said, extending her hand.