Falling for Prince Charles

by Lauren Baratz-Logsted

  4

  “I can see why you love it so much here,” Daisy said, gazing straight up at the Great Square Tower, that looked oddly unbalanced somehow, as though, with just the slightest encouragement, it could be persuaded to come crashing down on top of them. Even with her hand shielding her eyes against the glare given off by the sun, she was unable to make out the identities of the two figures standing at the top of it. Daisy was finding out that she particularly liked the lonely romance of towers, the whole Rapunzel element and all of that. But then, so far, she had liked everything that she had seen of Balmoral.

  Located in the Grampian region of Northeastern Scotland, its heather-covered moorlands, peaty lochs, wooded glens—not to mention, salmon-filled rivers (smoked, with bagels and cream cheese—yum!)—all appealed to Daisy. The castle itself was made out of granite, whitewashed, with numerous small turrets. It was situated on rising ground and, in addition to the sunken gardens in the front, it also had rose gardens on the side, and the River Dee flowing behind and around it.

  It was the main holiday home of the Royal Family, the vast property and spartanly furnished castle providing an atmosphere where they might enjoy a well-earned respite of relaxed informality. In fact, the whole family liked going there, unlike—say—Holyrood. Balmoral was an idyllic place and, with its relatively meager and, thus, intimate size—only 250 rooms—a place where they could all play at being country bumpkins. And, if the idea of the Queen and Prince Philip in their Ma and Pa Kettle mode—ensconced in a castle that was capable of sleeping one hundred and thirty, making it the most accommodating private residence that Daisy had ever had the pleasure of being in—seemed just a trifle incongruous, she shrugged her shoulders philosophically: c’est la vie, just so long as nobody was at guerre.

  “Care to go for a tramp in the woods?” Charles offered.

  5

  If she was having no trouble understanding his spiritual attachment to Balmoral, what with its endless possibilities for entertainment and communion with nature, in terms of hunting, fishing, and hiking—activities which, with the notable exception of the last one, were certainly forms of behavior that she had absolutely no intention of ever engaging in (although, Field and Stream would have a, well, a field day with it); yes, if she was having no trouble at all understanding the Prince’s specific attachment, attraction, affinity—not to mention, a whole host of other words beginning with the letter “a”—to Balmoral (the region, as well as the Castle), she was having a considerably tougher time of it, concerning the subject of his spirituality in general.

  They were, as promised, in the middle of an eight-mile tramp that had started at Spittal of Glenwick, northeast of Loch Muick and heading around the loch counterclockwise to the southwest corner, where they would then cross to the Dubh Loch. They were at two thousand feet and, even though there were already a few patches of ice on the water, there were still a couple of hardy bluebells that were determined to make their presence known in the woods. The subject on the table for discussion was, of course, astrology.

  “Okay, okay, I get it! I get it already,” Daisy was saying, grateful for her gaiters, as she picked her way with care through the boggy muck that surrounded Muick. “I mean, I can see how some people might attach some relevance to the fact that you’re a Scorpio and I’m a Cancer. But somehow, I get the feeling that there’s a lot more going on down on Planet Earth than there are in the stars that you’ve dreamt of, Horatio.”

  As she tucked a stray auburn hair behind one ear with her left hand, she swatted at a persistent highland midge with her right. The most outstanding result of this flirtation with ambidexterity was that she succeeded in throwing herself off balance, landing tush first in the mud, and providing evidence to the argument that, perhaps, hiking was not going to prove to be her natural forte, either.

  As the Prince gently helped her regain her footing, she noticed that a puzzled, hurt expression had come over his features. Startled, she wondered how to proceed without causing further offense. Pretending to be preoccupied with the removal of brambles from her Icelandic sweater, she decided on cowardice as being the best approach. Perhaps, if she were to just close her eyes and yank, she wouldn’t have to see the look on the patient’s face until after she’d excised the tooth.

  “It’s not that I don’t believe that astrology has its merits, its place. But I just think that you could do so much more if you were to put your mind to it,” she went on, deeming it time for the final pull, one foot braced against the doorjamb, pliers in hand, soothing brandy bottle at the ready, “by getting involved with something outside of yourself.”

  “Hmm,” he brooded as they walked on, one forefinger placed thoughtfully to his lips, the fist of his other hand loosely clenched behind his back. “Hmm. Perhaps you might furnish one with a ‘for instance’?”

  She shrugged, searching the branches for divine inspiration. “Other people?” she offered haphazardly, asking more than telling. After all, she didn’t want to appear too pushy. She had always thought it was an awful thing that, once having found the purported man of their dreams, women then always seemed to be intent on re-casting them in their own image. Which was fine, if you were looking for somebody with the potential for looking killingly pretty in pink, but otherwise… Perhaps, it would be best to proceed with caution.

  “Outside interests?” she tried again. “Got any hobbies?”

  “Well,” he replied. “I have something called the Prince’s Trust.”

  “What’s that?”

  “It was designed with the purpose of helping disadvantaged young people.”

  “Now that sounds promising.”

  “I am also greatly interested in the problems of the inner cities.”

  “Better and better.”

  “And then, of course, there is organic farming…”

  “Mm,” Daisy interrupted. “I’m not so sure I like the sound of that. It seems like something you’d do where a person might end up pompously self-absorbed or living out in Berkeley or something. Hmm.” She gave the matter a few more moments’ thought. “But, you know,” she finally continued, “that might not be so bad. Why, between that and those other things you mentioned… There you go! You could be another Jimmy Carter!”

  The Prince, after a few moments reflection, at last decided that she did intend this as a compliment. Feeling greatly encouraged, he continued on, filling her in on the highlights of his curriculum vitae.

  “I also like opera, alternative medicine, and architecture.”

  “Too loud, yawn; fine, unless you’re talking about covering my body with leeches; why?” came the appropriate responses.

  “You see, that ties into my feelings about the inner cities,” he went on, clearly warming to his subject. “I am most interested in protecting traditional British life from the rape of modern progress—”

  “Whoa, whoa! Time out here.”

  The Prince pulled up short, though his expression revealed that, clearly, he did not understand the command.

  “I’ll grant you, that that sounds like an admirable notion,” Daisy said. “On paper,” she added, a slightly caustic tone creeping into her voice. “Still, I’m awfully glad that you weren’t around when the debates over the merits of indoor plumbing versus the good old slop jar were going on.”

  “Perhaps you might have something there,” he said thoughtfully. “But, it is hard enough, always having to try and strike the proper balance between what one thinks might be best for people and what the reality of it is. Especially when the bottom reality is that it really doesn’t matter much what one thinks or does. There might be more of an incentive, if one were anything more than just a figurehead.”

  Daisy winced inwardly, knowing that she’d never make it as a doctor. Judging from the dejected look on her friend’s face, that “first, do no harm” dictum represented a hurdle that she was unlikely ever to clear. And, when you got right down to it, she thought, it really was unfair to judge him. After all, if anyo
ne—other than Michael Jackson—had ever had a justifiable claim of diminished responsibility, well… it was sort of as though the entire world were his co-dependent. In fact, it could be argued that he lived in a world not of his own making. But then, how many people ever did?

  “I know that the concept of the future is supposed to fill one with feelings of hope,” he was saying. “But, somehow, whenever I think about the one that has been intended for me, all I ever seem to feel is lonely. One would think that it would be all power and fun and games, but the reality of being a future monarch is quite different. It is all about doing everything that you do in a way that others, especially one’s own family, believes that one should do things. If you see what I mean.”

  The problem was that Daisy did see exactly what he meant. She thought about the things that she had already observed, on such short acquaintance, concerning the general pack mentality of Charley’s family; about The Firm, where personal desires always had to take a backseat to the consensual demands of group approval. She thought about it, and as she thought, a kernel of anger began to grow in the pit of her stomach, as though she were smelling a pot of chocolate that somebody had thoughtlessly left upon the stove for far too long, neglecting to stir constantly. It was anger at them, but it was also anger at him. After all, there was just so long that you could get away with complaining about the role that others had cast you in. You had to either try out for another part in the production, or you had to get out your trusty spoon, figuring on digging your way out to China. But the one thing that you couldn’t do was simply sit back and continually complain. Because if you did that, then, before long, everybody would be blaming the victim.

  “Father always says…”

  Screw Father, was what Daisy would dearly have liked to have said, having met the Duke and having found him to be comprised of all sound and fury, signifying diddlysquat. But the better part of someone else’s definition of valor managed to stay her tongue.

  This taming of the tongue was a challenge that Daisy had not fully mastered yet. Having never considered herself to be a conventionally pretty girl, she had developed that bodily part to its greatest capacity relatively early on in life, and thought of it—with a certain degree of pride—as being her greatest asset. Unfortunately, it could also get her into a lot of trouble. It could pacify or, if she decided that you were a whiner, it might whip you. As it had done, on the previous evening, her first meeting with the Duke.

  During an amiable after-dinner game of cards—some incomprehensible four-handed thing that they all knew the rules to, and which she did not—she had caught the Duke out sulking over losing.

  “Now, don’t whine about it,” she’d said without thinking. “It’s just a silly game.”

  In fact, there were a lot of things that she would have liked to have told that particular person to stop whining about.

  It was patently evident, to even a Cyclops, that the Duke was jealous of his wife’s superior social status. And, true, it must be galling for a man, of his unaccountable pride, to go through life with the knowledge that one would not be welcomed at anyone’s table, were it not for the particular person that one happened to be married to. But, just because Daisy could understand him, it in no way meant that she wished to encourage this maladaptive form of coping behavior. Here was yet another one who she would like to shake, this time saying, “You’re nearly eighty years old, for God’s sake, get over it!” Perhaps adding, “And besides, I’m sure nobody had to twist your arm.”

  But she had deemed it best to reserve that nugget of wisdom, that free psychoanalytic character assessment, for a more opportune moment. Maybe when they got to know each other better.

  “I wouldn’t mind too much about what he says,” was the advice that Daisy offered to Charles now.

  “But he will leave such insistently huge footprints all over the place…”

  Daisy gave a quick nod of sympathy. On the one hand, she had already experienced, first hand, the belligerence factor that was the Duke and, having herself been raised by the much more forbearing Harold, did not envy the more royal gentleman’s descendants. But, still, on the other…

  “So what? If big feet were an aphrodisiac, then Bozo the Clown would be on the cover of GQ.”

  As they had been speaking, the misty fog, which had still enshrouded the banks of the loch, had been slowly lifting. Daisy looked up at the sun, and saw a dark form silhouetted against the sky, saw the form plummet to earth at what seemed to her an incredibly high speed.

  “Charley!” she cried. “What was that? It looked just like a shooting star, only with wings and feathers.”

  He shielded his eyes with his hand, studying the tree line where Daisy was indicating, although the form had already disappeared.

  “Did it look to have pointy wings or splay-tipped?” he asked.

  “Pointy, I think.”

  “A streamlined tail, perhaps?”

  She nodded.

  “Did you happen to notice if it was traveling at a speed of one hundred and eighty kilometers per hour?”

  Daisy hurriedly performed the measurement conversion in her head, coming up with a figure of just over one hundred and ten miles an hour, before becoming exasperated.

  “I didn’t clock its speed, Charley,” she said, spreading her arms wide. “Do you see some kind of radar gun here? All I know is, the thing was going down fast.”

  “Well,” he said, “if it was indeed pointy, instead of splay-tipped, then it was probably a peregrine falcon as opposed to being, say, a golden eagle. Although they are both seen around here—the farmers abhor them—and both are designated as being protected species, the falcon is by far the quicker of the two, hitting its prey at the speed which I believe that I already happened to mention. I cannot imagine anybody being boorish enough to hunt them since they are not supposed to, and if it was going down as fast as you described, then I suspect that it was probably diving for brunch.”

  “It is amazing the things you see in the woods, isn’t it?” Daisy said, linking her arm through his as they continued on their stroll.

  “Quite,” he said, smiling with pleasure at their obviously mutual appreciation concerning the wonders of nature. “In the autumn, you might even hear the sounds of the rutting of stags out here.”

  “My, but you do say the most charming things.”

  6

  Later, that evening, the Duke was hosting a barbecue in the backyard at Balmoral. He found himself in the heretofore unheard-of position of wishing to impress his son’s guest by showing off his knowledge of her native customs. Besides, on these September jaunts to Scotland, where the Royals endeavored to pretend that they were no different than any other Tom, Dick, or Pierpont, the Duke liked to fancy himself an outdoor chef—a Galloping Grillsman, as it were.

  This typically meant that the Family was forced to rough it by dining alfresco from deep picnic hampers, stocked with provisions that had been prepared by the castle’s kitchen staff. After all, the Duke had reasoned, quite sensibly, just because one wished to enjoy the reputation of a gourmet chef of the great outdoors, was certainly not reason enough for one to do any actual cooking.

  But on this occasion, due in whole part to the presence of their American guest, the Duke was making the supreme culinary sacrifice, and he was thus doing the cooking himself. Deeming it most appropriate to serve a guest with cuisine prepared according to their own country’s preferred methods, he had staunchly stationed his solid form behind that longtime favorite American institution, that original mass carcinogen-producing food processor long pre-dating the Cuisinart: the charcoal grill.

  Over his kilt, he wore a pristinely white chef’s apron and, upon his oiled hair, the highest of toques.

  “Don’t you eat game, Miss Sills?” he asked now, with some asperity, as he tossed some more meat on the coals. He was experiencing a peculiarly uncharacteristic disappointment at this lack of enthusiasm shown by a guest.

  Daisy thought about the fact
that it was September 20th, Yom Kippur this year, as she pushed the bird around on her plate. “I guess I’m just not hungry today,” she said, not noticing the veiled glance that Bonita—who was eating with gusto—shot in her direction.

  “That’s odd,” Charles said. “I don’t believe I have seen you eat a thing all day.” But then he grew distracted, as his gaze traveled from the sterling silver platter on the red-and-white-checked plastic tablecloth to the man who was manning the food station. “Father,” he asked, eyeing him suspiciously, “have you been shooting the falcons again? I keep telling you that they are a protected species.”

  Philip replied, using a twin-pronged barbecue fork to jab a number of times at the enormous-looking piece of game that lay smoldering—extending over the edges of the rather tiny grill—before he was finally successful in flipping it.

  “Don’t be daft all of your life, Charles,” the Duke grimly replied, intent on the job at hand. “It’s a pigeon.”

  October

  1

  And so, Yom Kippur had come and gone. The Braemer Highland Games, with the inevitable Scottish dancing and caber tossing, had also come and gone. At that more widely acknowledged annual event, presided over by the Royal Family, the burly Angus MacFarlane had lobbed the caber—a 125-pound tree trunk—farther than anyone had ever seen a piece of nature forcibly thrown (for no apparent reason) to make it a record-breaking third straight year. Outside of a “good show, Mr. MacFarlane” from the Queen, and a “how about another shot of Glenfiddich, Angie, you great big brute of a caber-tosser, you” from Big Mollie who lived down the lane, there hadn’t been much else for anybody to say about that. September had passed gracefully into October, and the highlands were awash with and drowning under a veritable sea of heather.