Finding Sarah

by Sarah Ferguson

  For Jane and me, the exciting part of rural life was our expanded pony operation. Dummer Down had brick and cedar stables and a two-sided barn, open in the middle—a sort of animal courtyard. We had an equitation “school”—a fenced-off grassy circle for training the horses, and, best of all, a full-fledged cross-country course, complete with tiger traps—three wooden poles placed over a fence—for jumping.

  When I was ten years old, my mother suffered a late-term miscarriage and nearly died. Our family was on holiday at a ski resort. At about 7 PM, my friend Camilla and I wandered away from everyone and went into a store to look around. Mum was so worried that she had lost us. There was great relief when she found us, though in her haste she slipped on the ice and fell.

  It wasn’t until we came back to England and Dad rushed her to the hospital that my mother was treated for toxemia, a life-threatening condition that affects pregnant women.

  After she was released from the hospital, we felt that Mum blamed us for her loss. Jane and I did not even know she was pregnant. The revelation was a shock to my little ten-year-old mind. I was tormented by guilt.

  My parents later told us the baby was in heaven and offered no further details. In the months that followed, my mother was pale and expressionless, spending days secluded in her bedroom. Meanwhile, my father went about business as usual, managing the Duke of Edinburgh’s polo club. When Dad would pop in and out of our house between matches, he was reliably cheery and attentive. Mum did not share his cheer and did her best to ignore him.

  In the summer of 1972, my parents flew out on holiday to the Ionian island of Corfu. They invited their friend Hector Barrantes, an Argentinean polo player, who had lost his wife in a car crash. Mum fell deeply in love with him, and the ensuing quake would rattle Dummer Down and all of our lives.

  I remember the time Mum organized one last Christmas, complete with paper hats and crackers and much contrived jollity. Soon thereafter, she began shuttling to London, where my family had a small house in Chelsea, and going on trips with Hector. By the following autumn, she would move out of Dummer for good.

  In the meantime, I had my own transition—and trauma—to deal with: changing schools. I’d been sheltered at Daneshill with close friends I still claim today. Sadly, Daneshill was a primary school that did not go beyond the sixth grade.

  When the time came to pick a senior school for me in the fall of 1972, my parents settled on nearby Hurst Lodge School in Sunningdale, where Jane was already enrolled. I was to be a weekly boarder, with weekends back at Dummer—and I was devastated. My friends had moved on to St. Mary’s School in Wantage, Oxfordshire.

  Hurst Lodge was known as Britain’s premier school for aspiring ballerinas, making it a peculiar choice for me. I’d aspired to be an Olympic show jumper, not a dancer. Forget that I bore no resemblance to the other Hurst Lodge girls, who were lithe and diminutive. I was nearly five foot seven inches tall, with a curly ginger mop and freckles galore. With my tutu, black leotard, and hair in a tight bun, I wore rugby socks—not exactly the sort of costume for a ballerina! But the pink tights I had to wear made me itch, and the socks helped relieve the itching. Also, I thought they were quite practical, as I would play basketball after dance class. This fashion faux pas was to be the demise of my ballet career. The day I decided to wear the dreaded rugby socks was the day we were to greet one of Europe’s prima ballerinas. This so outraged the school’s founder, Doris Stainer, that she whisked me out of the studio and banned me from ballet. I would truly miss my ballet class, but when Doris Stainer banished me, there would be no appeal for forgiveness.

  Nonetheless I was very successful at school. I was made “head girl”—which is the equivalent of class president. I was winning net-ball captain. I was our class ringleader, too, gregarious and dramatic with a flair for stirring up mischief. One parents’ weekend I had my friends drape loo roll all over the schoolyard telephone poles and wires that came from them while I spiked the lavatory faucets and drinking fountains with vegetable dye. The Hurst Lodge staff was incandescent with rage about the stunt and knew all too well who had masterminded it. I expected I’d be suspended or worse when I was summoned to the dean’s office. What I got was the usual schoolmarm’s scolding and a disciplinary notice mailed to my father.

  By my antics you’d think I enjoyed being a renegade when in truth I was crying out for help because of my disintegrating family life. I desperately wanted someone, anyone, to ask me why I acted the way I did. I’d gratefully have unloaded the turmoil clouding my head: I hated the way I looked, I felt silly and awkward around boys, and I was worried about things at home. Florence, my best friend at school, said I cried every night.

  Mum moved to London to start a new life, and soon this included Hector. Everybody adored Hector, and as I got to know him so did I. He was a big man physically and bigger than life in all the ways that made Mum sparkle again.

  Late in 1973, Mum returned from a stay in Argentina with Hector to see if she could live there for good. She came out to Dummer one weekend. Jane and I could see the purpose in her stride, the way her legs moved in her brown velvet trousers. She walked straight past us to see Dad in his drawing room and shut the door behind her. My sister and I stood mute and rooted in the hallway, waiting on a decision we had no say in.

  We heard harsh words behind the closed door of my father’s drawing room. It was an astonishing moment for us, because my parents never fought out loud, but now insults and accusations were echoing throughout the house. Then silence until Mum came marching though the living room, headed for the front door.

  Gripping a suitcase in each hand, she directed her parting salvo at Jane and me. Earlier in the day we had walked to the village hairdresser and had our ponytails lopped off. My hair was closely cropped in tightly wound red curls.

  When Mum saw what we had done, she raised her voice at us, “I told you to never cut your hair!” She yanked the door open and then slammed it with such force that it took a huge painting down with a thunderous crash. I recall standing frozen in the foyer, shards of glass under my stocking feet, fixating on the spot where the picture had always hung. Mum had never, ever looked or sounded so angry before. I had no idea that she was divorcing my father, and that she was never going to walk through that front door again. I thought she was mad because Jane and I had cut our hair!

  One moment I had a mother, and the next moment I had nothing. Absolutely nothing. I was convinced I was worthless, unlovable, and a fraud.

  Her decision—“I’ve fallen in love, I’m leaving my daughters and moving to another country”—left an awful feeling in my young mind. I wondered: “Am I not good enough? Am I not lovable enough? Was I somehow to blame?” I believe that when she abandoned us, I lost my self-worth.

  The day Mum left for the airport, I pretended I was overjoyed. She deserved to be happy, I thought, and I was not going to ruin it for her. Inside I felt a devastating loss—so devastating, in fact, that I felt like I was tied up in barbed wire and walking on hot coals. Worse, I put myself in an institution of my own making, shutting away and abandoning the little Sarah I had been. “She” caused my mother to leave, so she must be bad, so let’s lock her away like a lunatic and never let her out. That is how I lived the rest of my life.

  Right after my mother left, I rode my pony to a candy shop. Completely unprepared for the crushing sense of grief and loss, I began, blindly, furiously, to binge on sweets—a desperate, unconscious attempt to mute the crazy-making pain. Then Dad sold the pony, and I was even more heartbroken.

  By my fourteenth birthday, Jane was mostly steering clear of the glum scene at Dummer Down. After leaving school for secretarial college, she minded a shop for a time. Later, when I was sixteen, Jane would further flee to marry a fellow named Alex Makim and live on his sheep ranch in Australia.

  With Mum out of our lives, Dad traveling all the time, and my sister suddenly married and living in Australia, our home, Dummer Down House, stood like a time capsule, perfectl
y decorated just as my mother had left it. Dad hired a new housekeeper and instructed her to keep the cupboards stocked with my favorite treats. With no one home and nothing to do, I’d dip in and out of the kitchen all day long. For me, eating seemed to chase away the blues, at least for a little while.

  Poor Dad had to take on the burdens of being a single parent—both with little experience for the work and no firsthand example or memory to draw upon. He was really in way over his head. But Dad and I were in this together. I could not let him down—I knew he was suffering in spirit—so I took on the full responsibility of running the household for him. It amazes me sometimes that we came through it.

  I tried my best at school, but cried every night. I led a gray life. Even my riding fell off. I didn’t do it as properly as I used to. Mum’s leaving stole much of the fun from it. I missed her so much. I had been just thirteen when she’d left. Entering puberty, I had no feminine influence in my life. No one showed me how to dress or wear makeup. No one explained what makes a marriage or doesn’t. No one told me what it was to be a woman. I was left confused, sad, and abandoned.

  Nevertheless, Dad gave our home discipline and stability, and I liked the fact that someone big, strong, and smart was there for me.

  Mum and Dad divorced in 1974. Mum and Hector were married a year later and that was that.

  Dad held on. He never gave in, never succumbed to languor or self-pity, never failed to go off to work. He sustained a formidable social life, going to dinners and other events. My father loved women, too, and I wanted him to marry again. Eventually, he met his second wife, also called Susan (Deptford). She was much younger than Dad and much closer to Jane and me in age. Susan is a kind, loving woman who has been one of the most important people in my life. We love her dearly.

  When they met, she was a Norfolk farmer’s daughter, cooking directors’ lunches in London; he a former Life Guards officer working as Prince Charles’s polo manager. Tall and blond, with classic English gentlewoman’s good looks, the young Susan bore a strong resemblance to the movie star Grace Kelly when she first met my father. They were married in November 1976, and had three children, Andrew, Alice, and Eliza.

  After I graduated from Hurst Lodge, I set out, at seventeen years old, on an adventure to crisscross America by Greyhound bus. I had my father’s blessing, but not his financial backing, so I had to work my way from city to city. One of my most memorable stops was Squaw Valley, a ski resort in California. It is a place where cliffs loom over the toy village at the bottom, and above the rock outcroppings a broad lap of meadows basks in permanent sunshine. Lifts were everywhere, and little chalets, built out of cedar and redwood, dotted the hillside.

  I worked as a waitress at the local strudel shop and as a human ski lift for children who were disabled. I stayed with Jessie Huberty, a very dear friend of my mother’s, and her son Martin, truly a gem of a person. I was still hurting over Mum’s abandonment. Jessie wrapped her arms around me and gave me strength and hope. She liked to say, “Cream always rises to the top, and, honey, you are the cream of the crop! Don’t you forget it!”

  Martin is an accomplished film producer and a steadfast friend. He travels with me part of the year to help me with my projects. He works closely with me to make sure all the pieces come together and that we’re going to be in the right place at the right time.

  After the road trip to America and a successful stint at secretarial college, I entered the working world with good skills and courage to take on life. What I lacked in confidence I more than made up for with my well-honed talent for people-pleasing, which helped me land my first job—in public relations, naturally. However, I had let myself get so caught up in how other people saw me that I had little sense of how I saw myself. In a very real way, I had lost sight not only of myself but of what mattered to me.

  For sure I was a hapless bachelorette unable to cook a meal, coordinate an outfit, or manage my finances. As someone who detested being home alone, I threw myself into London’s club scene; life in the fast lane suited me because the quicker I moved, the less I had to think about myself and my future. I just lived for every moment with energy and love.

  In the spring of 1985, I found a heavy bond envelope in my postal slot. It was from the Royal Household, requesting “the pleasure of your company at the Queen’s house party at Windsor Castle during the week of Royal Ascot.”

  As I would learn later, the mysterious invitation turned out to be the matchmaking work of my distant cousin and childhood friend Diana Spencer, by then HRH Princess Diana, who believed Prince Andrew, the Queen’s second son, and I would get along famously.

  I arrived at Windsor on June 18. A footman met me at the castle’s private entrance to take my luggage. A lady-in-waiting led me through corridors of rooms to my room, a major bit of exercise. There, a lovely, friendly girl, a housemaid named Louise, would take care of me the whole length of my stay. I doubt I would have made it without her.

  On my bedside table was a card embossed with the Queen’s cipher, listing the four-day schedule of mealtimes for the day. For lunch I had been placed between a vice admiral and Prince Andrew, then on leave from his duties on the HMS Brazen. I knew Andrew from my childhood days, when we’d played tag together, and since then I had seen him occasionally.

  I stepped into the Green Drawing Room at 12:45 on the dot for drinks. At 1 PM I took my place at a table long enough for shuffleboard: thirteen people on each side, one on each end. For the duration of the meal, conversation followed basic protocol; following the Queen’s lead, the ladies would speak to the man on their right or their left, alternating with each course.

  When I turned to face Andrew, I was struck by how handsome he was. He was easy to talk to and I felt very relaxed with him, even though I addressed him as “Sir,” as per protocol.

  Out of such humble beginnings, a whirlwind romance soon ensued and a year later we were engaged.

  In Andrew I found my perfect man and soul mate. He was relaxed and endlessly charming, a prankster like me, yet solid and kind. In me, I suppose Andrew saw a wildflower—a bubbly and forthright woman without pretense or motives. Together we were like well-matched bookends, pleasant to look at and equally supportive of one another.

  As man and wife, we were the Duke and Duchess of York, and together we seemed an unbeatable team. Andrew was a dashing naval officer working on active duty. I aspired to be a relatable princess—fresh and friendly, compassionate with a common touch.

  Mind you, I still had no self-confidence, but I was genuine in my desire to represent a new kind of Royal. Having spent half my life being a tireless people-pleaser I felt ready to assume my public role. The world stage proved no place for someone like me with deep insecurities and a penchant for self-sabotage. Even before our wedding, I found royal life monumentally challenging. There are no books on how to be a proper princess. I’d counted on having Andrew at my side to teach me the ropes, but to our amazement, following our honeymoon the palace courtiers had Andrew sent off to sea, and relinquished me to being incarcerated in a dimly lit suite on the second floor of Buckingham Palace. Most people think that would be fine, but what they don’t understand is that the palace is a Department of Environment building. So, for example, on September 1, the radiators get turned on. It is a government building, not a home, and you must keep to its rules and regulations. If you don’t put in your order for meals and the kitchen is closed for the night, then that’s it.

  All of this left me to navigate the cadre of palace courtiers whose job it was to run my life and keep me up to standards, a formidable challenge for someone accustomed to winging it. During the first five years of our marriage, I saw my beloved Andrew only forty days a year.

  In 1988, I learned that I was pregnant. In August, Andrew came home on two weeks’ leave and our baby was induced on August 8 to fit the Royal Navy’s schedule. Beatrice went into a stressed situation halfway down the birth canal and my obstetrician said we were sixty seconds away from a cesarea
n section. Thankfully she continued on happily to a normal birth, though I had an epidural. I’m eternally grateful that Andrew was there throughout, holding my hand. I couldn’t have wished to have someone more special or more calm by side.

  As a new mother, I was a complete novice, never having so much as bathed a younger sibling or worked a day as a mother’s helper. But when I looked into my daughter’s sweet face and huge eyes, I felt such overwhelming pride. Her complete dependence on me infused my life with a divine energy hitherto unknown. We named her Beatrice after Queen Victoria’s youngest daughter.

  In September, when Beatrice was six weeks old, I left her with Alison Wardley to join Andrew on tour in Australia. I had urgently wanted to take her with me; newborns are highly portable, after all. You strap them to your chest, and off you both go.

  But in the eyes of the palace establishment, it was ill advised to take Beatrice to Australia. Despite my misgivings, I knew Beatrice would be well cared for by Alison, and so I left. That’s when the press turned on me, branding me a bad mother.

  Never mind that I was tired and out of shape—corpulent from the weight I’d gained in my first pregnancy. The press made a mockery out of that, too. When the press ridicules you, it’s grueling, sad, and dreadful on your heart, and you feel an acute sense of loneliness.

  Perhaps I was trying to prove something by the time Eugenie came along. I was in great shape then from swimming every day and working with a marvelous trainer named Josh Saltzman, who put me through my paces by making me go up and down the palace stairs. Well, it worked. I could get into my size 12 jeans, and I wore a size 12 suit to the hospital on the day Eugenie was born. Josh saved my life many a time with his friendship and encouragement. In the darkest hours, when I wanted to give up on myself, Josh would say, “Get back on the bike!”

  After Eugenie was born, I spent more time at home with both my daughters, only to have the media accuse me of being work-shy. I could not win. Five years after my marriage, I went from being a Royal darling feted by the media as a “breath of fresh air” to the most criticized female member of the Royal Family.