Falling for Prince Charles

by Lauren Baratz-Logsted

  So, what else was new?

  In fact, time had taken on a bit of a fast forward quality to it, not that different, really, from the onset of the third trimester of a first pregnancy, what with its top of the roller coaster revelation concerning the inevitable ground rushing up to meet one. But, if the first trimester had been characterized by an anxious wake-up call concerning the future; if the second had yielded a more fatly complacent anticipation of prospective bliss; and if the third was the trite train out of control; it was then, perhaps, to be expected that the labor itself—when it finally occurred—would be one hell of an intensive exercise in deep breathing.

  But that blessed event still lurked some ways off in Daisy’s future as she, along with the rest of the Royals and their guests—including some five hundred friends and members of the English aristocracy—readied themselves for the annual Ghillies’ Ball.

  2

  Daisy examined the pressed towels that lay atop the oaken bureau, right next to the ceramic ewer and washbasin that were accommodatingly situated in her sleeping quarters. The Queen’s royal mark was embroidered onto the cotton and was accented with the, by now, comfortingly plaid Scottish border. She was thinking about how man’s acquisition of the technological capacity to imprint three initials, onto any surface large enough to bear them, had heralded the onset of the Me Generation and had, likewise, sounded the death knell on any further idealistic hopes of human sharing.

  But the very next moment found her wondering, idly, how DSW would look right there, on 200-thread Egyptian cotton. Perhaps the team colors could be changed to a more Israeli-inspired blue and white? was the thorny question that she was posing to herself, as she rifled her wardrobe for something to wear. While all of this ball nonsense that was a part and parcel of Charley’s world was becoming more user-friendly to her, it could still be a fashion minefield for one who had formerly prided herself on being a classic example of Glamour Don’ts. She was debating the relative merits of ostentatiously mendacious, virginal white on the left, and trusty, safe-as-tramps-and-mourners black on the right—and also wondering why a woman’s fashion sense, at its most stylish, always necessitated the blatant avoidance of vibrancy—when a knock came at the oversized door.

  She opened it, hangered garments in hand, only to find Charley slouching against the jamb in the portal. In his arms he carried a rather large box that was tied with a big red bow, which he presented to her upon entering.

  “I hope you will not mind, but I took the liberty of purchasing you a dress for this evening’s festivities,” he was saying, as she busily tore into the box. “I merely felt that it would give me great pride if you were to wear something that I had selected.” He coughed nervously into his closed fist. “However, er, that is to say, if you are not entirely pleased—”

  “Charley, it’s perfect!” Daisy exclaimed, liberating the dress from its yards of crinkly packing. The more easily distracted portion of her brain considered that there were probably heads of government in the world, not to mention prostitutes, who traveled with less protection than that garment had received.

  Daisy cast an appraising eye upon the article of clothing in question, and found it to be exactly the kind of thing that she would have chosen for herself, were she not of late trying to clothe herself as the kind of person that other people might wish her to be. The dress was of a filmy material, but was cut along a straightforward line, without any frills or nonsense, and so, it managed to create a mild air of femininity without giving way to the dreaded evocation of frou-frou.

  But it was the color that really got to Daisy.

  It was as though someone had gathered all of the colors of autumn and had managed to convince Winslow Homer to adapt them to his palette, channeling his considerable artistic talents into the creation of a watercolor dress. The dress was at once graceful and lively, and Daisy marveled at Charley’s unerring sense of taste. And, while some might argue that the color spectra encompassing shades of maple, russet, and hunter’s green was not everybody’s definition of vibrant, anybody who had ever taken a drive through Redding, Connecticut, in the fall could tell you that there was really only one purely visual depiction of the tired phrase “riot of color.”

  Why, if she were to wear this dress, and what with her auburn hair, she thought, clutching the garment to her bosom and allowing herself to finally be sucked into a world where men named Ralph and Oscar and Calvin were king, she would feel like a fawn, a wood nymph; she would feel like the month of October itself, like the best part of New England; she would feel like Halloween and Thanksgiving combined in a good year, like a whole season in…

  “Oh no!” she cried, having held the dress up to the light, in order to make certain that there was no obnoxious detailing around the collar area. “I can’t wear it like this!”

  “Whatever is the matter with it? Are there steaming spots all over it? I told them at the shop to be extra careful—”

  “The spot isn’t on the dress, Charley,” Daisy said with an uncharacteristic whine of dismay. “It’s on me.”

  She noted the puzzled look on his face, and held the dress up over her own clothes in order to illustrate her point. The dress, while a nonnegotiable statement of refinement in every other regard, had a shockingly low neckline. If she were to wear it as is, his mother—not to mention, the rest of his family, plus the free world—would know exactly what kind of stuff she was made of.

  “You know about that birthmark of mine that I told you about…” she began, with a gesture towards the area of her collarbone.

  “Oh, pooh-pooh,” the Prince interrupted, pooh-poohing. “I have always been quite certain that this birthmark, which you appear to be so concerned about, is really nothing. You only imagine it as being your most salient feature when you look in the mirror—not so different, really, from a woman who is at most only one stone overweight thinking that she looks like a mountain, or one who has a nose that is slightly larger than the norm thinking that she looks like a toucan. It is all that you see in yourself, because it is all that you allow yourself to see, but I can assure you—based on hard-earned firsthand knowledge—that it is not what the world sees.”

  The Prince paused for a sustaining breath. He was unaccustomed to making such impromptu, unscripted, and non-internally uttered speeches on the spur-of-the-moment, and the sheer exhilaration of it all had left him slightly gasping. “At any rate,” he concluded, “we are all marked by birth in some fashion.”

  He took her firmly by the shoulders, as though she were a child and, turning her around so that her backside was to him, gave her rump a friendly pat, jumpstarting her in the direction of the bathroom. “Now then, off you go. Just try it on and see how it looks. I am quite sure that, once you have seen yourself in the mirror, you will see that I am completely right and that the thing that has been giving you so much trouble is really nothing.”

  Feeling as though she would have made either a great slave or an adequate midget Barbie, she found herself, in spite of grave misgivings, bowing her will to that of a dubiously higher authority and following his instructions to a T.

  Just the briefest movement of the big hand on the clock found her on tiptoes, studying the top half of her person before the beveled oval glass in her bathroom. And what she saw there provided proof that, much to her astonishment, the Prince did indeed have some clue as to what he was talking about. For, somehow, the multihued nature of the dress minified the visual impact of her birthmark, the autumnal theme of the one enhancing the healthy highland glow that she had achieved, and causing the slight discoloration of the raspberry to only make her seem that much more attractive by virtue of having a skin tone that was not so ordinary as to be complacently reliant on the merits of just a single color.

  Why, she thought, her spirits soaring once again, she looked like a palette, a veritable equinox, a…

  Now, that was certainly odd, she thought, peering at her image more closely. Perhaps it was wrong, what everybody always said,
about gold going with everything. For, while the birthmark had completely passed muster, the Star of David—which she had worn daily for years—somehow didn’t mesh with the Vermontish, almost Presbyterian quality of the dress, striking the only discordant note. She chewed on a nail, debating over what to do.

  What to do, what to do.

  She couldn’t very well tuck the chain into her collar as she had done on previous occasions, the lack of collar being the central cause of her dilemma.

  Just take it off? a tiny voice inside her brain suggested with a shrug. How much harm can one night make?

  And, sucked in again by the sight of her own image (why, she looked like an arbor, like a forest princess!), Daisy’s hands found their way traveling up to the base of her neck where, almost unconsciously, her own fingers undid the clasp, removing the chain. Hesitating for only an instant, her hand hovering over the marble counter surrounding the sink, she opened her fingers up one by one, and she simply let it go.

  Then, she exited, intending to show Charley how perfect she looked in the present he had given her, how very much like a princess.

  She was, therefore, absent from the bathroom by the time that Rachel’s not-so-tiny voice—which was still strong enough to transcend time and space, making her presence felt live from the grave—managed to maternally bust through yet another dimension, ready to contribute her own two cents.

  “Nu, Daisy, so my necklace isn’t good enough for you anymore? Tsuh. And, you mean to tell me, for that schmatta somebody actually paid good money?”

  But, by the time that she was finally able to make her thoughts heard, there was nobody left in the bathroom to hear her. Since her daughter, as Rachel herself might have put it, was already off somewhere hoity-toity; or, as Kevin Costner might have added, Daisy Silverman was now Dancing with Goys.

  3

  Daisy danced with Prince Andrew; she danced with Prince Edward.

  At the annual Ghillies’ Ball, held in mid-October, there was Scottish dancing in Grand Hall, and it was permissible on this occasion for commoners to ask Royals to dance. Needless to say, Daisy took undue advantage of this situation, adopting a Sadie Hawkins stance and pestering Charley repeatedly. And, while that besotted individual did not mind this in the slightest, Princess Anne did take umbrage, and declined the kindly offer, when Daisy invited her to cut the rug for an all-girls turn. The Queen Mother, on the other hand, was more than game and, in her light blue gown, formed quite a figure, dancing the reel with Daisy.

  The Queen herself, clad in a surprisingly romantic and ethereal silvery pink number—with the inevitable tiara perched on her head—looked on from the sidelines. It was impossible to discern whether the tight smile on her face bespoke a mood of strained tolerance, or one of barely suppressed laughter.

  Daisy danced with Prince Edward again; she danced with Prince Andy.

  In fact, it was pretty safe to say that our girl was a hit, the belle of the ball, as it were.

  Too bad, then, that Bonita’s view of things seemed to have soured.

  • • •

  Bonita and Sturgess had stationed themselves in a room adjoining the Grand Hall. From there, they could hear the music emanating from the other room and, between dances of their own, were able to safely observe the proceedings—while remaining unobserved themselves—through a conveniently located squint in the wall.

  “I believe that it’s yer turn, Boni,” Sturgess gasped, his face flushed from the dance that Bonita had led him on. He indicated the squint, with a flicker of his fingers, as he flopped with relief into the nearest armchair. He was coming to learn that, for every shot of exhilaration derived from the presence of Bonita in his life, there was the price to pay of a dram of exhaustion.

  The tiny American made her way to the wall, her hand going to her chest as though to either still the beating of her heart or somehow try to contain the mammoth presence within her form. She obediently pressed her eye to the hole. Unfortunately, what she saw there brought her up shorter than she already was. Through the tiny hole, she saw it all.

  There was Prince Charles. And there was Daisy, dancing with him, one hand on his shoulder, the other held tightly in his. Her back was to Bonita, but she could see that Daisy’s head was tilted upwards, as though she were gazing raptly upon his countenance.

  Well, the practical part of Bonita silently asked herself, what else could the girl do? At her height, her only choices were to either look up at the man, or find herself under house arrest for obscenely dancing cheek-to-belt buckle.

  But, as the Prince gallantly swung Daisy around, the front of her form coming into view now, Bonita noticed that there was something wrong with this picture, although at first glance, she couldn’t put her finger on quite what it was.

  And, no, it wasn’t the fact that Waldo was definitely nowhere to be found.

  No, she thought, slowly rising in shock as the full realization of what she was seeing sank in, it wasn’t that at all. It was that Daisy, her Daisy, was no longer wearing her necklace.

  Bonita saw everything.

  • • •

  Bonita caught up with Daisy, whirling her around by the shoulder, just as the younger woman was about to hold Prince Philip to the earlier promise of a dance. The Duke, however, did not mind finding himself allowed to slip off the hook so easily, seeing as he still had quite a number of things to get over.

  For example, he had to get over the fact that Daisy had refused to eat any of the meal that he had so thoughtfully prepared for her a few weeks back. He also had yet to get over the fact that he was still in a foul temper, the bagpiper having miraculously survived the summer as had the nonet of annoyingly resilient, blasted yapping corgis. Not to mention, come to think of it, that his wife was still undisputed head of a country, while he was not.

  He stalked off, having forgotten his resolution to try just getting over it. No, there wasn’t a whole bloody lot to be celebrating with bloody dancing in his life.

  Bonita, for one, was glad to see him go.

  “Don’t you think you’re getting carried away just a little bit, Daisy?” she asked, her desperation showing, the rare triple whammy in the realm of personal address laying naked, through verbalization, the depth of her concern.

  “What are you talking about?” Daisy asked, only half paying attention. She was watching the retreating form of the Duke, sorry to see him go. She had been intending to work on his personality some more.

  “Do you know who you are?” Bonita asked, trying in vain to reclaim Daisy’s ear.

  “Of course,” Daisy said. “I’m Daisy,” she added, leaving out the most important part.

  “Do you know where you come from?” Bonita asked, her expression one of the gravest intensity.

  “Is this some kind of a game?” Daisy asked. “I came here from my room in the castle,” she said, just a trifle impatiently, indicating with a vague gesture of her hand the vast expanse of the rest of the granite structure, beyond. “Look,” she continued, “I don’t have time for this right now. I have to go find Charles.”

  And she hurried off, leaving a stunned Bonita behind.

  Eventually, drastic measures would probably have to be employed. But, for now, she would merely sit back and watch.

  For the time being, she really was too shocked to do anything else.

  • • •

  At the Ghillies’ Ball, as with any truly great party, there was a second party, even better than the first, which was going on below stairs, as it were. And the Prince and Daisy had just put in an appearance.

  It was an annual tradition with the servants at Balmoral, the ones whose presence was not absolutely required in the Grand Hall, to hold their own celebration of the harvest on the lanterned lawn of the grounds, just out of sight of the castle itself. In previous years, the late-night attendance of Prince Andrew had become the norm, looked forward to even as one of the highlights of the fete, especially by those partygoers with a more pro-randy mindset. But, the unexpected
and unannounced arrival of his more staid elder brother, well, that was quite another thing again.

  The Prince was about to learn that, if the best part of any New York City party could always be said to take place in the kitchen, then the best part of the Ghillies’ Ball could be said to take place with the kitchen help. In contrast to the fairly lively, if wholly uninspired and yawningly expected, national music that was being played in the Grand Hall, here there was a much more animate—if just a tad bit raw—rock combo playing. As the Prince made good his entrance, with Daisy on his arm, the band had just swung into a rather raucous imitation of the Stones’ version of an old standard, and Charles—who strived in vain for the first couple of minutes to behave in the prescribed, wire-hanger-still-in-the-jacket form—found that he could no longer resist the toe-tapping beat. Before he even knew what he was about, he found himself leading a greatly surprised Daisy on a merry dance.

  “Shall we show them how it is done, DeeDee?” he enquired, taking her in his arms.

  DeeDee? Daisy thought.

  “This chap does a fine Jagger. Don’t you think?”

  I’m gonna tell ya how it’s gonna be;

  You’re gonna give your love to me…

  If this whole second party business impressed Daisy as being just a little bit Alex Haley’s Roots on tartan steroids, complete with tribal kilts, she didn’t let on. In fact, the impression that was made on those present was not what one would normally have expected.

  Ashes, ashes and all fall down…

  It was agreed upon later, by one and all, that the Prince was really quite a fun sort of guy, much more free-spirited than one would have been led to believe, and one hell of a good dancer. His little friend, on the other hand, had seemed nice enough, though she did seem—by comparison with His Royal Highness—to suffer just a wee bit from a case of the old stuffed shirt.