by Janet Gover
‘Did Nick send you?’ Lauren asked.
‘His Royal Highness is not aware of my visit,’ Courtauld said with a totally straight face. ‘In fact he would be most annoyed if he knew I was speaking to you.’
That shook Lauren. What could have prompted Courtauld to go against his master’s wishes? She didn’t know the man well, but she did know such behaviour was totally out of character for the royal aide.
‘Then why are you here?’ Lauren had thought to end this interview quickly, but now her curiosity was aroused.
‘I thought … perhaps …’ Courtauld was totally discomfited. He turned away from Lauren and moved awkwardly around the tiny flat. Finally, he stopped in front of the bookcase and picked up the envelope lying there. ‘If you don’t want to go, why did you keep this?’ He held up the invitation as he turned around.
‘I just haven’t bothered to throw it out yet,’ Lauren replied weakly.
‘Miss Phelps … Lauren … shall we be totally honest with each other?’
His use of her first name convinced Lauren something quite extraordinary was happening. She nodded and gestured to Courtauld to take a seat. He perched on the edge of the armchair while she settled into the sofa and waited for him to continue.
‘During our short acquaintance, I came to believe that you cared for His Royal Highness … for Nicolas. Was I mistaken?’
‘No.’ The word was barely more than a whisper.
‘I also believe he cares for you. Very much. At least, judging by his behaviour since you left.’ Courtauld actually smiled, a wry smile that spoke volumes about his difficult charge.
‘I would not have thought so,’ Lauren said bitterly. ‘He seems more than happy in the company of Miss Villette.’
‘Surely you didn’t put any stock in those media reports.’ Courtauld looked genuinely surprised. ‘I assumed you would realise it was just a feint.’
‘Oh.’ Of course. The day he appeared in public with the model was the day the press had decamped from her front door. Lauren felt ashamed that she had so quickly believed the headlines. Courtauld was right. After her own experiences, she should have known better.
Courtauld drew a folded page from his pocket. He hesitated for a few seconds before continuing. ‘Miss … Lauren, I am about to do something I have never before done in all my years of service. This could and probably should cost me my position in the royal household. In the absence of a royal executioner, I could go to prison for breaking my confidentiality contract. However, I find myself compelled to show this to you.’
He placed the paper on the coffee table between them. Lauren sat looking at it for a few minutes.
‘What is it?’
‘A letter. I have taken this from the prince’s office. I must return it. If you would read it, read it now.’
Lauren picked up the letter. Her hands shook as she unfolded it. The addressee was the editor of one of the more scurrilous tabloids. Lauren glanced quickly over the contents, then read it more slowly as words leaped off the page at her.
‘Inexcusable invasion of privacy … no longer tolerate such exploitation … Miss Phelps is a victim of … change to protocols …’
After reading it for the third time, Lauren carefully folded the letter and handed it back to Courtauld.
‘Nicolas sent this?’
‘Yes,’ Courtauld confirmed. ‘A copy was sent to the editors of all newspapers, magazines and television stations. A copy was also sent to the Press Council and the Journalists Association.’
‘He said there was nothing he could do,’ she said.
‘He should have done nothing. Leo Falconer threatened to resign if this letter was sent.’
‘And …’
‘His Royal Highness has regretfully accepted the resignation, and is now looking to hire a press officer with a somewhat different approach to the media.’
‘And this is why they are giving him such a hard time right now?’
‘I suspect it is.’
Lauren was shaken to her very core. Nicolas had gone against his family. Against protocol. In the face of her accusation he had made a decision. The right decision.
‘Will it make a difference?’
‘With the press? Perhaps. Perhaps not. The days have long passed when a royal word was law. Change comes slowly, but it does come.’ Courtauld rose to his feet. ‘Does it make a difference to you?’
Lauren looked up at him, puzzled. ‘What do you mean?’
Courtauld took the invitation and dropped it on the coffee table in front of her. ‘He made his choice. Have you the same courage?’
‘I don’t know.’ Her voice was little more than a whisper.
Silence settled on the room for what seemed a very long time. When Courtauld spoke again, his voice was gentle.
‘It’s not easy to love a member of that family. But some things are worth fighting for.’
Courtauld turned away and walked to the door. He was already pulling it open when Lauren called his name. He turned to face her.
‘Does he like the portrait?’ Lauren asked.
‘He hasn’t seen it.’
Lauren was shocked. At first she felt a flicker of anger. Did he not even care about that? But she squashed the thought as quickly as it formed. There were many reasons why he would refuse to see her painting. The more she thought about it, the more she began to see a glimmer of something that might just be hope.
‘Mr Courtauld, you are a good friend to Nicolas,’ Lauren said softly.
Courtauld inclined his head slightly. ‘It is an honour to serve.’ He shut the door gently behind him.
Chapter Sixteen
‘Sir. It’s time.’
Nicolas looked up from his desk. Leo Falconer was standing by the open office door, his face carefully neutral. Nicolas hardly needed reminding of the time. He had spent a large part of the morning watching the hands of the beautiful antique clock wind slowly around its face. The rest of the time he had stared at the same piece of paper that still lay on his desk. Its contents were probably important. They might even have been interesting. But not today.
He’d approached this day with a feeling of dread. Now it was upon him, he was almost paralysed with numbness. Deep in his heart he had believed Lauren would come. She couldn’t let this day pass without being present to witness her triumph. He had been sure that she would contact him. Forgive him. That it really wasn’t over.
Each time Falconer approached him with details of the event, he expected the press secretary to say that Lauren was coming. When the curator called about hanging the portrait, Nicolas had waited for his comments about meeting the artist. Nothing. She really wasn’t coming.
A thousand times he’d reached for his phone. If he called, she would come. He knew that just as he knew that if she ever needed or wanted him he would go to her. He loved her; and because he did he could never make that call.
‘Sir?’ The press officer drew him back to the present.
‘Of course.’ Nicolas got to his feet. Preparing himself for a difficult duty, he left the haven of his office.
The ceremony was to be held in the portrait gallery. Nicolas strode purposefully down the echoing corridor towards the group of people waiting for him at the far end of the long gallery. His steps faltered only once. He paused in front of the alcove that held the portrait of Princess Sophia, and he gazed for a few seconds at the beautiful face, preserved for centuries by a master’s art. Who would look at his portrait in the years to come? At least he would be spared Sophia’s fate; no marriage would be arranged for him. Would some future observer remember the lonely Prince Nicolas, who died without ever marrying? Would there be whispered rumours of some long-lost love?
Every line of the painting sings of love. Lauren’s voice echoed in his ear. He could almost feel her presence beside him.
More than love. Great passion that would last a lifetime. If only he’d realised then how prophetic his words were. A short discreet cough from Falconer dragg
ed Nicolas out of his reverie and back to the present. He turned away from his boyhood love and continued to his appointed place.
About twenty chairs, in orderly rows, had been allocated for the media. Most were full. A row of television cameras had been set up behind the chairs to shoot over the heads of the seated journalists towards a wooden podium. To one side an easel stood draped with cloth. There were two chairs. Only two. One for the curator and one for Nicolas. Lauren wasn’t coming.
‘When you are ready, Your Royal Highness.’ This event was to be the press secretary’s final task before his departure.
‘Everything is as you requested, sir,’ Falconer continued. ‘The press contingent is small, and consists mainly of art writers. There are a few of the royal correspondents. They should all be aware of the correct procedure for such an event.’
Nicolas understood that to mean they would behave with a certain amount of restraint. He wasn’t too sure, however. His relations with the media were at an all-time low, following his letter to the editors and complaint to the Press Council. Not that he had achieved anything by making the complaint, but he had felt slightly less like a coward afterwards.
‘Thank you, Falconer. I’m sure everything will be fine. If it’s not, none of the fault will lie with you.’ Nicolas meant what he said. To his surprise, he had discovered that he was sorry to lose Falconer. He had never felt any personal connection with his press secretary, but the man was a good and loyal employee. ‘This is your last function on my behalf.’
‘That’s correct, sir.’
‘Are you sure you won’t change your mind and stay?’ Nicolas had to ask one more time.
‘No. Thank you, sir.’
‘I see. I am sorry that my actions drove you to leave.’
Falconer looked stunned by the rare apology. ‘Don’t be. You did what you felt you had to do. As I am. Perhaps I should thank you, sir, for giving me the impetus I needed to try something new.’
‘Well, I do sincerely wish you the best,’ Nicolas said. He took a deep breath. ‘Now, let’s get this over with.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Nicolas moved forward to shake hands with the curator of the royal art collection. He had met the man only a few times before, mostly to argue with him about the choice of artist to paint the portrait that now sat on the easel, still draped with a velvet cloth. He returned the man’s polite greeting, and then took his seat.
His attention, if not his gaze, was on the easel and its hidden painting. When that cover was lifted to show the portrait to the assembled media, Nicolas would also be seeing the completed portrait for the first time. He hadn’t laid eyes on it since the night Lauren had sketched him nude: the night of the London bombing that had so shaken them all to the core. Time and again he had considered going to view it as it sat in the curator’s office. Each time, he found he was simply unwilling – possibly unable – to do it. By choosing this time and place, he had believed he could hide his feelings behind the professional veneer that had been both his protection and his burden for his whole life. Now he wasn’t so sure.
Sensing the danger in that train of thought, Nicolas turned his attention to the curator. The man had not yet begun his welcoming statement. That was puzzling. Usually the arrival of a royal guest was the signal for things to start. Immediately. Members of the royal family were never kept waiting. As if he had felt Nicolas looking at him, the curator glanced back at his royal guest. A flash of uncertainty crossed the man’s face, and then he turned to the microphone.
‘Your Royal Highness. Ladies and gentlemen. It is my pleasure to welcome you here today.’
Nicolas tried to tune the man’s voice out. He mustered his energy and focused his thoughts as he had done a hundred times before when faced with an unwelcome or tedious task. But this time, he couldn’t find the state of mind that had protected him so often in the past. A catch in the curator’s voice dragged his attention back to the podium.
‘Ah … Yes.’ The curator seemed flustered. That was unusual. ‘In commissioning this portrait, His Royal Highness chose the artist. His choice was not mine. However, having received the finished work, I am prepared to admit that I was wrong. I am delighted to introduce the artist: Miss Lauren Phelps.’
All heads in the room turned towards the door. Nicolas thought his heart had stopped. Lauren was standing just inside the door. Her skirt was black as usual, but longer and slightly more conservative than any he’d seen her wear before. For once neither the skirt nor the soft white blouse were stained with paint.
Her clothes might have been chosen to suit the event, but she still wore her high-heeled ankle boots. Her hair was golden brown, but the few brilliant red highlights that framed her face showed this was the same Lauren who had captivated him the moment she walked into his life.
* * *
Lauren kept her eyes fixed on the easel as she walked into the room. She knew everyone was staring at her, and she was acutely aware of Nicolas at his seat by the podium. She had never planned this dramatic entrance, and she suspected she was breaking a dozen rules of royal protocol. Her decision to come had been taken at the very last possible moment. Her lateness was the result and it had simply served to make a hard task even harder.
As quickly as possible she moved towards the podium, desperately wishing she hadn’t come, while knowing deep inside her heart that if she hadn’t she would have regretted it for the rest of her life. She ignored the sudden buzz of whispers from the media chairs and the flashes of the cameras. There was no chair for her so she took up position close to the easel and faced the assembled audience. Not once had she looked at Nicolas.
‘Miss Phelps is a graduate of our own Royal College of Art …’
Lauren tried to follow the curator’s words as he gave her biography to those present, but his voice was strangely muffled. She wasn’t sure which was making her more nervous – the penetrating stares of the assembled media or the man whose straight back she could see at the very edge of her vision. She could barely breathe for knowledge of him so close and yet so out of her reach. Had her appearance stirred anything in him? He hadn’t even glanced her way, much less given a sign that he was glad she had come.
‘At this point, it is my great pleasure to ask Miss Phelps and His Royal Highness to unveil the portrait.’ The curator’s voice was a knife through her thoughts.
Lauren took an involuntary step backwards. She kept her eyes carefully focused on the far wall of the room as Nicolas rose slowly to his feet. She did not acknowledge him as he took his place on the other side of the portrait. An expectant hush fell on the room. Lauren was acutely aware of how they must appear in the lenses of the assembled cameras. Two people who couldn’t even look at each other.
‘Your Royal Highness,’ the curator prompted.
Lauren set a carefully neutral expression on her face as she felt, rather than saw the velvet cover pulled away. She must have been the only person in the room who didn’t look the portrait. She didn’t need to. She knew every brushstroke, every colour and every shadow. Instead she finally turned towards Nicolas. She had to see the look on his face as he saw the painting for the first time.
His face registered surprise as he realised this was not the same painting he had last seen half-finished in Lauren’s studio. Then he stepped back, as if to get a better look at the man staring back at him from the gilt frame. Lauren had painted him casually dressed and leaning against a desk, his arms at his sides, palms gently holding the edges of the desk. The man in the portrait wasn’t the playboy prince. He wasn’t simply the spare heir. Lauren had painted a man who was more than his position, his wealth and his handsome face.
Her first attempt had been painted through the eyes of an innocent, dazzled by the public persona of the prince. The second time, Lauren had painted with the eyes of a woman who saw more than the exterior. She had looked past his rank and position and seen beyond the handsome face. She had painted an intelligent and thoughtful man, with a capacity for
much strength and honour and goodness. Now, as she looked at the living, breathing man in front of her, she so desperately wanted to believe she had got it right.
She saw Nicolas glance towards the top right corner of the portrait. He smiled faintly as he recognised what was painted there. Then he looked at her. His eyes were bright with emotion. He nodded slightly and Lauren realised that he understood. She saw something like hope in his face and real pain gripped her.
Nothing had changed since she had put down her brushes. Nothing except perhaps that she had grown up a little. The feelings that had prompted her to paint that small personal message into the portrait still coursed through her veins. And through his. All they had to do was accept the barriers placed on their lives by circumstances over which they had no control. And pull down those barriers over which they did have control. Barriers they had built themselves. Nicolas had taken the first step with his letter to the press. Maybe the next step was hers.
‘If there are questions,’ the curator was saying to the assembled journalists, ‘I’m sure Miss Phelps would be happy to answer them.’
This was her challenge and she was ready for it. For the very first time since she had walked into this gallery behind Courtauld all those weeks ago, Lauren felt in control as she stepped to the podium.
‘What made you choose that pose?’
She didn’t even see who had asked the question. That didn’t matter. Her reply was for everyone in the room.
‘I try to capture something of the person in my paintings – not just external appearances. I think this pose says something about His Royal Highness.’
‘What does it say?’ This from a young woman in the front row.
‘That’s for you to decide,’ Lauren answered with a smile. ‘As an artist, I want each person who looks at my work to find something in it for themselves.’
‘Your Royal Highness, do you like the painting?’ The question came from another journalist.
‘I do. Very much.’ Nicolas stepped to Lauren’s side. ‘Miss Phelps is extremely talented. It has been a pleasure and a privilege to sit for her.’