Romancing the Throne

by Nadine Jolie Courtney

  And I’m done feeling sorry for myself—it’s time to take charge of my life.

  “Okay, down your champagne,” I say to him. “We have four hours before our flight home and I am dying to see the Eiffel Tower. Let’s go.”

  A few weeks later, just before Libby’s birthday, India texts me after lunch. I’m walking through campus, leaving my graphic design class and heading back toward Colvin. Even though I’ve already submitted my graphic design project to high marks, I’m obviously still devoted to the app it spawned. Bill and I have daily phone calls or Skype sessions, moving forward at breakneck speed. He wants to release the app by June, to take advantage of the beginning of summer and people making a fresh start.

  INDIA: Have you seen the Sun??

  ME: No, why?

  INDIA: Read this.

  The headline of the link she sends me reads: “The Girl Dating Eds.” I dust some dirt and rainwater off a bench on the quad, sitting down as I begin to scroll:

  She turns nineteen this weekend, a public schoolgirl who loves tennis, photography, and reading, and doesn’t know how to ride horses. He turns eighteen soon, a public schoolboy who enjoys skiing, water polo, and rugby, and is never happier than when on a polo pony.

  The article includes paparazzi photos of Libby and Edward, and describes Libby as “beautiful but also extremely introverted. Unlike the flashier girls in Edward’s set, Libby has her feet solidly on the ground.”

  The Sun can exclusively report that before Edward dated Libby, he did briefly date one of those flashier girls—Libby’s little sister, Charlotte! A source on campus tells us that Edward and Charlotte were “never a real relationship,” and that it was merely “a few drunken snogs, sitting together in the dining hall, stuff like that.” By contrast, says the source, “He and Libby are the real deal.”

  Watch this space. Rumors around campus are swirling that pretty Libby Weston has captured Prince Edward’s heart for good. Could this be your future queen, Britain?

  ME: Are you in your room?

  INDIA: Yeah.

  ME: Be right there

  Inside India’s room, we sit on the bed, talking about the article.

  “How did they get this information?” I ask.

  India looks around, as if the campus might be crawling with spies. “Somebody talked, of course.”

  I reread the article, my eyes catching on the line about me. “And what the hell does this mean? ‘A few drunken snogs’? Piss off.” I feel grumpy.

  “What would you have rather it said? ‘Edward dated Libby’s sister, Charlotte, first. Theirs was a torrid romance—one for the ages—which ended in tears and heartbreak when our fearless heroine Charlotte brutally dumped Prince Edward and nearly ruined him for all other women. It was only in the sloppy-seconds embrace of the lesser Weston sister that Edward’s broken heart was mended.’” She raises an eyebrow. “Something like that?”

  “Exactly. Thank you for translating.”

  India smiles, shaking her head at me. As she scrolls through the article again, her face turns serious. “It’s bad news for them.”

  “Who, Libby and Edward? Why?”

  “Now that it’s public, all bets are off.”

  I don’t know much about the press, but I do know that they love nothing more than royal gossip. Libby’s fair game now. Maybe I am, too. I’m silent for a few moments, weighing the information. “I should reach out to her.”

  “Are you ready to?”

  These past three months must have been as awful for Libby as they’ve been for me. I think back to my mother’s prophetic warning to me that, by punishing Libby, I’d only be punishing myself. I think of Mum’s confusing, mysterious estrangement from her own sister. I think of all the wasted conversations and missed giggles between Libby and me. I think of these glamorous new friendships I coveted for so long—none of which will ever measure up to my sister’s.

  Enough is enough.

  “Yes,” I say, nodding. “I should have done it a long time ago.”

  I go back to my room, pulling the E.T. stuffed alien out of the closet, along with my DIY supplies, some red fabric, and a little sewing kit. I measure the alien and the red fabric and then cut into the cloth, slowly and methodically turning it into something that resembles a jacket.

  It takes me three hours, working all the way through dinner. I munch on some crackers in my drawer to sustain me.

  Finally, I step back, admiring my handiwork.

  The E.T. is now clothed in a little red hoodie, with a tiny white heart emblazoned on its chest.

  I spend another twenty minutes trying to figure out what to write on a notecard. Eventually, I decide simple and direct is best:

  I’m sorry, too. Sisters forever.

  I rummage through my supplies until I find some balloons and decorative paper straws, blowing up the balloon until it’s the size of an egg, tying it and cutting off the tip, before stuffing it in the end of the straw and taping it for security. I attach the mini balloon to E.T.’s arm with some twine, taking the stuffed alien, notecard, and balloon upstairs and knocking on her door. Nobody’s there, so I leave them leaning against the door frame.

  Not long after, I get a text.

  LIBBY: Hi, you. How’s it going?

  ME: Hi . . . things are okay. How are you?

  LIBBY: Same. Just okay.

  LIBBY: Thank you for the card. It was adorable.

  ME: ♥

  LIBBY: I’m not on campus right now, so I still haven’t seen it in person, but India found it and sent me a photo. It’s in her room for safekeeping.

  ME: Ah, cool

  ME: So . . . I miss you

  LIBBY: I miss you, too!

  ME: ♥

  ME: Can we meet up when you’re back? You’re at Windsor for your birthday, right?

  LIBBY: Yes! I wanted to invite you, but I thought you’d say no. Please come.

  ME: ARE YOU KIDDING ME? YES.

  I look up from my phone, goose bumps running down my arms.

  Finally. I’m going inside Windsor Castle.

  twenty

  The long, narrow driveway to Windsor Castle stretches on seemingly for miles. As our caravan of cars inches through the manicured forest toward the hulking medieval fortress, the lights flickering in the distance slowly blaze brighter and brighter. Edward must have invited hundreds of people tonight, because the traffic jam is immense—each and every car needs to go through security to confirm they’re all on the list.

  Everybody decided to rent a fleet of chauffeured cars—taking trains the forty-five minutes from Sussex Park to Windsor in our evening gowns wasn’t an option. My stomach clenched when I learned the cost per person—how would I come up with that kind of money?—but India sensed my hesitation. Before I even had time to say anything, she quietly let me know she’d cover my portion.

  Now India and I are sitting in the back of a chauffeured black car, dressed in evening gowns. My gown is a slinky, floor-length gold number, with a cut-out back and chiffon sleeves. I didn’t have the money to buy a new dress so I had to borrow it off India, who had her mother’s personal assistant send her dresses from home. Apparently, India has an entire closet full of glittering gowns back at Huntshire. (You know, as you do.)

  Alice and Flossie, Georgie and Oliver, and David and Tarquin are in three cars behind us, our group making a caravan trip all the way from campus for the occasion.

  Tonight should be huge. Not only am I finally getting to see behind the scenes of Windsor Castle, I’m reconciling with Libby, too.

  The long driveway is thronged with cars, so it takes forever before we arrive at the entry checkpoint. There’s a small gate on the right with two guards standing watch, and directly opposite, a crowd of photographers. When our car stops at the gate, our driver turns down the radio and gives our names to a skinny man with a clipboard. The photographers go crazy.

  “Bloody hell,” I say, wincing and squinting as the flashbulbs pop. “They’re going to blind us!”


  “Don’t look at them,” says India, her face stony. “Just ignore them so they can’t get a good shot through the windows.”

  The guard consults a list and then opens the gates, waving us through and safely beyond the reach of the paparazzi. Once we’re past the gates, we’re inside the inner quadrangle of the royal palace, where the Queen’s private apartments are. I know because my family and I did the public castle tour a few times in my childhood, but we were ants scuttling around, not personal guests of the future king. Looking up at the stone archways and turrets, I feel the thousands of years of history pressing down on me. It’s like a dream. It doesn’t feel real.

  Our car skirts a circular green lawn inside the courtyard, coming to stop by an archway leading to the back entrance. I smooth down my dress, looking around anxiously as a footman opens the door for us.

  “Are you all right?” India asks. Not for the first time, I think how lucky I am to have her as a friend.

  “I think I’m going to vomit.”

  She pats me on the arm. “You’ll be fine.”

  “I hope so.”

  “But if you must be sick, don’t you dare vomit on my dress.” She’s wearing a strapless crushed-velvet black dress that’s cinched at the waist.

  “Oh, gee, thanks.”

  We wait in front of the stone courtyard for all our friends to pile out of their cars.

  Georgie and Oliver step out of their vehicle, Oliver exiting first and offering his hand to Georgie to help her out smoothly. He looks especially handsome, his increasingly long hair slicked back and combed to the side, setting off his thick eyebrows and dark blue eyes. Georgie is wearing a slinky sequined dusty-rose gown that she got from an online couture rental website. She threads her arm through his and looks up at the castle, her face shining like a child’s on Christmas.

  “I’m dying,” Georgie says. “Dying. I can’t believe we’re here. Think I can get a selfie with the Queen?”

  Flossie and Alice exit their car in time to roll their eyes at Georgie’s question. Flossie wears a long black lace dress with a boat-cut neckline and sheer lace sleeves all the way to her wrists. Meanwhile, Alice’s canary-yellow satin dress, chignon, and fire-engine-red lipstick make her look like a dead ringer for Emma Stone.

  We only have to wait for the rest of the boys now; Tarquin steps out of his car and dusts off his tuxedo. It pains me to entertain the thought, but he looks fantastic—as if he were born to wear white tie. David exits, looking ill at ease, like he’s wearing his father’s suit.

  The eight of us stand in the courtyard in a circle.

  “I’m shitting myself,” says Georgie.

  “That makes two of us,” I say.

  “Be strong and courageous, soldiers,” says India. “Onward.”

  We pass through a courtyard, our heels clicking on the cobblestones. Butlers in white tie flank each side of the entrance, nodding gravely at us as we enter. “Welcome to Windsor Castle.”

  “The greeting committee is out in full force,” I whisper as we step inside the vestibule.

  “Do you think they do that for all the parties?” Georgie whispers back. “I bet this is special because of Edward.”

  “You know we don’t have to whisper,” Flossie says loudly from behind. “We’re not sneaking in. They have actually invited us.”

  We walk up a grand staircase, laid with bloodred carpet and flanked by two giant statues of knights in armor riding horses. At the top of the steps, there’s a marble statue of Queen Victoria. We turn a corner, passing through a wide hallway and another series of grand rooms—I vaguely remember these as the State Apartments—and suddenly we’re in the most magnificent room I’ve ever seen.

  “Je-sus,” says Georgie, whistling.

  “St. George’s Hall,” says Flossie approvingly.

  St. George’s Hall is spectacular: a long, rectangular room, easily wide enough to house a jumbo jet. It’s laid with a red carpet that runs the entire length of the hall. On one side of the room, there are gigantic portraits of monarchs in stately robes, and every few feet, a marble bust sits on an intricately carved base. The wood-beamed ceiling is dotted with crests in reds and blues and greens and blacks. The walls are up-lit in a soft peach, suffusing the entire room with an otherworldly glow.

  “Just so you know,” Georgie says to me, “your skin looks amazing.”

  “Even the beauty lighting is better for royals,” I joke.

  My eyes do a quick sweep of the grand hall, trying to take it all in. Everybody is dressed to kill, with the women in glittering ball gowns and the men in bespoke tuxedos. There’s the prime minister in the middle of the room, holding court and sipping a martini. I spot the queen of the Netherlands talking to the crown princess of Denmark. Prince Michael and Princess Verena, Edward’s aunt and uncle, look gorgeous as always, laughing with a group of admirers surrounding them. And is that . . . ?

  “Stop. Everything,” says Georgie. “David and Victoria. Three o’clock.”

  Sure enough, David and Victoria Beckham are in the corner of the room, their heads together in conversation.

  God, I wish I could Snapchat this. Instead, I pull out my phone to take a photo of the room, texting it to Robert.

  ME: I’ve died and gone to heaven

  ME: P.S. Windsor Castle smells like money and blind ambition

  Almost immediately, the ellipses go as he texts back.

  ROBERT: Steal a painting and let’s pawn it on the black market. One of the Stuarts. Nobody cares about them.

  I giggle at his response, putting my phone away. I’ll text him more later. Suddenly, the crowd in front of us parts and there stand the guests of honor, Edward and Libby, ready to greet the arriving guests.

  When I see Libby, I’m stunned into silence.

  Gone is the dowdy sister I grew up with. In her place is a glamorous, perfectly groomed bombshell.

  Libby’s hair is straight, long, and glossy, cascading over her shoulders in fetching sheets. Her smoky eyes are expertly rimmed with kohl. Her lips look fuller, glossed to a pink shine, and when she talks and smiles, her teeth are a dazzling shade of Hollywood white that could only have been achieved artificially. I peer at her skin: Is Libby wearing foundation?

  I don’t know what’s more stunning: her hair and makeup or her dress. It’s a teal chiffon gown with a plunging neckline, bejeweled ribbon belt, and lace cap sleeves. She looks almost as tall as Edward—she must be wearing heels. This fact alone nearly sends me into shock.

  I take in the waxed brows, the manicured nails, the Oscars-red-carpet-worthy outfit, and the high heels, and my head spins. I can’t believe the towering girl standing in front of me is the same shy, nerdy sister I’ve known my entire life.

  But what really amazes me is her poise. Libby holds court as if she’s to the manor born. Her shoulders are down, her back is straight, her smile genuine as she greets a parade of guests.

  When I’ve seen her around campus the past few months, she’s looked like normal old Libby. Tonight is different—it’s not just her appearance, but her demeanor. She appears literally transformed.

  She looks every inch a princess.

  As we enter the room, the people ahead of us approach Edward to pay their birthday respects. India, Georgie, and the rest of us follow the crowd, making our way toward the couple one step at a time.

  Georgie grabs my arm in a panic. “We’re not supposed to curtsy to him, are we?”

  “No. Crap. I don’t know.” I turn to India. “Do we need to curtsy?”

  Flossie stifles a giggle.

  “Not if you don’t want to, no,” says India.

  “But by all means, curtsy away,” says Flossie. “I beg you.”

  When India and Flossie go up to Edward and Libby, they hug them each in turn. Thank God I wasn’t first. How humiliating would it have been if I’d curtsied after all?

  Finally, it’s my turn to greet them.

  “Happy birthday, Edward,” I say. We lean in for a stiff hug,
giving each other a quick pat on the back like we’re rugby teammates.

  “Hi, Charlotte. Thank you for coming.”

  “Charlotte!” Libby says. “You made it!”

  “Hey, Libs. Thanks for the invite.”

  We stare at each other awkwardly.

  “Oh, come here,” she says, giggling.

  We collapse into each other’s arms, hugging tightly in the middle of the room for several long seconds.

  I pull back but she grabs my hands, clinging to me.

  “You look amazing,” I say.

  “You look amazing.”

  “I love that color on you.”

  “Your dress is gorgeous!”

  “Did you do your makeup yourself?”

  “I did!” She beams. “I’ve learned a few tricks.”

  “Your hair . . .” I reach out, running my fingers through it. It’s shiny and silky.

  “A gloss treatment, a Japanese treatment, and an arsenal of styling products.” She touches it self-consciously. “I had it professionally blown out earlier today in Windsor. There’s no way I could have done this myself.”

  “We have so much to catch up on,” I say.

  Edward clears his throat. The two of us look at him, startled.

  “Thank you so much for coming, Charlotte,” Edward repeats, sounding shy. He gives me a little smile. “I’m sorry to be rude, but we need to keep the line going. Otherwise my PA, Helen, will have my head.” I wonder if that’s the old woman with the owl eyes standing off to the side, shooting us dirty looks. “Can we catch up later by the drinks?”

  “Sure, no problem. And, um, again, happy birthday to you.”

  “Thank you. I appreciate that.” He smiles at me again, and then turns to the right of me, slipping back into HRH mode. “Davina! Hello!”

  “I should probably . . . ,” Libby says, gesturing toward the long line of people behind us waiting to greet Edward.

  “Oh. Okay. Yeah. Cool. I’ll just be over there.”

  I walk back toward my friends, Libby’s polite laughs echoing behind me as she strikes up a new conversation with one of Edward’s guests.