Princess Izzy and the E Street Shuffle

by Beverly Bartlett

  The media would play that bit a million times over the years, and it became a standard piece of her story. But that only goes to show you the power people have when they’re the ones editing your video. You could point to that remark and say it meant something, but you just as easily could point to the moment earlier, when someone asked how she felt and she said: “Humbled, really. All I want is to be a good wife and someday a good queen.”

  Did either comment really mean anything?

  We’ll see. As I said, I don’t editorialize until the end.

  The announcement was a big hit and got a good deal of world attention. Ever since the troubles in the House of Windsor, the world rejoices when a seemingly mature, suitable woman becomes engaged to a prince. (Even if it’s just the Prince of Gallagher, the heir to a mere slip of a throne, the kingship of a tiny city-nation so snugly nestled between the Bisbanian Sea and the southernmost Alps that, for many centuries, it could be reached only by foolhardy climbers and expert seamen.)

  To help with the wedding preparations, the castle immediately assigned Isabella a maidservant, a middle-aged woman named Secrest who had recently inherited the job from her mother. (The famously lucrative royal pension plan meant that castle positions were often handed from one generation to another, assuming the family had the appropriate work ethic and skill at keeping secrets.)

  Isabella, in a meaningless burst of egalitarianism, insisted that Secrest’s job title be changed from maidservant to “royal associate.” The formal proclamation, signed by the princess in what now seems a youthful, carefree hand, incorrectly lists Secrest’s name as Secresta.

  But neither the name nor the title made much difference to Secrest, who did not get a raise or even a noticeable increase in respect with the “promotion.” The change did, however, make the appropriate splash in the tabloids—and the more serious media. Conventional wisdom suggested that using nonservile titles like “royal associate” demonstrated Isabella’s thoroughly modern spirit. “I’ll associate with this royal any day,” Ethelbald Candeloro wrote in the gushing style typical of the media during the engagement.

  So the world celebrated. Stamps were issued. Plates were created. Oh, you remember the whole thing, I’m sure. And if you’re not old enough to remember—which, silly me, I guess most of you aren’t (it’s been so long ago!)—then just think about one of the other recent weddings, and you’ve got the idea. They’re all the same, really.

  Isabella wore white, of course. But she made a bit of a splash by having some color woven into the silk gown. The neckline was embroidered with a royal blue pattern of tulips, a tribute to some Dutch blood on her mother’s side. Around the wrists and hem, the tulips were red.

  It was stunning. You forget now how stunning and bold and beautiful it was. It was copied so much later that it became sort of cliché. Another great idea spoiled by mass production. But isn’t that always the way?

  Having a Yalie step into line to the throne especially thrilled people in the Americas, who were always up for a good royal wedding. Reporters came from both sides of the Atlantic and the Far East as well. The ceremony was conducted in Bisbania’s ugly, guttural official language, which had long ago been abandoned for English by everyone other than the royal family and even by the royals in all nonceremonial occasions. Isabella—it can now be told—had some trouble with a few of the words, because of the slight American accent she had picked up. But luckily, Raphael, with his interest in speech disorders and defects, was able to work with her beforehand. In the weeks leading up to the wedding, the young couple practiced into the scandalously wee hours of the morning.

  But no one other than the royal family cared about the words. The world’s favorite moment came when the young couple stepped out of the church doors and a burst of sunlight broke through the cloud cover and shone on them like a spotlight. They were glancing upward and laughing. They looked absolutely blessed.

  That picture must have been reprinted a million times. When I look at it, I always study the prince’s happy face and try to figure out what he was thinking. Was he thinking: Ah, the people love her and she is sensible and sane and pleasant company and I’ve done my duty by selecting an able queen?

  That was, more or less, the line he gave his parents, and so we cannot, without accusing him of lying, think he did not believe it. But I wonder, as I look at that smile, if maybe he wasn’t feeling a bit mischievous. If he didn’t, on some level, know what he’d let himself in for. If he didn’t think he’d gone and done it, pulled a fast one on everyone.

  And her eyes? Have you ever really looked at her eyes in that picture? Her face betrays only rapture, but there is something frail about her eyes.

  Later, when the tabloids turned on her and all the biographies were written, much was made of how Her Royal Highness reportedly wept into her pillow the night before her wedding. So maybe it is only tiredness I see.

  But I think far too much was made of the weeping. For neither the tears nor the nightmares—she reported later that she dreamed that night of flashbulbs, thousands of blinding flashbulbs—meant that she did not want to marry the prince.

  She did want to marry him. He was a good and gentle man. He was handsome and he made her laugh. They did so love to spend time together. They thought it was great fun to whisper wildly inappropriate remarks at solemnly formal occasions. They both loved to read and liked to talk about their favorite authors. Watching a movie together while cuddled on the sofa during the rare Friday night that didn’t involve state functions was just . . . heaven.

  The prince made her happy.

  But that was only a fortunate happenstance, a fringe benefit. It was what Isabella’s American classmates would sometimes refer to as “gravy,” a vulgar phrasing that Isabella rather liked for its raw American feel. I’ve spent more time than I care to admit in America, and though my agent says that you can tell it in my writing—especially when I get excited or tired—I simply can’t abide this idiom. It is so like those hardy pioneers to mix animal fat with flour and consider it something wonderful enough to use as a metaphor for good things. Loving the prince was just gravy. (Or, if you’re thinking in terms more appropriate to a proper Bisbanian woman, loving the prince was just a good fig relish.)

  For as the wedding approached, Isabella came to realize on her own what someone really should have told her during all those years when she and the other suitable playmates were being lined up before the prince, pushed into his receiving lines, urged to dance, flirt, and spend time with him.

  She came to realize there was no way she could decline an invitation to be queen. Perhaps you dispute that. Lots of people certainly do. Many insist that they would, in a second, turn it down. They echo Isabella’s own words at that infamous ball, comparing a man with a crown to a man with a disease.

  But for a woman of Isabella’s age, in the era that Isabella lived, raised the way she was raised, saying “no thanks” was not possible. It was like winning the lottery. You know the jackpot can destroy a family, turn friends into wolves, and leave your life empty and directionless. You know that. But if your number comes up, you can’t just throw the ticket away. You can’t tell lightning to strike somewhere else.

  So, at the moment when Isabella ventured down the path that leads through the gardens of Glassidy Castle, she might as well have already been walking down the aisle of St. Luke’s Cathedral in that breathtaking dress. Her fate was sealed. She would be queen.

  Except, of course, she never was.

  Chapter 2

  I know, I know. The youngest of you probably want me to drop all this ancient history and just explain the mysteries that surrounded the princess after she became wrinkly and stooped with age. Others of you, I know, would rather I cut straight to the single tragedy of her life, the events of that tempestuous day on the beach shortly after her fifth wedding anniversary.

  And some of you want more about the wedding itself, want me to rehash all the details about how many thousands of people watch
ed, to recapture some of the editorials that praised the union, to wax on about how Raphael and Isabella were each escorted to the altar by their parents without comment, finally killing the appalling custom of “giving away the bride.”

  But again, even if you are as much of a fan of Her Highness as I am, you can dwell on these things for only so long.

  If you ask me, too much was written about the cloudy morning when she wed the prince, and the blustery afternoon when it became apparent that she had lost him. To understand Her Royal Highness, you must consider for a moment the early months of her marriage.

  There was, of course, the honeymoon. I’m not talking about the deliriously romantic nights the couple spent in the quaint and picturesque village of Positano, Italy, where, with the help of sunglasses and the unflappable townspeople, the royal newlyweds roamed the streets freely without interruptions and ate at ordinary tables without reservations.

  In those entire two weeks, Isabella was struck only once by her new status. Walking down a steep hill, she caught a glimpse of a girl in a second-story window. The girl stared quizzically at Isabella, who smiled and waved. A look of wonder and amazement passed over the girl’s face, and Isabella saw her turn and shout to her family: “Principessa! Principessa!”

  But the honeymoon I was talking about was the honeymoon with the press, with the people, with the advisers, with the world. Everyone wanted her to succeed. Her success would benefit the nation. And everyone was acutely aware of what a difficult transition she faced.

  For though Isabella grew up around the royal family, right in the heart of the castle as often as not, even she did not know what it meant to be royal. As the prince’s friend, and later as his date, she was often photographed going into various parties and dinners. As she got older, it was not uncommon, when standing in line at a bakery or theater, to hear a few whispers around her, as people sought confirmation that the woman ahead of them did look a bit like that woman Prince Raphael was said to be dating.

  But it was only as the rumors of the engagement began mounting and were eventually confirmed that she started being followed by the photographers and openly gawked at by strangers. For several weeks, even that wasn’t so bad, filled as it was with optimistic good wishes and refreshing enthusiasm.

  It was only in the last few weeks before the wedding that she had any real hint of what would await her. That was when she began to notice how some of the articles about the wedding would include snide comparisons about how many meals for the homeless the cake budget would buy. And after a small misstatement regarding a historical fact at the dedication of a war memorial, and that rather splashy spill she took coming down the castle’s grand staircase at the annual theater festival, a couple of newspapers even took to calling her “Dizzy Izzy.”

  “But I hate being called Izzy,” Isabella complained to friends, rather missing the point.

  Even so, things weren’t all bad. At least not compared to how they could have been. For a while, Isabella was even able to continue meeting her sister and some old primary-school chums for a weekly brunch at a small sidewalk café, which was, fittingly for the new Princess of Gallagher, located in the Gallagher neighborhood, along the picturesque banks of the Kloster River. Soon, though, photographers—lured by the image of young women wearing straw hats and sundresses while sitting outside sipping imported ciders and eating spring rolls with the river traffic rolling behind them—began camping just across the street, snapping away at every bite.

  The castle advisers, a group of stodgy and conservative men, wrung their hands and insisted that Isabella bring her friends to the castle for lunch. But Isabella ignored them, arguing that she would not live in fear, that the photographers would get bored eventually, and what would they gain anyway? Proof that she ate?

  During one infamous row on the subject, Sir Hubert, the head of castle operations, angrily put his foot down, saying, “I’m afraid, Your Highness, I must put my foot down. The café luncheons will stop.”

  Isabella stared him down with cool disinterest before mustering a rather nonegalitarian response: “That’s interesting. Because seeing as how I’m the future queen, and you’re nothing but hired help, I’m afraid I must put my foot down and insist the subject not be raised in my presence again.”

  This caused, as you might imagine, quite a stir at the castle. And it speaks volumes that of all the goings-on during what came to be known as the “Isabella years,” that particular confrontation was the only showdown not widely reported. Apparently, the people fond of leaking scuttlebutt weren’t so fond of leaking their own comeuppance.

  Even the queen, perhaps remembering the bullying she took in her own days as the Princess of Gallagher, was said to have enjoyed this little exchange, though she naturally feigned shock when Sir Hubert reported it to her.

  But Hubert eventually got his way, and the luncheon custom was abandoned after the unfortunate incident in which the princess’s sister, Lady Fiona, made a rather amusing crack about the prime minister—which, thankfully, the reporters did not overhear—and Isabella burst into laughter, blowing her water right out of her nose. I’m sorry to put it so bluntly, but there is no discreet way to get the point across.

  Like so many royal crises, this one seems in retrospect a bit, shall I say, overblown. But it is hard for us to imagine what it was like for someone of Isabella’s upbringing—she always curtsied when appropriate, knew her way around a twenty-seven-piece place setting, and generally had impeccable manners—to be plastered on the front pages of the tabloids with the headline: THAR SHE BLOWS, MATEY.

  And while the advisers and the royal family and the commentators all publicly expressed the “Well, it could happen to anyone and why don’t they leave her alone” sentiment, privately, everyone was rather aghast. For the picture was, and I don’t think I’m exaggerating, absolutely revolting. Her face was contorted. The spray was oceanic. One of her chums was reeling back as if she’d been shot, a look of abject horror on her face.

  The queen in particular was beside herself over the whole event, imagining the antics at upcoming state dinners as prankish foreigners tried their best gags in an effort to prod Old Faithful into a repeat performance. “And do remind me to give the princess handkerchiefs for Christmas,” the queen sniffed to a lady-in-waiting.

  All the tabloids reported that Isabella quipped afterward, “At least they got my good side.” But she didn’t really say that. That was the line Secrest and Raphael came up with to spread among the “friends” who would leak quotes to the tabloids. The advisers and Rafie hoped the comment showed a jaunty, self-mocking attitude that would please the people, rather than make them feel guilty for buying up the tabloids and snickering at the picture. The things Isabella really said were almost too pathetic to repeat. She cried and carried on and kept telling Raphael that she was a miserable wife and a miserable princess and why couldn’t they leave her alone for one hour a week and it didn’t matter, she might as well do what the advisers wanted and give up on the luncheons because her friends would give up on her soon enough if that sort of nonsense continued.

  Raphael was sympathetic about the photo. (It could, after all, happen to anyone.) But he was mystified about why she wouldn’t just have the luncheons at the castle. The prince had only briefly experienced, on his honeymoon and other foreign trips, the freedom of being able to walk in the street and to browse at shops and eat in restaurants without a fuss. It was, he supposed, fun in its way. But it didn’t strike him, at least not in those days, as something you needed to do all the time.

  Instead of moving the luncheons to the castle, Isabella gave up the ritual altogether, trying in vain to explain to Rafie that the feel of the luncheons—five independent women carving out precious time to meet, stand in line for fruit plates, and giggle at one another as they tried to adjust the table umbrella—would be utterly ruined if situated in the Glassidy Gardens with butlers tending to their needs.

  “Explain it to him, Secrest,” she’d say. �
��We’re modern working girls, aren’t we? You understand.”

  And Secrest—who was enough of a modern working girl to know that she would get nowhere by pointing out that Isabella wasn’t, strictly speaking, working—would demur and flee the room.

  In the days that followed the “thar she blows” photo, Raphael stayed up late each night, indulging his interest in the mechanics of communication by reading a speech therapy text called Enunciation and Pronunciation: A Layman’s Guide. Between chapters, he would pause to think about his conversations with Isabella. He decided she needed to take up an interest herself and stop being so ridiculous.

  And Isabella? On most of those nights, she went to bed thinking . . . well, to be honest, Isabella was thinking of Geoffrey.

  Chapter 3

  I guess I should explain before going further that I believe in princesses. Princes, too, of course, but especially princesses. A lot of people don’t, you know. Not these days. Not for a long time, really. We look back on the biggest royal weddings of old, watch the video of the outpouring at King William’s mum’s funeral, and we say those were monarchy’s glory days.

  But that’s revisionist history. We forget that there were protesters at those weddings and that people thought Will’s father should step aside, giving up his place in the line of succession. If European monarchies ever had glorious days, they were not as recent as that. I’m not sure there was ever a time when the very concept of a monarchy was not ridiculed and mocked—at least behind the king’s back.

  Anyway, it’s not that I believe monarchies are a good way to run a country. I don’t. And it’s not that the wealth of the ruling classes doesn’t appall me. It does.