Spare

He cited Grandpa as a sterling example of why the press wasn’t anything to get too vexed about. Poor Grandpa had been abused by the papers for most of his life, but now look. He was a national treasure! The papers couldn’t say enough good things about the man.

So that’s it, then? Just wait till we’re dead and all will be sorted?

If you could just endure it, darling boy, for a little while, in a funny way they’d respect you for it.

I laughed.

All I’m saying is, don’t take it personally.

Speaking of taking things personally, I told them I might learn to endure the press, and even forgive their abuse, I might, but my own family’s complicity—that was going to take longer to get over. Pa’s office, Willy’s office, enabling these fiends, if not outright collaborating?

Meg was apparently a bully—that was the latest vicious campaign they’d helped orchestrate. It was so shocking, so egregious, that even after Meg and I demolished their lie with a twenty-five-page, evidence-filled report to Human Resources, I was going to have trouble simply shrugging that one off.

Pa stepped back. Willy shook his head. They began talking over each other. We’ve been down this road a hundred times, they said. You’re delusional, Harry.

But they were the delusional ones.

Even if, for the sake of argument, I accepted that Pa and Willy and their staff had never done one overt thing against me or my wife—their silence was an undeniable fact. And that silence was damning. And continuing. And heartrending.

Pa said: You must understand, darling boy, the Institution can’t just tell the media what to do!

Again, I yelped with laughter. It was like Pa saying he couldn’t just tell his valet what to do.

Willy said I was a fine one to talk about cooperating with the press. What about my chat with Oprah?

A month earlier Meg and I had done an interview with Oprah Winfrey. (Days before it aired, those Meg-is-a-bully stories started popping up in the papers—what a coincidence!) Since leaving Britain, the attacks on us had been increasing exponentially. We had to try something to make it stop. Being silent wasn’t working. It was only making it worse. We felt we had no choice.

Several close mates and beloved figures in my life, including one of Hugh and Emilie’s sons, Emilie herself, and even Tiggy, had chastised me for Oprah. How could you reveal such things? About your family? I told them that I failed to see how speaking to Oprah was any different from what my family and their staffs, had done for decades—briefing the press on the sly, planting stories. And what about the endless books on which they’d cooperated, starting with Pa’s 1994 crypto-autobiography with Jonathan Dimbleby? Or Camilla’s collaborations with the editor Geordie Greig? The only difference was that Meg and I were upfront about it. We chose an interviewer who was above reproach, and we didn’t once hide behind phrases like “Palace sources,” we let people see the words coming out of our mouths.

I looked at the Gothic ruin. What’s the point? I thought. Pa and Willy weren’t hearing me and I wasn’t hearing them. They’d never had a satisfactory explanation for their actions and inactions, and never would, because there was no explanation. I started to say goodbye, good luck, take care, but Willy was really steaming, shouting that if things were as bad as I made out, then it was my fault for never asking for help.

You never came to us! You never came to me!

Since boyhood that had been Willy’s position on everything. I must come to him. Pointedly, directly, formally—bend the knee. Otherwise, no aid from the Heir. I wondered why I should have to ask my brother to help when my wife and I were in peril.

If we were being mauled by a bear, and he saw, would he wait for us to ask for help?

I mentioned the Sandringham Agreement. I’d asked for his help about that, when the agreement was violated, shredded, when we were stripped of everything, and he hadn’t lifted a finger.

That was Granny! Take it up with Granny!

I waved a hand, disgusted, but he lunged, grabbed my shirt. Listen to me, Harold.

I pulled away, refused to meet his gaze. He forced me to look into his eyes.

Listen to me, Harold, listen! I love you, Harold! I want you to be happy.

The words flew out of my mouth: I love you too…but your stubbornness…is extraordinary!

And yours isn’t?

I pulled away again.

He grabbed me again, twisting me to maintain eye contact.