Spare

We all gathered in our little front annex, and this time there was no small talk: Kate got things rolling straightaway by acknowledging that these stories in the papers about Meg making her cry were totally false. I know, Meghan, that I was the one who made you cry.

I sighed. Excellent start, I thought.

Meg appreciated the apology, but wanted to know why the papers had said this, and what was being done to correct them? In other words: Why isn’t your office standing up for me? Why haven’t they phoned this execrable woman who wrote this story, and demanded a retraction?

Kate, flustered, didn’t answer, and Willy chimed in with some very supportive-sounding evasions, but I already knew the truth. No one at the Palace could phone the correspondent, because that would invite the inevitable retort: Well, if the story’s wrong, what’s the real story? What did happen between the two duchesses? And that door must never be opened, because it would embarrass the future queen.

The monarchy, always, at all costs, had to be protected.

We shifted from what to do about the story to where it came from. Who could’ve planted such a thing? Who could’ve leaked it to the press in the first place? Who?

We went around and around. The list of suspects became vanishingly small.

Finally, finally, Willy leaned back and conceded that, ahem, while we’d been on tour in Australia, he and Kate had gone to dinner with Pa and Camilla…and, alas, he said sheepishly, he might’ve let it slip that there’d been strife between the two couples…

I put a hand over my face. Meg froze. A heavy silence fell.

So now we knew.

I told Willy: You…of all people…should’ve known…

He nodded. He knew.

More silence.

It was time for them to go.

58.

It kept on and on. One story after another. I thought at times of Mr. Marston ceaselessly ringing his insane bell.

Who can ever forget the spate of front-page stories making Meg out to be singlehandedly responsible for the End Times? Specifically, she’d been “caught” eating avocado toast, and many stories explained breathlessly that the harvesting of avocados was hastening the destruction of the rainforests, destabilizing developing countries, and helping to fund state terrorism. Of course the same media had recently swooned over Kate’s love of avocados. (Oh, how they make Kate’s skin glow!)

Notably, it was around this time that the super-narrative embedded within each story began to shift. It was no longer about two women fighting, two duchesses at odds, or even two households. It was now about one person being a witch and causing everyone to run from her, and that one person was my wife. And in building this super-narrative the press was clearly being assisted by someone or multiple someones inside the Palace.

Someone who had it in for Meg.

One day it was: Yuck—Meg’s bra strap was showing. (Classless Meghan.)

The next day: Yikes—she’s wearing that dress? (Trashy Meghan.)

The next day: God save us, her fingernails are painted black! (Goth Meghan.)

The next day: Goodness—she still doesn’t know how to curtsy properly. (American Meghan.)

The next day: Crikey, she shut her own car door again! (Uppity Meghan.)

59.

We’d rented a house in Oxfordshire. Just a place to get away now and then from the maelstrom, but also from Nott Cott, which was charming but too small. And falling down around our heads.

It got so bad that one day I had to phone Granny. I told her we needed a new place to live. I explained that Willy and Kate hadn’t simply outgrown Nott Cott, they’d fled it, because of all the required repairs, and the lack of room, and we were now in the same boat. With two rambunctious dogs…and a baby on the way…

I told her we’d discussed our housing situation with the Palace, and we’d been offered several properties, but each was too grand, we thought. Too lavish. And too expensive to renovate.

Granny gave it a think and we chatted again days later.

Frogmore, she said.

Frogmore, Granny?

Yes. Frogmore.

Frogmore House?

I knew it well. That was where we’d taken our engagement photos.

No, no—Frogmore Cottage. Near Frogmore House.

Sort of hidden, she said. Tucked away. Originally home to Queen Charlotte and her daughters, then to one of Queen Victoria’s aides, and later it was chopped into smaller units. But it could be reassembled. Lovely place, Granny said. Plus, historic. Part of the Crown Estate. Very sweet.

I told her that Meg and I loved the gardens at Frogmore, we went walking there often, and if it was near those, well, what could be better?