The princess, p.1
The Princess, page 1
PRAISE FOR
The Duchess
“One of the delights of historical fiction is the what-if factor, and Holden poses a whopper: What if Edward never really wanted to be king and pursued Wallis, whom he knew he couldn’t marry as monarch, to avoid the throne? We’ll never know, but fans of biographical fiction and British royalty will thoroughly enjoy this sparkling tale of love and loss.”
—Booklist
PRAISE FOR
The Royal Governess
“A beautifully woven and exquisitely detailed story of strong upstairs-downstairs women whose lives entwine during some of the most significant periods of modern British history. . . . A novel that will stand the test of time. I loved it.”
—Heather Morris, New York Times bestselling author of The Tattooist of Auschwitz
“An intimate view of the royal family at a time of great uncertainty and change, The Royal Governess is a beautifully written and richly detailed piece of historical fiction. Marion Crawford’s dedication to her charges, as well as her passion for education and reform, shines through the pages. Through her eyes, the reader is transported back in time and thoroughly immersed in the lives of the British royal family. A delightful read!”
—Chanel Cleeton, New York Times bestselling author of The Last Train to Key West
“Wendy Holden absolutely delivers in this perfect blend of story and history. The Royal Governess is a fabulous read for not only devotees of period fiction and the British royals, but anyone with a hunger for a well-crafted tale. Lovers of The Crown will adore this!”
—Susan Meissner, bestselling author of The Last Year of the War
“A moving, gorgeously written page-turner. We peek behind the Windsors’ swagged silk curtains—the insider details are a total delight—but the story’s beating heart belongs to the devoted royal governess, Crawfie. Holden takes the reader on a glittering, unforgettable journey.”
—Eve Chase, author of The Daughters of Foxcote Manor
“This is a warm and often witty work of biographical historical fiction that deftly weaves fact with imagination into an engaging tale of life behind the palace walls. Fans of the genre and of the British royals will find it absolutely delightful.”
—Booklist
“Holden grounds the story of Marion’s attempt to help the princesses understand all classes of English society with rich historical details, and develops Marion’s character as she navigates her true calling amid staggering privilege. This lively historical tale will please fans of the English royal family.”
—Publishers Weekly
“A very satisfying reading experience. It’s doubtful the queen would enjoy it, but pretty much everybody else will.”
—The Washington Post
Titles by Wendy Holden
The Royal Governess
The Duchess
The Princess
BERKLEY
An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
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Copyright © 2023 by Wendy Holden
Readers Guide copyright © 2023 by Wendy Holden
Excerpt from The Duchess copyright © 2021 by Wendy Holden
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Holden, Wendy, 1965– author.
Title: The princess / Wendy Holden.
Description: First edition. | New York: Berkley, 2023.
Identifiers: LCCN 2023007814 (print) | LCCN 2023007815 (ebook) | ISBN 9780593437308 (trade paperback) | ISBN 9780593437315 (ebook)
Subjects: LCSH: Diana, Princess of Wales, 1961–1997—Fiction. | LCGFT: Biographical fiction. | Novels.
Classification: LCC PR6058.O436 P75 2023 (print) | LCC PR6058.O436 (ebook) | DDC 823/.914—dc23/eng/20230321
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2023007814
LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2023007815
First Edition: August 2023
Cover design by Sarah Oberrender
Cover photograph by David De Lossy / Getty Images
Book design by Kristin del Rosario, adapted for ebook by Kelly Brennan
This is a work of fiction. Apart from the well-known historical figures and actual people, events, and locales that figure in the narrative, all other characters are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Where real-life historical persons appear, the situations, incidents, and dialogues concerning those persons are not intended to change the entirely fictional nature of the work.
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CONTENTS
Cover
Praise for Wendy Holden
Titles by Wendy Holden
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
Readers Guide
Discussion Questions
Excerpt from The Duchess
About the Author
_144442721_
To Vanda
ONE
Beneath a hot blue summer sky, the bells of the great cathedral pealed joyfully over the city. The crowds roared their delight. The glass coach moved through the streets, pulled by proud white horses and attended by gold-braided footmen.
From behind the polished crystal windows, the teenage princess-to-be peered excitedly out. She could scarcely believe the number of people who had come to see her, all jostling on the pavement, madly waving flags and shouting her name. Never had she felt so loved.
Or so beautiful. Her professionally done makeup was perfect, a light touch because of her youth but enough to enhance her loveliness for the TV cameras, the audience watching across the world. Her thick blond hair gleamed, held in place by a diamond tiara. Her cream silk dress was so huge it almost filled the carriage; her father, sitting beside her, was nearly hidden behind its folds.
“Bigger!” she had laughingly told the designer when he had asked how large and long the train should be. “Let’s make it the biggest one anyone’s ever seen!”
She had said the same to the florist. More roses! More lilies! More orange blossoms! Why hold back, on this glorious day? She felt extravagantly, deliriously happy, and she wanted everything, from the pearls in her ears to the lace rosettes on her shoes, to express it.
“Darling, I’m so proud of you!” Her father, eyes brimming with tears, reached for her hand, on which the great engagement ring glittered. The wedding band itself, made from a special nugget of gold, was with her soon-to-be-husband, the prince. Who, even now, was ascending the red carpet up the cathedral steps, passing under the pillared portico, handsome in his uniform, his decorations glinting in the sunshine, his sword hanging by his side.
The thought made her almost weak with joy. All her dreams had come true. She was a beautiful princess who was marrying a handsome prince. But far more importantly, she was in love, and beloved herself. She had given her heart to her husband, and he had given his to her. Their marriage would last forever; they would have lots of children and be happy ever after. He would never leave her, never let her down. She had suffered much, but from now on, everything was going to be perfect .
“Well?” Diana was staring at me from the opposite seat in the train carriage, her thirteen-year-old face bright with expectation. “Sandy, don’t you think that’s the most romantic ending ever?”
I looked up from the paperback she had passed me. It was called Bride to the King and was evidently much read. The picture on the cover was of a blond woman in a big white dress embracing a dark-haired man in uniform. He wore a blue sash and a sword by his side. “Definitely,” I agreed.
“Absolutely the best!”
I knew I could take her word for it. I was quite new to the romantic fiction genre, but Diana had read literally hundreds. Her favorite writer was Barbara Cartland. Her novels were all dashing heroes with jutting jaws, and beautiful heroines with heaving bosoms.
Love was their constant theme. Head-spinning, heart-racing, eternal Love. It was the most important thing of all, and Diana and I both loved the idea of it. You fell in Love, it overwhelmed you, and once you were in it, everything was perfect. It sounded to me like a particularly delicious bath, deep and warm with lots of bubbles.
“Shall I tell you something incredible, Sandy?” Diana asked.
I nodded eagerly.
“My daddy’s got a new friend. She’s called Lady Raine Dartmouth.”
That was, I concurred, an extraordinary name.
“That’s not the amazing thing!” Diana leaned toward me, her blue eyes huge and excited. “Her mother is actually Barbara Cartland!”
Astonished as I was, I was also aware that this sort of thing seemed typical of Diana’s family. From what I had heard from other people, and Diana herself, the Spencers were unbelievably dramatic and exotic. And, as I was now going home with her for the holidays, I would meet them all.
* * *
—
Ihad met Diana at school, although we had not been friends initially. We came from very different backgrounds. I was an orphan; my parents had died in a car crash when I was a baby. Aunt Mary had brought me up. She was my father’s older sister, an austere spinster of modest means. She was undemonstrative but believed in the proper education of girls. Undaunted by the fact that she lacked the money for good schools, she scoured the Daily Telegraph for scholarship opportunities.
Of these, my current school was the latest. And, I hoped, the last, although Aunt Mary’s quest to find the best school for the least outlay was something of a mania with her. But I was fed up with moving and wanted somewhere I could settle down, sit exams and go on to university. After which, Aunt Mary assured me, the world and all its opportunities would open up.
The school occupied a large, pale house at the end of a long, tree-lined drive. Sweeping green parkland stretched to either side. With its imposing portico and castellated stable yard, it looked glamorous and impressive.
On the day I was dropped off, the families saying farewell on the drive looked glamorous and impressive too. Beside each was a shiny new trunk painted with at least four initials. New hats, bags, tuck boxes and sports equipment were piled round it. Not far away was the shiny family car.
Aunt Mary did not have a car; we had come on the train. Transporting my own battered secondhand trunk, sporting just the two initials, had required help that was not always willingly given. My blazer too was secondhand, while my skirt, handmade by Aunt Mary to save money, was not of the regulation cut. My shoes, meanwhile, looked like barges, bought two sizes too large so I could “grow into them” and forcing a clumping, graceless walk.
I looked around me, wondering who I would be friends with, if anyone. Socially, I did not aspire to much. To pass muster and blend in would be enough.
My new peers looked much the usual mixture. There were the confident and beautiful ones, the bouncy and sporty ones, and the plain ones, among whom I—small, plump and heavily bespectacled—would be one of the plainest. Also conspicuous were the girls who had never been to boarding school before but who had read Enid Blyton and begged their parents to send them. They were easy to identify—wide-eyed, looking excitedly about as they tried to spot real-life equivalents of the heroines of St. Clare’s and Malory Towers.
I felt rather sorry for them. They would be shattered to discover that the world of midnight feasts and classroom tricks did not exist. Nothing about a real boarding school was anything like Enid Blyton novels. In Enid Blyton, girls were celebrated for their individuality. In real life, conformity was everything. In Enid Blyton, rich girls with titles were taken down a peg or two. In real life, they were worshipped. As a poor girl in a succession of wealthy schools, I had more reason to know that than most.
I felt a brief, hopeless stir of loneliness, anticipating the games where I would be the last picked for teams, the dancing lessons where I wouldn’t have a partner. Then I took a deep, sinew-stiffening breath. I was lucky to be here, and it was a means to what would ultimately be a glorious end. Aunt Mary had done her best for me, and it was my duty to get on with it.
My aunt said a final hurried goodbye and shut the door, and the taxi set off. Amid the lavish hugs and kisses of everyone else, I walked toward the school and the future.
The dormitory was, as usual, long rows of beds facing one another. One unexpected touch was the portrait of Prince Charles at the entrance. He wore a crown of futuristic design, which looked comical with his big ears and hangdog expression. A small plaque beneath explained the photograph had been presented to the school by one of the governors.
There was the usual panicked scramble to bag beds next to hastily made friends. Over the years I had learned that the best way to hide not being in demand myself was to bag one of the beds by the wall. I made my way toward it, passing on my way a bed covered in small, furry animals. There must, I reckoned, have been about twenty, of differing sizes, colors and species, all carefully arranged and staring up with expectant glassy eyes.
I met their gaze with concern. As I literally couldn’t afford to put a foot wrong, Aunt Mary had obtained the school’s catalog of regulations. She had taken me carefully through strictures ranging from not running in corridors to the number of toys allowed on one’s bed. Two, as it happened. Whoever this menagerie belonged to was going to be in trouble when, as we had been warned would happen any minute, Matron came to inspect the dormitory.
I looked over at the gaggle of girls chattering and shrieking as they unpacked night cases, shook out pajamas, flung slippers about and spanked each other with hairbrushes. I didn’t feel one of them, but I didn’t want to see any of them publicly humiliated either. Matrons, in my experience, were invariably sadists. That it was someone’s first night away from home would not move them to pity in the least.
I started to gather up the animals and hastily shove them under the bed.
“What are you doing?” demanded someone behind me.
I turned and found myself looking at a tall and beautiful girl. She had very red lips, thick golden hair and big, glassy blue eyes. Her skin had a pale glow, with a rich rose tint high on her cheeks. There was something glossy and luxuriant about her. I thought of a dewdrop in the center of a flower, or thick cream in a glass jug.
“Hiding your toys,” I said. “You’re only supposed to have two, and you’ll catch it if Matron comes in.”
She said nothing, but I glanced around as I walked away and saw her hurriedly concealing the remainder of her collection.
The bed nearest the wall was, as usual, the last to be picked. I put down my night case next to it and began to unpack. The girl in the adjacent bed, who introduced herself as Catherine, had evidently been watching the cuddly toy exchange.
“You know her father’s a viscount, don’t you?” she whispered. “Lord Althorp. She’s the Honorable Diana Spencer.”
I wasn’t surprised. Both her cut-glass voice and her glossy looks had suggested one of the elect. I was less sure about the “honorable”; she hadn’t even said thank you.
Matron appeared in the dormitory doorway. “Stand by your beds!” she bellowed.
There was a collective gasp, some suppressed squeals and a general scattering of girls. She marched along, huge black brogues crunching heavily on the lino, inspecting the beds with the zeal of a field marshal. Her small eyes with their metallic glint switched meanly about. We stood ramrod straight, hardly daring to breathe.
