George IV was, by all accounts, a fatuous king and a worse husband, but he had an undeniable knack for pageantry: A lot of the things that are now hallmarks of the monarchy were his initiatives, including the redesign of Buckingham Palace that yielded its current famous fa?ade, at least half the sparkle of its interior, and the Royal Procession at Ascot. The carriage parade begins at Windsor Great Park and winds around onto the racecourse past the grandstand, where a band strikes up “God Save the Queen.” There’s something magical about the rousing, carousing sound of sauced, exultant male and female voices shout-singing that anthem. If I’m around to hear “God Save the King” sung to Nick, I will cry every time. I got misty enough seeing through my binoculars how enthused he was by his first time in the procession with Eleanor. Her famous halting, semicircular wave had over the years become a flick, like she was halfheartedly shooing a gnat, but Nick’s was so hearty he almost banged into Her Majesty’s hat.
“Honey, he’s so handsome,” Mom said, squeezing my arm.
“He’s always been a dish,” agreed Gaz. “Can you imagine Nigel’s ugly mug on our money? If I’m going to make a fat pile of dosh at the track, I want it to be attractive.”
When Nick finally came up the elevator, and I saw him for the first time since January, I practiced my very best Barnes-approved walk and gave him a demure (if tight) hug and a kiss on both cheeks. Eleanor is lucky we didn’t tear into each other like some kind of Animal Planet show.
“Welcome home, sailor,” I said.
“You’ve no idea how good it is to see you,” Nick said, flicking my flag pin, which I’d put on the brim of my hat. “And also agonizing, because there are no hidey-holes in here for acting on these extremely inappropriate thoughts I’m having, oh, hello, Gran. Didn’t see you there.”
Eleanor’s face betrayed nothing—a lifetime of living behind a mask means hers very rarely slips, even in private—as she came around and laid an affectionate hand on Nick’s arm.
I curtsied. “Your Majesty. I was just telling Nick that I hope he can give me some insider tips on how to read a racing form.”
Nick shook his head. “I’m useless. I go by the jockey’s colors.”
“And I go by horse names,” Freddie said, joining us. “There’s some revolting nag in the Gold Cup called Dynastic that I hear is a lock to come in last. Know anything about that, Gran?”
The mask dropped and Eleanor all but vibrated with competitive fire. An inveterate horsewoman and Thoroughbred owner, she’d won some hardware over the years, but the Gold Cup—the most prestigious in British distance racing and the first leg of its own Triple Crown—cruelly eluded her. Bookmakers said Dynastic was her best shot at it in twenty years.
“Bite your tongue,” she said to Freddie. “I’ll expect your support in the form of a very generous bet.”
“Only if you let me have a tipple of brandy out of the Cup when you win,” he teased, poking cheekily at her hat. She swatted his hand away, with the kind of smile you give the overgrown imp you adore in spite of yourself, and headed off to her table. Lacey, across the room nursing a cocktail, waved awkwardly, and Freddie tipped his hat to her before pretending he was thrilled to see Thick Trevor and Dim Tim on the complete opposite side of the room.
“What’s that about?” Nick wondered, watching Freddie go. Before I could answer, Mom stopped over to give Nick a squeeze before making a beeline for Agatha. The two of them set to chatting like a couple of old ladies in their rocking chairs.
“And what’s that?” Nick asked.
“That is either a match made in heaven or an unholy alliance,” I said.
“Speaking of which,” Nick said, nudging me flirtatiously, “you would not believe the unholy things I’m thinking.”
“Can you get your mind out of the sack for a second?” I grinned.
“Not a chance,” he said. “I’ve been on the high seas, Rebecca. It makes a man thirsty.”
I laughed. “Settle down, Sub-Lieutenant. I’m a sure thing,” I said. “But first I have so much to tell you.”
“Nicholas!” said Paddington, breezing back from wherever she’d found her meditative bliss. “What a fucking pleasure!” She wetly pecked both his cheeks. “I haven’t seen you since that night we…well. You know.”
“Er,” Nick said, the tips of ears beginning to vibrate.
“He’s such a spiritual lover,” Paddington said to me.
“He…yes?” The implied question mark at the end was unintentional.
“The plane we were on was exquisite. I am so fucking delighted he’s found the right soul to unite with in carnal Nirvana,” Paddington said, and she seemed profoundly earnest about it. “Now if you’ll excuse me, my sex partner is waiting for me over there.”
During the ensuing seconds of silence, I must have burned a thousand calories just keeping my face impassive.
“We were split up. It was just one time,” he said.
“One very spiritual time.”
“And it only happened because I didn’t actually recognize her until after. Well, during.” He rubbed his head. “Wait, I’m making it worse. This is why I didn’t want to get into everything that happened during the Dark Period. It was just…you know…things happen over the course of two years and…two years, Bex.”
“Relax, I think it’s funny,” I said. “Things happened with me, too. Want me to spill one to even the score?”
I was teasing, but my eyes drifted to Clive. And then, against my will, toward Freddie. Maybe it was time to clear the ledger.
“Emphatically not,” Nick said. “Honestly, I prefer pretending those two years never happened.” He shook his head, as if evicting the thought. “How is everything else? How’s Lacey? How is your mother? Are you eloping with Barnes?” He took my hand. “Are you really okay?”
My eyes met his, that cornflower blue I would be able to recreate in oils from memory even if I never saw him again. I felt my jagged edges begin to realign.
“I am now,” I said.
*
Royal Ascot was awesome, even if Freddie would have poked fun at that very American turn of phrase. Gaz had the first three winners, and every single horse I backed came in dead last, which we agreed was, in its way, also a highly specialized achievement. The din of the spectators was infectious, but when the Gold Cup came around, the Royal Box fell silent. Everyone there had some sum of money—nominal or otherwise—on Dynastic, including Gaz, whose pick-six Jackpot ticket now depended on the filly. When the gates flew open the tension was palpable, and Dynastic, stuck in fifth place, wasn’t helping.
“Come on, get ’er going,” Gaz urged. “That’s the ticket.”
“She’s gaining,” Freddie said excitedly. “Must’ve eaten her Weetabix this morning.”