“This is quite a spectacle,” she whispered. “It will be fine pomp and circumstance for the masses.”
During World War II her grandfather had ordered the crown jewels moved from the nearby Wakefield Tower to an underground chamber beneath the Waterloo Barracks. There a magnificent star-shaped case was constructed and elaborately lit to showcase one of the last sets of crown jewels left in the world. But the swarm of visitors that flocked each year to view the display had proven too much for the cramped chamber, and Victoria had commissioned a larger location back at ground level. It had taken two years to remodel an old barracks into a state-of-the-art vault that not only ensured security but also provided a dazzling spectacle.
Evening sunshine from outside was replaced by a cool semi-darkness. A wide corridor led forward, equipped with a conveyor-belt walkway designed to keep viewers from lingering. The cases themselves were illuminated with a combination of halogen floods and miniature lasers. He’d never seen the collection in such vivid color, and the effect was remarkable. Today the conveyor belt was still and the twenty or so guests strolled about, taking their time. Eleanor had come to represent her mother, her appearance limited to this tour, as other duties would shortly take her to North London and Greenwich. Her causes varied from animal rights to organizations for the disabled to environmental concerns. Richard tended to draw the industrial plant openings, state visits, and trade association gatherings.
“The ceremony will begin promptly at 7:00 P.M.,” an attendant reminded everyone. “We need you outside around 6:30. Until then, please enjoy the display.”
Eleanor led the way as they drifted to where her nephew, Albert, stood alone admiring the crowns.
“One of those will someday be on your head,” she said as they approached.
The others were studying more of the regalia in other cases.
“The thought is frightening,” the young man said.
Albert Saxe-Coburg was tall, with squared shoulders, his legs and arms in nearly perfect proportion to a sturdy frame. A thick patch of hair drew attention to eyes that seemed to flash a dreamy light. He’d acquired most of his physical features from his mother, who was, though batty, incredibly beautiful. Virtually no Saxe-Coburg feature could be found in his nose, mouth, or eyes, and only the pronounced oval skull and tiny ears could be credited to his father. He was well educated, an Eton scholar, versed in the classics and possessed of an Oxford degree. His interests were simple, among them chess and Scrabble. A procession of nannies, tutors, and sporting instructors contributed to his upbringing and helped instill a sense of conscience. He was soft-spoken and chose his words with great care. Yourstone could recall no press report ever speaking ill about him. Born to privilege, educated with purpose, and existing in a life devoid of privacy, this young man had managed to remain both sane and immensely popular.
Yourstone stared through the polished glass a few feet away at the 400-year-old St. Edward’s Crown. He envisioned the Archbishop of Canterbury, who stood on the other side of the room admiring the royal scepters, reverently placing that crown onto Eleanor’s head. Cheers would ring as echoes of God save the queen bounced from the walls of Westminster Abbey.
“You will do us proud,” Eleanor told her nephew.
The young man smiled at her. “You are a treasure, Aunt Ellie.” Protocol would never allow him to speak such intimacies outside the immediate family. “I see why Father loves you so.”
“Your father is a troubled man. He does not want to be king.”
“I’m afraid you are right.”
“But he’s lucky to have such a worthy son.”
Yourstone’s gaze fixed on the smaller Imperial Crown. Once Eleanor’s coronation ended, with her having taken Holy Communion and withdrawing to an adjacent chapel, he could envision her changing into velvet robes, the heavier St. Edward’s Crown replaced with this lighter version. Her great-great-great-grandmother Victoria I had been a finicky sort, much like herself, and ordered its creation, an accommodation for comfort demanded by her petite size and spare frame.
Albert exhaled a short breath and continued to stare at the display. “Father must deal with his own demons. It’s not my place to interfere.”
“Nor mine, but I have told him to let these crowns pass him by, directly to you.”
The young man’s face tightened, but he did not look at her. “Bad advice, Aunt Ellie.”
“You’re more ready than he will ever be.” She paused a moment. “And I can say that because I am his sister.”
People began edging toward the exit. The ceremony dedicating the new Jewel House would begin shortly outside on the Tower Green. The Archbishop of Canterbury ambled toward them. He was a short, stern-faced man with a receding hairline.
“This is truly a wonder,” the prelate said.
Albert nodded. “Quite right. The designers have done the nation proud.”
“Such a shame these are merely recent creations. What a sight the originals and jewels must have been.”
What the archbishop observed was true. Nearly everything surrounding them had been crafted in the 19th century or later, at a time when the Crown was forced to rely on wealth and ceremony to generate respect.
“Perhaps the monarchy did itself a great disservice when it chose luxury over power,” Yourstone said.
The archbishop shook his head. “If I recall, Parliament did not give much choice. The time of absolute rule had ended.”
“Nothing ever ends,” he made clear.