Hawthorne

43 - Coronation

Camilla of Wales

It's been a nightmare since the King died.

Right after it, urgent meetings were set. Everyone involved—a lot more than I would ever expect possible—showed up. They doubted the veracity of my lineage, they were all sceptic about the originality of the documents and so much more. My mother's roots also presented a problem for some.

Finally, in the end, knowing that it was either me or the Duke of Hawthorne, they resigned with me. Well, kind of...

Today is finally coronation day. And this feels like a movie, an out-of-body experience that has no end. The artificial lights have been eating at my eyes, giving me intense headaches day yes, day yes. Not to mention the foreign hands prodding everywhere, my hair, my face and my body.

Measures have been taken, all kinds of medical tests have been made and every day a team of professionals has come for make-up and fitting trials. I feel like these people know me better than I know myself, at this point.

"Almost ready for tonight, Your Royal-"

"Please," I cut off one of the girls helping me dress. "When it's just us..." I point to the three girls fussing around me. "Call me Camilla."

All three sets of eyes widen, and they all look in between themselves before hesitantly nodding. It must be hard, going from one ruler and the same kind of routine to another in the blink of an eye. Everyone's being extremely nice and respectful, which makes the experience slightly easier but still. Are they this way because they truly respect me or out of fear?

"So," I start, trying to make small talk. "How are you girls enjoying work since... Well... I stepped up?"

King Charles was right. It is lonely.

Other than Edgar, everyone thinks at least four times before they speak. Nothing has spontaneity anymore but I guess, I knew. I knew this had a price. An expensive one.

"It's been amazing, Your-"

"Camilla," I insist. "Please, if there is any trouble, don't hesitate in coming to me, and ask me to fix it."

They all nod eagerly and hastily go back to work, in silence. With a long defeated sigh, I give up trying to make conversation.

Half of the day has gone by in all of these preparations, I have barely left my bedroom but I've seen from the number of stressed voices and rustling on the outside, that the entire Palace is in chaos mode to get everything done.

My waist is tightened with a corset—are these still used?—my hair is pulled tightly into a low bun, and my fingernails are trimmed and painted in a transparent polish. Hours pass as the make-up is prepared and done and finally—finally—I am allowed to get dressed.

A beautiful pearly white dress is hanging in front of me just for a few more seconds until Jane brings it to me with Dina's help. They lower it down so I can step inside and once I do, they rise it back up, placing it in place and easily zip it up.

I turn around, to face the mirror. I have never been this dolled up in my entire life. Not even during the proclamation. As I look at myself, I can barely recognize the person on the other side of the glass. Hardened face, perfect posture and confidence.

Everything I am not feeling on the inside, but I am faking it very well. Fake it until you make it. The gown is outstanding, though. It has these thing golden threads embroidered into the fabric, just below the sweetheart cleavage and descending through my waist and hips. There are a few more on the long and puff skirt. It's not as wide as Cinderella's gown in her fantasy story, but it's slightly bigger than an A-line. The embroideries are floral motifs, just beautiful. It doesn't have long sleeves but straps instead. Those are thick, falling over the sides, onto my arms.