Fairytale

Chapter Seven: The Woman You Married

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Nothing hurts me more than seeing you with her. Being so much happier than you ever were with me.

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"Alice Alexandria Helena Mary." His mother lowers her reading glasses. "Well, that's a suitably royal name."

"Fit for a princess."

After the whole 'Annabel' fiasco with Andrew, Charles was determined to clear the name that Diana and he chose with the Queen first.

"Your father will be pleased about Alice."

"I didn't pick it to please him." Knowing looks are not his mother's style, thankfully, so she doesn't give him one now. "Diana likes it—it was her choice."

"Where does 'Helena' come from?"

He should tell her it's for Queen Victoria's third daughter. Mummy will not question it, she's not exactly inquisitive where these sorts of things are concerned.

"Shakespeare. Midsummer Night's Dream." He adjusts his pocket square, and adds, unnecessarily— "Helena is a character from the play."

"Oh." His mother is trying without much success to put this into context. "Wherever did you get that idea?"

Charles suddenly feels awkward. He was so focused on the question of whether she would approve that that he might have to explain the meaning to his usually incurious mother had not occurred to him.

"It's—personal to Diana and me."

"You're naming a princess of the realm something—personal to the two of you."

That slight bite of sarcasm has as much power over him as a shout from his father. He explains, briefly as possible, that a love of the play is something he and his wife share. Elizabeth looks astounded to discover that he shares anything with her at all.

"And who is 'Helena'?"

"She's—one of the lovers."

"That rings a sort of bell." She's playful about it—at least playful for her. Mummy's pleased it's a girl, too. That makes it an even three and three. "And who is she in love with?"

"Demetrius. They are betrothed before it all starts. Unfortunately—" Charles hesitates. "—He...falls in love with someone else."

His mother has perfected the art of doing nothing, and her reaction—which is to not react—perfectly reflects this.

"Who?"

"Hermia."

Giving his mother a Shakespeare tutorial was not how he intended to go about telling her the state of his marriage, but as direct confrontations have never been their strong suit, well—it will have to do.

"Hermia?" The Queen repeats, as if this is a strange and silly word. "Hermia, who is—?"

"—In love with—Lysander." He winces out a smile. "That's part of the comedy of the play, you see, everyone is in love with the wrong—people."