I, however, remain unconvinced. It’s fair to say, I’m not exactly an enthusiastic gardener. In fact, I’m not a gardener at all. Given the choice, I would far rather ride my horse or lose myself in a well-written biography than spend an afternoon digging in damp soil.
The ground squelches under my weight.
“These are our native garden beds,” Miss Singh explains. “We only plant shrubs and flowers that have traditionally grown in this particular part of Ledonia.”
Astrid claps her hands together as though she’s just been handed a winning lottery ticket. She’s wearing one of the new skirt suits given to her for this tour. I already know it’ll be covered in splodges of dirt before the afternoon isdone. “Oh, I love that! We have an entire garden devoted to native plants back home at the palace. It feels so wonderful to restore the land to how it was before human occupation. I like to imagine dinosaurs roaming among our gardens, although that may be going back a few million years too far.”
Miss Singh laughs, and the small cluster of spectators around us chuckle. Even the press seem to be charmed by my fiancée.
Once again, Astrid has won them over, just as we’d hoped she would.
As for me, I simply stand beside her like a lamppost in daylight, present, but completely unnecessary.
I remember reading about how the Princess of Wales eclipsed her husband during royal walkabouts. How crowds would brighten when she approached. How some made little effort to disguise their disappointment when they got Prince Charles instead of her.
Watching Astrid now I understand in a way I never did before.
But for my part, I’m relieved. Relieved to allow the spotlight to move away from me. Relieved to allow someone else to take the attention.
Astrid doesn’t hesitate in kneeling down to plant the first shrub, patting the soil down with firm, capable hands. “You’ve got such hard work ahead of you,” she tells Miss Singh. “But it will be absolutely worth it. It always is.”
“You’re doing a splendid job, ma’am. Miss Singh passes Astrid another plant. “I wondered whether you might like to join your fiancée in planting, sir.” She holds out a small shrub, its roots bundled neatly in dark soil.
“Of course,” I reply at once. “I would love to plant shrubs.”
The words sound rehearsed, even to my own ears.
I move to crouch beside Astrid, feeling more than a little conspicuous as I do so.
“You’ll be much better off if you kneel, Fred,” she murmurs under her breath.
I glance down at my perfectly pressed trousers, the center crease sharp enough to slice paper.
It can’t be helped. I don’t want to be the prince who refused to plant a shrub while his wife showed the country how capable she is.
I sink to my knees. Cool dampness seeps through the fabric, and I suppress the urge to wince. Miss Singh hands me a trowel, and I start digging with what I hope appears to be gardening competence, when in reality the last time I did this was at another botanical garden, while being photographed by the press a year or two ago.
I’ve made a decent hole when a thick worm wriggles into view.
I stop at once.
“Oh! Look at that,” Astrid says, delighted, as though we have uncovered buried treasure.
I’m less certain how to proceed. I do not particularly wish to touch it.
“Why don’t you budge a little closer to me,” Astrid suggests. “You could dig a fresh hole? We’ll cover this one back over. Keep Wyatt Worm looking handsome.”
“Wyatt Worm?” I repeat.
She shrugs. “He seems like a Wyatt to me.”
I exhale slowly, then shift closer to her. Our shoulders brush as I begin again, carving out a second hole a few inches to the left. The cameras click relentlessly, but I focus on the neat rhythm of the trowel cutting through earth. For a moment, I forget about the mud soaking through my trousers, the worm, even the press. Instead, Ifind myself enjoying our closeness, the way her hands occasionally brush mine, our shoulders touching. It’s the sort of image my press secretary would describe as “excellent optics.”
As we press soil around the base of the shrubs, I feel the same current I felt yesterday at the aquarium. I hadn’t planned to take her hand in mine. There’d been no calculation, no awareness of cameras or headlines. It had simply felt right to reach for her.
Natural.
Inevitable.
