It was a sight to behold.
For most women, their one defining day was their wedding. Yet, for the queen, it was without doubt her coronation. Caroline saw now that Miranda was right, that women around the world would realize that they, too, could expect more from life. They, too, could reach into a future where they were welcomed into the world of business and politics. Instead of staying at home, looking after husbands and children, staying behind the scenes, women could step out of the shadows, become the centre of their own worlds. They could thrive on their own without needing a boss or a husband telling them what to do.
Ever since she’d left Frank, Caroline had been overcome with anemotion that was utterly new to her: anger. Instead of the meek, subservient wife, she’d realized how much he’d used her, taken advantage of her good, moral nature.
Early one morning, she’d visited a lawyer on the high street and filed for a divorce, borrowing money from Betty. She and Annabel would have plenty to live on now that she didn’t have to finance Frank’s gambling habit. She’d pay Betty back and then start saving for the trip to Yorkshire.
Since she didn’t want a share of the house or any money – she knew there was none – and that Frank would not contest custody, the lawyer told her that the case would not be a lengthy one.
It was a relief. Now that she knew the truth, Annabel was reluctant to spend time with Frank. She had a lot of questions, including why her mother made such a choice – why was it that pregnant women were vilified and forced to take such drastic measures?
Caroline knew that she needed to put her daughter first, to give her time. Just as she was angry, Annabel was struggling to come to terms with what had happened, with who she was. She asked questions about Angus, keen to see him again. She’d taken up gardening, too, and borrowed some books about horses from the library. It was as if she were trying it on for size, seeing herself in a new, fresh light, something that had always been inside coming to the surface.
The heavy throne stood on the raised central part of the abbey. On one side, the bishops sat in their raiment, beside them the peers and peeresses.
The service was formal, filled with bible readings, hymns and prayers, culminating in the investiture. For this, the queen’s gown was covered with a plain white dress to symbolize purity, and she was then anointed with holy oil beneath a white canopy.
Then she was led to the great throne for the supreme climax.
The organ and congregation hushed, and the archbishop lowered the tall, glittering St Edward’s Crown onto her head.
As one, the congregation chanted, ‘God save the queen.’ The queen was given the sceptres and orb, and there she was, now a true queen, serious and firm in her resolve as she gazed ahead.
The peers came to pay homage, and Philip knelt before her, bowing to his new monarch, then kissing her on her cheek. Even though he vowed to serve Elizabeth as his monarch, he insisted that she was still his wife.
After the dukes and lords had knelt before her, the orchestra broke into illustrious music, and ‘Zadok the Priest’ resounded from the choir as the ceremony drew to a close.
Finally, the procession returned back down the aisle, and the two dressers slipped into a small side chapel, where the queen would stop for a break before the two-hour carriage procession through the city.
As the entourage entered, the dressers hurried forward, removing the crown and golden tunic, and soon the queen was back in her original gown, relieved as she relaxed into a chair.
‘It was so hot underneath all of that!’ she remarked, accepting a glass of water.
There were refreshments, too, the page boys tucking into the sandwiches with a vengeance and the archbishop pulling out a flask of brandy. The ceremony was exhausting by anyone’s standards. One of the maids of honour had been saved from collapsing in the middle of the abbey by one of the male courtiers, who propped her up until she recovered.
As the dressers withdrew to give the queen a rest, Caroline found herself looking anxiously through the small crowd in the room.
Now was the time for her to fulfil her special mission.
She saw the woman with whom she needed to speak and, calming her nerves, Caroline stepped up to her. ‘Mrs Villiers, I wondered if I could have a quiet word.’
Tired behind her grey-blue eyes, Henrietta Villiers was neither as good-looking nor as charming as her husband. She said sharply, ‘I can’t imagine what you might want, but keep it brief. Do you need to re-pin my hair? I knew it wasn’t as tight as it should have been.’
‘No, it’s not that.’ Caroline took a deep breath. ‘It’s about your husband.’
The woman’s eyes narrowed. ‘What about him?’
Suddenly, Caroline felt wrong-footed. She thought she was doingthis woman a favour, letting her know what her husband was up to when she wasn’t there. But it was Caroline’s word against his. Why should Henrietta Villiers listen?
Underneath, a groundswell of fear built up: she could get fired for this.
‘I, er,’ she hesitated.
‘Well, get on with it.’
‘He’s been playing around with a wardrobe assistant from the palace. I thought you might like to know.’ She looked at her hands. ‘She told me that he’s also having a full-blown affair with a waitress from the Thursday Lunch Club, Nancy Peterson.’
A growing flush came over the woman’s face, and then she swallowed hard, pulling herself together, and it was all Caroline could do not to put an arm around her shoulder. No matter how grand a lady she was, she was still a wife, and one who had just been hurt to the core.
