Page 33 of The Rest is History
Elodie
‘ I ’m seriously tempted to sack in my job teaching boring old nineteenth century history and just come work here,’ I tell Charlie the following week as I process about the palace in all my finery, on the arm of a most handsome monarch.
‘As your boss, I’m sorry to hear you are so unmotivated to do the job we’re paying you to do,’ he says drily, and I stick my tongue out at him.
Because, honestly, I’m getting so attached to this place and to the community of people who work here.
Not just my fellow queens—though they’re awesome—but the rest of the enormous team that keeps this historic gem alive and in stunning condition.
Gardeners. Conservators. Historians. Stewards.
Even the specialist fire staff who oversee the lighting and maintenance of the enormous fire in the royal kitchen.
This morning, Charlie and I arrived early and enjoyed having the gardens to ourselves.
When in costume, we have to stick to the Tudor part of the palace.
But I adore the newer wing, too, with its racy frescos and trompe d’oeil panels and huge canopied beds.
I still get a kick out of spotting the areas where Bridgerton was filmed. And I love the gardens.
Earlier, we took our coffees and wandered through the Georgian gardens with their ancient yew trees before heading around to the sunken gardens—a series of the prettiest walled gardens that served as the royal fish ponds in Henry’s day. Their banks of tulips have waned, but they’re still beautiful.
‘This place really gets under your skin, though, doesn’t it?’ I ask him now, ignoring his remark and rotating slowly in Clock Court as I look up at the blue sky beyond the spectacular astronomical clock in its tower.
‘Why do you think I do this ridiculous role?’
That gets my attention. ‘Really? You don’t do it to educate? To help bring the man to life?’
‘Partly, yes, of course I do. But spending my Saturdays here gives me such profound pleasure. It’s humbling, being here under the weight of so much history.’
‘I totally agree. It’s hard to get your head around.
’ Because Hampton Court really is special.
It has a completely different vibe from the Tower of London’s frenetic crowds or Kensington Palace’s sedate prettiness.
This palace is vast and varied. It’s jaw-droppingly beautiful, and, as Charlie says, it’s impossible not to feel the sheer weight of the history it bears.
Unspeakable tragedies occurred here. Parties, masques and even performances overseen by Shakespeare himself went off with great aplomb.
Queens triumphed and gave birth and died here.
Hundreds of families and thousands of courtiers spent their daily lives here.
And here, in the still-quiet courtyard, you can still sense the melting pot that this place was.
We grab the in-house Tudor historians as often as we can for chats.
Luckily, they seem to enjoy hanging out with us.
They’re a mine of information, right down to the minutiae of palace life.
The spices a courtier could expect in his meat pie, depending on his status.
The staggering array of Apotropaic markings (basically, superstitious graffiti) etched into the walls of the kitchen.
But one area where they’ve really enlightened me has been Anne’s work at Hampton Court. She was one busy lady. She was courting Henry when he took over the undecorated palace from Wolsey in 1529, and she became his enthusiastic partner in all the great building projects Henry undertook.
I wish her suite of apartments survived.
She designed them boldly, being on the same floor as Henry’s suite with direct private access.
This was unheard of—Katherine’s apartments at the palace had been on the floor below Henry’s.
I love what this modern arrangement tells us about the king’s love for her. At one point, anyway.
Unfortunately, Christopher Wren swept Anne’s suite away a hundred and fifty years later when building the modern extension.
Sometimes I stand at the foot of the incredible baroque King’s Staircase and close my eyes, knowing that at one point, Anne’s apartments floated above me.
Even though she didn’t survive long enough to use them.
Even though it was Jane Seymour who got to take advantage of them all too briefly before she, too, perished.
It’s the oddest feeling.
But today, I’m content to enjoy a full-circle moment where I’m standing at the beating heart of this magical palace, next to the man who’s captured my heart as we imitate a king and queen who were fleetingly one of the greatest love matches in this country’s royal history.
And from the look in his eyes when our gazes meet, and the way he fawns over me in front of the delighted tourists, trigger-happy thumbs on their iPhone cameras, I’d say he’s feeling it too.
Word of our relationship has spread through the galleries and passageways of the palace as quickly as the juiciest court scandal must have spread five hundred years ago.
Clearly, my fellow queens operate at the centre of an impressive grapevine.
Everyone from the stewards to the gardeners dribbles over to us to congratulate us or take photos or just gape at the fact that Henry VIII and Anne Boleyn are a living, breathing couple half a millennium on.
Giles, one of the tour guides, swings past with a large group and proceeds to tell them all that Henry and his queen are actually an item in real life, and I swear it’s like he’s just announced the birth of a royal baby.
There are literal shrieks and we’re pressed into hugs for selfie after selfie.
I think Charlie may be tempted to drown Giles in the Great Fountain for that.
When we’ve given them the slip, Charlie leans in.
‘You wouldn’t really want to quit teaching, would you?’
I sigh. ‘Not really. I’d love to work somewhere like this—what an honour, to be part of preserving such an important part of history—but I love my pupils too much. Seeing them grow is the best part of the job.’
He makes a dubious face, and I continue, ‘It’s the best part of the job for those of us who aren’t total sociopaths, at least. You, on the other hand, I could see here.’
‘Fair. I get a kick out of teaching, obviously. But for me it’s more the drive to impart information and see the kids through their exams in fine shape than it is about the actual connection with them. I like kids on an individual basis; I just don’t love classes full of them.’
‘D’you think it’s fair to say you’re more passionate about the subject matter itself than the act of enriching young minds with it?’ I tease.
‘I think that’s a decent summary. Sometimes I wish everyone would just bugger off and leave me alone with a huge academic work.’
‘You don’t give off that vibe at all ,’ I assure him, a smile dancing on my face.
He slides his hands around my waist. ‘There’s something I’m more passionate about than anything, and that’s my sarcastic, pain-in-the-ass queen.’ His blue eyes flicker over my face, and he tugs on his lower lip with his teeth. ‘I’d like to be alone with you even more than a textbook right now.’
‘Oh my gosh.’ I put my hand on my heart and bat my eyelids. ‘That’s the most romantic thing anyone’s ever said to me.’
He winks roguishly. ‘Stick with me after we’re done here, sweetheart, and I’ll show you romance.’