Page 6 of The Rest is History

Elodie

M y costume is stupendous.

It’s a far simpler affair than Anne’s would have been, in that I can put it on as a single layer. Anne would have worn four. In my version, the ornate petticoat edge is just an insert. But the damask and velvet of my gown has a real weight to it, and my iconic B choker hangs heavily around my neck.

The process of dressing as Anne, in this small room upstairs in Hampton Court Palace, is quite transformative.

It’s weird, really. The more of Anne’s costume I put on, the more equipped I feel to act like her.

I’m acquiring her mannerisms as I dress.

Sensing the desire to improve my posture.

Slow my walk. Make greater use of my hands.

After all, Anne was famous for her slim, expressive hands.

But it’s when Carol, the very nice lady who’s helping me dress (I suppose she’s the Mistress of the Robes to my Anne) puts the elegant French hood, with its black velvet and pearl trim, on my head, that I have the weirdest sensation.

Almost like I’ve gone back in time. Like the mirror in front of me isn’t a mirror at all, but a portal.

Jesus. Creepy. It’s this place. It’s impossible not to be affected by the sheer weight of history bearing down on you from all around. Even if Carol is in anachronistic corduroy flares and an electric lightbulb shines above us.

Standing here, pretending to be Queen Anne in the palace she actually lived in is one of those moments. One of those moments when I understand in a very profound way why I find history so fascinating.

One of those moments when past and present feel like they’re converging, and I’m not sure who I am, or what period I’m supposed to exist in, and it sends tingles down my spine.

The door opens without a knock and in walks a woman I’d put money on being Jane Seymour, hair hidden under her iconic English gabled hood.

Her skin is fair, peachy and glowing. I grin at her like a kid.

This is such perfect casting. I can already tell she’ll be serene.

Docile. Sweet-natured. Everything Anne isn’t.

Everything Henry wanted after he’d got rid of his intoxicating second wife in the most gruesome possible way.

And then she opens her mouth.

‘Carol, darling. I am fucking dying for a vape.’ Her accent is broad Essex. And suddenly I adore her even more.

She stops. ‘Oh. Hello. You must be the new Anne. I’m Shelby.’

‘Elodie.’ I give her a big smile and shake her hand. ‘Jane Seymour, I gather?’

‘The one and only. Boring as fuck. It’s hard being nice to everyone all day, though the old dears love me. You’ll have a bit more fun. Wait till you see your Henry. He’s fucking hot. You’ll have some fun with that one.’

She winks and picks up a glittery vape pen from the table.

I blink.

Are we talking about the same guy?

‘You mean… Charlie?’

‘Yeah. You met him already?’

I grimace. Awkward. ‘We work together. He’s actually my boss. He mentioned they were looking for an Anne.’

She looks me up and down and grins as if something has really tickled her.

‘Did he, now?’ She takes a long drag. ‘Well, isn’t he a clever boy? Very good, Charlie. Very good.’

‘Meaning…?’

‘Meaning you look exceedingly pretty. Sly old Charlie, bagging himself a stunner to hang out with. Is he as much of a pompous arse at work as he is here?’

I’m relieved. For a moment there, I thought Charlie had a totally split personality. Still, I should be discreet. He is my boss, after all, and I don’t know this woman (even though I already like her).

‘He’s pretty quiet,’ I hedge. ‘He keeps himself to himself.’

There. That’s about as far as my diplomatic skills stretch.

‘He definitely thinks he’s the smartest person in the room at all times,’ Shelby agrees, before taking another desperate drag from her vape pen.

I nearly laugh, because she’s just nailed Charlie’s personality in one line. Instead, I nod my approval. ‘Yep. Pretty much.’

She cocks her head. ‘It’s kind of sweet.

Tess, who plays Catherine of Aragon, has a PhD.

She specialised in the Henrician Reformation, but you’d never know it from the way Charlie lords it over her and the rest of us.

When he gets too far up his own arse I just squish his face until he shuts up.

And because he’s so pretty, we all let him get away with far too much. ’

Not sure I could think of anything scarier than squishing Charlie Vaughan’s irritatingly ‘pretty’ face.

Curiouser and curiouser.

She gestures. ‘Come and meet the rest of the harem. Charlie’s Angels, we call ourselves. And when we’re done, we’ll take you across the road to The Mitre and get you drunk until you spill the beans about what he’s like at school. I bet his students hate him.’

I follow her dutifully, gearing up for the trip down the rabbit hole to a parallel universe where Charlie Vaughan allows an army of women to tease him and squish his face.

As I go, I make a mental note to hit PhD Tess up for some tips if I ever get to teach this period in history again.

I feel even less like myself as I process from the little changing room.

Yes, process. Walk is too pedestrian (pun intended) a verb to reflect the elegance, the stateliness of my route.

We pass through portrait-lined corridors and wind up in the Great Hall, with its crazy vaulted ceiling and walls rich with tapestries.

Objectively, I find the Baroque wing of the palace far more beautiful, with its stunningly symmetrical exteriors and gracious lines and huge, square rooms. But these older rooms are far more atmospheric.

The weight of human joy and suffering and sacrifice is more tangible here, from overthrown statesmen to miscarried babies to executed wives.

The walls of these rooms are thick with stories, and it’s impossible not to be affected.

Touched.

The first time I understood that history was a continuum rather than a series of old, dusty misdeeds by people far less sophisticated than our generation was during a school trip when I was in sixth form.

We took the tube to Charing Cross so we could visit the Dynasties exhibition at the National Portrait Gallery.

I’m pretty sure I failed to appreciate at the time how incredible a collection it was, full of jaw-dropping borrows from the most important museums in Europe and beyond. But one portrait stopped me in my tracks so abruptly that I’ve never forgotten its power.

It was the portrait of Anne of Cleves. You know. The portrait. The one Henry sent Hans Holbein the younger to paint. The one whose pretty, dark-haired subject convinced Henry to bring her over to be his queen.

The one that, as we understand, Henry found to be totally inaccurate when she set foot on English soil.

It’s an iconic portrait known the world over.

But here’s the thing. Its diameter is a couple of inches, max.

It’s a miniature.

And not only that, it comes in a tiny ivory case, carved as a Tudor rose, with a matching carved lid. And this is what got me.

Henry VIII carried that thing around with him. Like, in his hand.

It’s easy to look at the formal portraits of that time and feel like the people in them are an enigma (though the ones of kids dressed like mini adults always break my heart). It’s easy to imagine that these people didn’t love and feel and rebel like we do.

It’s easy to feel removed from them, and their lives, and their heartaches.

But this miniature was different. The same trinket that Henry presumably fondled and obsessed over and carried around as he used its contents to make a weighty decision was sitting there. In front of fifteen-year-old me, in a glass case, in the middle of a twenty-first century city.

It was the first time I felt like the veil between us and those who’d gone before us was whisper-thin.

But not the last. It’s a feeling I’ve had again and again over nearly two decades, and a feeling I’ve tried my hardest to share with the kids I teach.

And I have it again here.

Big time.

My feet rest on the same wooden planks that supported Wolsey and Henry and Henry’s queens.

(I mean, presumably. I have no idea if the floorboards are original.

They look pretty old). My eyes stare up at tapestries and stained glass that provided warmth and distraction for my alter ego, Anne Boleyn, in her coldest winters.

And it seems that if I could shut my eyes, I could feel her presence.

That is, if Shelby wasn’t chirping in my ear, breaking the mood.

She points to the raised stage.

‘We’ve had some great larks here. The guys who play these roles during the week do a lot of fake banquets for the school trips. The kids love them.’

I blink. ‘What other characters are there here?’

She cocks her head. ‘Well, Henry and his queens. Wolsey. Cromwell, sometimes. Mary Tudor. Elizabeth. Not Edward—too boring. Everyone co-existing in happy harmony, obvs. And then downstairs in the kitchens, there are a few actors and historians who pretend to be chefs and kitchen boys and telling the visitors how it would have been.’ She pauses and smiles mischievously. ‘Oh, and the Grey Lady, of course.’

‘You mean Lady Jane Grey?’ I ask.

‘Nope, babe. The Grey Lady. The ghost.’

‘What the actual fuck?’

She sniggers. ‘I know, right? This place is supposed to be haunted as fuck. She’s either Katherine Howard, or someone called Sybil Penn.

I think she was Edward VI’s wet nurse. Anyway, she died of smallpox here, and apparently, she’s one unhappy lady.

Loads of people claim to have seen her spinning. ’

I stare at her, goosebumps appearing under my thick costume.

‘That’s the creepiest thing I’ve ever heard.’

‘Yep.’

‘You haven’t seen her, have you?’

‘Nah,’ she replies cheerfully. ‘Don’t think I’m the type ghosts bother with. You might be, though.’

‘Thanks for that,’ I say. ‘Super helpful.’

‘You’re welcome.’

‘You died here, didn’t you?’ I nod at her. ‘Jane, I mean.’

‘Certainly did. She’s supposed to haunt the place too—apparently she pops up on Edward’s birthday.’

‘Jesus Christ,’ I mutter.

She bumps me with her elbow. ‘Let’s go find your delicious king, shall we?’

Suddenly, the prospect of coming face to face with Charlie as Henry seems almost attractive.

We make our way down a corridor together, causing a stir among a group of tourists who make us stop for an anachronistic selfie with them. I smile awkwardly while Shelby plays for the crowds with a coy, innocent smile on her head that even Jane Seymour would have been proud of.

It’s not until we reach the near-empty Royal Pew, with its view of the mind-blowing vaulted chapel ceiling of cerulean blue and gold-leaf stars, that I spot Charlie.

Gulp.

Or, to put it more crudely and accurately, holy fuck .

I’m the first to admit I have an unhealthy obsession with The Other Boleyn Girl , but come on.

This guy leaves Eric Bana in the dust.

It’s not just the serious padding he has on.

And I mean good padding—no paunch, just massive shoulders with huge, pearl-studded sleeves.

His costume is sumptuous. More sumptuous than mine.

Creams and golds and blues that look utterly glorious against the blues of the Royal Pew’s ceiling and showcase his gorgeous colouring most unfairly.

He’s always flawlessly clean-shaven at school—he’s a true prepster—but this morning there’s a five o’clock shadow I haven’t seen before, the density of which seems impressive for just one day’s growth. It only emphasises the solid jut of his jaw.

Ugh. Am I seriously that primal, that the sprouting of some facial hair pushes my entire sex drive several rungs back down the evolutionary ladder? Pur-lease.

But also, hello, Charlie’s manly stubble.

If I was feeling a sense of transformation as I stood in the Great Hall in full costume just now, it pales in comparison with the goosebumps I get when I see Charlie, standing in a costume whose original was specifically designed to convey majesty and omnipotence, surrounded by the aesthetic onslaught of the King’s own private chapel.

And it all clicks. Suddenly, his pompous, arrogant, overbearing nature, so irritating at school, seems to fit him perfectly. He’s magnificent.

Even though, physically, he looks nothing like Henry, a fact for which I think we can all praise the gods of the male form.

But none of that affects me in this moment as much as the way he’s looking at me does.

Like he’s seen a ghost.

The Grey Lady, maybe.

But in, like, a good way?

His lips press together and he holds up a hand to stop the lanyard-wearing steward next to him from blathering on. It’s such an obnoxious gesture, but so kingly , that I’m not sure whether to laugh or swoon. And he walks towards me.

Purposefully.

Almost as if?—

Almost as if I’m his.