The Thrill Is Gone

“Do they know nothing of propriety?” shrieked the Queen. “It’s bad enough he’s running about with her, but now they’re . . . they’re doing that in public.” She cringed, disgusted by the compromising photographs of her grandson and his tart of a girlfriend. “This behavior he’s exhibiting is unbefitting of a prince. And he knows that! After so many years of my personally counseling him, he knows that. But does he care? No. Not in the slightest! And it’s all to do with that tart. I blame her. She’s a terrible influence, the absolute worst.”

William could no longer sit by in silence. He was accustomed to hearing his grandmother criticize Harry. That was just the way things were since Harry had a knack for getting himself into compromising situations, but Paulina always stayed within the bound of propriety. She was, in his opinion, the exact sort of young woman that his grandmother would think superior, but his grandmother was far too fixated on a few undesirable aspects of Paulina’s person, to give Paulina the proper praise she deserved.

“Gran,” he spoke, careful to keep his tone respectful, “I believe you might be being a bit harsh in regards to Miss Balcázar.”

“She was straddling your brother!”

“There are worse things than straddling,” argued William.

“Is that meant to make up for the fact that they were nearly having intercourse in front of the cameras?” she questioned, rather gruffly.

“They were only kissing. Their clothes remained intact, and according to the video the media put up, their kiss was quite short lived. Less than a minute, apparently,” he spoke. “And they both like quite beside themselves when they became aware of their surroundings.” He shifted in his seat. “And she’d not a terrible influence. If you were to perhaps give her an opportunity, you might quite like her. She’s an amiable sort of girl, and very much accomplished.”

“I do not care for her accomplishments.” She looked out the window, eyes firmly fixed on the hedges. “She’s no good for him, even that other harlot – what was her name? – the Zimbabwean, even she was better than this current one.”

“Chelsy was as much of a partier as Harry.” William reminded. “Those two were always stumbling out of clubs in the early hours of the morning. When have you ever seen Harry do that with Paulina? They go out. Yes, of course they do. But they do not drink to excess. Their nights out aren’t all that frequent, because she is most dedicated to her education, an education that she is receiving as a Rhodes Scholar. And if anyone could appreciate that, it ought to be you. She is, without a doubt, the best thing that has happened to my brother in years. With her, he has come into himself a bit more.”

There was truth in his words, even the Queen recognized that, but Americans were no good for the crown. The last one that had involved herself with a royal had nearly caused a constitutional crisis that ended with the abdication of a king. Of course, there were differences in circumstances. For starters, Harry would never be king. William would marry, and have children, thus pushing his brother down the line of succession. And Paulina wasn’t twice divorced with a reputation as a promiscuous woman. But despite those differences, despite the fact that the young woman was altogether a respectable sort of girl, the Queen could not consent to such a relationship. Were she only a Catholic, they could have changed her religion. But she was an American with aspirations for political greatness in her native land. She would never do in England. She would never do for the monarchy. And the sooner her relationship with Harry came to an end, the better.

“She is no good,” she repeated. “And I have half a mind to yet again, make my sentiments known to Harry. Though I will not call him, it is far too easy for him to ignore me on the phone; I shall demand he come here for tea.”

“I do not mean to offend, Gran, but Harry is indisposed at the moment.”

“Indisposed?”

“Yes. Quite so,” he confirmed.

“He’s with that tart isn’t he? That makes no difference to me, I shall send for him at whatever hotel they’ve put themselves up in.”

“They’re at Highgrove.”

Her eyes widened in indignation. “Highgrove?” she repeated. “They’re at Highgrove? You mean to say your father invited her to stay?”

“He did.”

She scoffed. “Well of course your father invited her. He indulges them! Undoubtedly, due to his believing there nothing wrong with their relationship,” she spat. “As if he has any moral authority . . . he spent well over a decade chasing trollops! He’s even set to make one his princess consort when he ascends the throne.” She shuddered. “That father of yours has given me nothing but headaches, I’d thought by now he’d have gotten his head on right, but no. He is still very much the same fool he was in his youth, and he’s sanctioning your brother’s nonsense. Oh! Those two will be the end of me.” With a gentle touch, she massaged the bridge of her nose. “All I want is for my home to be in order. Is that too much to ask?” she inquired, dropping her hand from her face. “I am eighty-two, my dear boy. At this age, all I want is to have my home in order so that when it is my time to go, I can do so knowing that our monarchy will be safe.”

“It will be safe.” William reassured, taking her hand into his.

“Will it? I do not think it will, not for certain. They don’t need us anymore, not like in the past. The world is different and we must evolve to keep up with it, yet still retain a sense of tradition of a time gone by. It is incredibly difficult to do so, William. And your father, oh god help him, he’s not a favorite. In recent years, his popularity has improved, but I have heard what some call for. They do not wish him to ascend the throne. There are those would be quite pleased to see him skipped over, to see you sat upon it.”

“Gran –”

“Your father worries me. His choice of wife disgusts me. After so many years, you would think I would have warmed to her, but that is not the case. How can I warm to her? A divorced woman with two children that was involved in the most documented affair of the twentieth century?” she questioned. “She is unfit to be a princess consort. Her manners are more common than refined, even after all these years! And your brother, oh your brother . . .”

“The people love him.” William commented. “He may not always be the most sensible of individuals, but he has a good heart, the people know that, and they love him. And I think . . .” he hesitated for a moment, but then carried on. “. . . I think you ought to give him more credit. He’s a sound mind on his head. Perhaps, sometimes his judgment is a bit skewed, but he’s a sound mind. And Paulina . . . well, she might be American and Catholic, but there are worse things that one could be. She’s not like Wallace. She’s not divorced. She’s not sneaking about with others. In my opinion, she has a superior mind. And she always presents herself quite well. Not a word of hers has been directed towards the media unless it’s a press conference regarding her case against News of the World. If you would but give her a chance, I know you would grow quite fond of her. Even Lord Fellowes is quite taken with her, and he finds fault with everyone.”

“You may speak as warmly of her as you wish, but she will find no supporter in my person. I have spent decades looking after this family, after the monarchy, and will continue to do so, even if your father invited her to Highgrove. I will not have this family’s name soiled, because of an American that can’t help but straddle your brother in public.”

The Queen, determined to speak no further on the subject, left the sitting room. Her private study would do better. It would provide a space in which she could contemplate William’s words in peace, and where she could dwell on her thoughts.

Her Majesty wasn’t the only one displeased by the overly affectionate display that the young lovers had put on. As soon as the image made its way to America, Irmalinda and Ricardo called their daughter to deliver a very strongly worded scolding. They weren’t angry that she’d been caught in that compromising position by the press; they were upset by the mere fact that she was straddling him! In their minds they had managed to convince themselves that their daughter wasn’t getting too physical with the prince. That they went out on holidays, and spent extended weekends together, but that they didn’t have sex. No. Sex was off the table, but seeing those pictures, seeing their daughter grabbing onto his hair as he held onto her hips, snatched off the blindfold they’d willingly placed on themselves. And they didn’t like it. Not one bit.

So they made their opinion known to her, they told her that if she didn’t start behaving like the respectable young woman they’d raised her to be, that her mother was going to fly out to England, and stay with her until Paulina’s time as a Rhodes Scholar ended. Paulina wanted to tell them to stop being so overdramatic, she wanted to say that she was twenty-three fucking years old and that she’d never intended to walk down the aisle a virgin, but she couldn’t say any of that. She wasn’t raised to be snappy at her parents. She was to be respectful, so she grumbled an apology and swore to behave the way she was raised to. And after a few more minutes of them rambling on, they finally hung up the phone.

Their scolding took up the first hour of her stay at Highgrove House. Paulina felt rude for having suddenly run off to the bedroom that had been prepared for her, but she knew that if she didn’t answer their call, her parents would’ve flown out to Oxford. They were just that intense sometimes. But thankfully, Prince Charles was caught up with business; he hadn’t been able to see them arrive, due to his having been called away by a close friend. So Harry was the one that had been left to his own devices, and knowing the importance of not upsetting her parents, he didn’t protest, he simply retired to his bedroom to get a few things in order, and left word with the staff to direct Paulina to his bedroom when she finished up in there.

Sure enough, when she finished talking with her parents, and stepped out into the hall, there was a staff member that informed her that Harry was in his personal chambers and wished that she would join him there. Not remembering the way to his room, Paulina had to ask for directions, and after losing herself a couple of times, she reached the right door, and knocked twice.

“Who is it?” called Harry from within.

“It’s me!” she bellowed, not bothering to state her name. She knew he’d know her voice right away.

“Come on in! Door’s unlocked.”

With one hand, she brushed a bit of hair out of her face, and with the other, opened the door. She stepped in quietly, wondering why it was he hadn’t gone to the door. He always had a way of running to open doors for her, that was one of those little things she loved so much, but he’d been lying in bed, and he’d found himself far too comfortable to move.

“Were you napping?” she asked, an amused little smile creeping onto her face. “It’s a bit early for that. Don’t you think?”

“I spent an entire week revising,” he grumbled, stifling a yawn towards the end. “And my body’s pissed about not having got any rest.”

“But it’s used to you partying,” she reminded as she stepped towards him. “And I'm sure that the studying is nothing compared to the toll partying takes on your body.”

“It’s more exhausting to study.” He stretched his arms. “But enough about that,” he said, dismissing their previous topic. “How was it? Talking with your parents and all?”

“It was ridiculous.” She kicked off her boots, and joined him on the bed. “I'm twenty-three, nearly twenty-four, and they’re still acting like I'm ten fucking years old. I mean, I love them. Don’t get me wrong, I do, but sometimes they’re just too much. Like my dad said that if I didn’t act respectably, he was gonna fly out my mom to Oxford to have her stay with me until school ends.”

Harry wanted to laugh. He really wanted to laugh at how absurd it all was, but the furrowed brow on Paulina’s face made it perfectly clear that laughter would not be well received.

“I reckon it can’t be helped though. The way they are, that is.” He tenderly rubbed her shoulder. “You’re their little girl. They want to keep you safe and all that other stuff, make sure you’re alright.”

She sighed softly. “That’s what I tell myself whenever they get ridiculous, but sometimes . . . sometimes I just wish they were a little more modern.”

“Well they let you go to school abroad. That’s modern enough, for them. At least, that’s what I’ve gathered from what you’ve told me.”

“It is.” She nestled her head into his chest. “But I just wish they weren’t so absurd. I mean, we were in Botswana together! They know we were there. I told them about it. So what did they think happened there? That we played scrabble and slept in separate bedrooms? It’s like, come on, even they should know better than that, but no, they want to see me in a certain light. And whenever I'm outside of that light, they get all bitchy about it.” She grew quiet, annoyed at herself for letting her parents scolding put a damper on their time together. “I don’t want to fixate on them,” she mumbled into his chest, before pulling away. “I'm in England. They’re in America. And I refuse to have my stay dampened because of them.”

“That’s the spirit!” exclaimed Harry, grinning as he did so. “And I’ve a lot planned for these few days.”

“Do you now?” she peered up at him through her fringe.

He nodded. “I figured, since you’re into gardens, we’d go on a walk about them. They’re fairly extensive, and the surrounding area’s worth a look as well. And then, well this if for another day of course since we’ll spend the evening with my dad, I reckon we might pop by the stables.”

“No.” She said, knowing very well where he was going with it.

“I didn’t even get to finish saying what I was about to say.” He argued.

“I know exactly what you were going to say, and I know I’ll say no to it.”

“You really gonna be like that? Come on, Paulin. Where’s your sense of adventure?”

“I am not about to risk my life by getting thrown off a horse.”

“Risk your life?” He laughed loudly. “No need to be so dramatic about it. The horses here are truly quite gentle, even you won’t find fault with them, if you were to just see them.”

“But I don’t want to,” she said in a singsong voice. “Better said, I know I’ll find fault with them. I always find fault with horses.”

“Really?” he repeated. “You always find fault with them?”

“Always have. Always will.”

He let out an overdramatic sigh. “You should just give them a chance. They’re not like other horses. There are trained to perfection. They wouldn’t be allowed royalty if they were just wild. So give ‘em a chance, yeah? I mean, how do you know you won’t like these if you won’t take the chance?”

“The same way I knew I’d hate fish and chips before I tried them.”

“It’s not the same,” he argued. “If you just . . . if you were to give them a chance, you’d be taken with them, I'm sure of it.” He stared at her face, expectantly. Hoping that there’d be a change, but her face remained firm in its resolve to not indulge his word. “Come on, love. Ya don’t even have to ride. All ya have to do is look. That’s it.”

She pressed her lips into a thin line, thinking it over. “You’re not gonna let this go. Are you?”

The smile on his face made it clear he wasn’t.

“Fine,” she said. “We’ll go to the stables, but not today . . . maybe tomorrow or the day after tomorrow. The day after tomorrow sounds best.”

“The day after tomorrow it is.” He grinned. “Today we’ll just do the gardens. Dad’s fond of gardens so he’s done quite a bit of work on them. There’s a wild garden, a formal garden, and a walled kitchen garden.”

“A kitchen garden?” she’d never heard that term before. “Is that like a vegetable plot?”

“It’s sort of like that, but much more grand,” he explained. “It’s not done to just provide the kitchen, but to compliment the grounds and be pleasing to the eye. At least that’s what I think, since my dad takes a lot of time fussing about it to make it look right.”

“That makes sense. If he’s a garden enthusiast, he’ll want to make sure everyone can see how much he loves his gardens.” She ran her fingers along his chest, the thin fabric of his shirt, keeping their skin from making contact. “So . . . are we gonna go out to gardens now or get back to napping? But just so you know, if we take a nap then I won’t have time to make enchiladas for dinner.”

“You’re making enchiladas?” his eyes opened up wide.

“Well, yeah,” she chuckled. “You asked me to make some. Remember? You kept saying you wanted your dad to try them.”

“Bloody hell, that’s right. Can’t believe I forgot them. I swear being knackered has me, forgetting everything.” With his free hand, he rubbed his tired eyes. “I reckon we ought to go out to the gardens now, we’ll even take a basket to get some veggies from the kitchen garden. What’s wrong? What’s that look about?”

“I thought we were going to go to the grocery store to get vegetables and that.”

“Why would we do that? There’s a perfectly stocked kitchen. Won’t be needing to go down to the market, when there’s a kitchen with everything ya need,” he told her. “Unless, there’s something missing and you do need to go. Do you need to fetch something? I can go if you just jot it down.”

She shook her head. “I just needed to get the vegetables, and maybe some cheese. But I’ll check your fridge to see if they have the kind I need.”

“If they don’t have it, I’ll go to the market.”

“You’re sweet for offering, but no offense to you, I think it’d be better if I go. You’ve got a knack for picking up the wrong stuff from the store.”

“That’s not –” he began to protest, but the arch of her brow made him remember all the instances he’d picked up the wrong cereal, the wrong paper, the wrong milk, the wrong . . . well, the list went on and on. “Fine, I’ll drive ya if you need to fetch anything. But for now, the gardens?”

She nodded. “Let me just go grab a coat.”

“It’s not even cold out.”

“It’s freezing.”

“Not even, it’s 5 °C.”

“And that’s 41 °F, which is freezing for me.” She sat up on, and maneuvered herself to the edge of the bed where she’d be putting her boots back on. “So I’ll go get a coat, and be right back.”

“Ya can borrow one of mine.” He followed suit, sitting up, and then slipping on his trainers. “Let me just get it for you.”

He grabbed a thick jacket for her, something he’d wear if it were several degrees cooler, but that would do quite well for his girlfriend. She pecked his lips tenderly before slipping on the jacket and zipping it all the way up, careful to make sure the three buttons that were present on it, were buttoned up. She wasn’t good with the cold. She didn’t think any Southern Californian was, not when their winters consisted of sixty degree weathers, and the occasional venture into the forties during the late hours of the night.

With Paulina bundled up, they made their way out to the garden area, where Harry first took her on a tour through the wild flower meadow, and then through a tour of the formal garden. If Paulina was to be honest, she preferred the meadow infinitely more than the formal garden. The various grasses and tall wild flowers drew her in, their simple beauty hypnotizing her, and tempting her to lie down and stare up at the heavens. The fact that it had rained the previous day kept her from lying down for a bit, but Harry promised that the next afternoon, they’d have a picnic there. The formal garden reminded her of what she imagined Pemberley and its grounds to be like; there were a few beautiful statues, neatly trimmed hedges, carefully plotted out flowers and trees. It had a reserved beauty, fitting a royal residence, but it lacked the carefree charm that the meadow offered.

Before they went to the kitchen garden, Harry had Alistair fetch them a basket to collect the vegetables that Paulina would need for the dinner. And when he brought it back to them, Harry carried it around as she inspected the diverse selection in front of them, and picked the finest produce to work with.

“This it then?” asked Harry as she placed the last tomato into the basket.

“Almost,” she replied, her eyes already darting around the garden. “We need to get a few herbs.”

He watched as she practically danced towards the row where the herbs were kept.

“You’re having fun with this, aren’t you?”

She smiled and nodded her head. “I can’t help it! I love gardens. My parents have a pretty big garden in our backyard, and there’s fruit trees, and vegetables, and flowers . . . ah so many sunflowers! So I’ve always been really into them, and I’ve always loved being able to walk out barefoot to grab an orange or avocado straight from the tree. So I don’t know, this kind of reminds me of that. It’s weird. Isn’t it? Now that I think of it, it’s kind of weird; people aren’t usually into gardening until they’re old.”

“Who’s to say you’re not old? You’re practically in your mid twenties now.”

“I'm still twenty-three, thank you very much. Your ass is the one that’s bordering on the middle aged twenties.” She chuckled, and carefully grabbed a handful of oregano. “And I think I'm all done here. Let’s get this dinner underway. I want to make some chicken just incase your dad doesn’t like this.”

“What are you talking about, not like this? Of course he’ll like it! It’s brilliant.”

“You think it’s brilliant, but your dad’s stomach might not take to the sauce and peppers, so I just want to be on the safe side.”

“I'm sure he’ll love it.” Harry reassured as he led her towards the kitchen. “And if he doesn’t, then that’s on him. He can have someone else fix him something to eat.”

“No! He can’t. I'm trying to impress him over here.”

“Why? He’s already fond of you.”

“He is?”

“Of course,” he nodded. “He wouldn’t be going up against Gran if he didn’t think you were worth it.”

She cringed at the mention of the Queen. “I don’t think your grandma’s ever going to like me. And I bet she’s all sort of pissed off over the picture of us kissing. I mean, if my parents went ape shit over them, then I can just imagine what’s going through her head right now.”

“She’ll come around, eventually.”

Paulina didn’t think she would. The Queen sounded firm in her resolve to dislike Paulina, and Paulina didn’t even want to bother with that woman. She’d settle for having everyone else in his family like her, she didn’t need the Queen if she was going to go around calling her a tart without even bothering to get to know her.

“Your dad’s not lactose intolerant is he?” she asked, changing the topic.

Harry shook his head. “He’s on friendly terms with lactose.”

“Awesome, well, I think I’ll finish up in an hour or two. I just have to make the tortillas, then get the sauce in order, and . . . yeah, two hours seems like it’ll be good. Your dad will probably be home by then so they’ll be hot by then.”

“Do ya want me to go grab your iPod? We can hook it up to the sound system in the kitchen.” Harry offered as he opened the kitchen door.

“That’d be great! Good thinking, güerito.” She grinned at him. “While you do that, I’ll start getting the tortilla’s going.”

“Do you have the stuff for that in here already?”

She nodded. “Alistair brought them in this morning. He said I just have to ask Mrs. Wilton to get them for me.”

The moment the staff noticed the young prince and his girlfriend step into the kitchen, the stood up and greeted them as custom dictated. Harry was bowed and curtsied to, his girlfriend was respectably greeted.

“Is there anything I might prepare for you, Sir?” inquired Mrs. Wilton, a plump woman in her late fifties with rosy cheeks and a warm presence.

“There is indeed, Mrs. Wilton. I wondered if you might fetch what Alistair brought in earlier.” Harry spoke.

“Yes, of course, Sir. Just a minute,” she said before curtsying and taking off in direction of the cabinet where she had placed the basket. “Here it is, Sir. What would you like me to prepare with this?” Mrs. Wilton had been under the impression that Harry had taken her the ingredients to request a particular dish at dinner.

“Oh it’s not for you. It’s for me.” Paulina spoke up. “I'm gonna fix dinner tonight. I hope that’s fine.”

“Of course it is, Miss. I was only thinking you might like to relax instead of bustle about in here.” Mrs. Wilton said, surprised that the guest wanted to cook. “If you like you might tell me what to make of this, that way you can relax after your long walk this afternoon.”

“That’s very kind of you, and I thank you, but it’s a Mexican recipe.” Paulina explained.

“I’ve no experience with that cuisine,” Mrs. Wilton was skilled in western European cooking. “But if you need anything at all, any help, I’d be more than glad to be of assistance.”

“She already has the help sorted out.” Harry said quite proudly. “I’ll be assisting.”

Mrs. Wilton’s eyes went wide. Harry in the kitchen – cooking? She wasn’t sure what to make of it, so instead she smiled politely, and after Harry excused the kitchen staff from their evening duties, he went in search of Paulina’s iPod so they could have some music going.

While Harry went to fetch the music, Paulina rummaged through the cabinets, searching for a large bowel where she’d be able to prepare the ingredients for the corn tortillas. It took a few tries, but she eventually found a large glass bowl that would do just well, and set to work. She didn’t bother using a large spoon. Her hands were her preferred method of mixing when it came to preparing the masa (flour), and so she worked the masa with her hands, careful to make sure everything was mixed in well.

By the time that Harry returned, she had finished preparing the masa, and had placed the comals (griddles) on the stove. He was surprised by how quickly she’d finished that phase. He’d expected to find her still working the masa, but there she was, preparing to start patting balls of masa into handmade tortillas. She could’ve used her tortilla machine to make the tortillas, then they would’ve all turned out to be around the same consistency, and the process would’ve been much quicker. But she firmly believed that handmade tortillas tasted best, and determined to make the dinner as delicious as possible, she would endure the tedious process of making two dozen tortillas by hand.

There were several instances in which Harry offered to help. He didn’t want to just sit by while Paulina bustled around the kitchen, but his help wasn’t something that she really wanted. As much as she loved Harry, she didn’t trust him in the kitchen. He was the only person she knew that could fuck up toast and eggs, even her friends from back home – the guys from the football team – were better cooks than Harry was. And she wanted to avoid having Harry accidentally make a mess of things. So she gave him busywork, she had him wash the vegetables for her; he washed the pans, and tidied up any dirty dishes as she cooked. It was a decent trade off, at least to her it was. She was fond of cooking, but hated tidying up, so to have Harry do it was ideal, and it made him feel like he wasn’t just sitting around, an added bonus in her opinion.

“I’ve finished tidying up.” He said, quite proudly. “There anything else I can help with?”

“Not really,” she replied as she dipped a tortilla into the freshly made sauce. “The only thing I really have to do is make the enchiladas, but the fillings are already finished, and the rice is cooking right now. Hmm, maybe you can . . . no, never mind, I’ll make the salad later.”

“I can make the salad.” He offered. “All I’ve got to do is chop the veggies into bits. Right?” he asked.

“Henry, I love you, but I don’t trust you to make the salad.”

“S’alright. Don’t really trust myself, to be honest, but I reckoned I at least had to offer.” He took a seat on a nearby counter, and grabbed her iPod, wanting to change the selection. They’d been listening to a lot of jazz, and he was in the mood for something a bit more upbeat so he chose Led Zeppelin, a recent addition to what Paulina referred to as his musical education.

Almost as soon as the song started playing, Paulina hips began to sway with the music. Led Zeppelin was one of those bands that she just felt in her blood, whenever she heard them, she had to dance, whenever she heard them, she had to sing, regardless of how bad of a singing voice she had.

“It's been a long time since I rock-and-rolled. It's been a long time since I did the Stroll. Ooh, let me get it back, let me get it back, let me get it back, mm-baby, where I come from!” she sang, losing herself in the music, completely forgetting that she was working on a timeline.

Harry watched with a smile as she danced around. He loved the way she got when she heard music she absolutely loved. There was something graceful yet incredibly thrilling about her movements. He watched her until a cough from the doorway, snapped his attention from her, and her attention from the music. They both turned in direction of the cough, and there, lingering in the doorway, was Prince Charles.

“Rock and Roll,” he spoke, identifying the Led Zeppelin song. “Brilliant bit of music. Though, my personal favorite from them would have to be Bring it On Home.”

“The harmonica on that track is amazing,” commented Paulina, without even remembering to curtsy or address him as His Royal Highness. It wasn’t until the worst left her mouth that she realized she’d skipped the formality. “That is to say, the harmonica on that track is amazing, Your Royal Highness.” She curtsied politely.

“It is indeed Miss Balcázar.” Charles smiled, stepping further into the kitchen. “What on earth are you two doing in here?” he asked as he took in the surroundings.

“Making dinner,” Harry spoke up.

“There’s a chef for that.” Charles reminded them. “Miss Balcázar, there’s no need to put yourself through this trouble, whatever you like, I'm quite sure that Mrs. Wilton would be able to prepare.”

“It’s no trouble at all, Sir. We’re only making enchiladas, and we’re nearly done.”

“They’re my favorite,” added Harry. “And I thought we could make them for you. Well, Paulina could make them for you. I’ve only done the busy work since I can’t be trusted with proper cooking.”

“He really can’t,” said Paulina with a smile. “He’s got a habit of burning toast.”

“That he does.” Charles gaze rested on his son’s face, a slight smile on his lips. “Have you been in the kitchens this entire time? I do hope you haven’t. It would be unpardonable for Harry to have you kept you here.”

“No, Sir, I haven’t. Henry took me on walk about the gardens.” Paulina replied.

“Did he?” asked Charles.

“Yes. I absolutely adored your wild flower meadows. Not to say that I didn’t love the others. They were also beautiful, but I'm partial to the wilderness, and was immediately drawn to the meadows.”

“They are quite stunning, and the aid that meadows provide, to animal life are immeasurable. Since we’re on the subject of animals, were you shown to the stables?”

“Not yet, Sir,” Paulina replied.

“I could have sworn Harry would have taken you. The stables are, after all, his favorite space in the residence.” Charles commented.

“I planned on taking her, but she’s afraid of horses,” said Harry.

“Afraid of horses?” it was a difficult concept for Charles to comprehend.

“Yes, Sir,” she replied, her cheeks taking on a brighter look. “I’ve never really gotten along well with horses, but I promised Henry that I’d visit the stables with him.”

“And you must make an effort to mount.” Charles insisted. “Our horses are quite docile. I'm certain you’d be able to find no fault with them.”

“That’s exactly what Harry told me.” Paulina said.

“Then if we’ve both said it, it must be true, quite true indeed.”

Charles talked on at length about the horses, and out of an earnest desire to drop the conversation, Paulina promised that she’d attempt to mount. She’d thought that’d be enough to get Prince Charles to drop the subject, and that she’d be able to fib a little by saying that she’d made an effort, when she had absolutely no intention of making any. But unfortunately for her, Harry was determined to see her make an effort to mount their most trusted horse.

“Come over here.” Harry implored.

“I'm fine here.” She told him, her hands slightly trembling. “This is good progress for today, excellent progress, some might say.”

“Some might say that, but I won’t.” Harry smiled; hoping humor might lighten the mood. “Oh, come on Paulin, you promised my dad that you’d make an effort.”

“I am making an effort,” she argued. “I'm standing like three feet away from a horse, and I'm not even drunk! That’s true progress.”

“Paulina . . .”

“I’ve made enough of an effort today.” She firmly declared. “We can try again tomorrow. Maybe I’ll close the gap a bit, and who knows maybe by the end of our stay, I’ll have mounted. But for now, let’s roam the gardens. I saw a tree yesterday that needs climbing.”