Chapter Text
Camilla stomped down the hallway, her short heels clacking against the tile of Clarence House. She stopped, listening for the echo of a piano ringing through the house. There was none now. He must have caught wind of her disappointment. The house’s help bustled about floors below, she leaned over the railing, blonde hair swirling around her face, a strand stuck to her lip stick covered mouth.
“Marley!” She wasn’t one for yelling much, but when there was so much noise, she didn’t mind using her outside voice indoors. A black haired girl with a round face stopped, confused where the extra noise was coming from. “Yoo-hoo!” Camilla’s voice turned soft and sing-song.
“Yes ma’am?” Marley halted in the middle of traffic, a table runner draped over her arm, a stark contrast of red satin and gold lining compared to her black and white uniform.
Camilla paused, thinking over the words she was about to say, and what tone she’d use to say them with.
“Um, where is he?” Marley’s relaxed facial expression turned in an instant, she looked like she’d been caught red-handed sneaking a cookie.
“Marley,” the motherly warning tone curved at the end. “He’s not in trouble, just—late.” She made sure the last bit was extra loud, should he be hiding in a room around her.
The young maid, who usually tended to Camilla when she cooked upon other duties, bit at her lip before pausing. “If one were to look where the sound comes from at Christmas, he shall be found.”
Camilla tapped her clear coated nails against the railing and dug her tongue into her cheek. Marley was great with riddles. And no matter how much he’d given her to keep Camilla off his tracks, she’d find him, Marley could tell the lady of the house was in no mood to be seriously challenged.
The door to the portrait room was open an inch, just far enough for her to wrap her fingers around to silently open the door. Only one light was on, illuminating the keys to the piano, as well as the eight-year-old barely pressing the tops of them, playing a song beautifully in his head without actually striking the hammer against the string.
She leaned against the door frame, folding her arms over her bosom. “Davey, you know you’re not supposed to be playing right now,” her voice was so soft, she wasn’t sure he’d heard it at first, but then he dropped his hands from the keyboard and clutched onto the bench he sat on, his feet barely grazing the ground.
He was still so small.
Camilla closed the door behind her and swept across the room. Born fifteen minutes after his older sister, Charlotte, David had been attached to his mother more so than the other children. She joined him on the piano bench, her arm pulling him close to him.
“I’m scared,” his voice was smaller than small. And that took some time to process what he’d said.
“Scared for what? You could play ‘O Holy Night in your sleep,” she laughed, “with your eyes closed!” Her voice boomed around the room, and yet, David kept his head buried in the crook of his mother’s arm. A trait he’d started when he was old enough to crawl. “Poppa and Granny are looking forward to it. Would you like to ring him?”
Out of all their children, David was the one most likely to curl up next to Camilla’s father-in-law in times of stress. Even though Charles never a solid relationship with his father, some reason David was simply drawn to the stern man, which contrasted David’s very sensitive nature.
David’s head shifted in her lap. “Yes, please.”
“Go on then, we’ve got to get you dressed straight after.” She ran her hand over his light blonde hair.
David shifted again, stretching up and pecking his mother on the cheek before skittering to the door. Charles’ figure appeared there, dodging the young boy as he bolted past.
“Walk please!” Camilla called after him. It was no use, he’d sprint all the across Buckingham Palace to speak one word with his grandfather. Charles greeted her with a smile, his tall figure sat down next to her. “You know, I never really picked up on the piano.” Her delicate fingers skimmed across the keys.
“You know he would have come out sooner or later.” A warm hand rested upon hers, together they pressed down a few keys. Soft, somewhat matching chords were played.
“Yes, but we’re going to be late. And the sooner he plays, the sooner he’ll be done freaking out.”
“Hmm, yes, I agree. But, I remember how terrifying performing for them was.”
Camilla slid her hand from under his and placed it upon her husband’s knee.
“You look,” his voice suddenly husky and deep, “edible tonight.”
The sky blue gown fell around her ankles and the lace over lay exposed most of her shoulders. Charles had always been one more attracted to subtle sexuality than outright nudeness. His hand caressed the one on his knee, before he turned to her, lifting her chin with his finger. She could smell his after shave, a sharp scent that reminded her of Highgrove in the fall hunting time.
He kissed her softly. “Those precious--,” another kiss, “tinted lips,” another kiss.
She moaned into his mouth, their tongues dancing together. When he reached around to bring her even closer, her back arched, tipping her head back. Charles took his opportunity, devouring the flesh of her jaw and down her neckline. Her skin was a light, burning against his lips.
Before his hand could slid any higher than her stomach, the door burst open. Charles jerked his head back, trying to cover what he’d been doing. But it didn’t matter.
“Mummy!” The light voice screeched through the whole house. “Mummy!”
Camilla straightened her dress, trying to gather herself. “What is it lovely?” Charlotte dramatically landed in her mother’s lap, a tiny pair of shoes clutched in her hand, a miniature purse swinging from her arm.
“I—can’t—get—my--shoes—on!” She wailed in between sobs.
Holding out her hands, Camilla lifted her youngest daughter onto her lap, careful not to get the two of them entangled in either’s dress. Charlotte, although eight going sixteen, wore a dress that suited her grandmother, the Queen, instead of a minor. Camilla swung the two of them around, motioning to Charles to slip the ornate shoes on.
“Now Princess, you can’t be crying anymore. All you have to do is ask for help,” Charles took the perfectly folded satin fabric from his tuxedo pocket and wiped away the bulbous tears that still stained his daughter’s face. “Here,” he whispered before sweeping her up into his arms, spinning her around the room to an unheard song.
Out of two daughters, Charlotte was the one all about glitz and glamour. Time after time she ended up on the magazine’s ‘What to buy’ list for children, beating out North West and the younger Jolie-Pitt children. Even at eight, she was able to tell her parents exactly what dress she wanted to wear to events, from Easter to Christmas, everything had to be perfect and everything had to be sparkly.
It was the only reason David begged his parents for his own room.
“Now, children, we’ve got to get going soon.” Camilla checked the time of her mobile before tucking it back into her clutch. Time seemed to tick by so fast with two eight-year-olds, especially two that had strikingly different personalities.
Camilla sighed. Life married to the heir to the British throne had changed her social life almost entirely, she tried to keep their private life as normal as possible. For the most part, she had succeeded. Their eldest boy, Phil, had married and his bride was expecting their first child. Albert and James had both moved to their separate little parts of a castle, the two had been closest of brothers. Rosalind was still in university, finishing her doctorate in writing, even though she could never really teach the children she longed to teach. And the twins were just a few years into primary school. The life between her and Charles had its ups and down, but mostly ups.
She shuddered, trying to forget the horrible downs they’d had.
Rosalind’s voice came from down the hall. The most laid back of the group, Rosalind was the first born girl, Charles’ pride and joy. Each had thought she would be the last of the Waleses. A country woman that took after her mother so much it was almost impossible, she poked her head around the door.
“Mum?” Her question was sharp in the muted bustle from the servants down below. The elbow length blonde locks swung around her shoulders. She was a dead-ringer for a young Camilla.
Camilla raised her hand from behind the piano.
“Dad said you need your tiara—and we need to leave, now.”
“Did Davey get dressed alright?”
The young girl nodded.
“Alright then, let’s go,” she closed the top over the keys and flipped the light off.