WE’D RENTED A HOUSE in Oxfordshire. Just a place to get away now and then from the maelstrom, but also from Nott Cott, which was charming
but too small. And falling down around our heads.
It got so bad that one day I had to phone Granny. I told her we needed a new place to live. I explained that Willy and Kate hadn’t simply outgrown Nott Cott, they’d fled it, because of all the required repairs, and the lack of room, and we were now in the same boat. With two rambunctious dogs…and a baby on the way…
I told her we’d discussed our housing situation with the Palace, and we’d been offered several properties, but each was too grand, we thought. Too lavish. And too expensive to renovate.
Granny gave it a think and we chatted again days later. Frogmore, she said.
Frogmore, Granny? Yes. Frogmore.
Frogmore House?
I knew it well. That was where we’d taken our engagement photos.
No, no—Frogmore Cottage. Near Frogmore House.
Sort of hidden, she said. Tucked away. Originally home to Queen Charlotte and her daughters, then to one of Queen Victoria’s aides, and later it was chopped into smaller units. But it could be reassembled. Lovely place, Granny said. Plus, historic. Part of the Crown Estate. Very sweet.
I told her that Meg and I loved the gardens at Frogmore, we went walking there often, and if it was near those, well, what could be better?
She warned: It’s a bit of a building site. Bit of a shell. But go and have a look and do tell me if it works.
We went that day, and Granny was right. The house spoke to us both. Charming, full of potential. Hard by the Royal Burial Ground, but so what? Didn’t bother me or Meg. We wouldn’t disturb the dead if they’d promise not to disturb us.
I rang Granny and said Frogmore Cottage would be a dream come true. I thanked her profusely. With her permission we began sitting down with builders, planning the minimum renovations, to make the place habitable— piping, heating, water.
While the work was being done, we thought we could move into Oxfordshire full time. We loved it out there. The air fresh, the verdant grounds—plus, no paps. Best of all, we’d be able to call upon the talents of my father’s longtime butler, Kevin. He knew the Oxfordshire house, and he’d know how to turn it quickly into a home. Better yet, he knew me, held me as a baby, and befriended my mother when she was wandering Windsor Castle in search of a sympathetic face. He told me that Mummy was the only person in the family who ever dared venture “below stairs,” to chat with staff. In fact she’d often sneak down and sit with Kevin in the kitchen, over a drink or snack, watching telly. It had fallen to Kevin, on the day of Mummy’s funeral, to greet me and Willy on our return to Highgrove. He stood on the front steps, he recalled, waiting for our car, rehearsing what he’d say. But when we pulled up and he opened the car door I said:
How are you holding up, Kevin?
So polite, he said.
So repressed, I thought.
Meg adored Kevin, and vice versa, so I thought this could be the start of something good. A much-needed change of scenery, a much-needed ally in our corner. Then one day I looked down at my phone: a text from our team alerting me to huge splashy stories in The Sun and the Daily Mail, featuring detailed overhead photos of Oxfordshire.
A helicopter was hovering above the property, a pap hanging out of the door, aiming telephoto lenses at every window, including our bedroom.
Thus ended the dream of Oxfordshire.
