The Princess - Softcover

Holden, Wendy

Softcover

ISBN 10: 0593437306 ISBN 13: 9780593437308

Verlag: Penguin Publishing Group, 2023

Inhaltsangabe

"Readers are transported to 1961 Britain in this fascinating tale about beloved Princess Diana....What follows is an astonishing story of Diana's route to the altar and beyond."—Woman's World

The whole world saw Diana Spencer step from a gilded carriage for her wedding. But before that fairy-tale moment came a difficult journey.…

Bestselling author Wendy Holden explores the astonishing backstory and young adulthood of the ultimate royal celebrity.

Britain, 1961: A beautiful blonde baby is born to Viscount Althorp, heir to the Spencer earldom. But Diana grows up amid the fallout of her parents’ messy divorce. She struggles at school. Her refuge throughout is romantic novels. She dreams of falling in love and being rescued by a handsome prince.

In royal circles, there is concern about the Prince of Wales. Charles is nearing thirty and the right girl needs to be found, fast. She must be young, aristocratic and completely free of past liaisons. Pure and innocent.

Eighteen-year-old Diana Spencer is just about the only candidate. Her yearning to be loved dovetails with royal desperation for a bride. But the route to the altar is perilous. There are hidden dangers. Ruthless schemers. Can Diana’s romantic dream survive?

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Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Wendy Holden is a British novelist. She's authored ten Sunday Times top ten bestsellers and has sold over three million copies worldwide.

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ONE

Beneath a hot blue summer sky, the bells of the great cathedral pealed joyfully over the city. The crowds roared their delight. The glass coach moved through the streets, pulled by proud white horses and attended by gold-braided footmen.

From behind the polished crystal windows, the teenage princess-to-be peered excitedly out. She could scarcely believe the number of people who had come to see her, all jostling on the pavement, madly waving flags and shouting her name. Never had she felt so loved.

Or so beautiful. Her professionally done makeup was perfect, a light touch because of her youth but enough to enhance her loveliness for the TV cameras, the audience watching across the world. Her thick blond hair gleamed, held in place by a diamond tiara. Her cream silk dress was so huge it almost filled the carriage; her father, sitting beside her, was nearly hidden behind its folds.

"Bigger!" she had laughingly told the designer when he had asked how large and long the train should be. "Let's make it the biggest one anyone's ever seen!"

She had said the same to the florist. More roses! More lilies! More orange blossoms! Why hold back, on this glorious day? She felt extravagantly, deliriously happy, and she wanted everything, from the pearls in her ears to the lace rosettes on her shoes, to express it.

"Darling, I'm so proud of you!" Her father, eyes brimming with tears, reached for her hand, on which the great engagement ring glittered. The wedding band itself, made from a special nugget of gold, was with her soon-to-be-husband, the prince. Who, even now, was ascending the red carpet up the cathedral steps, passing under the pillared portico, handsome in his uniform, his decorations glinting in the sunshine, his sword hanging by his side.

The thought made her almost weak with joy. All her dreams had come true. She was a beautiful princess who was marrying a handsome prince. But far more importantly, she was in love, and beloved herself. She had given her heart to her husband, and he had given his to her. Their marriage would last forever; they would have lots of children and be happy ever after. He would never leave her, never let her down. She had suffered much, but from now on, everything was going to be perfect.

"Well?" Diana was staring at me from the opposite seat in the train carriage, her thirteen-year-old face bright with expectation. "Sandy, don't you think that's the most romantic ending ever?"

I looked up from the paperback she had passed me. It was called Bride to the King and was evidently much read. The picture on the cover was of a blond woman in a big white dress embracing a dark-haired man in uniform. He wore a blue sash and a sword by his side. "Definitely," I agreed.

"Absolutely the best!"

I knew I could take her word for it. I was quite new to the romantic fiction genre, but Diana had read literally hundreds. Her favorite writer was Barbara Cartland. Her novels were all dashing heroes with jutting jaws, and beautiful heroines with heaving bosoms.

Love was their constant theme. Head-spinning, heart-racing, eternal Love. It was the most important thing of all, and Diana and I both loved the idea of it. You fell in Love, it overwhelmed you, and once you were in it, everything was perfect. It sounded to me like a particularly delicious bath, deep and warm with lots of bubbles.

"Shall I tell you something incredible, Sandy?" Diana asked.

I nodded eagerly.

"My daddy's got a new friend. She's called Lady Raine Dartmouth."

That was, I concurred, an extraordinary name.

"That's not the amazing thing!" Diana leaned toward me, her blue eyes huge and excited. "Her mother is actually Barbara Cartland!"

Astonished as I was, I was also aware that this sort of thing seemed typical of Diana's family. From what I had heard from other people, and Diana herself, the Spencers were unbelievably dramatic and exotic. And, as I was now going home with her for the holidays, I would meet them all.


I had met Diana at school, although we had not been friends initially. We came from very different backgrounds. I was an orphan; my parents had died in a car crash when I was a baby. Aunt Mary had brought me up. She was my father’s older sister, an austere spinster of modest means. She was undemonstrative but believed in the proper education of girls. Undaunted by the fact that she lacked the money for good schools, she scoured the Daily Telegraph for scholarship opportunities.

Of these, my current school was the latest. And, I hoped, the last, although Aunt Mary's quest to find the best school for the least outlay was something of a mania with her. But I was fed up with moving and wanted somewhere I could settle down, sit exams and go on to university. After which, Aunt Mary assured me, the world and all its opportunities would open up.

The school occupied a large, pale house at the end of a long, tree-lined drive. Sweeping green parkland stretched to either side. With its imposing portico and castellated stable yard, it looked glamorous and impressive.

On the day I was dropped off, the families saying farewell on the drive looked glamorous and impressive too. Beside each was a shiny new trunk painted with at least four initials. New hats, bags, tuck boxes and sports equipment were piled round it. Not far away was the shiny family car.

Aunt Mary did not have a car; we had come on the train. Transporting my own battered secondhand trunk, sporting just the two initials, had required help that was not always willingly given. My blazer too was secondhand, while my skirt, handmade by Aunt Mary to save money, was not of the regulation cut. My shoes, meanwhile, looked like barges, bought two sizes too large so I could "grow into them" and forcing a clumping, graceless walk.

I looked around me, wondering who I would be friends with, if anyone. Socially, I did not aspire to much. To pass muster and blend in would be enough.

My new peers looked much the usual mixture. There were the confident and beautiful ones, the bouncy and sporty ones, and the plain ones, among whom I-small, plump and heavily bespectacled-would be one of the plainest. Also conspicuous were the girls who had never been to boarding school before but who had read Enid Blyton and begged their parents to send them. They were easy to identify-wide-eyed, looking excitedly about as they tried to spot real-life equivalents of the heroines of St. Clare's and Malory Towers.

I felt rather sorry for them. They would be shattered to discover that the world of midnight feasts and classroom tricks did not exist. Nothing about a real boarding school was anything like Enid Blyton novels. In Enid Blyton, girls were celebrated for their individuality. In real life, conformity was everything. In Enid Blyton, rich girls with titles were taken down a peg or two. In real life, they were worshipped. As a poor girl in a succession of wealthy schools, I had more reason to know that than most.

I felt a brief, hopeless stir of loneliness, anticipating the games where I would be the last picked for teams, the dancing lessons where I wouldn't have a partner. Then I took a deep, sinew-stiffening breath. I was lucky to be here, and it was a means to what would ultimately be a glorious end. Aunt Mary had done her best for me, and it was my duty to get on with it.

My aunt said a final hurried goodbye and shut the door, and the taxi set off. Amid the lavish hugs and kisses of everyone else, I walked toward the school and the future.

The dormitory was, as usual, long rows of beds facing one another. One unexpected touch was the portrait of Prince Charles at the entrance. He wore a crown of futuristic design, which looked comical with his big ears and hangdog expression. A small plaque beneath explained the photograph had been...

Details zur Ausgabe

• Verlag: Penguin Publishing Group
• Erscheinungsdatum: 2023
• Sprache: Englisch
• ISBN 10: 0593437306
• ISBN 13: 9780593437308
• Einband: Taschenbuch
• Anzahl der Seiten: 417
• Kontakt zum Hersteller: Nicht verfügbar
• Verantwortliche Person: gpsr@libri.de; gpsr@libri.de; ; Friedensallee 273; Hamburg; 22763; Deutschland