A VISIT FROM THE PRINCE OF WALES by Suzanne Kamata

A VISIT FROM THE PRINCE OF WALES by Suzanne Kamata

My father made his fortune through selling textiles, but his passion was for horses. We spent our summers in New York, mostly at the tracks in Saratoga, or my father would rent a grand estate in England, where we would attend party after party. At the end of summer, we migrated to our family estate in Aiken, South Carolina, where I had been born. Aiken was a small town, with giant moss-draped oaks, acres of pines, jasmine perfumed nights, and horses. Breeders brought their thoroughbreds to the ranges for the winter, and my brother Laddie learned beagling when he wasn’t sitting at his desk in the Aiken School or flirting with the local belles. We traveled to polo matches and picnics by horse-drawn buggy over the red clay roads.

My father’s life—and therefore our lives—revolved around horses, and so the summer of 1924, the summer of a series of polo matches between the United States and Great Britain, which were scheduled to take place in America, we didn’t go abroad. We stayed on Long Island. Laddie, of course, would be playing for the home team, and we would all be cheering him on. But there was another reason for everyone to be in a tizzy that summer—Edward, the Prince of Wales, who also loved horses, would be coming over to watch the polo matches.

“He’s so dreamy,” my younger sister Janie said, thrusting a newspaper under my nose. We were sitting at the breakfast table, sipping coffee and nibbling on toast.

I glanced at the black and white photo. There he was in his waistcoat, jacket and fedora, splashed on the front page, on board the Berengaria, about to sail across the ocean. His hair was a bit too blond for my liking, his eyes a bit too blue (I imagined). He was too pretty for me, but young ladies all over the world were known to swoon in his presence. It was said that he enjoyed the ladies, as well, always choosing the prettiest to join him on the dance floor.

I was no great beauty. My face was round like the moon, my eyes too far apart, my shoulders as wide as a linebacker’s. I had no illusions about my looks. But I knew how to have a good time, and that was what mattered, wasn’t it? You could just be a pretty little thing, sitting on the porch, soaking up admiring glances, or you could be in the thick of things, getting all sweaty and muddy and laughing all the time.

“I heard he’s going to be staying over at the Burden estate,” I chimed in, spooning a bit of jam onto my toast. “I guess they’re swapping houses.” Rumor had it that Mrs. Burden would be in England, while she turned her palatial brick mansion over to the prince. He was coming not at the behest of the crown, but on personal business. According to the newspaper, he would be attending a dinner at the Piping Rock Club, and a dinner at Clarence McKay’s place, but he would mostly be able to do whatever he liked.

“Maman, let’s invite him here!” Janie squealed.

I pictured, for a moment, dancing the Charleston in our ballroom alongside the future king of England. I knew just the dress I would wear–a low-waisted beaded green silk confection with a fringed hem–and the words I would speak –“Is it true, your highness, that you were involved in a murder trial last year?” Maybe I wasn’t the prettiest girl he’d meet, but I’d make myself the most unforgettable.

Across the table, our mother smiled wanly. “That sounds like a fine idea,” she replied. She brought her cup to her lips and didn’t say any more.

We kept track of the prince’s arrival, the hordes of reporters at the docks, the mention of his grey snap-brim fedora (which immediately bumped the summer boater out of style) and the rumors of his shipboard romance with a certain Leonora Cahill from St. Louis, Missouri. One reporter asked him if he would consider marrying an American woman, but the reaction of the crowd was so boisterous that no one could hear his reply.

“I think you’ve got a chance, Janie,” I teased. “That is, if I decide that I don’t fancy him.”

She rolled her eyes, then scoured the papers for more news. “Says here that he is going to visit President Coolidge.”

“Hmm. Perhaps he is going to pay his respects,” I mused. The president’s son had died from blood poisoning a few weeks before. The White House was in mourning. After such a dour scene, he would surely need something gay and lively to lift his spirits.

Mother sent an invitation to Prince Edward and started planning the menu. She and Father also decided to hold a dinner dance for the prince and the British polo team the night before their first match. For that, they leased a grand estate with more than forty rooms on Long Island called The Chimneys. The Sanfords were nothing if not hospitable.

The polo games turned out to be something of a bore. The American team was so dominant, just as it had been during the Olympics in Paris a few months earlier, so that there was really no contest. After the first match, in which the Americans won 16-3, the papers called the team “The Four Horsemen of the Polo Eclipse.” After the second game, in which our Yankee boys defeated the Brits 14-5, Prince Edward drank from the victor’s cup. Everyone thought he was a jolly good sport.

But who cared about polo? Janie and I just wanted to go to the parties. We decked ourselves out in silks and jewels and furs and applied lipstick, but just a little, because it was rumored that His Royal Highness was not fond of women who relied heavily upon cosmetics. Janie and I poured champagne down our throats and danced till the wee hours, but we later heard that the prince remained until even later.

By that time, little Leonora from St. Lou had been completely forgotten. Tongues were wagging about Prince Edward and the wife of a millionaire haberdasher. Apparently, she was a former silent movie star, and quite a looker. Word had it that the prince had given her diamonds. But she was married, so there was still a chance for Janie and me.

Finally, toward the end of his stay in New York, the prince came to our house for dinner.

“Is it true that a Canadian rendered your likeness in butter?” Janie asked as she reached for the silver butter dish herself. “I heard there was such a thing at the British Empire Exhibition.”

The prince chuckled. “Indeed. Along with a life-size horse sculpted and preserved by refrigeration.”

Janie clapped her hands in delight.

At the mention of horses, Father’s and Laddie’s ears perked up, and they discussed nothing else for the rest of the dinner. I sat back, sipping my wine, and studying the prince. His face was almost as pale and smooth as the butter, and he looked, frankly, quite weak and puny. I recalled that he had a reputation for falling off of his horse. I couldn’t help thinking that I was probably the better equestrian. Probably the better hunter, as well.

Janie could have him, if she wanted him. I winked at her across the table. He wasn’t my type.

Suzanne Kamata is an American, most recently from South Carolina, now living in Japan. Her books include the historical novella The Spy (Gemma Open Door, 2020), and the contemporary novels The Baseball Widow (Wyatt-Mackenzie Publishing, 2021) and Cinnamon Beach (Wyatt-Mackenzie Publishing, 2024). She earned an MFA in Creative Writing from the University of British Columbia, and is currently an associate professor at Naruto University of Education.

Suzanne Kamata is an American, most recently from South Carolina, now living in Japan. Her books include the historical novella The Spy (Gemma Open Door, 2020), and the contemporary novels The Baseball Widow (Wyatt-Mackenzie Publishing, 2021) and Cinnamon Beach (Wyatt-Mackenzie Publishing, 2024). She earned an MFA in Creative Writing from the University of British Columbia, and is currently an associate professor at Naruto University of Education.