Page 89 of The English Queen

“I’m sorry, I didn’t dress baby princesses in a past life!”

“Grab the lavender dress from her wardrobe. With the nappy cover. They’re on the same hanger, Robert.”

Robbie stared at half a dozen dresses in all shades of purple. Which was the lavender?

“Third from the left.” Vanna gestured.

Robbie handed the dress over.

“Get the white shoes over there for her.”

“She will take them off as soon as we get in the bloody car. She will scream the whole way because her shoes are gone.”

“Don’t put them on her then. But if we arrive and bring her there without shoes on, I will never hear the end of it from your damn mother.”

“Fine, fine,” Robbie said. She was probably right.

“Georgie, good, you’re here,” Vanna said, looking up as the twins appeared. “Take baby Kiersten, alright? And Natalie, can you grab two of those bottles from the kitchen with the pre-made formula? Put them in the nappy bag by the door, please.”

George looked confused. “Uh… mother. You might want to deal with Paul.”

Natalie added, “He is wandering around with pants on his head.”

“Pants or trousers?” Vanna clarified.

“Definitely pants,” the twins said in unison.

Vanna handed the baby to George and looked about to storm off.

“No, no. Vanora, go downstairs and do what you need to do. I will deal with Paul.”

Robbie marched to his youngest son’s bedroom and knocked. Paul stood, a collared shirt on top and no pants or trousers on the bottom half. He played a video game. A pair of pants—ones that had formerly covered his bum—were now on his head in what Robbie assumed was an act of protest. It was the funniest thing Robbie had seen in a long time. Once more, it took restraint not to burst into laughter.

Robbie sat on the edge of Paul’s bed. “Paul, what is the trouble, mate?”

“I don’t want to go is all.”

“You don’t want ice cream?”

“No, I want ice cream, but I don’t want to go.”

“Why don’t you want to go? And can you at least please put pants on?”

“FINE!” Paul grumbled, taking the pants off his head, and pulling them back on his bum.

“What is going on, Paul?” Robbie asked. “Your poor mother is knackered. I know you do not mean to upset her. However, we must wear trousers—”

“I know. I was not sore with Mummy. I love Mummy. No, I am upset with someone else.”

“Who is that?” Robbie asked.

“The King of Bacon will be there.”

“Belgium? You mean your Uncle Louis?” Robbie asked.

“He is not my uncle!”

“Your aunt married him, which makes him your uncle,” Robbie tried not to laugh.

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