not keep me from declaring that a part of me remains in the fort still, and history may one day record it after us; and when I pass from this world, I do not doubt that visitors to the Cedar Walk at the fort will see a ghost hovering above the trees and the buildings... refusing to be parted from them even for a moment...
The history of Fort Belvedere goes back to the eighteenth century, when it belonged to the Duke of "Cumberland," William, son of King George II... The fort was neglected in the reign of Queen Victoria, and it became a ruin, given over to decay; George V restored some parts of it, then lodged in it a few men of the Court — without, of course, any enthusiasm or permanence... As for the fort's architecture, it is in the "Gothic" style, and this is what astonished the English about the Prince of Wales: how could he choose so old a building in an age where everything is modern?... As for me, I longed to see every corner of the fort, remembering all the Prince had said of it...
The district of "Sunningdale" lies twenty-two miles from London, and so we gave over the reins to "Hugh," our chauffeur, and I sat with Ernest in the back, each of us thinking of the hours to come... We reached the fort at six o'clock exactly, and night had already let down its curtains. Before the car had stopped, a great door opened and a servant looked out; after him came the Prince himself, to receive his guests, to see to their comfort
and the carrying of their luggage — a particular trait I discovered in him. He then led us along a narrow passage into a spacious hall, its floor paved with black and white marble, its walls covered with a layer of yellow leather... From there we passed into the sitting room, where Thelma had preceded us with her husband and General Trotter. The warmth of the atmosphere enchanted me: the yellow velvet curtains, the carved wooden walls, and the elegant furnishings drew me to rest beside the fireplace, where my eye fell upon a row of precious books.
The Prince insisted on accompanying us to the room prepared for us on the second floor, and hinted discreetly at the special care that had gone into its arrangement and furnishing. When we returned to the hall for drinks, the Prince of Wales was bent over a piece of cloth, a needle and colored thread in his right hand, embroidering the piece and ornamenting it with real ardor. When he noticed our astonishment, he apologized, saying it was one of his ugly failings — perhaps the one habit he had never been able to give up... Then he lifted the cloth in his hands and said he was making a cover for a dining table... Naturally I was dumbfounded at the Prince's embroidering, and I could not conceal my astonishment as I asked him how, and from whom, he had learned this art?... He answered that he had it from his mother, who used to seat him with his brothers and sisters around the tea table, each of them with a needle, thread, and a piece of cloth in hand... Thus she would mingle conversation over tea with embroidery upon cloth... And so the hobby has remained a secret, known only to intimates;
for it might well raise a storm of public opinion across the far-flung reaches of the Empire!...
In short, the Prince's life in this fort was independent, far from tradition and formality — or rather it was the life of a bachelor, a solitary young man, who works and does not care for publicity about what he does. Here he visits the farmers and the stricken districts, acquaints himself with conditions at large, and then gives his help far from the eyes of watchers and of the press...