The Windsor’s newest addition is another George. Oh, I am ever so fond of the George’s. A George sat on their throne when I went out in 1913 (or had midnight struck?) A bit of a prude that one, had no dalliances during his marriage. Of course, dear old May was kept busy, it seems.
A dashing sort named George made his way into the Chateau recently. He was a great deal of fun and we compared notes on our residences, among other things. I won’t use his last name publicly but I can tell you that a flash of his smile could send you to the ER.
I am not a de Plume by birth. I married into that bit of fabulous with my third husband, Rémy. I love the name so much I think I shall shy away from marrying again just to keep it. Of course, ladies need not change their names these days, do they? Honestly, the best thing from being asleep most of the last 90 years was waking up to the strides ladies have made throughout the decades. We were just kicking up our heels in 1913 about suffrage; glad to learn some folks took note.
And let’s be honest, my desire not to put a Mister to my Mistress of the Chateau stems from desires far seedier than a cognomen.
La Veuve de Plume suits me just fine. Rémy was tickled seven ways to Sunday when I put up the placard on his country estate that read Place de Plume. Some of his more prominent acquaintances took umbrage with such a common name for a distinguished manor but Rémy didn’t care what they thought, an attitude I had long since adopted. We popped that little piece of ceramic off and hung it at every home when we were in residence.
My point is, darlings, make every corner of your world, your own. And call it whatever you fancy.