Royal funerals make royal weddings look like Vegas elopements. There are days upon days of somber events, almost all of them involving cannons and bells, weeping distant relatives and mopey dignitaries, and men and women marching in full regimental garb. And every single moment of this one was being broadcast, from Marta’s body making its way from Buckingham Palace to the Palace of Westminster; to the three days it lay in state there; to its journey into Westminster Abbey for her actual service, and then out again, this time to Windsor Castle for her burial next to King Richard and Georgina. Her coffin was escorted along this very long and winding path to eternal rest by different contingents of men in her life, ranging from Richard to Marta’s personal chauffeur and her long-retired social secretary, who was himself so old that I was worried he wasn’t going to live through the walk.

My first official participation was the morning of the funeral, as the royal family followed the casket and the accompanying pipe band on foot—excepting Eleanor, who would arrive by car—from Westminster Hall into the church. Agatha held Richard’s arm; Edwin had a tot on each side and walked behind with Elizabeth, who carried the baby, which obligingly spit up on her lapel as she shook hands with the archbishop.

“Ugh. Could you be a dear and turn that into wine, too?” She’d winked, waving her hand in a magic-making gesture toward the archbishop, to his barely suppressed horror.

When Clive later wrote that “anyone who’s anything anywhere” came, he wasn’t exaggerating. This guest list made our wedding look like we’d rounded up a bunch of randoms at the Tube. It was all I could do to keep my head down and look solemn, as in my periphery alone I spied three American First Ladies, four British prime ministers in addition to the beleaguered Doris Tuesday, at least half of the England national football team, the president and First Lady of France, the prime minister of Canada, Angelina and Brad sitting on opposite sides of the room, and the heads of every single royal family in Europe—including the former king of Belgium, who was in the middle of a paternity scandal and had been hiding out in Mallorca. I wished fleetingly that I’d gotten the Cubs to pay their respects.

Despite my valiant effort not to rubberneck, the truth was that I could have gawked all day if I wanted to, because for once no one was looking at me. Everyone—from Brad Pitt to the Prince of Monaco and his young Olympian wife—was waiting to see Eleanor. And she knew it.