I was twelve or thirteen when I first became aware of the British Royal Family. It was a People magazine cover story marking the tenth anniversary of Prince Charles and Lady Diana Spencer. There were photographs of their famously extravagant wedding — Diana’s iconic dress, the crowds, the gilded carriages. And there, standing out amidst the spectacle, was Queen Elizabeth II: proper, composed, every inch the sovereign.
As a history lover even then, I was drawn not just to the fairy tale — though I’ll admit that element sparkled — but to the lineage, the structure, the weight of tradition. Even Diana, dubbed “the people’s princess,” wasn’t truly a commoner; she was the daughter of an earl and wore her own family tiara. That nuance thrilled the part of me that delighted in old dynasties and footnotes. I wasn’t one of those girls who dreamed of being a princess. I was bookish — solidly Team Belle. If anything, I saw the Queen and thought, now that’s something: being in charge and telling people how things ought to be done.
From then on, the Royal Family was a presence in my life, primarily through the pages of People magazine. I followed headlines about William being a little terror in his toddler years and the increasing strains in Charles and Diana’s marriage. I read voraciously — about royal protocol, family trees, jewels, castles, history — and I probably bored my family to tears with all my opinions and discoveries.
The Queen, though, was my anchor. At first, she struck me as deeply composed — a woman who stood apart from the drama surrounding her. As I learned more about her life, how she became Queen, and the many scandals and tragedies she had to weather, my respect deepened into something much more personal.
While Queen Elizabeth II was the first royal to catch my attention, she certainly wasn’t the last. I didn’t limit myself to the main players — I read about all of them. Cousins twice removed, retired dukes, scandal-adjacent baronesses — if they had even a distant tie to Windsor, I probably knew their name, their title, and what estate they favored. My curiosity widened into a fascination with the living, breathing royal ecosystem — not just the sovereign, but the supporting cast.
One of my favorite lesser-known royals today is Sophie, Duchess of Edinburgh. She’s so composed, stylish without being flashy, and quietly consistent in a way I admire deeply. She’s also one of the few I imagine I could actually be friends with — someone you’d trust to help organize a charity gala and also talk books over coffee. It’s been gratifying to see her receiving more public recognition lately. She deserves it.
I also spent time learning about the Queen Mother’s family, the Bowes-Lyons, and was struck by the warmth and relaxed nature that seemed to radiate from them — a notable contrast to the stiff Saxe-Coburg-Gotha roots that the Windsors were trying to gently bury. When the Queen Mother died, shortly after Princess Margaret, I remember thinking how much the tone of the family had changed — how far away the golden age of her influence already felt.
My reading has always leaned heavily into history. I love seeing how the monarchies of Britain have both shaped and been shaped by the centuries around them. My favorite current royal read is Unruly by David Mitchell — clever, sharp, and sneakily informative. And while I can talk comfortably about Charles III’s children and the current line of succession, I also have a soft spot for the complicated, much-maligned King Richard III. He inherited a political disaster and has been carrying the weight of Shakespeare’s quill ever since. (Free Richard!)
There’s so much nuance to the Royal Family — who they are, how they’ve evolved, and how we perceive them. I’ve never claimed to be neutral. I have opinions. I’m a smartypants. And frankly, I think that makes me just the right kind of royal watcher.