When Prince Henry invites you to a ball, the obvious response is to say yes, right? Instead, I think I let out a strange sound and mumbled “uh-huh,” akin to a Muppet.
As an American, being asked to a ball felt like something straight out of a fairy tale, my only context being Disney’s Cinderella. It seemed unreal, like a scene from an animated movie. Yet, there stood Prince Henry, undeniably real, with tousled hair and dressed casually, his sport coat kissed by the Scottish mist.
My journey to the quaint coastal town of St. Andrews came during my junior year at university. I was enrolled in a course titled “Tragedy in the Age of Shakespeare,” taught by a Welsh professor whose accent was thick enough to require me to squint to understand him. Every Wednesday, we gathered in a stone basement of a building older than the U.S. I navigated past the ruins of a cathedral on my way to the student union and pretended to show interest in golf. On weekends, I armed myself with a Lonely Planet guide and a EuroRail pass, eager to explore various countries and cultures within my budget.
Study and travel were my objectives; meeting a prince was not on my radar. I knew he was around, studying geography and dating a girl everyone praised for her beauty. To me, he was just a whisper of rumors. I’d enter the library and hear someone say, “You just missed him! He was here! He wore a green sweater!” or overhear girls in the cafeteria exclaiming, “That’s his shoulder. Seriously!” News about him was entertaining, like celebrity gossip—amusing yet distant.
So, one Sunday afternoon, as I walked home and received a text from a friend saying I had “just missed him!” at the library, I smiled and continued walking. Then came another text:
“He’s still here. COME NOW.”
In the early texting days, emojis were non-existent, but I could feel the excitement through her words. I turned around.
Ten minutes later, I dashed into the library, earning some glares from graduate students at the front desk, and found my friend, a petite redhead who seemed Scottish but was actually from Connecticut, behind a computer.
“Where is he?!” I whispered, almost yelling.
“You didn’t see him?”
“No!”
“He’s outside, at that folding table with two other guys. They’re selling tickets for the Water Polo Ball.”
I paused, recalling that he played water polo. I wasn’t entirely sure what that entailed, picturing horses in floaties and guys with lacrosse sticks, which surely wasn’t accurate. Yet, the idea of speaking to a man who might be the future king sent shivers down my spine.
“I’m going to go talk to him.”
My friend didn’t respond; she was already back to her computer. I stepped outside, squinting in the sunlight, and there he was, just ten feet away, leaning over a shaky card table.
Until that moment, I had never seen myself as brave. I was neither the first to speak in class nor the last to back down in an argument. Yet, I managed to take those few steps toward him, forcing myself to either engage or retreat forever. I had no small talk prepared—no sports chats, no prep school gossip, nothing. For a gut-wrenching moment, I even blanked on his name. But then he looked up and smiled, as if coaxing a timid animal from its hiding place, which prompted a few words to escape me like loose change.
“Uh, hello.”
“Hello,” he replied, flashing a grin that revealed all his teeth.
“You’re from the States, right?” he asked after an eternity of silence.
“Yes, from Tennessee,” I managed, resisting the urge to draw a map on the table. After all, he was a geography major.
“Ah, Jack Daniels.”
It was a joke. Scotland is renowned for its whiskey, but Jack Daniels still held a place of honor. We chuckled together over the shared humor of college life. Our conversation flowed from professors to classes, and I even suggested a book. Through this brief exchange, he became more human, and I felt myself grow in confidence. So when he asked, “Would you like to go to the ball?” I gave my “uh-huh,” and we shook hands, and I might have even bowed slightly as I waved goodbye.
Back at my seaside house, I held the ticket up to the light. Attending the ball wasn’t my primary goal; I had plans to fly to Paris that weekend to visit a friend. We would savor crepes and wander the city like leisurely pigeons. I had no intention of being a wallflower while Henry and his date twirled on the dance floor. My aim was to speak with him and prove to myself that I could, even if it was just sharing a laugh about liquor. It felt far better than chasing a celebrity’s ghost around town, always left wondering. This experience validated my self-worth; despite his titles and lineage, we were fundamentally equals—just two students trying to survive academia.
I share this story with my daughter, who adores all things royal. I skip over the whiskey joke, but I emphasize the bravery and humanity of the encounter. I want her to always remember her worth and that of others. Significance doesn’t come from titles but from the simple fact of our existence. Everyone deserves to be heard.
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Summary
In this engaging narrative, Jamie Sinclair recounts her unexpected invitation to a ball by Prince Henry during her college years in St. Andrews. Through a charming and humorous encounter, she reflects on the importance of self-worth and the shared humanity we all possess, regardless of social status.