Sarah Ferguson paces the long gallery of Royal Lodge, boxes of unopened Amazon parcels rising like cardboard ramparts around her. Each unclicked “buy now” feels, she says, like another small betrayal of the life she thought she could still patch together. The leaked email to Jeffrey Epstein—her grovelling apology for ever having denounced him—has detonated what remained of her reputation. Friends who once laughed at her jokes now let the phone ring. Invitations have vanished “like snow on a labrador’s nose,” she tells a former aide, voice cracking.
Andrew, stripped of titles and patronages, at least has the numb shell of royal protocol to cushion the fall. Sarah…
