American Royals

by Katharine McGee

  She flipped open the Playbill and saw that the opening number would be performed by Melinda Lacy, in the role of Emily.

  Of course, Beatrice realized: the title alone should have given it away. This was the story of Lady Emily Washington, the Pretender—or as some people persisted in calling her, Queen Emily.

  The only child of King Edward I, Emily remained one of the most controversial, romantic, and tragic figures in American history. Her parents had done their best to arrange a marriage for her. But despite being pursued by half the world’s kings—supposedly the kings of Greece and Spain once fought a duel over her—Emily refused to ever marry. Upon her father’s death in 1855, twenty-five-year-old Emily attempted to establish her claim to the throne, as a woman, alone.

  And then, after just a single day of being the so-called queen, Emily vanished from history.

  Scholars still debated what had happened to her. The prevailing theory was that her uncle John had her killed so that he could become king. But rumors persisted, each wilder and more outlandish than the next—that Emily fell in love with a stable boy and ran away to live in anonymity; that she became a lady pirate and spied for the British; that she escaped to Paris, assumed the name Angelique d’Esclans, and married the French dauphin, which therefore meant that the true heirs to the American throne were actually the kings of France.

  “I didn’t realize this was about Emily,” Beatrice said softly. “I wonder which ending the show will give her.” She scanned the list of musical numbers in search of a clue.

  “I like to think that she escaped to safety. Canada, maybe, or the Caribbean.” Teddy leaned an elbow on the armrest between them.

  “Unfortunately, like to think isn’t the same as believe,” Beatrice argued. “The evidence suggests that her uncle murdered her.”

  “That very same uncle is your ancestor,” Teddy reminded her. He had a point. “And until you, Emily was the only woman who could ever claim to have been America’s queen. Don’t you want her story to have a happy ending, even in fiction?”

  What use was fiction when confronted with cold hard facts? “I guess so,” Beatrice said noncommittally.

  She felt relieved when the houselights dimmed and the curtain lifted, shifting Teddy’s attention, and that of most people in the theater, away from Beatrice at last.

  An actor in a braided red jacket and paste crown stepped onstage, accompanied by an actress in a glittering rhinestone tiara: most likely the pair playing King John and doomed Queen Emily. Their eyes fixed on the royal box directly across from them, they both sank into a deep reverence.

  It was a tradition dating back to the founding of this theater two hundred years ago: any actors portraying royalty must bow and curtsy to the real royalty before the show could begin.

  The lights softened, gleaming on the reflective sheen of Emily’s costume. The rest of the world dissolved into oblivion as she began to sing.

  And Beatrice’s self-control began to slip.

  She’d never heard music this powerful and emotional and poignant. It reached deep into her core, grabbed at the feelings that were tangled there in hot angry knots and unspooled them like a skein of thread. She leaned forward, rapt, her hands clutching tightly at the program. She felt so brittle and transparent that she might snap in two.

  Emily sang of nation-building, of legacy and sacrifice. She sang of love gained and lost. And as the score swept toward the end of the first act—as Emily launched into a heart-wrenching ballad about how she would need to give up the person she loved, for the good of her country—Beatrice realized that she was trembling.

  She stumbled to her feet and fled, ignoring the startled glances of her family and Teddy. The hallway was mercifully empty, save the flock of her family’s security stationed outside the door to their box.

  She didn’t let their murmured protests slow her down, didn’t stop even when her heels almost tripped over the red carpet. She just charged frantically down the hallway, not sure where she was going, knowing only that she couldn’t bear to be still.

  “Are you all right?” Connor fell into step alongside her. “Did that duke say something to upset you? Because if so, I promise I’ll—”

  “It’s okay. I just got emotional, watching the show.” She tried to dab at her eyes without Connor seeing, but he reached into his jacket to give her a handkerchief.

  “A musical made you cry,” he repeated, with evident disbelief.

  Beatrice gave a strangled laugh. “I know it doesn’t sound like me.” But then, she hadn’t really been herself since the Queen’s Ball.

  She drew to a halt partway down the mezzanine’s hallway. Snatches of music drifted through the closed doors to the boxes. The light of the ornate wall sconces fell on Connor’s uniform, on his hair, on the molten steel of his eyes. Those eyes were now locked meaningfully on Beatrice’s.

  So many things lay unspoken between them, and Beatrice didn’t know how to begin to say them.

  “Connor,” she whispered. His name on her lips was a plea, a prayer.

  He ventured a step closer, so close that Beatrice could see each individual freckle dusted over his nose. Her face tilted upward—

  “Your Royal Highness! Are you okay?”

  At the sound of Teddy’s voice, Connor took a quick step back. Beatrice had to bite her lip to keep from reaching for him again.

  Quieting the expression on her face, she turned around to where Teddy was striding briskly down the hall in their direction. “I’m fine,” she said evenly. “I just needed a minute, after that song.”

  “And here I thought you weren’t really into musicals,” Teddy said gently. His eyes drifted to a velvet-covered settee against the wall. “Do you want to wait a minute before we head back?”

  Beatrice couldn’t help looking over at Connor, who gave an imperceptible shrug. “Whatever you want, Your Royal Highness.”

  The way he said her title was utterly cold. As if he needed to remind himself, remind both of them, of her rank.

  Beatrice sank wordlessly onto the cushions, trying not to glance over to where he stood: a few meters away, but most likely within earshot. What was he thinking? Was his blood sparking and spinning with as much wild abandon as hers?

  Teddy came to sit next to her. Slowly, the panic in Beatrice’s veins began to subside. Neither of them rushed to speak, yet the silence didn’t feel tense or awkward, just … simple. Companionable, even. Perhaps because, alone among all the courtiers she’d met, Teddy had made no demands of her.

  Everyone else wanted something. They wanted money or a title or a position in government; they wanted their names next to hers in the papers. Except Teddy. He hadn’t asked anything of her, except perhaps for honesty.

  Which she wasn’t entirely sure she could give.

  “When I was little, my parents used to bring me and my siblings to the opening night of every show.” Beatrice stared down at her lap, but she could feel Teddy’s gaze on her. “Sam always begged my parents to let us leave at intermission.”

  “Why?”

  “She hated unhappy endings. Or really, she hated all endings. I think Sam preferred to imagine her own ending, rather than stay and watch everything unravel into a tragedy.” Beatrice glanced over at Teddy. “Now I know how she felt.”

  “We don’t have to stay,” he offered, and Beatrice knew he understood that this was about more than the musical.

  “I’m sorry for running out like that, and for the way everyone was staring at us. I haven’t been on a lot of dates before,” she fumbled to say, “but I do know that they aren’t supposed to go like this.”

  “Our first date was never going to be normal.”

  Beatrice managed an uncertain smile. “Probably not, but we still could have gone somewhere without a literal audience.”

  Teddy chuckled at that, then quieted.

  “Beatrice. I want you to know that I …” He spoke slowly, as if choosing his words with care. “Respect you,” he decided at last.

>   That didn’t sound particularly romantic, but Beatrice realized that Teddy wasn’t striving for romance. He was just telling her the truth.

  “Thank you,” she said cautiously.

  “Before we met, I wasn’t sure what to expect of you. I didn’t realize how thoughtful, and smart, and dedicated you are. You’re going to be an amazing first queen. If this was a world where people could, I don’t know, vote for their monarch, I know that America would still pick you. I would pick you.”

  Elect the king or queen—what a funny concept. Everyone knew that elections only worked for judges and Congress. Making the executive branch pander to the people, go out begging for votes—that could only end in disaster. That structure would attract the wrong sort of people: power-hungry people with twisted agendas.

  Teddy gave an uncertain smile. “I realize this is all a setup, that your parents are the ones who asked you to go out with me.”

  She stiffened. “Teddy …”

  “I get it,” he said smoothly. “I’m under the same kind of pressure.”

  “You only came here tonight because your parents asked you to?”

  “No—I mean yes, they did—but I’m trying to tell you that I understand how it feels. Being the heir to a dukedom isn’t that different from being the heir to a kingdom, just on a smaller scale. I know what it’s like to have burdens and commitments that other people can’t understand. And even if they did understand them …”

  They would run in the other direction, and leave the tangle of responsibilities with us, Beatrice silently finished.

  Teddy shifted on the seat next to her. “I didn’t go into this thinking that I would like you, but I do. So I hope that our first date isn’t also our last.”

  Beatrice gave a slow nod. He was right: among all the young men her parents had picked for her, Teddy was a pleasant surprise. “Me neither,” she admitted.

  As they returned to the shadows of the royal box, her family cast her a few curious glances, but Beatrice ignored them. She settled back into her chair, smoothing her black cocktail dress around her legs so that it wouldn’t wrinkle.

  She told herself that Teddy was right. They might not be in love with each other, in a passionate, head-over-heels, romance-novel sort of way, but at the very least they understood each other.

  Maybe she was watching for him, or maybe her nerves were just on high alert, but Beatrice noticed the moment Connor slipped into the box. He planted himself just inside the door, standing in the typical Revere Guard manner, his spine straight, his holstered weapons within reach. She wondered if he’d come here under orders, or out of curiosity—to see the musical that brought even Princess Beatrice to tears.

  Some foolish instinct made her try to catch his eye, but Connor didn’t look her way. His gaze was fixed on the stage, as inscrutable as ever.

  SAMANTHA

  Not even Midnight Crown could distract Samantha from the fact that Teddy Eaton was sitting mere inches from her, on a date with her sister.

  She spent the entire second act in a low throbbing agitation, hyperaware of how close Teddy was. So close that Sam could slap him across the face, or grab his shirt with both fists and yank him forward to kiss him.

  Honestly, she hadn’t ruled out either possibility.

  For some masochistic reason, she kept replaying their interaction in her head, examining it from every angle, like a jeweler studying the facets of a gemstone in various lighting. Maybe it was foolish of her, but she’d thought there was something real between her and Teddy. What had prompted him to ping-pong from her straight to Beatrice? Was he really just another of those shallow guys who went after Beatrice for the wrong reasons, who wanted nothing more than to be America’s first king consort?

  How had Sam’s instincts about him been so off base?

  She was relieved when the performance ended and they all filed into the reception hall for the afterparty. Servers passed with trays of hors d’oeuvres: deviled quail eggs, goat cheese arancini, smoked salmon arranged on tiny slices of cucumber. Most of the cast was already here, still wearing their costumes, their faces slick with makeup and sweat.

  “You okay?” Nina asked meaningfully. She knew how difficult it had been for Sam, seeing Teddy with Beatrice.

  Sam cast her friend a grateful look. She was so glad Nina had agreed to come with her tonight. Something about her friend’s no-nonsense humor, her fierce and unwavering sense of self, made Samantha feel like she could face anything.

  “I need a drink,” Sam decided. “Want to come?”

  Nina hesitated. Her gaze drifted behind Sam and softened imperceptibly. “That’s okay. I’ll wait for you here,” Nina murmured. Sam glanced around, wondering who had prompted that look, but the only person standing there was Jeff.

  When she reached the bar, Sam asked the bartender for two glasses of wine and a whiskey sour, just as an all-too-familiar figure stepped up next to her. “No beer tonight?” Teddy asked.

  As if it hadn’t been enough for him to spend the entirety of the performance tormenting her, now he had to ruin the afterparty, too.

  Samantha pursed her lips and said nothing, determined to be cool and aloof. She didn’t owe Teddy an answer. She didn’t owe him anything, even if her traitorous body persisted in leaning toward him. She tried—and failed—not to remember how it had felt, being pressed up against him in the scented darkness of the coatroom.

  Teddy seemed determined to try again. “What did you think of the show?”

  Sam glanced up at him, her eyes snapping fire. “If you must know,” she said coldly, “I thought it was utterly inspired. It reminded me of the Henriad.”

  She’d expected the reference to go over his head, but to her annoyance, Teddy nodded in understanding. “Of course—Shakespeare’s early history plays. Because Midnight Crown tells America’s story to America the same way that Shakespeare told England’s to the English.” He smiled at her, an off-kilter smile that set her stupid heart racing. “I wouldn’t have pegged you for a Shakespeare enthusiast.”

  “Right, because Beatrice is the smart one,” Sam said venomously. “I’m just the girl you made out with in a closet, until my sister finally deigned to meet with you.”

  Teddy recoiled at her words. “I’m sorry. That wasn’t what I—”

  Sam ignored him, reaching for the drinks that the bartender slid toward her. “See you, Teddy.” Her peacock-blue dress fluttered around her stilettos as she stalked back across the room toward her friend.

  Nina was still chatting with Jeff; the sight of them deep in conversation, their heads tipped together with surprising intimacy, caught Sam off guard. She didn’t remember them getting along this well in the past.

  “How’d you know I wanted a whiskey?” Jeff exclaimed in delight, reaching for the cocktail as Sam handed Nina one of the glasses of wine.

  “That was for me, actually, but you can have it,” Sam replied. “I love you just that much.”

  “And here I was thinking our twin telepathy had finally started working.” Jeff clinked his glass lightly to hers. “Thanks.”

  Sam’s eyes cut back to Nina. “Why does he keep trying to talk to me?”

  “I think Teddy is just trying to be polite,” Nina offered, realizing at once who she meant.

  Jeff frowned in confusion. “Teddy Eaton? We barely know him.”

  “Exactly,” Samantha snapped. Teddy barely knew her, yet already he had judged her, found her wanting, and upgraded to Beatrice. She swirled her wine over and over, building her own little tornado within the confines of her glass.

  “What did he say to you?” Jeff asked, clearly confused. Nina shot him a warning glance, silently urging him to drop the subject.

  “It doesn’t matter,” Sam said heavily.

  She hadn’t told her brother about her and Teddy, but she knew he’d sensed that something was going on. When the twins were children, their emotions had always blurred together: whatever one of them was feeling, the other instantly amplified it. The
ir nanny used to joke that they were incapable of laughing alone or crying alone. Even now, it was hard for one of them to be happy if the other one wasn’t.

  Samantha forced herself to smile. She hated herself for wondering if Teddy was watching—if he even bothered to care how she felt.

  “Let’s take a pic,” she suggested, holding out her phone for a selfie. Nina, predictably, stepped aside; she never posed in photographs with Sam. Jeff gave an easy grin and sidled closer as Samantha snapped the photo.

  “Are you still Fiona von Trapp?” Nina asked.

  Samantha swiped across the screen to add silly cartoon sunglasses atop her and Jeff’s faces. “Jeff is Spike Wales. That’s equally absurd,” she pointed out, fighting back a smile.

  The twins’ social media presence was a source of endless frustration in the palace’s PR department. Members of the royal family weren’t supposed to have personal profiles; the only approved account was the palace’s official one, @WashingtonRoyal, which had a full-time manager and photo editor. Ignoring that rule, Sam and Jeff had created private accounts of their own, using fake names, and limiting their followers to their hundred or so closest friends.

  It never lasted. Inevitably, the palace discovered the accounts and shut them down. But Sam and Jeff would just decide upon even more outlandish names, pick out cartoon hedgehogs or unicorns or something equally comical for their profile pictures, and start the whole thing over again.

  “I’m starving, and these appetizers are bird food,” Jeff announced, draping his arms casually over Sam’s and Nina’s shoulders and pulling them close together. “Anyone want to go home and order pizza? Or we could stop by a Wawa,” he added in a strange tone.

  Nina chuckled at that, though Sam didn’t really get why. “We’d better text in the order now,” she said, setting her still-full wineglass on a side table. Of course, no one actually delivered pizza to the palace; they would have to send one of the footmen out in plainclothes to pick it up.

  As they headed out of the party and toward the front drive, Samantha reminded herself that it didn’t matter what Teddy thought of her. It didn’t matter that the entire world thought she was less than Beatrice, as long as she had Nina and Jeff. These two people, at least, knew the real her.