“No,” Robert replied. “Just come as soon as you’re ready.”
“I’ll be there in ten,” Beatrice conceded. She heard the whisper of the front door sliding shut, and realized that Connor had already slipped out.
When she emerged from her sitting room wearing jeans and a deep aubergine sweater, he was standing at attention in the hallway, as if he’d just arrived for the morning. “Oh—Connor,” she made a show of saying. “Walk me to my dad’s office?”
He nodded and fell into step alongside her. “I seem to recognize that uniform,” Beatrice added nonchalantly. “Any chance it’s the one you had on yesterday?”
“I’m going to make you pay for that,” Connor said. His gaze was still fixed straight ahead, but his mouth curled in a smile.
“I look forward to it,” Beatrice replied, and was gratified by the way Connor almost stumbled.
When they reached the entrance to His Majesty’s study, Connor stepped aside to stand opposite her dad’s Guard. Beatrice knocked at the double doors, waiting for her father’s muffled come in before she pushed them open.
This had always been her favorite room in the palace, all warmth and dark wood. A pair of massive bookcases held her dad’s private library, mostly leather-bound volumes of history and law, though tucked away here and there was a paperback thriller. On the wall gleamed a biosecurity-enabled alarm panel.
Before the window sat the king’s desk, made of heavy oak and topped with leather. It was scattered with papers and official requests. A ceremonial gold-plated fountain pen—with which the king signed all official laws, treaties, and correspondence—sat propped on its stand.
Her dad was on the leather couch near the fireplace, an old photo album in his lap. Beatrice sat down next to him, uncharacteristically stilled by something in his manner.
“Sorry for asking you here so early. I couldn’t sleep,” the king confessed. “I need to talk to you about something, and it can’t wait any longer.”
“Okay,” Beatrice said hesitantly.
He passed her the photo album. “This was the happiest day of my life, you know. Except for the day I married your mother.”
He had paused on the photos from St. Stephen’s Hospital, taken the day she was born: close-ups of Beatrice wrapped in a white wool blanket, her tiny fists closed, and then the posed family photos on the steps outside.
“These are great pictures.” It never failed to amaze Beatrice how gorgeous her mom had looked right after giving birth. She’d made a point of wearing her old pre-pregnancy jeans home from the hospital, just because she could.
“Your mother and I were utterly infatuated,” the king went on, his gaze softening. “You were this perfect creature who belonged to us, and yet it was clear that you belonged to everyone else as well. There were such scenes outside the hospital that day, Beatrice. Even then, America adored you.”
Beatrice loved it when he smiled like this. When he stopped being the king, and went back to being her dad.
She continued to flip through the pages, past school pictures and photos from the garden, to a state dinner where Beatrice had fallen asleep in her mother’s lap. “What made you decide to look through these?”
“Just … reminiscing,” her dad said vaguely. “By the way, I have something for you.”
He shuffled over to the desk, returning with a tattered clothbound book. The pages were crinkly and yellow, with that distinct smell of aged paper. She opened it to the first page, curious.
The American Constitution, it read, in bold block letters. Article I: The Crown.
Someone had underlined the opening paragraph: The King is the Head of State, the symbol of its Unity, Glory, and Permanence. Upon ascending the throne of this Realm, the King is charged by God to administer this Nation’s government according to its laws, and to protect the rights of its People. The King assumes the highest representation of the American State in International Relations ….
The King, the King, it said over and over. The Founding Fathers had never imagined that a woman might run their nation.
Beatrice made a mental note to revise the Constitution so that it said the Sovereign instead.
“This was your grandfather’s old copy, and then mine. You’ll find some of our annotations in the margins. I hope you’ll seek guidance from it,” her dad told her in a strange tone. “Being the monarch is a solitary job, Beatrice. When you have a question someday, after I’m gone, promise me that you’ll look in here for the answer.”
He wasn’t usually this morbid. But then, that was always the weirdest part of being heir to the throne: the fact that she spent her entire life training for a job she would only assume once her father died.
“Luckily that won’t be for a long time,” Beatrice said firmly.
The king stared down at the rings on his clasped hands. “I’m not sure that’s the case.”
Her heart skipped a beat. “What do you mean?”
When her father looked up at her, every line of his face was etched with sorrow. “Beatrice, I’ve been diagnosed with stage-four lung cancer.”
The air seemed to abruptly vacuum from the room. Everything was silent, as if the grandfather clock in the corner had halted in time, as if even the wind outside had stilled at her father’s words.
No. It couldn’t be possible, no, no, no—
“No!” Beatrice didn’t remember standing, but somehow she was on her feet. “Who’s your doctor? I want to come with you, review your treatment plan,” she said frantically, thinking aloud. “You can beat this, Dad, I’m certain you can; you’re the strongest person I know.”
“Beatrice.” Her father’s voice broke. “This is stage four. There is no treatment plan.”
It took a moment for the implication of his words to sink in.
Pain exploded in her head. And there was a roaring in her ears, the sound of different pieces of reality fragmenting and shattering all around her.
“Dad …,” Beatrice whispered, her eyes burning, and she saw that tears were trailing down his face, too, as he nodded.
“I know,” he said heavily. “I know.”
She collapsed back onto the couch and threw her arms around his shoulders. Her dad just hugged her and let her cry, great forlorn sobs that split her chest open from within. He ran a hand lightly over her back, the way he used to comfort her when she was a child. It made Beatrice wish she could melt back down to little-girl size: back when everything was so simple, when a kiss and a Band-Aid could solve almost any problem.
She couldn’t bear the thought of losing him. Her dad, who used to throw her into the swimming pool and pretend that he was rocket-launching her into space; who read stories to her stuffed otter when she was too proud to ask for them for herself; who had always been her greatest advocate and fiercest champion. Her dad—and also her king.
“I love you, Dad,” she whispered through the rawness in her throat.
“I love you so much, Beatrice,” he told her, over and over. His voice was steady, but she could tell that he was still weeping, because her hair was damp with his tears.
He didn’t have to say it for Beatrice to know what he was thinking. She needed to do all her crying now, in private, because she wouldn’t get another moment like this. From now on, she would need to be tough, for her father’s sake. For her family’s. And most of all, for her country’s.
Beatrice’s resolve quavered a little at the thought of what was coming—the fact that she would have to rule, so much sooner than she had ever imagined—but she would deal with that later. That fear was nothing compared to the grief coursing through her.
Eventually she sat back, her sobs subsiding. The early-morning light filtered through the window to dance over the scrolling carpet beneath their feet.
“Who else knows?” she asked, still sniffling. “Have you told Mom?”
“Not yet.” The king’s voice sounded ragged. “And if I could have kept from telling you, I would have. I wish there was a way for me to tell
Beatrice, my successor, without telling Beatrice, my daughter. This is a matter of state, a matter between monarchs,” her father said.
“I understand.” Beatrice willed herself to be strong for her dad, to be Beatrice the successor. But Beatrice the daughter couldn’t stop the silent tears that kept sliding down her cheeks.
“I promise that I’ll tell your mom soon—and Sam and Jeff,” her dad hastened to add. “But right now I want to enjoy this time, however long it is, without the shadow of my illness hanging over us. And over the country.”
As if to prove just how little time he had left, he subsided into a fit of coughing: heavy, racking coughs that seemed to shake his entire frame. Finally he looked up at her, his mouth set into a grim line.
“How long?” she asked.
“Hopefully a year,” her father said softly. “More likely, months.”
Beatrice bit her lip until it felt like she might draw blood.
“You will be a great queen.” Her father spoke slowly, as if choosing his words with care. “But as I’ve said before, this isn’t an easy job. It’s so much more than the charity work, or the politics—the Cabinet meetings, the ambassador appointments, being the commander in chief of the armed forces. More than any of that, the most important role of the monarch is still a symbolic one.
“When you are queen, the people will look to you as the ultimate symbol of stability in a confusing and ever-changing world. The Crown is the magic link that holds this country together, that keeps all the different states and political parties and types of people peacefully interwoven.”
Beatrice had heard all of this before. But hearing it now, knowing her time would come far too fast, she felt the sentiment take on a whole new meaning.
“I’m just—” She braced her hands on the fabric of her jeans to steady herself. “I’m not ready for this.”
“Good. If you thought you were ready, it would have been certain proof that you’re not,” the king said gruffly, yet with unmistakable warmth. “No one is ever ready for this, Beatrice. I certainly wasn’t.”
Her heart careened wildly from sorrow to panic. “I’m terrified I’ll mess up.”
Instead of assuaging her fears, her dad only nodded. “You will. Countless times.”
“But …”
“You think your predecessors never made mistakes?” he asked, then swiftly answered his own question. “Of course they did. Our nation’s history is woven from their errors in judgment, their wrong decisions, as much as it is from their achievements.”
Beatrice followed her father’s gaze to the portrait of King George I that hung above the fireplace. She knew precisely what her dad was talking about, because it was something they had discussed before—the horror of slavery.
George I had known that slavery was wrong; he had freed all his own slaves upon his death. Perhaps if he’d listened to his conscience instead of to the Southern Congressmen, he would have abolished the institution altogether. Instead that hadn’t happened for another two generations.
“I wish I could tell you that becoming the monarch will give you infallible judgment. If it did, maybe America would have a history I felt unequivocally proud to represent.” Her father gave a disappointed breath. “But unfortunately, this is the history we’ve got.”
Beatrice had never quite thought of that part of the job. That as the living symbol of America, she would be the inheritor of the nation’s legacy, the bad as well as the good.
“I wish we could erase all those—those atrocities,” she stammered, and was surprised by her father’s reply.
“Never say that,” he insisted. “Say you want to make things right, to build a better future. But erasing the past—or worse, trying to rewrite it—is the tool of despots. Only by engaging with the past can we avoid repeating it.”
Beatrice remembered something her history tutor used to say: a good queen learns from her mistakes, but a great one learns from the mistakes of others.
She reached for the photo album, which had slid off her lap onto the carpet. It had fallen open to a photo from an old balcony appearance. Beatrice’s eyes quickly moved past her waving parents to focus instead on the roiling sea of people beneath. The sight of them, the sheer number of them, suddenly felt overwhelming.
“How do you do it?” she whispered. “How do you represent tens of millions of people who all want such different things? Especially when …”
She didn’t finish the sentence, but her dad had always been able to guess the direction of her thoughts. “Especially when some of them would rather have Jefferson than you?”
“Yes, exactly!”
“You do it with grace,” he said gently. “You listen to those people with respect, and try to address their concerns, even when they refuse to grant you the same courtesy. Because you will be their queen. Whether they like it or not.”
Beatrice flipped to another page in the photo album. She knew her dad was right. But sometimes—when newspapers accused her of “getting emotional,” whatever that meant, or when the media spent more time critiquing her outfits than her policies—she wished she could act with a little less grace and a little more aggression. That she could be a little more like Samantha.
She blinked, surprised by that last thought.
“Beatrice,” her father went on, sounding hesitant, “there is one thing I was hoping to ask you.”
“Of course,” she said automatically.
“You are the future queen, and the people have known you, have loved you, since you were born. But as you pointed out, there are still so many Americans who aren’t ready to have a woman in charge.” He sighed. “I hate to say it, but not everyone will like the idea of you ascending the throne as a young woman, alone. The transition would be so much easier on you if you had a king consort by your side.”
No. Surely he wasn’t asking this of her.
“I—I don’t understand,” she stammered. “You just told me that our duty is to learn from our forefathers’ mistakes. To be better than they were.”
Her dad inclined his head in agreement. “It is.”
“But suggesting I get married … You’re saying I can’t do the job on my own.”
“No one can do this job on their own,” the king clarified, and attempted a smile. “Beatrice, this is the hardest role in the world, and it never lets up or slows down or offers you any kind of reprieve. I love you far too much to let you take on this burden without someone to share it.”
Beatrice opened her mouth in protest, but no words came out. Her dad didn’t seem to notice.
“I wouldn’t suggest it if I didn’t think you were ready, but I watched you and Teddy at the New Year’s Eve party. You seemed so at ease with each other, so well matched. And more than that, you couldn’t stop smiling to yourself. You looked so happy.” Her dad’s voice was urgent and earnest.
Beatrice blanched. If she’d looked like that on New Year’s, it was because of the secret glances she’d been exchanging with Connor. It had nothing at all to do with Teddy.
“I just—I haven’t known Teddy very long,” she stammered. “It’s barely been a month.”
“Your mother and I had only been on eleven dates before we got married, and look how it turned out for us.” Her dad’s expression softened, the way it always did at the mention of her mom. “I know that other people sometimes wait years before they commit to decisions like this, but we aren’t like other people. And your instincts about Teddy are sound. I got to spend some more time with him in Telluride, and I liked what I saw. He has strength, integrity, and humility, and most of all, a warm heart.”
Beatrice twisted her hands in her lap. “I’m not ready to be engaged.”
“I know this seems fast. But let me tell you from experience, you would be miserable as sovereign without a partner to help you face it. It’s such a lonely, isolating job.” Her father’s eyes glimmered. “Teddy will take good care of you.”
Beatrice wrapped her arms around her chest, trying not
to think of Connor. “It all feels so …” Overwhelming, impossible, unfair. “It feels like a lot,” she finished.
Her father nodded. “I understand if this is too fast for you. But I’ve always dreamed of walking you down the aisle. I would love to do that, before I die,” he finished.
Those three words, before I die, seemed to echo plaintively around the room.
Those words were like the ruler Beatrice’s etiquette master used to snap across her knuckles, yanking her sharply back to reality. All the things she’d been dreaming this morning felt like just that: dreams. Foolish, impossible, hopeless dreams.
From now on, you are two people at once: Beatrice the girl, and Beatrice, heir to the Crown. When they want different things, the Crown must win. Always.
She thought of the task that lay ahead: of all the things she would have to embody and build and improve and unite. Of all the millions of people whose voices she was charged with representing. The colossal weight of that duty settled over her shoulders like a cloak sewn with stones, pressing her downward.
Beatrice’s spine instinctively stiffened, her shoulders squaring, bracing themselves beneath that weight. This might be a near-impossible burden, but it was her burden. The one she had been training for her entire life.
She could never be with Connor. She knew it, and so did he. Hadn’t they both said it that night in Montrose, before they flung themselves at each other?
“I love you, Beatrice,” her father told her. “Whatever you decide. And I’m so proud of you.”
Beatrice rubbed at her eyes, reached up to run her fingers through her hair, took another breath. Somehow she found the self-control to stand up.
“I love you too, Dad,” she told him. Enfolded in that sentence was her promise, her solemn vow—part of the same vow that she had made long ago, that had been sworn on her behalf the moment she was born. She saw that her dad understood, because his features visibly relaxed with relief.
She knew, now, what she had to do.
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