Royal Match

by Parker Swift

  The stylist put the stiletto down and nodded to herself, resigned, and left out the box with the ballet flats. I mouthed the words thank you to Frank.

  Next was a makeup consultation—an efficient team of three who spent thirty minutes applying makeup, took about a thousand photos, and then proceeded to wash my face and repeat the process three more times. Apparently there was a concern about how the makeup would photograph in different lights.

  “What about jewelry?” I asked at one point, and the wedding planner, again dressed completely in black and with a clipboard permanently attached to her hand, piped up from the chair she’d been sitting in the entire afternoon.

  “That will be taken care of Sunday,” she said in a clipped tone.

  “Sunday?”

  “I believe, Your Grace, that you have three hours booked off for Buckingham Palace on Saturday?”

  “I do…” I was failing to realize what this had to do with jewelry.

  “The palace will be providing your jewelry, and it will be determined then. Earrings, I believe, perhaps some other adornments.” Okay then. The woman never even looked at me as she checked things off her list.

  Then we were back to the discussion about transportation. The black-clad wedding planner was rattling through the itinerary and spoke quickly through the description of me riding to the abbey in a two-hundred-year-old carriage with the bridesmaids. She was about to move on to the issues regarding Caroline’s train, when she was interrupted.

  “No.” I looked up at the sound of a male voice to see Dylan walking into the room. I wondered what he was doing there until I looked at the clock and saw it was nearly eight p.m. “I’ve come to take you home, baby.” He said it so softly, I wasn’t sure others could hear, but his intentions were clear. He was holding my hand and elbow, helping me step down from the pedestal where Hannah’s apprentice had been pinning the hem now that shoes had been decided on.

  “Your Grace,” said the woman in black, “it is tradition for the bridesmaids, of which Lydia is technically one, to arrive before the bride in the coach.”

  “No,” he said with utter finality. “She will ride with me. We’re happy to use a car of your choosing, but she will be with me.”

  “Dylan, I’m sure it will be fine. I mean—”

  “Lydia, those carriages are not comfortable. They’re bumpy, have no shocks, and you’ll be jostling around in there. It’s fine for a five-year-old, but there is no way in hell I’m allowing my wife who is nine months pregnant to ride in a nineteenth-century death trap.” The truth was, when he put it that way, I didn’t want to ride in one. “What’s Caroline arriving in?” he asked the wedding planner, clearly suspecting the answer.

  “A 1968 Daimler limousine, sir.”

  “Fantastic. We’ll ride with her.”

  “But, sir—”

  Dylan just gave the poor woman one of his go-on-I-dare-you looks. I had to swallow my laugh—there really was something funny about watching people fall under his spell.

  “Yes, sir,” she said, scribbling on her paper.

  Dylan just nodded, as though that little inconvenience had been dealt with, and he looked down at me with adoration, like he’d resisted taking care of me all day, and now it was his turn.

  “Hi,” I said, reaching up to kiss him. “Thanks for that.”

  “Of course, damsel.” He kissed my nose as the other people in the room began packing up. He looked around at the remnants of a long day—scraps of fabric, shoeboxes, lists on clipboards, empty coffee cups and takeaway containers. “You’ve been busy, baby.”

  “Can you take me home?” I leaned my head into his chest, finally allowing myself to be tired.

  * * *

  It was after midnight before I was turning off my bedside lamp. Eleanor had woken up with a bad dream, and I’d had to cuddle her back to sleep. I looked at the clock and realized I was officially thirty-nine weeks pregnant with our last child. This was it, the last week I’d have one of our children growing inside me. I’d been so busy the past two weeks, operating at light speed, that I was missing it.

  I lay next to my husband—that gorgeous, generous, controlling, bossy man I loved. He spread out on our bed, facedown, naked beneath the duvet. His lean back muscles—clear in the moonlight—reminded me of his strength. His shiny, dark hair was just beginning to fall over his ears. His face was by my hip, his arm looped around one of my legs, and his breathing even and steady. I threaded my fingers through his hair and stroked softly. With my other hand I smoothed the skin over my belly.

  Dylan moaned slightly and gripped me tighter. And I marveled. A piece of this man was inside me, had become our daughter, who would make our family complete.

  I should have been exhausted, but instead, for just a few minutes, I felt positively awake, exuberant, and vigorously alive.

  Chapter Nine

  Seven days until the big day

  Do you really have to go to Humboldt for the weekend?” The next morning I sat cross-legged on our bed, once again wearing one of Dylan’s button-down shirts, collar askew, and tea in hand. He was walking in and out of the closet as he talked to me and dressed for the day.

  “Are you sure you won’t come with me?” he replied, eyebrow raised, as he pulled on his jeans.

  I shook my head no, but the truth was, I wanted to go. My body wanted to. I was horny as hell, and frankly I missed my husband. But I also needed to resist. If I went to Humboldt, there was zero doubt in my mind that Dylan would handcuff me to our bed there and force me to come until I went into labor. In another universe that sounded like heaven, but one of us had to be the responsible one and at least try to make it through the wedding without having this baby.

  “Damsel, I haven’t been all summer, and Mrs. Barnes called this morning—that tenant with the tea shop is having some kind of issue. Between that and the changes we’ve agreed to make in accordance with the Historic Houses Association, there’s much to be done before the baby comes. I’ll be there until late tomorrow, I’m afraid.” He was now sitting on the edge of the bed and lacing his shoes. “Are you sure you don’t want me to take the kids? They could run around the gardens?”

  “No, it’s okay. Molly promised them she’d bake cookies with them today, and then something about pretending to be explorers in Hyde Park.” I reached out and ran my finger down his arm, drawing soft circles near his wrist.

  He looked at me skeptically. “You sure you want to start that, damsel?” He shifted and started to climb towards me on the bed. He took my tea and placed it on the bedside table, then grabbed my breast through my shirt and started to kiss me. I groaned and leaned back against the headboard, receiving him, a hair away from giving in completely.

  But then he pulled back. “I’m happy to continue, baby, as you know, but Daphne should be arriving any minute.”

  “What? No,” I said, looking at my phone to consult the date. “She’s not supposed to come until tomorrow.” Daphne had planned a visit for the week leading up to my due date. We’d figured if I was still pregnant, she’d keep me company watching movies, going for walks, and trying to self-induce labor. And if I’d had the baby, she offered to talk Eleanor and Aiden to our other country house, what I called the “hideaway,” and give us time with our new daughter.

  Dylan just shrugged and wouldn’t meet my gaze as he dug through the tray on his bureau for his sunglasses.

  “You changed her flight, didn’t you? Because you’re going to Humboldt?”

  “Safety in numbers, baby. The more people around who love you, the better.” I shook my head, but I knew he didn’t give a damn about whether I approved or not. And just as he leaned over to give me another kiss, the doorbell rang.

  I leaped out of bed, or came as close to leaping as possible in my current state. I wanted to run down the stairs, but in the absence of doing any real running, I walked as quickly as possible.

  After greetings, and hugs, and freshly poured cups of coffee, Daphne and I sent Dylan on his
way and took up residence on the couch.

  “Okay, Lyd. Fill me in,” she began, wrapping her hands around her mug and taking a bite out of her croissant. “Please explain how, in a matter of a few weeks, you have become the matron of honor in the royal wedding of the century. I freaking saw your face on People magazine! In the supermarket!”

  It was the perfect start to the weekend. We didn’t leave that couch for two hours as we caught each other up. Daphne had stories about our college friends and at least twenty tales of her dating escapades that I still hadn’t heard yet.

  “I’m swearing off dating apps,” she declared, making a sweeping motion with her arms and sporting a dismissive expression for emphasis.

  “Why? I asked, laughing.

  She groaned and rolled her head back. “Don’t even get me started. There was one guy—he seemed perfect. His profile said he was an astronomer—”

  “Hot,” I interjected.

  “Right?” she confirmed. “He had all these sweet lofty things to say about stars and planets in our messages, and he looked superhot. Like sure, maybe he was a little on the boyish side in terms of looks, but totally hot, in like a young Matt Damon kind of way. He said he was thirty-five, but when we met up…Lyd, there was no way he was thirty-five. So I press him and press him, and finally he admits to being seventeen!”

  My mouth dropped. “No!”

  “Yes! Apparently he was testing out some theory of deception for his AP psychology class.”

  “Oh, Daph,” I said, laughing as sympathetically as I could.

  “After that guy—like, right after I left the coffee shop—I went to a bar just determined to not be me,” she said emphatically.

  “Not you?” I asked.

  “Not me. Lyd, I’m just sick of being this person—this thirty-year-old single lawyer who can’t find someone who makes her feel anything. So after I told Junior to go home and do his goddamn homework, I went across the street to the bar I never go to. I saw this outrageously hot guy. Pretended to be a hippie about to go work for the Peace Corps—”

  “You did not—”

  “I did. I told him this big story about how I just needed one last thrill stateside before I left for Southeast Asia for two years. Went back to his place, and had what was hands down the best sex of my life.”

  “Seriously?” I asked hopefully. This story was getting good.

  “Seriously. But, Lydia, leave it to me to have backed myself into a corner with a totally pointless lie. Like obviously I can never see him again. Now I’m a totally insane liar!” She threw her hands up in the air, clearly resigned to her colossal bad luck.

  “Fair point,” I conceded, chuckling at her fate.

  “Needless to say, when I ran into him at Starbucks a month later, on my way to court, I literally ran out of there like the place was on fire. Completely humiliating.”

  I shook my head, laughing again. “Okay, so maybe a break from dating,” I said, trying to stave off more laughter at the situation.

  After more tales of New York, I filled her in on every bizarre royal wedding detail, like Zach’s four suits and Caroline’s special bouquet—apparently it would have fresh flowers from every country in the Commonwealth. I was glad it wasn’t my job to get orchids flown in from India.

  For lunch we meandered up the road to my favorite London pub, the Holly Bush, and took up residence in a booth for the remainder of the afternoon. No matter how many close friends I had in London, there would always be something special about the friends who’d known me the longest. Daphne had seen me through my worst, and when she came to visit, my home felt even more like home.

  Chapter Ten

  Six days until the big day

  Are you sure you don’t mind?” I asked Daphne. “They’ll both take a nap in an hour, and I know they’ll be better behaved for you than they ever are for us.”

  It was Sunday, just after lunch, and we were standing in the walk-in closet Dylan and I shared, and I was hunting for shoes that would work with the one maternity dress appropriate for an audience with Her Majesty. I was due at the palace in forty-five minutes for tea and to go over some final wedding details. Normally, Dylan would come with me—I always found it comforting for him to be with me for these things. He had an ease around the royal family that I could only fake.

  “Lydia! Of course I don’t mind.” Daphne was sitting cross-legged on the long bench that ran down the middle of the room. “I think all of this”—she gestured with her hand around the obscene amount of designer clothes—“has made you forget that when your best friend has tea at the palace it’s a big fucking deal. Definitely something you babysit for.”

  I sighed audibly—I’d much rather stay home with her and my children, honestly. “You’re the best. You know that, right?”

  “I do.” She stood up and joined me in front of the line of shoes. She picked up a classic pair of nude pumps, higher than I really felt like wearing, and handed them to me. “Stop being so practical and put these on. You’re being driven in a car, followed around by a bodyguard, who, if necessary, could carry you up the stairs, and you’ll be sitting for tea.”

  I took the shoes from her and looked at them, undecided.

  “Put them on, girl. You’re pregnant, not a hundred years old.”

  I laughed out loud and sat down to put the shoes on. “You’re right. Thank god you’re here—such a delightful voice of reason to counter Dylan’s position that I am going to somehow turn into ash and vanish if I’m mildly uncomfortable for more than ten minutes.”

  I stood up and looked in the mirror—I was wearing a vibrant kelly-green-and-white tailored dress that framed my curves perfectly. I’d pulled my hair, highlighted from the sun, into an elegant ponytail. And the shoes were the perfect finishing touch.

  * * *

  After all the prep, the queen was apparently under the weather. Frankly, I was relieved.

  I was met by Miss Minchin, and the queen’s personal secretary, who looked remarkably like a human version of Paddington Bear wearing a suit.

  “Your Grace,” the secretary said when he came to fetch me from a lounge, “Her Majesty desires you to have this.” He handed me a stiff, heavy cream-colored envelope. I pulled the crisp card out and noted the gold crown emblem on top, with the words Buckingham Palace underneath. In delicate perfect script, there was a note:

  Dear Lady Abingdon,

  I offer my sincerest regrets that I cannot greet you this afternoon. Please accept a token of gratitude for your participation in my granddaughter’s wedding. You do my family and this country a great service.

  This was given to me by my dear friend in 1957 on a trip to New York. Please enjoy it as I did.

  Many thanks also to Lord Abingdon and the children for being so generous with your time these last weeks.

  At the bottom was simply her signature.

  A maid brought in a tray with tea, and the secretary then placed a box on the table before me. A square, navy-blue leather box with gold trim, about the size of a postcard. It looked antique, apart from the fact that it was in perfect condition. It looked like jewelry.

  I gulped. This felt big. Apart from the decanter set she gave us as a wedding gift and many cups of tea, the queen had never given me anything personally.

  I looked up to Paddington, and he nodded. I opened the box, and nestled in a bed of brilliant royal-blue satin sat a beautiful jeweled hair comb. A delicate filigree of diamonds and emeralds were webbed into a stunning antique design. And next to it, a pair of small matching stud earrings—emeralds surrounded by a row of diamonds.

  They were so beautiful, I could barely breathe. I couldn’t take my eyes off of them, and I probably never would have had Paddington not spoken up.

  “The set was given to Her Majesty as a young woman by family friends, Americans like yourself.”

  “I don’t know what to say,” I said, still feeling stunned.

  “A thank-you letter would suffice, I’d imagine.” Man, Paddingto
n didn’t fuck around.

  “You’ll wear it to the wedding, of course,” the wedding planner cut in.

  “Of course,” I repeated.

  “Fabulous,” she resumed. “Well, once you’re through with your tea, we can adjourn to the first-floor parlor for rehearsals.”

  “Rehearsals?” I asked as Paddington left the room.

  “Of course, Your Grace. We have a mock-up of the dress, where you can practice sorting out the train. You’ll need to be able to execute this with little fuss and as much grace as possible on the day.”

  Jesus. It was clear now how the royal family could perform their duties with such kindness and seeming relaxation—they had a team of bad cops to do their dirty work and make sure everything went off without a hitch.

  An hour later, and with a little intervention from Frank, we’d thankfully determined that a nine-months-pregnant woman who couldn’t even put on her own shoes was probably not the best person to be responsible for “gracefully” sorting out Caroline’s train on worldwide television. And we quickly moved on to the task of my attempting to memorize all of the church officials, their proper titles and greetings, and their roles in the wedding, as well as carefully examining a diagram of the abbey so I could be one hundred percent clear on where I’d be sitting and standing for the entirety of the ceremony, which tiny bridesmaids would be walking by my side, which would be following behind me, and where I was meant to deposit them when we arrived at the altar. And a thousand other details.

  I looked at Frank and silently begged him to help me remember all of this.

  On the way home from the palace, with my shoes kicked off and my feet up on the seat next to me, I opened up the jewelry box once again. Frank had been guarding it with his life.

  I admitted that I had been harboring resentment towards the queen for putting me in this position—it had made me feel, counterintuitively, invisible, that I was being asked to do too much. But she did see. And she did know what she was asking. She was a woman too, one with a host of duties I’d never understand, one who had mastered a balancing act for her family and country. But I no longer felt forgotten. I felt honored—she knew what she was asking of me, but she also knew I was the right woman for the job.