A Queen from the North: A Royal Roses Book

by Erin McRae

  “While I am a miserable failure of a human being, I am not a child.”

  “Whatever you say,” he said.

  Amelia couldn’t resist punching him in the arm. Gently, because a lady did not brawl with her brother in public.

  As they walked into the park, Amelia took a deep breath of air and felt herself relax. Jo may have been right to worry that bits of her anatomy would freeze off, but, despite the chill, the atmosphere was a holiday one. The crowd was loud and bustling, and the air smelled crisply of snow. After two weeks trapped in Kirkham House, the Brockett’s estate, being an anonymous part of a large, happy crowd was bliss.

  “Where are we sitting?” Amelia asked as Charlie shouldered a way through the throngs before them.

  “You have your ticket. Did you not look at your ticket?”

  “I was distracted by my misery.”

  “Of course.” Charlie said with a smile. “Royal Box.”

  Some people might have found that prospect exciting. Amelia, though, knew better. “Which of your hideously dull work colleagues do I get to ignore in favor of watching the races?”

  “No work people today. Just some people from Oxford. And Prince Arthur.”

  Amelia stopped in the middle of the crowd, unaware she was being jostled about. “Oh, you’re kidding me.”

  “What’s wrong with the Prince?” Charlie asked, wrapping an arm around her shoulder and leading her forward.

  “Nothing is wrong with the Prince. There’s a little bit wrong with the fact that you and Arthur, Prince of Wales, are school chums and that you didn’t think it worth mentioning that royalty would be at the race today. Everything is wrong with the fact that the box is going to crammed full of incredibly annoying people fawning over His Royal Highness.”

  “Look on the bright side, Meels,” Charlie said, as they reached the door to the Royal Box. “You’re short enough that you can just hide behind a potted plant.”

  *

  The room was overheated, and so overfilled with polite and exceptionally boring chatter, that Amelia actually considered taking the plant route. She knew most of the people in attendance but not well. There were no other northern nobility about. Possibly because they hadn’t been invited, but also possibly because they’d all retired to their estates for the holiday season and were enjoying the snow, the superior tea, and the distance from London. Charlie’s friendship with Prince Arthur gave their family a certain status other northern houses lacked, but at the same time, that friendship and status had drawbacks. Like being obliged to spend time in a room full of people who, if they cared about Amelia and her family at all, viewed them as dutiful pets.

  Amelia's mother, however, would surely have something to say to her about expectations, obligations, and — considering recent setbacks — opportunities, at an event like this. So, Amelia grit her teeth and made small talk.

  Lady Margaret Evelyn, Baroness of Godstone, remembered speaking with Amelia at the garden party they’d been at together the previous autumn and asked how her graduate school applications had fared. Lady Golding of Colston Bassett asked in her reedy voice why Amelia hadn’t brought her handsome young man with her. And Lady James of Langley Hall, who had three daughters of her own, all near Amelia’s age, spoke so glowingly of their marriage prospects that Amelia finally had to excuse herself. Otherwise, she was going to start hollering that, despite everyone else’s obsession with weddings, they weren’t actually living in a Jane Austen novel.

  Chatting with Lady Anne Beale and Lady Catherine Beale of Maidstone, two elderly sisters who lived together on their family’s ancient and somewhat decrepit estate, was entertaining until they tried to draw Amelia into speculation as to which of the well-titled women here the Prince of Wales might currently be dallying with. The gossip pages were always full of speculation about Prince Arthur’s lovers. A handsome royal widower and heir to the throne was simply the most brilliant catch available. Especially considering that the High King of Ireland, the nearest monarch geographically speaking, was eleven.

  Eventually Amelia saw Helen Lawrence, Duchess of Water Eaton, an attractive if reserved-looking woman near the Prince’s age, come inside from the balcony, which seemed the perfect place to avoid other people. Amelia decided she had been polite enough to mollify her mother. Even if she hadn’t, escape was definitely preferable to losing her sanity — and her composure.

  She retrieved her coat and was in the process of pulling her gloves on when she shouldered her way out the door and straight into someone. She hoped she would recognize whoever it was well enough to offer appropriate apologies without being met with condescension about her age, ill-developed manners, and general failure at being a successful young woman.

  However, when she looked up, it was the Prince of Wales she had jostled. For some inexplicable reason he looked briefly delighted with her interruption before he turned his head to look out at the course with his binoculars again.

  Amelia was horrorstruck. She considered apologizing. Certainly, it was warranted. One didn’t just ignore having crashed into the future king of, well, everything. At least his security didn’t seem to care. Which was also strange. Maybe they thought she was important. Or that she was so unimportant she didn’t really exist at all.

  “Your Royal Highness,” she said eventually, because she had to say something.

  Prince Arthur hummed under his breath.

  Amelia had no choice but to keep going. “It’s a really grim thing when no one teaches you how to apologize to a prince since it shouldn’t be possible to crash into one.” She was so thrown she couldn’t continue to breathe without continuing to speak. “You shouldn’t stand so close to the door,” she added against all judgment and sense. “Also you’re friends with my brother.”

  That got him to turn and look at her.

  His Royal Highness Arthur Gregory James Edward, Prince of Wales, Duke of Lancaster, Lord of the Northern Isles, Prince and Great Steward of Scotland, was tall. To be sure, everyone was tall compared to Amelia, but he’d be tall compared to most people. In the cold grey morning light his features were strong and handsome. He had broad shoulders and a military bearing Amelia knew from photos and a touch of grey at his temples, which she didn’t. His eyes were light brown, warm, and trained on her with an expression that was a mixture of vague excitement and curiosity.

  “And you are?”

  “Charlie Brockett’s sister, sir. The Viscount of Kirkham,” she clarified.

  “Do you come with your own name?” The question was pointed, and she wasn’t sure the answer was yes.

  “Lady Amelia Brockett, sir.” Belatedly, she dropped into a curtsy, which was less graceful than she would have liked it to be. Her glove was still crumpled in her hand. Once she straightened again, she tugged it on as quickly as she could.

  “How is your brother?” the Prince asked, turning back to look at the course, this time without the binoculars.

  “He’s well. He’s inside.” She jerked her chin over her shoulder. “He’s looking forward to seeing you.”

  “And the Viscountess Josephine?” He sounded as desperate for conversation topics as Amelia felt. Still, he was talking to her rather than dismissing her or having his security escort her back inside.

  “Allergic to horses. Still. Sir. So, I came instead. Because horses.” Amelia had never been less socially adept in her life. Although, she had also never talked to a prince before, at least not as something possibly approaching equals in conversational awkwardness.

  “Well, it’s nice someone is as eager to watch the sport as me. Unless you were running out here for some other reason.”

  She blinked at him in confusion. “Other reason?”

  “People keep coming out here to smoke. And to flirt.”

  “Oh. Er. No. No, I don’t smoke.” Although this horrible interaction might drive her to it. She could find nothing to say to the mention of flirting. “The horses are very nice,” she added. Then wanted to throw herself off the
balcony at her own inanity.

  “Which is your favorite?” he asked a little wildly, clearly still grasping for topics. Why didn’t he just dismiss her and end the misery for both of them?

  “Do you know anyone racing today?” It seemed best that her favorite should be whichever was his.

  “No, not today.” He didn’t look at her, but the corners of his mouth twitched up.

  “Well in that case,” Amelia said. “I’m quite fond of Lady Molecular.”

  “The bay?” Arthur asked, with apparent surprise.

  “Yes.”

  “She’s not favored to win,” Arthur pointed out.

  “No. But I know her rider, we went to school together. She’s getting her PhD in biochem. Hence the name.”

  “Ah,” Arthur looked vaguely interested in that, but didn’t follow up with any question or statement of his own.

  Amelia knew the wise move at this point was to say her farewells and vanish back inside and away from this incredibly awkward encounter. Except, being out here seemed preferable to being stuck back in that room.

  “I’m home for the holidays, and I needed to get out of the house. Is that why you’re here too? Did you need to get out of the house?” The words tumbled out of her mouth, heedless of any sense she had ever possessed. She clamped her mouth shut, horrified at herself. Prince Arthur didn’t live in a house, but a palace. Several of them.

  But Prince Arthur tipped his head back and laughed, a true, delighted, laugh. “Something like that, yes.” Then he actually looked at her. “The horses are coming around — the view is better from here.” He patted the balcony railing.

  Amelia took the invitation. One did not say no to a prince. She stepped up beside him and closed her gloved hands around the railing to keep them from trembling from the nerves and the cold.

  “Do you ride?” he asked.

  She nodded, relieved they weren’t going to stand here in awkward silence forever. “Sometimes.”

  “Do you jump?”

  “Of course I jump.” She was a little indignant. She was a good rider and also clever enough to know when someone was trying to dismiss her abilities. “You?” she asked.

  She already knew the answer, but it seemed rude to mention facts about Prince Arthur and his horses she knew only from articles on the internet. Priya, Amelia’s flatmate back in London, had a picture of him riding at his estate at Gatcombe stuck on their refrigerator amidst a half-dozen photos of Bollywood movie stars.

  “Yes,” he said. “I used to have more time for it. Now, I’m limited to supporting our national team as best I can and taking over the Royal Box and causing a fuss every time I want to see a show. Everyone worries I’ll break my neck whenever I get on a horse.”

  “Who’s everyone?”

  Prince Arthur waved a hand vaguely. “Whoever’s paying attention enough to care about things like ravens and princes.”

  “Ravens?” Amelia wasn’t sure their conversational drift from awkward to peculiar was an improvement.

  “The ones at the Tower.” Arthur’s voice was curt.

  Amelia was uncertain whether his irritation was for her or the birds. “If they leave the Tower, your kingdom will fall. Those ravens?” Amelia had no idea why they were talking about ravens of any sort.

  “Yes, those ravens. Though it's your kingdom, too.” Prince Arthur sounded amused.

  “Yes and no. I’m from York. We'll survive most raven crises, I expect.” It was a bold thing to say, and Amelia found herself holding her breath lest the Prince take offense.

  But all he did was smile wanly. He looked melancholy. And thoughtful. No wonder the tabloids, when they weren’t painting him as a playboy, framed him as sad. He was sad. And poetic. In an embarrassing sort of way.

  “So, you are hiding out here from other people,” Amelia said, trying to steer the conversation back to something like normal — or at least away from superstitions and major political rifts.

  “Don’t tell the papers,” he said, with a conspiratorial look. Which was probably practiced, but that didn’t make it any the less charming. Or effective. If Amelia’s heart gave a slight flutter, that was her own business.

  She grinned at him. “I won’t. Promise.”

  “Tell me about your jumping, Lady Amelia.”

  Surprised that he cared about what she was saying enough to prolong this still slightly painful encounter, Amelia obliged. Soon, they were chatting about horses and riding. The Prince, once he finally settled into a topic, proved to be an engaging conversationalist. That, too, must have been practiced, but Amelia didn’t mind. He was expending an effort, and that was what mattered. For the heir to the throne perhaps that was all that mattered.

  Even more gratifyingly, he was the first person of the day — including Charlie — not to condescend to her at all. Strange, perhaps, to be treated like a competent human by the one person here who had the least reason to grant her time, courtesy, or anything else.

  More people filtered out onto the balcony with the excuse that they wanted a better view of the horses and to get some fresh air. Based on the filthy looks Amelia was getting from some of the women, she had her doubts they had any intentions other than directing the Prince’s attention away from her.

  Amelia was not proud of it, but she had to admit to a small amount of satisfaction when it didn’t seem to work. The Prince chose to continue with their conversation rather than speak with anyone else. Until Charlie banged out onto the balcony and insinuated himself into their conversation.

  The Prince’s face brightened at the sight of her brother. He shook Charlie’s hand firmly and exchanged a manly, back-slapping hug.

  “Charlie. It’s good to see you.”

  “Likewise, Your Highness. How have you been?”

  Charlie glanced sideways at Amelia as he asked, and Amelia knew that was her cue to leave. The one time she was enjoying herself at an event like this, and Charlie just had to come and rescue her.

  *

  Amelia and Charlie grabbed a quick dinner at a Wagamama near Paddington Station in London before taking a late train back to York. Why the entire family needed to spend two weeks at Kirkham when her brothers had perfectly reasonable homes in London was beyond Amelia, but tradition was tradition. Besides, her mother liked having the whole family there when people came to take tours of the public part of the house and gawk at the Tower Crown that had belonged to King Edward V before Richard III had imprisoned him and his brother in the Tower of London. While a perfectly natural part of living in a Grade II Listed building, Amelia thought her mother had never entirely acclimated to the sense of intrusion upon her home.

  It was bitterly cold but clear when they finally got back to York. As they waited in front of the station for their brother Nick to pick them up, Amelia blew out her breath to watch the steam curl away up toward the black sky and the stars that shone above the ancient walls of the city. On the side of the station, a poster celebrating three hundred years of British unification had been defaced with spray paint tracing out the White Rose of York.

  When Nick arrived, Amelia and Charlie bundled themselves gratefully into the warm interior of his car.

  “Somebody had an interesting race,” Nick said by way of greeting.

  “What?” Amelia asked absently from the backseat. She wondered whether it was worthwhile to nap on the forty-five minute drive to Kirkham House. Charlie made a curious noise as he buckled himself in.

  Nick smirked over his shoulder. “Just wait 'til we get home. Mum will fill you in.”

  Sure enough, despite the late hour, their mother met them in the private dining room, which tour visitors never saw. The public dining room was decorated with heavy oak furniture and tapestries that illustrated the family’s ancient ties to the northern line of nobility. This dining room, thankfully, was smaller and had more modern furnishings. But with the Rebecca Brockett, Countess of Kirkham, sitting at her accustomed place at the foot of the table, the space was no less imposing. Despit
e the late hour she was impeccably attired and sat with the posture of a former dressage champion.

  “Welcome home,” she said warmly, although she did not stand. Lady Kirkham, with grey hair that was cut short and curled elegantly, had always looked slightly like a relic of an older time that no longer quite existed. Except that time most certainly did exist, in this house and this town and in the existence of Amelia’s entire family. That her mother was absently scrolling through a tablet resting on the table did nothing to dispel that truth.

  “Mum,” Amelia said warily. She exchanged a glance with Charlie, who shrugged, looking as confused as Amelia felt. Nick, having received his greeting, stood by the fireplace, tracing a pattern on the stonework of the hearth with the tip of his shoe.

  Lady Kirkham pushed back her chair and stood. She clasped her hands in front of her, as if about to make some momentous proclamation. “You met the Prince,” she said to Amelia. She looked archly amused.

  “Yes? Wait. How did you know that?” Amelia felt as though she were being accused of something but had no idea what.

  “You were noticed.” Still, that note of amusement; whatever Amelia had done she wasn’t in real trouble. She just had no idea what she’d done.

  “The Daily Observer.” Her mother took her tablet off the table and handed it to her. Amelia took it warily.

  There was a picture, a bit blurry from the degree of zoom but distinct nonetheless. It looked as though someone had taken a mobile phone picture in the Royal Box at Kempton and caught a glimpse of the scene out on the balcony by accident. Amelia was clearly visible in profile, smiling; Prince Arthur had been captured with his head thrown back laughing.

  Romance at the races? The article underneath read. Lady Amelia Brockett, daughter of the Earl of Kirkham, corners His Royal Highness for conversation at Kempton Park. Could a post-Christmas fling be in the air?

  “Oh,” Amelia shoved the tablet back at her mother.

  “How did that come about?” her mother asked.