by Erin McRae
“You don’t have to —” she protested as he shrugged the jacket off. “I’m all right. Really. Also now you’re in your shirt sleeves and the docent is staring,” she said in a low whisper as he draped it over her shoulders.
“Let me be gallant.” Arthur’s voice was very near her ear. “There are very few people I get to take care of.”
The jacket was warm from the heat of his body and smelled of his cologne. With one hand, Amelia held it closed over her throat and took a deep breath. What would it be like to be taken care of by this man for her entire life? She was struck by a sudden sense of want. Not just for a crown for her people, but for a lover for herself.
*
As the car dropped her back at her flat, Amelia gave Arthur a little wave from the sidewalk before the driver closed the door again. Arthur raised his hand in farewell.
Amelia stood there for another moment as the car pulled away and faded into the anonymous London night. When she went upstairs this evening was going to end, and she was not yet ready for that to happen.
Tonight with Arthur had been nearly a fairytale, and tomorrow things were going to change. Not necessarily between herself and the man of whose intentions she was still uncertain, but between herself and the rest of the world. There had been photographs, official ones, at the Observatory, not of them happening to speak at a garden party, but of them at an event. Together. Whatever she and Arthur were doing, it was nothing she was going to be able to wave off — to her parents or anyone else. If she took five minutes to stand on the street and feel like a normal girl after a not so normal night out, Amelia thought she was allowed.
Finally, when it got too cold for her to stand, she let herself in and climbed the stairs.
Priya was still out. In her room, Amelia undressed slowly, re-hung her dress in her closet, and put her shoes carefully away. She gladly tossed her bra in her laundry basket and pulled on flannel pants and one of her brother Nick’s old, worn rugby shirts. As she brushed her hair for bed, she caught a faint whiff of spice and musk and wondered if it was her imagination or if the scent of Arthur’s cologne had lingered on her skin.
Amelia was grateful for the privacy and quiet as she sat down at her computer and opened her email.
Dear Mum & Dad, she started. Sometime in the next day, you’re going to see pictures of me. Maybe you already have. If you haven’t, I’m sure they’ll be easy to find. Yes, that is me and Prince Arthur together at the Queen’s House at the Observatory. Yes, I was there as his date. Although we still are not dating. Not really.
What is going on is much stranger than that and, in some ways, more traditional. Although it is going to end in much the same way. Possibly. I know this is nothing you ever wanted for me, likely because something this bizarre probably never occurred to you. I can only tell you that when someone offers you the opportunity to be part of the story of our country — both England and York — in this way, you say yes. And, so, I have.
Please, please don’t call me freaking out.
She signed it Love, Amelia, and before she could lose her nerve, hit send.
*
“Are you awake?”
“I am now,” Amelia grumbled and tried to burrow back under the covers away from her very awake flatmate who had barged into her room. “Go away.”
“Oh no. Not ‘til you see what’s going on outside.” Priya bounced, heavily and repeatedly, on the foot of the bed.
“I don’t want to see what’s going on outside.”
“Ohhh, yes, you do.”
Amelia squinted an eye open. Priya was still wearing last night’s clothes — a slinky black dress that Amelia could never have pulled off at the Observatory. Or anywhere. Her black hair was tousled and her smoky makeup was a bit smudged. “You look a mess. And why are your feet dirty?” Amelia asked.
“Actually, I look fantastic, and fantastically well fucked, thank you. Make up sex is the best.” Priya smirked and bounced up again. “Come on.” She yanked the blankets back.
“You were with Raveesh?” Still grumbling — and still wanting to know what happened to Priya’s shoes — Amelia followed her out into the living room.
“Yes. We ran into each other at speed dating, and he was terribly sorry for any number of things and very willing to demonstrate that. You, on the other hand….” Priya dramatically pulled the curtain aside, so that she could look out and down.
“Oh my God.” Amelia ducked below the windowsill and huddled on the sofa. Clustered on the sidewalk outside the flat was a mass of paparazzi, camera lenses all trained on the window or on the front door like they thought she might emerge at any moment.
“Mhmmmm.” Priya climbed up on the seat of the sofa to get a better view. “I walked home this morning and snapped a heel two blocks from his place. So, I just took off my shoes. Until I got here and saw that, the most exciting thing happening this morning was the free samples at Costa Coffee, because I desperately needed that caffeine.”
“Didn’t you have your flip-flops?”
Priya turned over her shoulder to give Amelia a look of devastating scorn. “And be Flip-flop Girl Who Beats Photographers for the rest of my life? Oh no. No more flip-flops.”
Amelia groaned. “I’m going to take a shower. When I get out, they will all be gone, and I can go back to having a nice, normal life, yes?”
Priya tugged the curtain closed again, as if that could return Amelia’s life to normal. “I don’t think this is that kind of fairytale.”
*
Amelia showered and dressed before she braced herself to turn her mobile, which she had switched off last night, back on. She immediately wished she hadn’t. Scores of messages filled the screen. The green notification light flickered frantically…texts, emails, missed calls by the dozen. As she held it, wondering how to even start sorting through them, a call from her brother Nick came through. She fumbled to send it to voicemail. Nick never called unless he’d argued with Charlie or was drunk. It was unlikely he had done either this early in the morning, and Amelia did not want his surely amusing, but definitely annoying, commentary on her current situation.
She felt on the verge of panic. Excessive interest in her life history, as demonstrated by the articles about her immediately following the royal garden party was one thing. An army of photographers on her doorstep was another. There was no chance of getting anything done today; it would be impossible to focus on work with that crowd outside. She couldn’t even run down to the corner shop, and they were out of milk.
Time to call in help. Her parents were out of the question; they would likely make everything worse. Nick was in town and definitely, judging by the number of times he’d called, very interested in the situation. But Charlie was the kindest, the one that knew Arthur, the one who already somewhat knew what was going on, and the one that had always been there for her. Also, he owned a car and could come pick her up.
He answered on the fourth ring. “Meels?”
“Hi. So, everyone knows I’m dating Prince Arthur, I’m trapped in my flat, and can you come get me? In your car? Priya has glued her face to the window and all the cameras are pointing up.”
“Huh.”
“Please?”
“This explains the eight missed calls from our parents that I’ve been ignoring because I was trying to have a quiet day with my kids,” Charlie said.
“Why didn’t you answer? Somebody might have died,” Amelia asked.
“If somebody had died, they’d have called Jo.”
*
Amelia — and Priya, who was not about to turn down some Saturday morning excitement — lurked inside the vestibule of their building until Charlie texted her that he’d arrived.
As they stepped outside and into a burst of flashbulbs, Amelia considered pulling up her hood to shield her face. But she had absolutely nothing to be ashamed of and had done nothing wrong. She walked fast and frightened with her head held high to Charlie’s car.
As the door shut behind her a
nd Priya, Charlie pulled away from the curb. She slumped against the headrest and closed her eyes in relief.
While he navigated the streets to the mews where he and Jo lived with their twins, Amelia waited for her brother to say something. But he was silent and looked uncharacteristically grave. Amelia did not find it reassuring. She and Priya exchanged a glance but remained quiet. Everything was now beyond their control.
“Thank you,” Amelia said sincerely when Charlie finally parked in front of his house.
“Come inside,” he said in reply, grabbing her bag from where she’d tossed it into front passenger seat. “Let’s get you something to eat.”
“Does Jo know?” Amelia asked, following.
“Jo has a Twitter account.”
Jo met them at the top of the stairs with a worried frown and a hug for both Amelia and Priya. “So it’s our new princess and her flip-flop wielding lady-in-waiting!”
Priya plopped down in an overstuffed armchair. “See? Told you it would stick.”
Charlie and Jo’s twins were spread out on the rug playing with Legos. Freddie’s russet waves haloed the deep brown of his face. Meg’s normally tightly-coiled curls had been formed into six braids, each fastened at the end with a plastic barrette bearing a white rose. Jo’s doing, surely.
“Now are you going to tell me what’s going on?” Charlie said quietly as he ushered Amelia into the kitchen and put the kettle on for tea.
“I’m dating Prince Arthur,” she admitted.
“Yes, you said. But what does that actually mean? Arthur dates a lot of women.”
“It means that we have common goals, and, if we get along and can work together, he’ll marry me.”
Charlie gave a sudden laugh that sounded more like a bark of terror. “So this is what everything at the garden party was about.”
“I couldn’t say anything then.”
“No, I suppose you couldn’t. I’ve known a lot of girls who’ve had to be quiet about the fact they’re involved with Arthur.” Charlie sighed and turned his face away from Amelia to rummage in the cupboard for tea bags. “They just don’t normally expect to marry him. And they’re not normally my little sister.”
“To be clear,” Amelia said, somewhat offended, “I’m not swooning over him and thinking too highly of myself. We have business meetings and find each other tolerably charming.”
“How did this even happen? It’s a done deal, is it?”
“I don’t know,” Amelia admitted before laying out the timeline of all that had transpired since the races. The more she explained, the more she felt herself swept up in the story. She realized how desperately she wanted this to work. Not just for York. But for herself.
Chapter 7
PRINCESS IS FOR THE BIRDS - GEORGINA CELEBRATES HER SEVENTEENTH BIRTHDAY AT SWAN SANCTUARY
23 February
Year 21 of the Reign of King Henry XII
Mum and Dad yelled. A lot. At least, Mum expressed her strong and conflicting emotions very loudly. Dad made unhappy noises in my general direction, which is mostly the same thing. But they finally calmed down, or maybe they just decided to stop yelling at the girl who might be their future queen.
Uni is no better. Since Monday photographers have been following me all over. Somehow, the ones that lurk in bushes are even worse than the ones that trail two feet behind me. They’ve started harassing other students for stories about me. And yesterday one of them climbed through the shrubbery and tapped on a classroom window to make me turn around so he could get a picture!
I assume all this is why the Collegiate Council asked me to a meeting tomorrow. Perhaps I’ll be expelled.
*
The meeting involved the Deputy Vice-Chancellor for the entire university, the Head of Amelia’s college, as well as her own academic advisor. The Deputy Vice-Chancellor, who wore his academic gown to the meeting and frowned at Amelia over thick-rimmed spectacles, was definitely not pleased with the drama the press’s response to Amelia had created. He blamed her squarely for the entire situation, which was so unfair Amelia didn’t know how to respond. She was relatively certain she only avoided being slut-shamed because the Prince was involved.
In the end they agreed to increase security around the buildings she worked in and to be vigilant about paparazzi around university buildings in general. Amelia, however, had the sense that this fix had no real meaning, would not do much good, and likely wouldn’t even last for long. She was glad she only had a month of school left.
She finally escaped only to have her mobile ring as she stepped outside into wan but welcome morning sun.
“What are you doing today?” Lady Kirkham asked when she answered.
“I’ve a lab due tomorrow. I’m finishing that,” Amelia said as if this could possibly be a normal conversation about her life as a university student. “Why?”
“I’m on the train down. I tried to reach you earlier but you didn’t answer.”
“I was in a meeting, I’m sorry,” Amelia said. Her mother always complained when forced to leave a message. Then Amelia registered what she’d just been told. “Wait. Why are you coming to London?” Unease was about to turn to alarm.
“I thought we might get lunch together.”
“I have a lab due tomorrow,” Amelia repeated as if an education was a reasonable defense for a possible princess-to-be. “And four hours on the train is a long way to come for lunch.”
“Yes, and dating Arthur is a long way to go from —”
“Mother!” Amelia didn’t actually know what her mother had been about to say, but she was sure she didn’t want to hear it.
“What?”
“You’re being familiar!” Amelia hissed.
“Oh for heaven’s sake. I’m on a train. Do you want me to start shouting about his titles? He’s been hungover in our sitting room, repeatedly, thanks to your brother and the horror of university, so I’ll call him whatever I please.”
*
Amelia met her mother in the dining room at a stuffy women’s club Countess Brockett favored when in London. It wasn’t technically her mother’s club, but offered reciprocal membership with the club she belonged to in York. The interior decorating wasn’t to Amelia’s taste, but for once she couldn’t lament the choice. Amidst the garish florals there was plenty of space between tables and a reasonable expectation of discretion from staff and members alike.
“How’s Dad?” Amelia asked, once they’d ordered, trying to delay the inevitable crux of the conversation ahead.
“Not saying much. He spends most of his time reading the papers. Which don’t usually contain photographs of his daughter with the Prince of Wales.”
“Could you please pass the sugar?” Amelia asked. Maybe conversational blandness could save her.
Lady Kirkham passed it over to her, an amused look on her face, and waited until Amelia had stirred a spoonful into her tea before she said, “When were you going to tell me I’m going to be mother-in-law to a king?”
“It’s not certain!” Amelia protested. “Before the wedding,” she added when her mother gave her the keen look Amelia had often received as a child trying to talk her way out of trouble.
“Well thank goodness for that,” Countess Brockett said drily.
Amelia and her mother had little in common, in terms of interests or the lives they led. Amelia’s parents had never been wildly in love; they’d made a socially advantageous match, produced heirs, and kept up the honor of the family name. They didn’t quarrel and seemed to enjoy each other as intellectual equals, but they also spent little time together. She’d never imagined herself in her mother’s position. But then Arthur had happened.
“I want to say I hope you know what you’re doing,” Lady Kirkham intoned into Amelia’s silence. “Except I don’t think there’s any way you possibly could.”
“No. But I want to figure it out,” Amelia confessed. Why did everyone think that knowing nothing about something was a reason to not learn more about it?
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“Amelia,” her mother said sternly. “This isn’t some lab project. This is your life. You have so many plans. With your rocks and your bugs and your love affair with your career. I know you’re upset about Gary breaking up with you and not getting into Santa Barbara, but is the solution to that really to marry the Prince and have his children?”
Amelia took a sip of tea and put her cup down again before she responded. “Marrying the Prince means that someday we’ll have a northern queen again. And it will be me.”
Lady Kirkham sighed. “I knew I should have sent you to school in London. You spent entirely too much time as a child rattling around Yorkshire and getting all sorts of ideas in your head.”
“That wouldn’t have changed who I am.”
“No, perhaps not. But two months ago all you wanted to do was get your PhD. Now you’re talking about…this.”
“It was offered to me; I could hardly say no.”
“Debatable,” her mother said. “Learning how to say no when you need to — or want to — is the most essential skill for any woman. Your plans have changed overnight in a way I could have never, ever foreseen. What I mean is,” she said as Amelia twisted her napkin in her lap. “If you really are going to marry the man who will be king, how could I not support you in that, if that’s what you truly want? But you were going to get out of this nation of strife. Out of Yorkshire, out of Britain. You were going escape somewhere and make a life for yourself better than anything I, or even the King of England, could give you. I’m worried for you.”
“Charlie says he’s a good man.” Amelia still couldn’t bring herself to say his name out loud to anyone other than Arthur himself. Which was possibly a problem.
“I’m not worried for you in that way.” Lady Kirkham waved a hand. “I’m worried about you being a lightning rod for hate the southerners have for the north and the hate nearly everyone has for women. The press will tear you apart for wanting things and getting them.”