by Erin McRae
Amelia, for all her ideas and hopes for her people, could find nothing to say in response. Her mother never talked politics or feminism. To hear her speak of such things was as shocking to Amelia as her possible marriage to the Prince was to Lady Kirkham.
“And all for what?” her mother asked. “I won’t gossip,” she said, leaning forward over the table and dropping her voice. “But I know women. Who have been his…companions. Some for just a little while, some for longer. And you may be young and you may be lovely, but he is still a prince and does as he pleases. There’s no delicate way to ask this.” her mother hesitated. “So you’ll forgive me.”
“What is it?” Amelia asked warily.
“Are you still a virgin?”
“Mother!” Amelia didn’t need a mirror to know that her face had gone scarlet.
“If you think the papers won’t be discussing your physical relationships, past, present, and future, I suggest you call the entire thing off now.”
“And get me to a nunnery?”
“I’d sleep better at night knowing you weren’t engaged to a prince, but that’s up to you.”
Amelia moaned into her hands. Maybe she could get her mother to stop talking by shocking her. “Mother, virginity is — it’s a construct. It’s an arbitrary label we slap on physical actions in order to control and shame women. It’s not real.”
“And that’s where you’re wrong,” Countess Brockett said. Amelia opened her mouth to protest, but her mother lifted a hand to quiet her. “I mean, yes, you are correct and I agree. But the first time you do anything — like be presented at Court, or get on a plane, or go to the theatre — it matters. Not just things that are physically intimate and can result in heirs to the English throne. But also those things.”
“I’m not…I’ve done things.”
“Things,” Lady Kirkham repeated.
“Why am I having this conversation in this horrid club at one in the afternoon?” Amelia asked her silverware. “I have a lab due tomorrow.”
Her mother didn’t say anything further. Amelia looked up to see her watching her, waiting for an answer.
“It depends on your definition,” Amelia said crisply. “In some ways, no. In a PIV way — yes.”
“PIV?” her mother made a face.
Amelia’s face flamed. “Please don’t make me say what that means out loud. Especially not here.”
“I know what it means. I’m just judging your choice of terminology. You’ve at least kissed, yes?”
“Not him, no.”
“Amelia!”
Amelia leaned forward, hissing as quietly as she could, “Why is the scandalous thing in your mind that I haven’t kissed the Prince?”
“Because this is the rest of your life,” her mother said solemnly. “If you want to marry Arthur I certainly won’t stop you. But it you are going through with this, please, please, sleep with him first. And for the love of God, kiss him, and soon. Don’t make that kind of commitment until you at least know you’re compatible in bed as well as on his arm. While you have his attentions you should at least enjoy them. Being a royal wife will be hard enough. Being a royal ex-wife…whatever the papers do to you now will seem kind by comparison”
*
“And how was your day,” Priya said drily when Amelia banged into their flat that afternoon. Priya was in pajamas and was stirring something on the stove that smelled heavenly. Amelia’s stomach rumbled; for some reason, she hadn’t had much appetite at the club.
“I had lunch with my mother,” she said.
“How did that go?” Priya asked.
“She told me I should sleep with Prince Arthur before I agree to marry him.”
“As if that’s a question. Wait — ” Priya stuck her head out of their tiny kitchen while Amelia unzipped her boots and threw them in the hall closet. “Is that a question?”
Amelia shrugged inelegantly.
“You’re dating Prince Arthur. Who is hot and a total womanizer. Why is this a question?”
“Why does everyone keep calling him a womanizer? He’s been single for a decade, he’s allowed to date people.” Amelia walked into the kitchen and hopped up on the counter next to where Priya was cooking.
“If he were a normal bloke who was single he could sleep with whoever he wanted and it would be fine,” Priya said, suddenly serious. “But he’s the Prince of Wales and he’s been photographed all sorts of places with all sorts of women. All of whom he seems to happily set aside whenever the next girl to come around catches his fancy.”
“So I should sleep with him before he loses interest is your logic,” Amelia said flatly. Priya’s view aligned appallingly with her mother’s.
“Yes. If he bins you like the rest, you might as well enjoy the time you have with him. And if he does marry you, you may as well have the advantage on any other woman who catches his eye. Now or later.”
“No pressure, then.” The prospect was vaguely nauseating. Not the idea of going to bed with Arthur — though that made her nervous enough — but that her body could be a bargaining chip in whatever negotiations she had opened with the prince.
“You’re hot, you’ll be fine,” Priya said. “Also he never seems to have gone for the young virgin thing before. The novelty might be interesting.”
“Priya!” Amelia protested.
“What?”
“I’m making dubious decisions at every turn here. Sleeping with him is one thing I’d rather not screw up. As it were,” Amelia said when Priya made a face at her.
“Is that a question of timing or a question of whether you’ll be good in bed?”
“Yes,” Amelia said miserably. She hadn’t done much with Gary, and he’d never seemed particularly impressed with her in what little they did do. And Gary may have been an utter prat, but still.
“I know you’re scared, but your mum’s not wrong. You learn things about people in bed you don’t anywhere else. Seriously. Don’t get yourself into anything if you don’t know what his dick is like.”
“Please stop talking, and can we please take that off the fridge?” Amelia waved her hand at the glossy magazine photo of Arthur on his horse that was still on display.
“Oh no,” Priya said. She swatted Amelia’s hand away when she reached for the picture and the magnet holding it up. “That can come down when you’ve seen him naked. And reported back to me.”
Chapter 8
A PIOUS PRINCESS FOR THE PLAYBOY PRINCE?
25 February
Year 21 of the Reign of King Henry XII
Arthur called me during lecture today. Arthur, the Prince of Wales himself, while I was trying to focus on wetland hydrogeology. The downsides of a Prince of the Blood having one’s mobile number!
He was calling to invite me to Sandringham, or rather, to warn me that his parents are going to invite me to Sandringham next weekend. To go to church and meet the family…and run the gauntlet of royal approval, I suppose.
He asked me if I was busy. As if it mattered. There are few circumstances under which one can acceptably decline to obey the command of a royal invitation. Perhaps he was trying to be kind about my limited choices under the circumstances. Perhaps he forgot his own power. Either way, it’s disconcerting.
*
The same day Arthur called Amelia at school, Priya discovered the part of the internet which was utterly and rapturously obsessed with the Prince’s supposed romance and insisted on sharing it with Amelia. Which was how Amelia ended up sitting side-by-side with Priya against the pillows on Priya’s bed. A bottle of gin and one of cranberry juice rested on the nightstand beside their two glasses. Amelia had refused to venture down this rabbit hole unfortified.
“You know,” Amelia said as she opened a fresh Google search window while Priya topped up both of their drinks. “Of all the indignities I was expecting, the ability to play hashtag bingo with my life was not one of them.”
“Ooh, I've got a winner!” Priya picked up her laptop, the bottle still in he
r other hand, and cleared her throat. “Hashtag, PetitePrincess. This time photoshopped in with no less than six world leaders at the trade summit last month in Berlin.”
“They know I won't actually be involved in any international negotiations, right? Like, ever?”
“I think they're more on about how short you are.”
“Please, internet. I know I'm short. No point for observation there.”
“Do they get points for math?” Priya turned her computer around so Amelia could see her screen.
Amelia squinted to be able to read it and then groaned. #17Years6months4days. Because she apparently needed a hashtag to tell her how much younger she was than Arthur, too.
“I had to hang up on him today. At school,” Amelia confessed. “He called to invite me to Sandringham.”
Priya gave a low whistle.
“No, not like that. On Sunday. With his family. For church.” While an amorous getaway weekend would have presented its own problems, these were not those.
“That is the opposite of royal sexy time,” Priya pointed out, masking her horror poorly.
“That had somewhat occurred to me,” Amelia said with a mix of disappointment and relief.
Amelia picked her mobile up off the arm of the couch before she could think better of it. She wasn’t even sure if Arthur texted. Maybe he had a private secretary for that too. But after their rushed conversation earlier she wanted to reach out to him.
I’m sorry I couldn’t stay on with you earlier. As soon as she sent it she put her mobile down and picked her laptop back up. She had no idea how long he might take to respond. But only a few minutes passed before her mobile buzzed.
It’s quite all right, the message read. I didn’t mean to distract you from your studies.
“Tell him I say hi!” Priya called. Amelia rolled her eyes, but she sent my flatmate Priya says to say hello.
My regards to Miss Joshi. Amelia supposed she shouldn’t be surprised Arthur knew Priya’s family name. That information was probably in the leather folio with all the other details of Amelia’s life. Which Amelia found unsettling.
Trying to get that thought out of her head, Amelia tried to figure out how to ask Arthur what he was doing tonight without sounding like a pathetic teenage. Her mobile buzzed again.
Incidentally. All of these messages go into the official record of my correspondence, so we’ll want to refrain from sexting.
“Oh my God!” Amelia dropped the mobile. While that was probably, on some level, good data to have, she had no idea what Arthur was thinking telling her that now. They hadn’t even kissed yet.
“What?” Priya asked.
“Arthur is…oversharing.”
“Oh, what’s he saying?” Priya leaned over to get a glimpse of the screen.
“The opposite of anything interesting,” Amelia said, showing Priya her mobile.
Priya cracked up.
How technologically minded of the royal historians, Amelia replied, torn between embarrassment and amusement. That’s…good to know.
They’re very into digital records. Anything to save them from microfiche, I think.
*
The following day Amelia dug the invitation for the tea with Arthur out of the drawer where she’d stashed it and carefully dialed the number on the back. She had questions about her latest royal invitation and knew where to find answers.
The voice that answered, however, was different from the first one she had spoken to.
“Hello, I was hoping I could speak with Mr. Jones?” Amelia told the professional-sounding woman on the other end of the line.
“There are three Mr. Jones here, may I ask which one you’re looking for?”
“I — he didn’t give me his first name. But he called himself my royalty customer service representative?” Amelia said hesitantly, feeling somewhat ridiculous as she did so. She hoped she wasn’t about to get him in trouble.
The woman gave a weary sigh. “That does, in fact, narrow it down. Please hold.”
When the line clicked on again, there was the familiar friendly Welsh voice in her ear. “Hello, Lady Amelia. How are you today?”
“I’m well, thank you. You?”
“Recovering from the Princess Georgina’s birthday celebrations.” He did sound a little frazzled.
“Yes, I saw a headline. Something about swans?” Amelia asked. The Princess seemed a very strange girl indeed.
Mr. Jones gave a weary laugh. “Yes. Coordinating with the Plumage League was one of the highlights, of my career so far.”
Amelia tipped her head to the side. “I can’t tell if you’re serious.”
“That’s fine, neither can I. Now, how can I help you today?”
“I’ve been invited to Sandringham for church and lunch —”
“If you’re calling to see if another invitation has been misdirected, I can assure you it wasn’t.”
Amelia found herself laughing at the gentle tease. “No. And I surely know what to wear for this, too. But I was just wondering — if there’s anything you can tell me, that would be useful to know before I spend ten hours with Their Royal Majesties?”
“You want the Cliff’s Notes of How To Spend A Day With Royalty Without Bollocksing It Up?”
Amelia stifled a giggle. “Does such a thing exist?”
“Not under that title at least. Nobody seems to want to take my suggestion. But there are some materials I can have messengered to you. If you want?”
Amelia did, desperately. But she had one question first. “Who on earth do those materials exist for?”
“I’m sorry?”
“How often does a situation like this come up?”
“Well,” Mr. Jones said. “Over the course of centuries…enough.”
“Centuries?!” Amelia asked.
“Oh yes. They get updated periodically, of course, but I never said they were very new.”
Chapter 9
PRAYING FOR A PROPOSAL
3 March
Year 21 of the Reign of King Henry XII
The King’s formal invitation for me to join the royal family at church this Sunday arrived. I was prepared for it of course, but now that it's in my hands…. A car’s coming to pick me up. As we do these days. Cars, not carriages, just to be clear. It’s like going to the airport!
I’m so nervous. I don’t know what Arthur’s told them. I don’t know what they think of him being seen with a northern girl, and I really don’t know what they think of me. This whole excursion feels like a test, and, as much as I want to spend time with Arthur, I don’t want to go. It’s terrifying. If I do anything wrong, or anything they — they, the King and Queen Consort of England! — take to be wrong, this entire adventure will be over.
*
At six o’clock in the morning and with the world still dark Amelia, tired and ever so slightly cranky, climbed into the sleek black Bentley sent to bring her to Sandringham. She considered texting Arthur to ask how many dates they had to go on before she would be able to stay overnight in the same building as him, instead of a taking a too-early drive like this. She rested her head against the window and drowsed for much of the drive from London all the way up to Norfolk. Or at least tried to. Days to prepare and fret had not lessened her nerves.
It was fully light by the time the car pulled through the gate, past a security checkpoint, and up a long, winding drive toward the house. There was a figure standing at the end of it, peering down the road at the car.
As they drew closer, she could see it was Arthur. He stood with his hands in the trouser pockets of a blue suit shot through with cream pinstripes. Amelia didn’t think princes were supposed to go around shoving their hands in their pockets. It made the fabric of the jacket pull across Arthur’s chest, and as flattering as it was to his body, it couldn’t have been good for the jacket.
“Lady Amelia,” Arthur said, with a nod, as the driver opened the door for her and she got out.
“What should I call you today?” sh
e blurted. His use of her title confused her.
“Just Arthur. Please,” he said with a smile. Amelia realized he was only being playful. He fished his hands out of his pockets to take her by the elbow before she could curtsey and led them up the path to the house. “We are among family.”
“Your family. My king and queen.”
“If it’s any comfort,” Arthur said, his voice low and reassuring, “they’re my king and queen too. Eventually they’ll be your family.”
Amelia was taken aback by the certainty in Arthur’s voice. She felt duty-bound to remind them both of what still could go wrong. Especially here, on the very doorstep of the royal estate. The massive oak doors were covered by an even more massive stone portico, above which soared the red brick, absurdly turreted walls of Sandringham House.
“You mean if they like me, and I can get through today without embarrassing myself. Or you.”
“Oh, I’m not worried about that.” Arthur chuckled weakly and opened the door.
“Wait. Are you nervous?” she asked. It was hard to imagine. Amelia stopped awkwardly on the threshold to look at him; Arthur was forced to pause with one hand raised to keep the door from closing. Warmth swirled around them, creating eddies that lifted the ends of Amelia’s curls as the heat air tried to escape outside.
“My father is very excited to meet you,” he said, nodding for her to precede him into the house. “Apparently it’s been far too long since I’ve brought anyone home to meet him and Mother.”
Amelia took a deep breath and finally stepped inside. Arthur followed. The door swung closed heavily behind them, and the foyer of the house stretched out beyond them, pillars arrayed down the hall like soldiers. The walls were painted a creamy, almost golden hue, and the floor was spread with colorful rugs.
It was on the tip of Amelia’s tongue to ask if Arthur had ever brought any of his lovers to meet his parents. Surely, at least some of them had been vaguely possible wives, whatever the genealogists had to say. But before she could work up the nerve, a girl barely in her teens came skidding around the corner. Her face was terribly similar to Princess Georgina’s, but where she was serious and thoughtful, this girl was aglow with delight.