by Erin McRae
“Hyacinth,” Arthur scolded with a note of weary fondness.
“Uncle,” the girl said.
This was not any common flower, but the Princess Hyacinth, second daughter of Arthur’s sister Princess Violet, aged thirteen, and currently fourth in line for the throne. Her hair, darker than her sister’s, was plaited over her shoulder though strands were coming loose. Her were eyes a merry hazel, and the smile she turned on them both was welcoming and happy.
“Your Highness,” Amelia dipped her head to the girl.
“Please don’t.” Hyacinth interrupted her attempt to curtsy, holding out a hand instead. Amelia took it and was surprised by the firmness of the girl’s handshake. She radiated a self-possession remarkable for someone her age and a distinct air of mischief that Amelia felt herself warm to immediately. “How do you do?”
Before she could reply, a woman’s voice came from a room down the hallway. “Hyacinth, are they here?” Don't leave them standing out there all day, bring them in.”
Hyacinth waved at Arthur and Amelia both to follow her. Arthur offered Amelia his arm and an encouraging look, but Amelia was too nervous for it to be enough.
The royal family was arrayed around a sitting room bigger than the entirety of the flat Amelia shared with Priya. Books, newspapers, and even a few tablets lay scattered about on various surfaces. A fluffy ginger cat that had been curled up on a sofa bolted as soon as Hyacinth led Arthur and Amelia more than a few paces into the room. Amelia had apparently arrived in the middle of a quiet Sunday morning.
The woman who called Hyacinth in was the Princess Royal Mary Elizabeth Violet Anne, Violet to friends and in the papers. She greeted Amelia with a warm smile and, like Princess Hyacinth, waved off Amelia’s attempts to curtsy and shook her hand instead.
“So here’s the lovely girl.” King Henry levered himself up from an armchair by the window where he’d been sitting working on an acrostic. He wore dark trousers, a crisp white shirt, and a waistcoat. A suit jacket was draped over the back of his chair, probably to the dismay of his valet.
“Your Majesty,” Amelia said. The King, at least, allowed her to follow through on a deep curtsy.
“Lady Amelia.” He took her hand and kissed it with what could only be described as a twinkle in his eye. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“We’ve met before,” Amelia said before she could help herself. “At the garden party at the palace.”
“Oh yes, I know we did. But that’s hardly meeting someone. That’s a bunch of staged performances for the sake of gossip and intrigue. Only we don’t really do court intrigue so much anymore; it’s mostly just gossip these days. Pity.” He tucked Amelia’s arm into his own. Amelia glanced back at Arthur over her shoulder; he shrugged and gave her a miniscule smile.
And then the King of England, Scotland and Wales, His Majesty of Britain and all her Dominions, Head of the Commonwealth and Defender of the Faith, proceeded to introduce Amelia to everyone else.
Which was, to say the least, intimidating.
Queen Cecile, her soft silver hair swept up elegantly, wore a pale blue silk dress that would have looked a century out of date on any other woman but on her looked exactly right. Princess Violet’s husband, Matthew, the Earl of Stamford, was a pleasant-looking man in his forties with reddish-brown hair flecked with grey and an easy posture that was nowhere near as perfect as Arthur’s. He too wore a suit, though his tie was a bit loose and his bearing suggested a man who would always look slightly disheveled no matter how well dressed. This was odd perhaps for a royal but was part of what had charmed the country so thoroughly when he and Princess Violet married.
The Earl gave Amelia a hearty handshake and a look of solidarity that Amelia appreciated. It also calmed her somewhat; one person here at least knew what it was to run the gauntlet of meeting the royal family under such circumstances. And if Lord Matthew had survived, so too could Amelia.
The last was Princess Georgina who wore tweed culottes and a cabled wool sweater. Heels and her pinned-back hair prevented the outfit from seeming more casual than those of the rest of her family. Like her grandfather, she did not stop Amelia from curtseying to her. In fact, she rather seemed to enjoy it.
“Princess Georgina,” Amelia murmured. Once she straightened up, the Princess did take Amelia’s hand. Her fingers were cool and her grip was, to Amelia’s surprise, quite delicate.
“Call me George.” Her tone made it clear that it was concession as much as it was command. Amelia couldn’t help but think what a queen this girl could someday make with her coolness and poise.
“Arthur’s been a mess all morning waiting for you,” Hyacinth interjected.
“Hyacinth,” George and Princess Violet scolded at the same time.
“‘Arthur’s just taking a walk, leave him be,’” Hyacinth pitched her voice to match her mother’s. “He was pacing. For an hour. Outside, where it’s miserably cold.”
Arthur finally stepped up beside Amelia. “Even princes are allowed to be nervous introducing their intended to their family.”
*
After a surprisingly pleasant hour sitting and talking in the drawing room at Sandringham, Amelia and the royal family walked to the church. For a building on the royal estate, it looked very much like any other village church Amelia had ever encountered. Constructed of grey stone with a solid bell tower rising to the heavens, the chill spring sun spilled through tall windows onto the ancient wooden pews inside.
Amelia spent the entire service intensely aware of the two inches between her body and Arthur’s. She tried not to think about the entire congregation behind her analyzing everything from her posture to her choice of hat. To maintain an appearance of focusing on more godly matters, she counted the panes of glass in the window above the altar.
Eventually, unable to help herself, she turned her head slightly to gaze at Arthur. He was looking straight forward, his profile strikingly handsome. His high, broad forehead was creased slightly, as if he were concentrating fully on the sermon. The light caught in his eyes and made them shine like amber. Amelia allowed herself to stare only for a moment, lest she be caught out.
Beyond Arthur's profile was George’s. Even at so young an age her face was sharper and prouder than Arthur’s. But then, how could it not be? She was a young woman whose circumstances were as peculiar as Amelia’s own. Perhaps more so; Amelia at least had been given a choice. Neither of them were people who should ever have had to consider the possibility of becoming queen.
As if sensing Amelia’s thoughts, George shifted to meet her gaze. Her eyes narrowed. Arthur, between them, seemed oblivious. Amelia looked away quickly, turning her attention to her hands folded in her lap.
How could George make her so nervous? They were closer in age to each other than Amelia was to Arthur. Yes, George was a princess of the blood and soon to be next in line for the throne if Arthur never married or produced heirs. But beyond matters of rank, there was something to George that unsettled Amelia. She suspected, for no reason she could fathom, that her future with Arthur was, somehow, in this strange girl’s hands.
*
While the rest of the family lingered outside the doors of the church, exchanging greetings with various members of the congregation, Arthur took Amelia’s hand and walked on ahead, down the path that lead to the house. When Amelia risked a glance back, only George was looking after them. She was frowning, but whether that was resentment or just a defense against the glare of early spring sun, Amelia didn’t know.
Formal Sunday dinner back at the house that afternoon was pleasant on the surface, but Amelia spent the meal intensely aware that everyone’s attention was at all times on her. She liked Arthur’s family, especially the old King and the impish Hyacinth, but being under such close scrutiny was exhausting. She was relieved when they were done eating and Arthur asked if she wanted to take a walk with him.
Amelia tried not to notice the smirking glance Hyacinth gave George as Amelia and Arthur left
together. She wondered if it was too early to wish the ground would swallow her up; apparently, her intended’s niece thought they were sneaking out for a snog.
In the foyer Arthur helped her into her coat. When his fingertips brushed the back of her neck, Amelia felt goosebumps break out over her arms.
They strolled across the lawn to a gate into the back garden. “There’s someone else I want you to meet,” Arthur said.
“Is this where you reveal that your family secretly keeps a cousin locked up in a barn?” Amelia asked. It was a poor attempt at a joke, but Arthur seemed unperturbed.
“We don’t tell secrets like that until you’re much more committed,” he said. As he unlatched the garden gate he pursed his lips and whistled.
Amelia heard the jingling first. Three of them, all English setters, bounded around a corner and skidded up in front of Arthur, quivering excitedly and eyeing Amelia with great curiosity.
Arthur crouched down and rubbed their ears. “This is Callisto, Ganymede, and Io.”
“The Galilean mons of Jupiter?” Amelia asked.
“Three of them, at least. Given my circumstances, I couldn’t quite call one of them Europa.”
Amelia bent down carefully and offered Callisto a hand to sniff. The dog licked it in a friendly way and then sat thumping its tail in the grass. It grinned a happy doggy grin at Amelia.
“Do you mind if they join us?” Arthur asked, scratching his long fingers through the fur at the nape of Io’s neck.
Amelia almost didn’t answer. She was too distracted by the sight of Arthur with his dogs and the almost overwhelming warmth and fondness that bloomed in her chest.
“Not at all. I’d love it,” she said eventually, when Arthur looked concerned at her silence.
Without bothering to put the dogs on leads, Arthur opened the gate again. He led them all out onto a path that ran back into the trees, in the opposite direction from the church.
“What did you think of the sermon?” Arthur asked as they walked. Alongside them the dogs sniffed at roots and rocks and scampered occasionally to keep up.
Amelia had a sudden stab of fear that Arthur was genuinely religious. “I’m not saying that this is the case, but what would happen right now if I said I wasn’t paying attention and had no idea?”
Arthur clasped his hands behind his back and gave her a sideways look. “I’d be intrigued, because I’ve no idea what your personal views on religion are and that seems rather telling.”
“Is discussing religion something we should be doing on the second date?” Amelia knew this was something they’d have to talk about at some point and at length, but she didn’t feel ready yet. She barely had her feet under her in front of Arthur’s family. She didn’t want to risk tackling state religion or anything else of the sort until she felt more sure of herself.
“When the second date involves sitting three seats down from the current head of the Church of England, I would say yes.”
If this conversation was happening, she needed information. “In that case, how would our children be raised?”
“You mean in regards to religion?”
“Yes.”
Arthur hesitated before he answered. “Our eldest would be raised to be the head of that Church someday. As I was.”
“How do you feel about that?” Amelia nudged at a stone in the path with the toe of her boot. She hoped turning the question around on him would buy her some time. Whether he truly believed or not, the burden must have weighed.
“I’m afraid I’m not very devout. A bit pagan, maybe, by some people’s standards. And I’m spiritual …maybe. But a dead wife will do that to you,” Arthur concluded casually. “My sister and I were raised in religion the same way we were raised in royalty. What’s one more tradition and obligation when your whole life is tradition and obligation?”
“I don’t believe in God,” Amelia blurted. That seemed safe to confess, now she had Arthur’s opinions. “I don’t believe in ghosts either. I can’t deny the power of myth or the belief in stories. But when it comes to a higher power, I’ve had too much training in science. If the data is out there, I haven’t seen it. Or anyone who has.”
She braced herself for a rebuke or a disagreement, but none came. “That’s fair,” Arthur said.
His answer was benign, but divulged little of his expectations of her. Amelia found the courage to plow forward. “When I look at you and myself and this situation in which we’ve found ourselves, I know I’m supposed to think this is the way things are because this is the way God made us. Divine right of kings and all. What I actually think is there was last a Yorkish queen in the north when Christ was alive. It’s quite odd.”
“Our lives are very odd in most aspects. But that you’ve thought about these things — and are at least trying to navigate them — it’s also brave.”
“Thank you?” Amelia couldn’t quite see how. People — in York and throughout England and indeed through the rest of the world — dealt with things every day that were far harder than having thoughts about monarchy. But Arthur meant his words to be kindly, and she didn’t see the utility in pressing the issue.
Arthur reached out a hand and took Amelia’s in his own. Amelia’s heart jumped.
She stopped walking without realizing it, and Arthur stopped with her. There was no confusion on his face, only interest and curiosity and, just possibly, something warmer. She had to use all her willpower not to grab his arm with her free hand and curl close. She wasn’t sure what his response would be, and she couldn’t bear the thought of him pulling away.
Her desire, however, was not misplaced. With his other hand, Arthur tipped her chin up so that he could look directly at her. The leather of his glove was cool on her skin, and Amelia was struck again by just how much taller than her he was.
He moved slowly, so she could have no doubt of his aim. It was, she supposed, his way of asking permission, and she appreciated it. This close, Amelia could see that his brown eyes had the faintest ring of gold around the pupils.
Suddenly, terror overtook her. She couldn’t believe her own absolute stupidity in all of this: Demanding he stay faithful, assuming this mutual duty between them could somehow be enough. If Amelia were honest with herself, she knew they’d been drawn to each other on some level that very first day at the races. But this was the first hint of the rest of her physical life, and she’d left herself no safety net. Her last frantic thought before his lips touched hers was What if he’s a bad kisser?!
His lips touched hers, and after a few shocked moments she realized she had no cause for fear. The kiss was chaste, slow, and achingly deliberate. Arthur was giving them both time to test this and, perhaps, to savor it. His lips were warm against hers, his cheek cold where the tip of Amelia’s nose was pressed against it. Arthur slid his hand into her hair and cradled her head. His fingertips were gentle on her scalp. She wished for a fleeting second that they would dig hard into her hair and drag her close.
She tried not to sigh as he pulled back. Definitely not an unmitigated disaster.
Arthur brushed a thumb over her cheek and looked as though he were about to say something. Suddenly, one of the dogs barked. Both Arthur and Amelia jumped and turned to stare at it.
“Come on.” Arthur dropped his hand from her face to grab a stick off the ground. “They get cranky if they don’t get enough exercise.”
Chapter 10
ROYAL QUARREL? NO SIGHTINGS OF PRINCE ARTHUR AND HIS LADY
5 March
Year 21 of the Reign of King Henry XII
Back in London after spending the entire day with Arthur. Who, when he walked me to the car when it was time for me to depart, told me to call him by that name always, at least in private, promised to call me tonight, and then kissed me goodbye. What on earth am I supposed to write about that?
*
Amelia found that her nerves about the visit to Sandringham did not dissipate upon her return to London. She undressed, showered, and put pajamas on
in an ever-increasing state of anxiety. It wasn’t hard to pinpoint the cause: Almost immediately, she was waiting for Arthur to call.
Time crawled. Amelia tried to distract herself with a book, but it didn’t work. She kept checking her mobile every minute, making sure she hadn’t missed a notification. Waiting like this, like a teenager with her first crush, was ridiculous, and Amelia was annoyed with herself for getting so worked up.
They’d talked on the phone before. But never in a planned way — or when she wasn’t angry with him. The truth was that his promise to call seemed like a suggestion that their relationship wasn’t entirely for show. Some degree of intimacy could exist between them no matter how much their courtship was one of politics and convenience.
But, Arthur didn’t call. Amelia’s mobile lit up only with warnings for poor visibility due to fog tomorrow. Rationality began to return to her along with the promise of those clouds. Arthur had many obligations and a call the very same night as a second date was not standard procedure. Priya, were she home, would tell Amelia that surely.
*
Amelia woke hoping for a text or some sort of message from Arthur, but there was nothing. She debated with herself for five minutes over whether she should text him and irritated herself so thoroughly in the process that she sent a simple Good morning to resolve the matter for herself.
There was no response. As the morning went on, and Amelia struggled to focus, disappointment gave way to worry and something very much like panic. Had she failed the test of God and family and kissing and all the rest? The stakes of the outing at Sandringham had been so high.