A Queen from the North: A Royal Roses Book

by Erin McRae

  “Your Majesty,” Amelia said. Strategically placed microphones caught and amplified her voice without her having to raise it. Which was fortunate, because it felt like the wind was trying to tear the words from her mouth. “Wars have no winners and deserve no trophies. On behalf of York I return to you what was stolen, so that we might heal and one day celebrate a victory of true unity.”

  She held up the box for Arthur to take. Their fingers brushed. Even through both their gloves it sent a shockwave of heat up Amelia’s arms. Her cheeks flamed. Arthur met her gaze, his eyes steady and very serious. For just a moment, as the box passed from York to Lancaster, they were the only people in this frigid wind-swept place.

  Amelia dropped her hands. Arthur expressed gratitude and appreciation for what the north was returning. Amelia waited ’til he was done and counted five to make absolutely sure every eye was pinned on her and what she would do next.

  She curtsied, the full, deep, ancient curtsy no one performed anymore. Her father bowed as well.

  Amelia stayed there, knees bent, head bowed, and waited for the world to change.

  Please, please let this work she prayed to God, to George’s ravens, to a million things she didn’t believe in.

  The crowd broke out in loud, confused, but mostly happy-sounding shouts. It wasn’t the roar of approval she had received in York simply for being there, but it was something. This was the sound of a new beginning, of hope. But even though the crowd’s reaction had been the point of this humiliating exercise, Amelia couldn’t move until a sign came that it was safe for her — and for all of York — to rise.

  The sign was George. The child who would have been queen, cool as a marble statue with her pale skin and grey coat, stepped forward. She took Amelia’s hands and raised her from her curtsy, the faintest smile on her face.

  “You did well,” she murmured and drew Amelia into a brief, affectionate embrace and kissed her cheek.

  *

  The four of them dined together that evening. After the meal, before he departed for the car that would take him back to the train station, Lord Kirkham drew Amelia aside.

  “I brought something else from York,” he said.

  “What is it?” Amelia asked with a frown. Today had been a success by all accounts. She couldn’t imagine another Kirkham treasure needing to be sacrificed to king and country.

  “Your mother tells me you’ll be travelling with His Majesty on a tour of the Commonwealth.”

  “No tour, just Canada, but, yes.”

  “If you’re going to appear at the side of a king, you should look like a queen, whether he’s given you a crown yet or not. Your mother and I, we want you to have this.”

  With that, he drew a flat, square box from the folds of his bulky overcoat. “It was highly useful, having those bodyguards on the way down. Otherwise I can’t imagine the headache it would have been getting this to you.”

  Amelia opened the box with trembling fingers. Inside, nestled in velvet at least as old as the building they were standing in, was the Kirkham tiara. Amelia remembered her mother wearing it on a small handful of very formal occasions; there were photographs of her grandmother and paintings of her great-grandmothers wearing it displayed in the house.

  “Joining our families together doesn’t mean losing our history,” he said. “Your prince isn’t wrong. A unified England that acknowledges York and all our history will be a beautiful thing. And never, until he took the throne, did I think it would ever be possible.”

  Chapter 24

  CANADA CELEBRATES ROYAL COUPLE

  12 January

  Year 1 of the Reign of King Gregory I

  The return of the Tower Crown has lifted a weight from me. Perhaps because we believe it has cooled the chaos brought about by the announcement of pari passu; the evening news — and the morning papers — in both York and London were favorable at least. But perhaps I have also been relieved of a burden that lay hidden in my blood. Only time will tell, at least as regards our ultimate success.

  I had hoped a transatlantic flight would give Arthur and I the opportunity talk about the ceremony yesterday or what we’re going to do in Canada, or…anything really. But he’s holed up with his equerry doing I don’t even know what — history suggests this only leads to chaos. Meanwhile, I’ve been left to my own devices. At least Edward and Macsen are along for the trip, or I’d go crazy for no one to talk to.

  So far into this adventure I shouldn’t feel like I’m still auditioning for this life. But I still do.

  Will I ever not?

  *

  They landed precisely on time, as if even jet streams bent to royal will now that the great houses of England had made their tentative peace. Standing at the plane door, waiting to descend the stairs to the tarmac, Amelia wished she’d chosen to sleep more during the flight. They’d been given their itinerary for the day, and it would be hours before they would reach the hotel. She tugged at her gloves.

  “Are you nervous?” It was the most Arthur had said to her in hours.

  “Yes,” she said. “It’s my first official visit as whatever on earth it is that I am.”

  “You are Lady Amelia,” Arthur said simply, as if that were all would matter. As the big door was opened, he offered his arm to her. “Shall we?”

  *

  They were greeted by the Canadian Prime Minister and a phalanx of adorable schoolchildren, all of them bundled in parkas and holding flowers. Amelia could almost feel the entire country swoon when Arthur gravely accepted a clutch of red and white roses from a little girl in a white coat and bright red hat. Twined around the stems was a ribbon printed with Toronto, York, and London. Amelia smiled to herself. The red and white of the Canadian flag were certainly convenient. Whatever Beatrice and the chief steward tried, her roses couldn’t be hidden. They were everywhere.

  The day passed in a blur. Amelia and Arthur lunched with the Prime Minister — who was even more handsome in real life than on the television — before Arthur went to meet with officials at Queen’s Park. Amelia, meanwhile, visited science classrooms at a girl’s school. It seemed so long ago that she’d told Arthur she wanted to improve science education for girls. Perhaps when and if all the clamor over her very existence finally died down, she could get back to work that could do some concrete good. But first, was also due to attend a cocktail party for Toronto’s own bee charity.

  She and Arthur weren’t reunited until ten o’clock that evening when they finally arrived at the hotel from their separate appointments. Their luggage had already been delivered, but both hotel staff and their personal staff were nowhere to be seen. She was left standing across from Arthur in the suite they’d be sharing for the duration of the trip.

  There was a dining room, a sitting area, and a fireplace. Two doors on opposite walls led into separate hallways. Arthur’s master suite was on one side, Amelia’s was on the other. She wondered how many people believed they truly weren’t sharing a bed.

  "I know things have been difficult recently.” Arthur walked around the sofa toward her. “The pressure on us both is considerable. But I at least feel better to be far from home."

  "You rule the Commonwealth. This is your home."

  Arthur laughed tiredly as he came to stand in front of her. "You know what I mean. What happens if we try to enjoy this? Take a break from everything that makes our lives difficult?”

  “You can’t take a break from all of that unless you abdicate. Which I don’t think you’re interested in doing.”

  “True,” Arthur allowed. “But the protesters outside Buckingham Palace can’t reach us here, and there are no ghosts of dead princes haunting these halls. I’m also fairly sure even you can’t summon a raven all the way across the Atlantic.”

  Amelia smiled wanly. “I’ve asked Macsen to keep me closely updated on the situation in both London and York. I won’t celebrate our absence from a crisis, only the absence of a crisis.”

  “You’re a queen already.”


  “I’m not, but thank you,” Amelia said. “Now. What did you have in mind in terms of enjoyment?” Amelia asked. This far from home, she felt bold.

  Arthur smiled. “Many things. But not tonight. You must be exhausted.”

  “And you’re not?” she shot back.

  “Oh, I am.” He leaned forward quickly, before she was expecting it, and pressed a fleeting kiss to her lips. “But we’ll both enjoy this trip more after a decent night’s sleep.”

  Before Amelia could protest, he was gone.

  *

  She saw Arthur only briefly in the morning. They ate breakfast together, though it was hardly an intimate affair. Arthur had his equerry and his valet and an aide briefing him on his schedule and going over final details. The bustle around Amelia was less complicated, but only marginally.

  Macsen sat on a stool next to her at the table, reading her headlines and tweets about the situation at home and the royal visit — people seemed to be reacting favorably — and briefing her on her own schedule for the day. An assistant provided by the Canadian government hovered at her shoulder, making final adjustments to her hair and clothes. It was like four weeks’ worth of events in London packed into seventy-two hours. Amelia was dimly aware that she was already tired, but she’d been tired for months. Now, at least, she was exhilarated too.

  She spent the day at more schools, taking tours, giving talks, and being shown all manner of science projects and experiments. She was applauded everywhere she went, and while that might have been politeness, Amelia thought it might also contain some actual enthusiasm.

  Students’ eyes lit up when she took the time to examine their projects and ask questions. Teachers and administrators were happy, even eager, to discuss their programs. What they had, what they needed, and what they hoped for.

  While Amelia listened, Macsen, at her elbow, scribbled down notes. Amelia wasn’t going to just smile and nod and leave; she was going to take what she heard and do something about it. This was what Amelia had dreamed of, back when Arthur first made her his offer. One day soon, she’d be able to do this same thing in London, and then, most importantly, in York.

  When the school day ended, Amelia was hurried back to the hotel to get ready for the state dinner being held that evening. She crossed paths with Arthur, who was leaving the suite just as she entered it. He was dressed already, in a tailcoat decorated with all the requisite medals and honors for such an occasion.

  “You’ll have to excuse me,” he said. He looked tired and distracted. “I have one more thing I have to attend to. I’ll meet you before we have to leave.” He strode off down the hallway, his medals clinking softly over the sound of his and his security’s footsteps.

  Amelia barely had time to wonder where he was going. As soon as she stepped inside the suite she was whisked into her room by her assistant.

  Macsen pressed painkillers and a glass of water into her hand even before they started on her makeup. When Amelia protested that she was fine, he shook his head.

  “You’ve got six hours of schmoozing and dancing in heels and a tiara ahead of you. If you don’t have a headache now, you will.”

  “What do you know about any of that?” Amelia asked.

  Macsen laughed. “Trust me.”

  “How are things at home?” she asked.

  “Quieter,” he said softly. “Edward says there were no arrests today and only two dozen protesters at Buckingham.”

  By now it was almost routine to sit in a chair for hours while she was transformed into the image of a storybook princess. But she’d never worn the Kirkham tiara before. She thrilled as she watched the assistant nestle it on top of her curls and then hold it in place with all sorts of ingenious hidden pins and elastic bands. Made of diamonds and jet set in gold, the tiara was unique and — thanks to the jet — unmistakably northern.

  *

  Arthur, despite his promise, was late. Amelia spent a quarter of an hour sitting in the car, perched uncomfortably on the seat so as not to crease the skirt of her gown or crush the petticoat, and getting increasingly annoyed.

  Finally the door opened and Arthur — and a blast of cold air — slid in.

  “Did you get lost?” Amelia asked, her voice dry as the door was shut behind him and the car began to move.

  “Fortunately no. Although it was touch and go for a while there. I was starting to be concerned that if we wandered even a little off track I’d wind up on the tundra with only the stray polar bear between me and the North Pole.”

  “I’m glad you made it. Although perhaps if you got lost in the wild the Commonwealth would stay together out of sheer guilt.”

  “Can you even imagine the apologies Canada would make?”

  Before Amelia could react, Arthur’s mobile chirped. He dug it out of his pocket to check the message. Amelia frowned. What disastrous thing had happened back home?

  “What is it?” Amelia asked, as Arthur typed a reply.

  “Just a moment.”

  Amelia waited, not at all patiently. Arthur poked at the screen some more, before he handed the mobile to Amelia.

  Amelia felt her mouth drop open in shock.

  THE FIRST QUEER PEER, the headline read. HELEN LAWRENCE, DUCHESS OF WATER EATON, ANNOUNCES HER BETROTHAL TO MARGARET EVELYN, BARONESS OF GODSTONE

  Amelia had to read it twice and skim through the first paragraph of the article before she looked back at Arthur. He was sitting back in his seat, legs crossed at the knee, hands folded easily in his lap. He looked smug.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” she demanded. Of all the pieces of news she had expected, she had never expected this to be the coda to all her fretting about Helen.

  “Tell you what?”

  Amelia waved her hands to indicate the mobile, Arthur, herself, and possibly all of existence. “This!”

  Arthur shrugged. “It was hardly my information to share.”

  “The papers were full of people who wanted you to set me aside — for her!”

  “And that wasn’t going to happen,” Arthur said. “No matter what they wanted. Or what you feared.”

  “Why was she at the palace?”

  “Ah yes, that.” Arthur looked somewhat pained. “Helen wanted advice about rolling out this information. I needed advice on how to handle Parliament threatening to refuse my choice of bride. My reputation as a womanizer has been convenient to me — and to Helen and Margaret — in the past.”

  “But not to me!” Amelia wasn’t angry so much as annoyed at Arthur and at herself.

  “I know. And I’m sorry for that. We tried to be discrete. But it was one good thing I could do that wouldn’t cause any more protests or controversy. They’ll be the first same-gender marriage amongst the British peerage, with the full affection and support of their king.”

  Amelia’s irritation drained away, leaving her with the realization that she and Arthur weren’t so different after all. Amelia could listen to teachers and schoolchildren. Arthur could do this for his friends and for his people. Little things in the big picture, perhaps, but not to the people whose lives they affected. She felt a wave of respect for him.

  “I suppose,” she said as the car turned a corner and brought the lights of the evening’s venue into view, “that this announcement will also further distract the public from your marriage to a certain northern girl.”

  Even in the dim light of the car, she could see Arthur’s smirk. “I would never have asked them to plan their announcement to suit my convenience.”

  “No?”

  “Not in a thousand years.” The car drew to a stop under the great house’s portico. “Helen offered.”

  Amelia laughed.

  Arthur smiled at her and grabbed her hand where it was resting in her lap. “And now,” he said, as attendants approached the car to open the doors. “Let’s go show Canada what an excellent idea my marriage to a certain northern girl is.”

  *

  Snow was falling when they stepped out of the car. Flakes landed
in Amelia’s eyelashes. She blinked them away as she took Arthur’s arm and proceeded down the red carpet with him. Combined with the camera flashes going off it leant a magical, if blinding, air to the whole evening, though Amelia was glad when they were inside where it was warm again.

  Dignitaries and their spouses filled the foyer, the men in white tie, the women in gowns that glittered under the lights. Amelia watched as Arthur had to reenact handshake after handshake for the sake of the official photographer. They couldn’t go two feet without being stopped to take a picture with another guest. She kept waiting for someone to ask for a selfie. She wondered if saying yes to that sort of thing was allowed.

  “Ready to dazzle them all?” Arthur bent to whisper in her ear as they waited to be announced to the ballroom proper.

  Amelia shivered at his breath against his ear as they were waved forward to the top of a staircase. The doors opened, and her reply caught in her throat at the sight of the crowd in the ballroom below and all the upturned faces gazing at her and Arthur as they appeared.

  “His Majesty King Gregory the First,” a deep voice intoned. “And the Lady Amelia Brockett.”

  *

  Arthur and Amelia were seated at dinner with the Prime Minister and his wife, and the Governor General and her husband. Amelia made charming small talk, quickly deflected queries regarding the protests and felt, finally, as Arthur excused himself from the table for his speech, like someone capable of being queen.

  Arthur’s speech quickly caught and held the attention of the entire ballroom. He was very, very good at this. Amelia supposed she shouldn’t have been surprised considering how recklessly, but ultimately deftly, Arthur had maneuvered them through all the crises of her northernness. Here, in a recalcitrant Commonwealth country that didn’t want him to be their king, Arthur could so easily look pathetic to be pleading for his relevance. But instead he was dashing as he invoked the great and special relationship between the British and Canadian peoples and any number of things about the fundamental wonderfulness of the Commonwealth.