by Susan Stoker
“Dear brother,” I say. “Must you be so harsh on the gentler sex? A woman’s passion doesn’t make her a whore.” I look at Amelia. “But lack of it may.” I take her hand and raise it to my lips. “I wish you all the best, my dear,” I say, my lips grazing the soft skin above her knuckles. Is it my imagination, or does she shudder?
I say nothing more to my brother. Unlike him, I’m good at hiding my anger, and his comment about Mother still has me fuming beneath my cool exterior. As he turns away, Amelia looks back at me. There’s a curiosity in her gaze. And why shouldn’t there be? Surely, she must have questions about why her husband keeps her away from me. Would she like to know me better? After all, we’ll be family soon.
Perhaps, I think, I can make that happen.
Chapter Two
Lady Amelia
My face is on tea towels, and my mother couldn’t be happier.
“Look!” she says, rushing toward me as I enter. She’s holding one aloft, and it seems surreal. But there I am, my smiling face beside Frederick’s on commemorative keepsake kitchen linen. “Isn’t it splendid?”
I want to say no, that it’s not splendid, that nothing about this is splendid. But to do so would be to kill the dream my mother is living vicariously through me. I’m exhausted after today’s tension, and wish I could just go to my flat in London. But she’s been insisting I come home these days, to spend time together before the wedding. I know better, though. What Mother really wants is information, a play-by-play of my entire day in the presence of the royals.
She was a little younger than I am when she entered a brief relationship with Frederick’s father. If Prince Edward remembers, he’s never acknowledged it. But Mother’s recollection is strong enough for both, and she’s spent her life backtracking her past and wondering what she did to put her out of contention to become Princess of Wales, a title that eventually went to the late Lady Mary Kenworth.
I’m her second chance at royal redemption. For want of connection, she has pinned her hopes on me, and after every date, every occasion, my mother, Lady Sybil Fairchild, interrogates me for details.
Today is no different. It was my first family gathering with the queen. So, how was it? What happened? What was said? Did it have anything to do with the scurrilous headlines in the Clarion? The press is awful, she frets, and they won’t stop until they destroy everything that’s made this country great.
“Tell me everything, dear,” she says, catching my hand in hers.
“It was nothing,” I lie. “Just a warning to be careful about aggressive press coverage.”
My mother clutches her pearls. “They aren’t worried that you’ll do something amiss, are they?”
“No, Mother,” I say wearily. “You know I wouldn’t.”
She takes my face in her hands, just as she did when I was small. “Of course not,” she says. “You’re such a good girl. It’s why Prince Frederick is so smitten, and why you will be at his side when he one day takes the throne.” Her eyes drift upward. “My daughter, the wife of a king.” She smiles broadly. “And the queen?” She likes to speak of her as if we are already family. “How is she?”
“Stoic,” I say. “And I am tired. I’m going to take a lie down.”
Her hand is cool against my forehead, her expression concerned. “You aren’t ill, are you, Amelia? Should I send for a doctor?”
“Mother, please. I’m fine.” I don’t want to snap at her, but it’s difficult. “It’s just been a long day.”
Rather than wait for her reply, I head up the stairs to my room. As I make my way up, I hear her voice calling to me.
“I’ll have tea sent up, and after your rest we need to talk about your dress for the masquerade ball, dear! We’ve one more fitting before…”
The rest of her words fade away as I reach the top of the stairs. I’m grateful to be out of earshot as I enter my private quarters and shut her away. I lean against the heavy wooden door, glad for a private moment. How I treasure them now, for they never last. Outside the door, I’m consumed by the life I’m being groomed for, whether it’s my mother’s demanding an accounting of all that’s happened outside her maternal purview, or the oppressive oversight of my future in-laws, who now dictate everything from the hemline of my dresses to where I eat lunch, or with whom.
It’s Frederick’s doing. He’s obsessed with image, and his brother is right. I was shocked earlier today at Tristan’s frankness when he implied that my fiancé already acts as if he’s king. He’s petrified of anything that may taint public perception. Is this why he keeps me away from Tristan? Or is it something else? Am I imagining that my hand still tingles where Tristan kissed it? He is indeed the black sheep of the family, and good girls like me aren’t supposed to think on men like that.
I close my eyes and will myself to think of my betrothed, but that only increases my frustration. Frederick isn’t as pure as he pretends to be. We have slept together, and while there was nothing earth-shattering about it, as an inexperienced lover I’d assumed sex with him would only get better with time. But shortly after he proposed to me, Frederick cut me off, announcing we would have no further relations until our wedding day.
“We should have waited, for tradition’s sake,” he’d bemoaned. “You’re fixed in the public’s mind as pure, even if I have taken your virginity. I cannot afford the risk of destroying that illusion, so from this point on, we will only appear together at public functions where you will remain the very picture of unspoiled modesty.”
Unspoiled. The word bothered me. Was I spoiled now? It seemed ridiculous. We are in modern times, and yet Frederick acts as if we’re living in another century. Part of me wanted to argue, to tell him I needed that closeness, for I was already sensing a new reserve from him. He’d changed once our proposal had been officially announced. I’ve been attributing it to stress, but could it be something more?
He knows that the proposal fulfilled my parents’ expectations. He knows that I am, down deep, a good girl eager to please. He has nothing to lose by turning from solicitous to demanding. Gone is the warmth that lured me in and put me at ease. He’s allowed me to be snatched from his side for endless briefings on my new responsibilities. The only time he smiles now is when the cameras are on us. He’ll show me the Clarion or the Daily Voice and comment favorably on how I look. “The public loves you,” he said one morning. But does he? I’m beginning to wonder.
Today’s ugly incident at the palace doesn’t help matters. It’s no secret that Frederick and Tristan are not close, and I’ve never asked the source of the animosity between them. Perhaps it is just sibling rivalry. They’ve always had divergent styles. Tristan excelled in athletics, while Frederick was more studious. Tristan drew people like a magnet, while Frederick was always seen as aloof. The only thing the two have in common are height and build. Walk up to them from behind and you will not know who is who until they turn. Then it is obvious. Is it terrible to observe that you are to marry the less handsome brother? Frederick inherited his father’s weak chin and slightly drooping eyes that make him look perpetually worried, while Tristan looks more like his late mother’s side of the family with his strong, square jaw, high cheekbones, and easy smile. Perhaps being handsome is the consolation Tristan received for not being born the heir, although if he needed consoling, he doesn’t seem to show it. Prince Tristan seems perpetually at ease, and perhaps this is at the heart of Frederick’s animosity toward him. He says Tristan doesn’t appreciate the privilege of his station. He doesn’t like that his brother mingles so freely with what he calls the “rabble.” He says Tristan only associates with unsuitable types to hurt the family, to hurt him. He says Tristan is jealous. But I wonder if it’s not the other way around. But I dare not ask. I cannot make waves, not with my face already on the tea towels.
I try to rest, but find I can’t. I’m anxious now for some reason, and finally give up and ring for the tea Mother promised. Our maid Peggy brings it up. I like her because she doesn’t pry.
She just serves me tea and biscuits, and in my gratitude, I will drop benign bits of information, like the type of biscuits served that day at the palace, or what dress Lady Such-and-Such wore.
Peggy brings me chocolate biscuits today, the kind she used to sneak me when I was a child and my mother confined me to my room. I feel a twinge of sadness. There will be no Peggy for me when I leave my home for the most coveted address in England. Frederick has already told me that he will be selecting my staff.
“The charity ball is tomorrow night,” I say as Peggy pours my tea. I’m sitting by the cold fireplace in my room. If it were winter, there’d be a merry blaze crackling in the hearth, the light casting shadows on my rose print wallpaper.
“The masquerade affair!” Peggy says. “How grand!” She lightly claps her hands together in her excitement. “All those fine dresses, and the men and women masked. It’s all so mysterious! Your mother showed me your elegant mask with the peacock feathers, and the colors will match your lovely dress.” She paused. “May I ask what mask the prince will wear?”
How I long to tell this motherly woman that Frederick needs no mask, that none can compare to the one he fooled me with before asking for my hand, the one of the kind and slightly awkward paramour. How can I tell her the mask he’s chosen for the ball is ironically reflective of the man he’s come to be—cold and severe. I can’t. Even here in my room, I must be mindful to maintain the image everyone seeks to believe, even those closest to me. So instead I describe the full-face Venetian bauta he will wear.
“It sounds lovely,” she says dreamily. “And to see you living this fairy tale. We could not have wished for anything more wonderful. I have never seen your mother so happy, nor your father so proud. You and Prince Frederick are on the tea towels sold at the corner shop! And the china, too! Just think! Our little Amelia on commemorative china! Our little Lady Amelia, soon to be Princess Amelia! What any woman in this kingdom wouldn’t give to be in your place!”
“Yes, it’s remarkable,” I reply, and chide myself for the low feeling I’ve battled all day. She’s right, of course. I am in an enviable position, and despite the giddiness of the royalist faction that remains strong in England, there is a growing number looking for anything to bring the royals down. I’ve been lucky; despite my nobility, the public and the press see me as humble and good. It’s why I’m loved by so many, and tolerated by those who’d otherwise hate me. It’s why I’m useful to Frederick.
My mother walks in, unannounced.
“You’re finished with your tea?” She’s trailed by the seamstress, who is carrying my peacock blue gown.
“Almost,” I say, picking up a biscuit, only to have my mother rush over and pluck it from my hand.
“Peggy!” she snaps. “Is this your doing?” Then she turns back to me, her lip quivering as she holds up the biscuit as if it’s a joint she’s found me with. “Calories,” she says in an ominous tone. “They are the enemy of any bride approaching her wedding day, but especially the bride of a prince.”
“Without calories, we would die,” I say.
“True,” she concedes. “But you will not have empty ones. Very soon, I’ll be required to curtsy to you. Until then, my job is to make sure you make sure nothing gets in the way of that dream.”
She picks up the tray and hands it to Peggy, who has the look of a beaten dog. I can only imagine the dressing down she’ll get later for offering me comfort in a cookie.
I don’t know why Mother fusses so. The reason I need another fitting for the ball gown is because it had to be taken in. I can barely eat these days for my anxiety. Bridal nerves, everyone calls them, but I know it’s more than that. The expectations are crushing, the scrutiny suffocating. I’m not naïve. I know I’m not the first to endure this, and I believe that I’ve weathered it so far with grace. I attend the endless meetings schooling me on protocol. I show up impeccably dressed for functions designed to sell the image of this happy couple, this shining glimpse of the youthful monarchy. But the real butterflies run deeper when I allow myself to silently ask the one question I should not: Is this a mistake?
There’s a hiss of silk as the ball gown slides over my head, and my mother’s intake of breath is sharp. “So beautiful,” she says as I look at my reflection in the mirror. I’m a wisp in bright blue, my eyes large and innocent-looking in my pale, heart-shaped face. They are the eyes of a frightened doe, her body tensed to flee. But she can’t because she’s trapped. My collarbone juts out, and my mother compliments favorably on it. It’s the thing, she says, to have a visible collarbone.
“It’s a perfect fit now,” the seamstress declares.
“And perfect with the lovely mask,” my mother says, holding up the half mask in front of my face. Its peacock feathers curl from the sides, and my scared eyes stare into the mirror from within.
Chapter Three
Prince Tristan
Tonight, I’m the jester. The exaggerated hooked nose of my mask reminds me more of a bird. A loon, maybe, and I feel like a loon agreeing to go to this nonsense, this vapid display of wealth disguised as charity. Why not, I asked Frederick and my father, just take all the money being spent on the masquerade ball and give it to charity?
We’d been out stalking on the moors, and Frederick had grumbled that I should hush, lest I scare away the grouse. But I knew better. He simply didn’t want to answer the question.
Father, sensing the tension, jumped to answer.
“Because the guests raise far more for charity if you put them in a merry mood,” he said. “Give to them and the charity gets more in return. The ball is an investment, Tristan. The public appreciates that.”
“It seems to me that the public would appreciate seeing our lot provide aid to the poor without a gaudy incentive to do so,” I replied as I scanned the horizon for grouse.
“I suppose it’s a good thing that you won’t be king then, dear brother,” Frederick said. Our gun dog had loped off into the brush, having seen what we were missing. “The masquerade benefit will be yet one more tradition you won’t be able to sully from your powerless position.”
I’d had no time to reply, not that I’d have dignified his comment anyway. At that moment, a trio of birds exploded upward from their cover. Mine fell to the ground. Father and Frederick missed.
My father had laughed and shook his head. “Well done,” he said, for I never missed. “I don’t know where you got your marksmanship skills.”
“Skill isn’t something that can be inherited,” I’d said.
I think Frederick is still fuming about that. Or perhaps he’s still fuming in general. I’m late to the gala by choice, which doesn’t help his mood. I slip my mask on as I enter the small room leading to the small balcony where we will appear above the terraced gardens of Rembley Manor. It’s a beautiful setting, and the fairy lights give the grounds an ethereal look, like something out of A Midsummer Night’s Dream. It’s an eccentricity that the affair starts out of doors and then moves inside for the dance, but that’s how it’s always been done, weather permitting.
My grandmother doesn’t attend these things. But my father does, as do Victoria and her husband, Peter, and of course Frederick and now Amelia. Amelia. I almost stop when I see her. She’s a vision in her sapphire blue gown, a china doll. Her glossy hair is upswept into a graceful chignon, and the mask hides her top of her pretty face, exposing her nose, her sculpted cheekbones, and sharp little chin. My brother stands beside her, his eyes visibly glaring through the mask that obscures his full face.
“Oh, look. The jester has arrived,” he says.
“Brother,” I say, turning. “Father, Victoria, Peter.” I walk over to Amelia and lift her hand. “What a vision you are. I so look forward to the day when I can call you sister.” I kiss her hand, and the eyes staring out of her mask widen, then dart to the side. My brother is glaring harder. Amelia lowers her gaze as I lower her hand.
“Thank you, Tristan,” she says, and at the sound of her saying my nam
e, I feel a stab of jealousy as I realize that my brother has something I covet.
“The doors are opening. Come along, Amelia.” Frederick barks this like an order to a woman who deserves to be gently guided, but there she is, at his side. Her obedience to him rankles me. I can see the tension in her body. She doesn’t like this. I can tell.
Many in the crowd below share the same blood, but no matter how well-heeled, the sight of royals making an appearance is a fine moment, or so I’ve been told. They ooh and aah, and I suspect much of it has to do with Lady Amelia’s dress. Small details were strategically leaked to the press, heightening expectations. Tomorrow there will be pictures of my brother’s well-bred bird on the front page of every paper.
The excitement of the attendees mounts as we turn away, for this means we will be coming down to mingle. This is, my brother says with pride, the true reward for patrons of this charity. It’s what keeps them coming back, year after year. Does he even notice that this year’s crowd is slightly smaller? Several patrons died last year, and there are fewer monarchists among the emerging members of society.
But my brother is in his element as the crowds fawn over us. I suspect he is smiling under that mask as he and colorful Amelia enter the room after my father. I follow behind my sister, and enter the room to a more perfunctory applause. I’m the Bad Prince, the Black Sheep, the one who threatens tradition with his outrageous behavior and deviant sexual taste.
A waiter strolls by with champagne. I take a flute and try to blend into the crowd, but I’m required to be cordial. It doesn’t take long for several socialites to push their single daughters into my path. A bad prince is still a prince, after all, and every mother dreams that her offspring will be the one to tame me.