Royally Yours

by Emma Chase

  His face and tone are impassive. “Yes, I understand.”

  “Good.”

  And then I pummel the bastard. Unleashing my rage and frustration, raining hard fists down on him like rocks.

  “Motherfucking son of a bitch!”

  He doesn’t just take it. He blocks and jabs, we kick and crash, knock over a table and punch a massive, cracked, dent in the wall. In the end we’re both bleeding, but I get leverage—and press him against the wall with my forearm to his windpipe.

  I lean into his face so there is no mistaking me.

  “Fill her head with that shit again and I’ll kill you. Make her cry again . . . I’ll fucking kill you slow.” I press against his throat harder, my voice louder. “You will never have her. She belongs to me—she is mine. When I am dead and buried she will still be fucking mine.”

  I let the words sink in, and then I shove him back as I release him.

  He gulps in air, hand to his throat, wheezing, “It’s not about that.”

  I scoff, turning away.

  “You wanted her to see those photos out in public?” he yells. “In front of a reporter? You wanted a journalist to catch her unaware and show them to her—now—when she’s days from delivering? Is that your idea of how I should protect her?”

  He shakes his head.

  “No, no, I’ll do my job properly. Protect her as she needs to be protected—truly—her and all who belong to her. I won’t stop. You want to kill me for that one day, you’re welcome to try.”

  I swipe at the blood on my lip with the back of my hand and point at him. “This happens again—you bring it to us, together. Not when she’s alone—never again when she’s alone. Do you hear me?”

  He thinks on that, then he looks me in the eyes and nods. “Yes. All right, I agree.”

  A few days later, after the bile in my gut has had time to settle and the words don’t taste quite so bitter, I lie in bed with Lenora. We’re naked—just as I like her—with her head on my shoulder, her heavy breasts against my chest and her swollen stomach between us pushing into my side, my hand trailing up and down the curve of her spine.

  “I want Winston to be made head of palace security. I want him in charge of everything. Covert programs, securing the palace grounds, trips abroad—he’s to have all the resources he needs.”

  Lenora stares up at me. “You hate Winston.”

  My arm pulls her closer. “I hate him because he’s in love with you.”

  She’s quiet for a bit, tracing my stomach with her fingertip.

  Then she sighs. “Edward—”

  “It doesn’t matter. He’s the best at his job. He’s completely devoted to you and to the Crown. He’ll protect you at all costs and he’ll be there to make sure you’re safe when I can’t.” I rest my hand on her warm, tight stomach. “Both of you.”

  Her gaze glides over my face. “Is it difficult for you? To not be the one who protects us all the time?”

  “I’m a man—of course it’s difficult for me.” I brush my hand through her long, dark hair, twining a strand around my finger. “I want to be everything for you, always. But that’s not who we are. What kind of man would I be—what kind of husband, or father, or prince—if I let my pride put you at risk?”

  “Not the man you are,” she says softly.

  “No, not the man I am.”

  Lenny picks up my hand and with the lips I still dream about, she places kisses at the tip of every finger and then in the very center of my palm.

  “You are everything for me, Edward. Always. Never doubt that.”

  BY THIS POINT, three days past my due date, all of me is uncomfortable, all the time—what with the small child literally sitting on my internal organs. So when the pain comes, slow and subtle twinges at first—a push of pressure—I don’t recognize it for what it is.

  But it keeps coming, more consistently, more rhythmically, and stronger each time—becoming sharp, squeezing, cramps . . . like my uterus is an orange being juiced.

  Edward and I are walking through the garden, enjoying the breeze on a sunny summer day, when the strongest pain yet presses hard all around my middle.

  “Oh!”

  I bend at the waist, gripping Edward’s arm. He cradles me through it, his hand on my back, holding me up, not letting me fall.

  When it passes and I straighten up, I’m soaked from the waist down—the hem of my plaid dress, my legs, my shoes.

  “Well . . . I guess that’s it, then.” Edward raises his eyebrows at the clear fluid still trickling down. “It’s time.”

  Anticipation boils in my stomach, and I squeeze his hand.

  “It’s time.”

  When we arrive outside the Capella Suite, everything’s in motion—people coming and going—excitement thick in the air. Oscar Pennygrove walks through the doors to the suite and Edward’s jaw goes rigid.

  “Why does Pennygrove get to go in and I don’t?”

  “Because this is how it’s done. The way it’s always been done.”

  Royals are born in palaces and castles. That’s the way it works. Especially royals who are heirs to the throne. I’ll have a doctor and nurses and top-notch medical treatment, but I won’t have Edward. The men stay outside.

  Love them or leave them, these are our traditions—a part of who we are, who my child will be.

  And I may challenge Parliament and the Palace, and I will argue with my Advising Council—but what I won’t do is toy with traditions that affect how my child may be viewed by the public or the Crown. That’s a boat I will not rock.

  This baby will be the leader of our country, an heir to my throne, and this birth will be by the book. The royal book.

  “How it’s always been done is bloody fucking stupid,” Edward grumbles, nudging the rug with the toe of his boot.

  “I know, but still . . .”

  I finger his jaw, soothing the handsome, unhappy beast, bringing his eyes to mine.

  “The next time I see you, I’ll have a present for you—a new prince or princess.”

  His lips tug up in that handsome, boyish smile.

  “Yes.”

  The head nurse, a husky dour-faced woman—because they always seem to be that way, don’t they—gestures to the double doors of the suite. “Come along now, Your Majesty. We’ve taken care of everything.”

  A momentary jolt of fear hits me like a lightning bolt and I think Edward sees it. But the hall is full of people—assistants and guards and medical personnel—so he can’t hold me the way I know he wants to. The way I want him to.

  Instead he places a firm, lingering kiss to my forehead and points to the leather bench in the hall. “I’ll be waiting, right there.”

  “No, no—you’ll be bored. Go play squash or polo or . . . join a card game with Michael.”

  He looks into my eyes. “I’ll be right there.”

  I give him a smile and squeeze his hand one last time. And then I let go.

  I DON’T WORRY AT ALL for the first four hours. Not at eight hours or even twelve. I know enough about childbirth to understand that some births—especially first births—can take time. The servants bring food and drinks for me. Miriam and Alfie and Michael and Cora check in often, hoping for news. The Prime Minister stops by, some members of Parliament, as well as Sheffield and the Tweedle brothers—looking for updates.

  At sixteen hours, I get uneasy.

  At twenty, I’m concerned.

  At, twenty-four, I start to worry. But the nurses come in and out of those double doors—nodding their heads and smiling that the Queen is fine, the baby is fine, all is well and things are moving right along.

  Then twenty-eight hours have crawled by.

  And thirty-two.

  Thirty-six. And the nurses stop coming out altogether.

  Thirty-eight hours after my Lenny went into that room, one finally emerges. And I unleash the sickening fear that’s eating away at me like acid.

  “What the fuck is happening in there?”

&nb
sp; Her expression is tight, tart. “It’s a hard labor, Prince Edward.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “The doctor is doing all he can.”

  My hands fist and I want to tear the walls down.

  “But what does that mean?”

  And then the whole world stops—as a piercing, painful scream comes through those closed double doors. The kind that reaches inside you and twists your stomach . . . digs into your gut and claws at your soul.

  “Edward!”

  My feet fly toward the doors.

  “Your Highness, you’re not supposed to—”

  And burst through them.

  “Holy Christ.”

  It doesn’t look like a room in a palace—it’s all stark white and metal now. The walls are covered by sterile sheets; the nurses and the doctor are draped in white, their faces obscured behind masks and caps. There’s a harsh bright light, a heart monitor, machines, a steel cabinet and trays of sharp, stainless-steel instruments. Pennygrove stands in the corner, covered in white—waiting, watching, and silent as stone.

  Lenora lies flat on a table in the center, her legs raised and locked into stirrups at the ankles. There’s a white sheet below and over her, and a curtain across her waist, hiding her view of the doctor and the lower half of her own body. The air is stifling—suffocating with the copper scent of blood and the heavy crush of fear.

  “Edward,” Lenora sobs, reaching for me.

  And I go to her, grabbing her hand, crouching down close. I touch her face and smooth her hair. “I’m here, I’m here, I’m right here. I’m right here with you.”

  Her lip is crusted with dried blood, where she’s bitten it through. And that small, insignificant wound wrecks me. Her face is a mess of pain and tears—her eyes filled with them, her cheeks flowing, her breaths coming and going in shuddered, stuttering gasps.

  “They want . . . they want to put me asleep . . . and I didn’t want to be alone.”

  My vision burns, blurs because she’s hurting so much. And she’s so afraid.

  “You’re not alone, Lenora. I’m right here, right here with you.” I can’t stop touching her. I want to shield her with my body, crawl onto that table and hold her until she’s calm. I want to pick her up and leave this place—take her far away where none of this can touch her or hurt her ever again.

  “It’ll all be much easier once you’re asleep, Your Majesty. More pleasant.” The doctor’s formless voice comes from behind the curtain.

  “The baby, Edward.” Lenora squeezes my hand tight. “Promise me you’ll love him.”

  I stroke her face. “Of course I will. I promise. I already do.”

  “And you must tell him.” Her voice breaks. “You have to tell him every day. It’s very important. He’ll be so sad inside if he doesn’t know.”

  A lump of gravel clogs my throat, strangling me. “I will, I swear—I’ll tell him every day.” I kiss her hand, her knuckles. “We’ll tell him together.”

  She closes her eyes then, breathing deep, slowly expanding her lungs. Wetness clings to her lashes like swollen raindrops, but when she opens them again, she’s calmed.

  Resigned.

  The kind of resignation people have when they don’t know what’s around the corner, but they’ve already accepted whatever it may be.

  She presses her hand to my face. “I love you, my Edward. I’ve loved you all this time. I was afraid . . . but I’m not afraid anymore.”

  I’ve tried to show Lenora all she means to me—I’ve worked at it, because actions always mean more than words. And I’ve given her words—sweet words, candid words, fervent words . . . but I’ve never given her those words. I didn’t know they mattered so much to her.

  “Lenora, I—”

  But the nurse has already placed the mask on her face and Lenny is so drained, she goes right under in the blink of an eye.

  “She’s out, Doctor,” the nurse says.

  His voice changes to snapping, clipped commands. Urgent orders.

  “Suction.”

  “Clamp.”

  “Forceps.”

  I don’t let go of her hand. And I don’t stop looking at her. Her coloring is terrible . . . her lips the color of chalk. I watch her breathe because there’s a horrific, stabbing worry that if I look away, she might stop.

  I hear the drone of their voices, the humming quick chatter of the nurses and doctor. And a slap of wet skin smacks the air.

  And then . . . a baby’s cry. It’s loud and lusty and absolutely fucking furious.

  “Wessco has a new prince,” the doctor says.

  Wetness streaks from my eyes, down my face, and I don’t even care enough to wipe it away. I move in close to her, whispering, “It’s a boy, Lenny. It’s a boy. We have a son.”

  She doesn’t answer. She doesn’t move.

  And the realization seeps in that something is wrong in this room. Off in the air. A new, healthy prince has just been born, but there is no sense of joy. The nurse’s eyes above their masks are darting and alert. There is tension, apprehension . . . but no celebration.

  Slowly, I stand and look over the curtain down below Lenora’s waist.

  And the bones in my chest contract and collapse and crumble to dust.

  I’ve been to war. I’ve watched men die because they lost too much blood, and what Lenora is losing now . . . is too, too much. It soaks the table beneath her and puddles on the floor. The doctor is hunched between her legs, working with quick movements, and the nurse snaps instruments into his gloved palm—but nothing he does slows it down.

  “Is she hemorrhaging?”

  “You need to leave this room,” the doctor answers, without raising his eyes.

  A nurse takes my arm. “Come with me, Your Highness. You can hold the Prince in the next room.”

  I jerk my arm away, willing strength and authority into my voice.

  “What’s happening?”

  “Go with your son, Prince Edward.”

  “I’m not going anywhere until you tell me what’s happening to her!”

  “The Queen is losing too much blood,” the doctor snaps, still focused on his work. “Her uterus is not contracting; there may be a rupture. If the bleeding can’t be stopped, I have to operate and I cannot do that with you in here—so get out!”

  “Please, Your Highness . . .” a nurse soothes. “Let him help her. Come on now. This way.”

  And I don’t fight. I let them lead me from the room. Because I’m not there anyway. I’m somewhere else.

  I’m in the woods around Anthorp Castle, watching a beautiful girl on a horse trying to catch the wind.

  I’m in the foyer, a laugh in my throat, watching her raise her brow and cross her arms . . . completely enthralled already.

  I’m holding her hand on a blanket.

  I’m kissing her in her office.

  I’m not afraid.

  I’m kneeling for her in her bedroom.

  I’m watching the lightning flash in her eyes on a rooftop.

  I’m giving her a ring, waiting at the altar . . . loving her beneath a magical sky.

  “Edward? What’s happened?”

  Alfie Barrister’s worried voice calls me back. I look around the dark paneled walls of the hall outside the Capella Suite, where I’m sitting on a bench beside Michael. Miriam is here too, standing next to Alfie.

  “Edward?” Michael coaxes.

  “There were . . . complications,” I say. “The doctor’s sorting it out.”

  I stare down at my hands, not seeing them. I see only the mistakes, the regrets, playing out like a soundless reel of film.

  “I was cruel to her when Thomas died. I . . . the things I said . . . that she didn’t care. Why did I say that?”

  “Edward . . .”

  My voice is a distant shadow. “And I left. I left her for weeks.”

  “Edward.”

  “All that time, all those days, I’ll never get them back now. I’ll never . . .”

  �
�Edward!” Miriam squeezes my hands, snapping me out of it, bringing my eyes to hers. “She’s strong. Our girl is strong. You have to hold on to that.”

  A nurse approaches, standing just behind Miriam, speaking to me. “Would you like to hold the baby, Your Highness?”

  “No, not yet. I’ll . . . I’ll hold him when his mother holds him.”

  “I’ll sit with the baby.” Miriam stands. “Lenora wouldn’t want him to be alone.”

  She follows the nurse to the next room over, but the door is open and I can hear as she talks to my son.

  “Hello there, little Prince. I’m your Auntie Miriam. We’re going to have lots of fun—I’m going to teach you all the things you’re not supposed to know.” The sound of wetness rises in her throat as her voice clogs and cracks. “Your mummy has been counting the days to meet you. She’s just . . . she’s just been held up a bit longer. So . . . you and I will sit here together and wait for her.”

  And that’s what we do. Each of us. For the next few hours, we wait.

  She looks like a fairytale princess under a spell. Like Snow White after she bit the apple and fell into a deep sleep—with her dark hair, pale skin, thick lashes, silver nightgown and lips that have regained a hint of their rosy hue.

  The doctor was able to stop the bleeding in time. Lenora needed three transfusions to make up for the blood she lost, but they didn’t have to operate. They moved her to an adjoining room for recovery—a more fitting room—with velvet drapes and antique furniture and a four-poster bed with satin sheets and mounds of pillows. And now she sleeps, from the anesthesia, from the blood loss, from the trauma of the birth.

  I sit at her bedside—her thoroughly enamored prince. I wait and watch and will her to wake up. My stubborn girl takes her time, of course.

  But eventually, she sighs deeply and opens her bright eyes, blinking up at the ceiling. Her head turns toward me and before she makes a sound, I kiss her hand and give her the words.

  “I love you, Lenora. I have loved you all this time and I will love you for all the time after this. And you will know it, every day. Every day.”

  Her lips spread into a dazzling smile. And her voice is soft and solemn. “I love you, Edward. And I promise to tell you every day. Every day.”