“Has he said anything since the Abbey?” Cilla looks concerned.
“He’s probably said a lot of things, but none of them to me,” I say. “Which is kind of the crux of the problem. All along, if we’d just told each other everything right away, straight up, it might have been fine. Everyone thinks Americans are so in-your-face, but I was too scared to be a pain in the ass.”
“I am married to Gaz,” she says. “My arse is immune to pain. Remember that next time.”
“You are a better friend than I deserve.”
“Oh, shove it, love,” she says good-naturedly. “This is not the Premier League. There’s no rankings or win-loss records in our friendship. Whatever happens, you and Nick will need us, and we’d be daft as a brush not to be there for both of you.”
She senses danger from my tear ducts, so she shoves the straw into my mouth and turns me to the long mirror.
“You’re a picture, Bex,” she says softly. “He’ll melt.”
Donna had procured a plum gossamer Jenny Packham with elbow-length sleeves and a chic, slouchy neckline. My hair is swept into a glamorous, bouncy ponytail, Kira’s clever nod to the Bex from Oxford whom Nick rarely saw any other way, and Eleanor had proffered the Surrey Fringe as a choker but I opted instead for my diamond pendant. Even through my haze, I love how I look. I hope Nick will, too. If he shows. Intellectually I know it’s unlikely he’ll stand me up tonight—I’d have heard by now; he has too much respect for duty to jilt three hundred guests without a word—but given how we left things…well, it’s little wonder we fell in love over a show specializing in cliffhangers.
“Right, go in, mingle, get out,” Cilla says, checking her clipboard. “Early to bed tonight. We are going to proceed as if this wedding is happening.”
“If this wedding doesn’t happen, then he is dumb as the box of hair I put on your head every month,” Kira says, clicking shut her giant toolbox of makeup. “I don’t care who started it, or who slept with what, or whatever went on with you kids, but shit happens and when it’s people who matter, we deal with it. You, Rebecca Porter, are a catch. You’re the only person I’ve ever worked for who knows when my birthday is and asks about my family. If HRH can’t get over whatever his problem is, then you go be a goddess someplace else.”
We are silent.
“That was a better speech than mine,” Cilla observes.
“You’re both going to make me cry again,” I say.
“Don’t you dare.” Kira smudges my blush one last time. “Blot your lippie if you reapply. It kills me that you never do that. Now go slay him.”
* * *
Sure enough, Nick is exactly where he is supposed to be, in a small space off the gardens. I hang back to take in the sight: Prince Nicholas, dressed for ceremony in a devastating tux, washing down a granola bar with a Coke and nose-deep in a binder labeled The Lesser Royals of Southeast Asia. My mouth goes dry. We used to pretend we weren’t madly in love before tearing into one another in private; now, everyone believes we’ve never been happier, yet I have no idea if we’re even speaking. Out of all the illusions we have created, from my hair to my walk to the color of my teeth, pretending we are fine will be the biggest, and the flimsiest. The Lyons Emerald has never felt heavier on my finger. I wonder what they’ll do to the engraving if I have to give it back. Maybe Nick can replace me with another B.
“There you are, Rebecca,” says Marj, whom I hadn’t even noticed in the corner of the room. Nick jerks up his head, then gives me a long, appraising gaze that I can’t read. I shift under the weight of it, and feel the prick of my secret talisman, the flag pin, tacked covertly to my bra.
“Come in,” Marj says. “Do you need one last look at the cheat books?”
I shake my head. “If I don’t know it now, I never will.”
“Is any of this lot even coming?” Nick asks.
“One must always prepare,” Marj says, taking his binder and heaving it over to a folding table next to ten other ones like it, plus three volumes clearly for Freddie labeled Comfortably Distant Relatives, Potentially Awkward, and finally, Seriously Do Not Touch. I wonder if she has a Let’s Call the Whole Thing Off binder. Knowing Marj, the answer is yes.
This is the first time I’ve seen Marj not wearing a cardigan, even in summer, and cocktail wear suits her. From the frock’s silvery color and matching cropped jacket to the low, chunky heels, it all could as easily have come from the Queen’s own armoire—apt, as she’s effectively as much Nick’s grandmother as Eleanor is. But there’s fatigue around her edges. Should tomorrow go smoothly, her husband will ply her with cocktails on a hard-earned Carnival Cruise and hopefully toss her mobile overboard. When Nick does not greet me, much less kiss me hello, Marj betrays no reaction. If anyone deserves to live in crisis denial right now, it’s her.
“You look marvelous,” she says, giving me a kiss on both cheeks. “Like a right royal highness yourself. It’s been quite a year, but you’ve come out of it brilliantly, Rebecca.”
I flush, from shame, not pleasure, but she won’t discern the difference.
“Thank you,” I say. “If I ever seemed ungrateful, or cranky, I really am sorry. I know how hard you and Barnes worked to get me here.”
Marj barks out a laugh. “When I started here, my equivalent on Emma’s staff was a woman named Elaine who seemed like as much of an old battle-ax to me then as I seem to you now,” she says. “One day Emma marched into her office, slammed a pile of these sorts of binders on the desk, and said, ‘Shove it with knobs on, you stroppy old cow.’”
Nick looks astonished. I laugh in spite of myself.
“Your mother had a lot more spirit in her than anyone remembers,” Marj says to Nick. “Whatever went wrong, mark my words, it was fated that way. She had an iron streak, from what I saw.” Then she turns to me. “We put you through a wringer of the sort Emma never had to endure. I’d not have blamed you if you had a tantrum in my office. You probably ought to have.”
“I am terrified of Barnes,” I admit.
“That man has a Bunny-A-Day calendar in his desk drawer, and if you ever breathe a word of that, I will make up an outrageous lie about your medical history.” She pauses. “Rebecca, I have no doubt you’re ready, but if you ever need bucking up, I’m here.”
Her eyes are misty. It’s so bittersweet to hear this now, long after it’s needed, and I think the only reason I am not crying is that my peripheral vision is trained on Nick, and the way he is listening, and whether this is changing anything. His face betrays no answers.
Marj collects herself and ushers us toward the terrace doors. Eleanor isn’t coming, preferring to save her grand entrance for tomorrow, which means that tonight Richard is the Head Bastard In Charge—a free preview of a movie that won’t come out for another decade—and he is being very formal about it, right down to making a footman bang a gold-and-black-striped stick on the ground and announce the guests as they enter down the terrace steps. Marj whispers in his ear and he gives the instructed five poundings before booming our arrival. Our smiles snap into place. Nick is much faster at this than I am. He has had a lifetime of practice.
“May I present the guests of honor, His Royal Highness Prince Nicholas of Wales, and his bride, Miss Rebecca Porter,” he booms in a perfect voice for radio. “Who shall tomorrow become Duke and Duchess of Clarence, Earl and Countess of Athlone, and Baron and Baroness of Inverclyde, by the grace of Her Majesty the Queen.”
“It was decided an hour ago,” Nick mutters through his teeth. “Surprise.” He does not sound excited.
Nick and I are separated by well-wishers as soon as we reach the bottom of the stairs. I wish I could appreciate the romance of the garden’s landscaping and soft amber lights, but for the next ninety minutes, I am too busy cycling through every etiquette lesson Barnes and Marj drilled into me. I hold my Champagne in my left hand and sip it openly, leaving my right empty and dry; I do not eat; I ask people with children about their children, and people with dogs abou
t their dogs. I remember that our pageboy’s mother is called Kristen, and our flower girl’s mother is Kirsten. I recognize Gregor of Hanover, whose calling cards dub him a sock baron; the trio of temptresses from Marta’s family in Sweden, all most likely in the binders meant to warn Freddie away; and two of Nick’s toff godparents for whom my notecards had read only, Don’t mention Transylvania (which might be too tempting to resist, if I need to create a diversion later). I introduce Cilla to anyone of whose name I am not certain, forcing them to repeat it when they shake her hand so I can sort through my mental Rolodex and pull out helpful conversational tips—like that the Bulgarian Tsarina owns an original prop from every Harry Potter film, or that the Margrave of Baden prefers not to explain what a Margrave is but that the Landgrave of Hesse will wax for hours on the derivation of Landgrave, so it’s best to avoid both topics.
“Aren’t you exhausted?” Lady Elizabeth asks, as two Comfortably Distant Relatives from Norway wander away in search of more caviar. “All this palaver is why we didn’t have a whole to-do. Well, one of the reasons.”
She rests a hand on her pregnant belly; a third baby is coming in four months’ time. “This one is going to be big,” she groans. “It was a bit soon, really. The Maldives are just such an aphrodisiac. You should see Eddybear in his Speedo.”
I try not to imagine this, and fail, and genially tune out while Lady Elizabeth rhapsodizes about pregnancy sex (by the look on her face, the Thai princess nearby understands more English than she’s let on). Lacey keeps shooting me glances that say, alternately, are you okay, what is up with Nick, and that dude with the tray of lollipop lamb chops never comes over here. It’s a comfort that I can read her mind again, but the catharses we’ve had are not the same thing as fixing what went wrong. I can’t get complacent and forget that we still have so much work to do.
“Listen to me, blathering on about episiotomies when you’ve got a wedding night ahead of you,” Lady Elizabeth says airily, giving me a sideways hug. “We have our whole lives to talk about these things. Go have fun. I need more olives for my orange juice.” She makes a face. “It tastes like Agatha’s hairspray smells, but I can’t get enough right now.”
She sails off and I feel a pang, because if the worst happens I will miss her. I can’t wallow, though, because I have to chat up the King of Bhutan about land reform, and Christiane of Greece about wrestling (she is a lifelong fan of The Rock). Richard, right in my eyeline, pretends not to watch Christiane as she laughs. There is a lovely what-if quality to his face before he thinks to erase it, underlining a long-ago revelation made in the heat of rage. Richard can’t ever reach for what he wants. I hope I still can.
“But it wasn’t de Pluvinel who first used pillars to train his mount,” Agatha says as she walks past me. “There’s clear evidence Eumenes was doing it first.”
“How did I never notice how bloody sexy your horse talk is?” purrs none other than Edgeware Fitzwilliam.
I have never worked harder to keep a neutral expression on my face.
“You’re doing wonderfully,” Marj whispers, suddenly at my shoulder. “Clarence is a good title, too. It was King Albert’s, as a lad. Very historically meaningful.”
She steers me to the foot of the terrace stairs, where Freddie and Nick are waiting in silence. I recognize the look on Nick’s face. Aggressively Pleasant. Bad sign.
“Prince Frederick has asked to give a toast in lieu of your father, and then you and His Royal Highness can sneak out and get some sleep,” she says. “Freddie, if you make any inappropriate jokes about genitals I will neuter you with a toast point, do you hear me?”
“Yes, Your Marjesty.” He salutes her.
“Is this honestly necessary?” Nick hisses, but his brother is already off up the stairs, and we are forced to follow and stand together and wait for Freddie, of all people, to raise a glass to our future. I glue on my smile and search for friendly faces—Cilla, making a delicate gesture to remind me to stand up straight, and Mom, standing next to her wedding date, my aunt Kitty, who arrived in London two hours ago and looks simultaneously jet-legged and wowed. And a few feet away, there’s Pansy Larchmont-Kent-Smythe grilling Gemma Sands about something Gemma clearly finds tiresome, and Bea with Clive and Paddington.
I gasp so loudly that Nick actually turns to me.
“Clive is here,” I tell him through clenched teeth. “Don’t look. Nick. You looked.”
Nick draws himself up to his full height. “That’s a lot of cheek, him coming here.”
“He must not think I’ve told you,” I say slowly. “He probably banked on me not knowing how to get him disinvited, and he’s trying to scare me.”
Clive gives us both a carefree wave as Freddie gets the masses to quiet their chatter. Freddie objectively looks handsome, but his face is drawn. I wonder what he and Nick did all afternoon while I had people meticulously combing my brows and zapping my tearstains.
“Welcome, all, to what promises to be a ripping weekend,” Freddie says. “I shall keep this brisk and save the saucy bits for tomorrow. Gran won’t want to miss the visual aids.”
A titter travels through the crowd.
“As the elder brother, Nick got to do everything before I did,” Freddie says. “Or so he thought. He officially learnt to drive first, but I banged around Balmoral in Father’s car two weeks before Nick’s first lesson. He was allowed to drink at family dinners before I was, but I’d already spent ages stealing the glasses people would set down and then quaffing them under the table. And he thinks he was the first to—wait, hang about, can’t say that one out loud.”
The group chuckles en masse.
“But tomorrow, he really will reach one milestone ahead of me,” Freddie continued. “Not that I’m in any kind of hurry to catch him. I’m having rather too much fun with the, er, bridal interview process.” Freddie is playing the playboy prince to the hilt. Even his bow tie is slightly askew. “But as far as that goes, I’ve been bravely doing the work of two. Because Nick was hit with a bolt of lightning eight years ago and he’s been lost to the ladies of the realm ever since.”
Nick twitches, imperceptible to anyone but me.
“I’ve had a front-row seat for this entire courtship. In fact, remind me to tell you all why Bex punched me the first day we met, although I assure you, I deserved it,” Freddie says. “’Course, you lot hide the Daily Mail behind those copies of the Financial Times, so you know quite a bit’s happened between now and then. But I started writing this speech in my head after that very first bashing—and there have been others, don’t you worry—because I saw then exactly what I’ve seen every single day since, in good times and rough. Together or apart, Bex and Nick have quite simply always belonged to each other.”
The crowd gives an appreciative sigh; there is a smattering of applause. I am in torment.
Freddie clears his throat. “And that’s what everyone’s really looking for, isn’t it? The kind of love that makes clichés ring true. It’s a jackpot that is nearly impossible to hit.” His voice is getting shaky. “So what’s truly special about tomorrow’s milestone is that it’s once-in-a-lifetime stuff. Nick may be useless at the Times cryptic, but that’s just letters on a piece of paper. He already solved the only riddle that counts. He found something I didn’t fully believe existed until I saw it with my own eyes, and I will be forever in his debt for giving me yet another reason to strive for more. To be the man that he is.”
Freddie is now struggling. Beside me, I see a tear snake out of Nick’s eye. I take his hand and we cling to each other so tightly that our knuckles turn white.
“By this time tomorrow, my dear friend Rebecca will be a full-fledged member of The Firm. We will teach her the handshake, and she will be stuck with us,” Freddie says, composing himself. “And thank God, because there is no better person to entrust with the care and keeping of my very best friend, my brother, and our future king. Please raise your glass and drink with me to Nicholas and Rebecca.”
&nb
sp; “To Nicholas and Rebecca!” the crowd echoes, and then there is warm-hearted applause. Freddie and I make eye contact as we each hug him in what I hope is not too stiff a manner. I did my best, Killer, his face seems to say.
“Nick.” I reach for him.
Nick places his hand on the curve of my waist and leans into me. “Not now, Bex,” he whispers. “Just…not now.”
And then Advanced Pleasantness is back, and he’s off to accept a firm handshake from his father—it is damning that, between the two of us, Richard is the more soothing option—and I know that Nick is right. However much time he needs is what I have to give him.
“Wonderfully touching,” beams the Crown Prince of Sweden as I reach the lawn again. “The three of you seem so close.”
Over his shoulder, Clive gives the most epically false look of affection and wiggles his mobile phone at me. I feel the world spin a little.
“Thank you, Your Highness,” I tell him. “In fact, I need to take a private moment. To collect myself.”
I make my way inside the palace and into a cool hallway that is deserted except for footmen with trays of cocktails and platters of appetizers and giant piles of homemade Cracker Jack. I had intended to locate a quiet bathroom, just to be alone, but suddenly I find myself walking down the Marble Hall and past PPOs Stout and Furrow, who are guarding the Ministers’ Staircase, and up through the silent, dimly lit palace, past the public rooms, back toward the private living quarters. I don’t even register exactly where I’m going until I get there.
Emma, clad in a floral silk bathrobe, is in her chambers—cozier than the Queen’s, and neat as a pin—playing solitaire on a folding TV tray. Doctors deemed her too fragile for tonight’s party, but she’s been getting a fair amount of visitors since she arrived from Cornwall on Tuesday. Nick has come every day; so has Pansy Larchmont-Kent-Smythe. Lesley is sitting in a wing chair, working on some knitting, and stands when I open the door.
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