by Rachel Hauck
There are certain expectations of future kings. I’m bound, you see, by law …
At Nathaniel’s back, thunder rumbled over the Atlantic. He could hear the southern Atlantic waves roaring toward the beach. And four thousand miles away, North Sea waves crashed against Brighton’s shores, and it seemed like a different time and place.
He’d been disturbed all afternoon with the notion of returning home. As he tuned into the waves and thunder, he sensed a nagging urgency.
Up on Mickey’s stage, Susanna’s Uncle Hudson gathered his band to tune up, a fun but dissonant blend of a banjo, guitar, and fiddle.
He stepped up to the mic with a toothpick protruding from the side of his lips. “Let’s make some music.” Tapping his toe, he counted off—a one, two, three, four—and plucked a lively tune.
He sang about love and life with a nasal whine, his fingers flowing over the banjo strings. The guitar player found a sweet harmony, and a fourth man jumped up to clank a set of spoons against his thigh.
Susanna’s grandparents two-stepped around the deck.
Nathaniel exhaled and reached to wrap Susanna in his arms when he pulled up short, realizing what he was doing. This place made him completely forget himself. Something he’d not done in a very long time. If ever.
He loved being part of the family, from the inside looking out, eating barbecue on Sunday nights, wearing shorts and flip-flops. He was in his first year of university before he’d dined without dressing. Jacket and tie.
A banjo player had never played at an evening meal. Spoons were used exclusively for sipping soup and digging out pudding. And the employees—the servants—never scooted up to the same table as the family.
But if he changed the course of his life, moved to St. Simons Island, home would never be the same. He’d be denying Dad and Mum, his grandparents, all he knew about life and himself. He’d be denying his destiny.
He cut a side glance at Susanna. How could he walk away from her, though? She’d challenged him, made him look at his life differently.
Two more men arrived with instrument cases and joined Uncle Hudson’s banjo with an upright bass and a mandolin. With the full band going, cousin Silas dragged Susanna onto the dance floor, spinning her around to the music. She tipped her head back with a pitch-perfect yelp, her hair cascading over her shoulders like a sun-kissed waterfall.
Oh, Susanna.
When she forgot herself, Susanna was most beautiful. Because she laughed freely, spoke openly. Far too often she treaded with caution, peering at life with timidity. Afraid to let go.
Beneath his Oxford shirt, Nathaniel’s heart thudded with love. Impossible love. If he chose her, he’d have to deny every other thing about himself. A larger and more daunting consequence than most sons who were poised to take over the family enterprise.
But if he chose his destiny, he denied himself of her. What an unbearable choice. The song ended, and Silas delivered Susanna back to the table, turning her around one last time so she dropped into Nathaniel’s arms.
This time he didn’t resist her. She fell against his chest, along with the perfume of fresh flowers, and he cradled her there, unwilling to let her go.
He’d come to Georgia with all his walls in place, but the blond American with wisdom in her soul hurdled over his barriers and caught him completely unaware.
Blast it all. Jon was right. He had to tell her. Tonight. If not tonight, soon. Very soon.
“Nate?” Glo put her plate down, wiped her hands on her napkin, and sashayed toward him. “Did you get enough to eat?” She pressed her hands on his shoulders. “How’s my favorite dishwasher? The prince of suds.”
Susanna glanced back, her eyes twinkling, then slipped away from him, gathering her hair off her neck.
“Ask her to dance, Nate.” Avery dropped to the bench next to Susanna and squeezed into her so she fell against Nathaniel. “It’s a rainy, romantic night.” She leaned around him. “Play something slow, Uncle Hud.”
“Aves, come on.” Susanna shoved her back. “Ever hear of personal space?”
But the music started. A slow, gentle sound that matched the rain. “Susanna.” Nathaniel offered her his hand. This might be his one and only chance. “Would you care to dance?”
When she took his hand, he turned her into him and lightly pressed his hand to her back. She fit with him, swaying easily to his steps.
“Having fun?” she asked, her chin resting on his shoulder.
“More than the prince of suds deserves.”
She laughed. “I nearly spit when Mama said that.”
“Does she know?”
“I’ve not said a word. Are you kidding? Mama would be the one sending pictures to the Liberty Press. ‘Look at my daughter, y’all, friends with a prince.’”
“You are beautiful, Susanna.” Nathaniel leaned down to see her face, tracing his finger over her warm check, sweeping aside wild strands of her hair caught in the breeze. His confession settled in her eyes just before she tucked her cheek against his shoulder. Nathaniel sighed and let the song take over.
When she exhaled against him, his heart trumpeted. Tell her. Any more of these intimate moments and Nathaniel would be completely defrauding her.
“M–might I talk with you in private?”
She studied his face. “Sure.” She motioned toward the beach. “The rain’s stopped. Want to walk?”
He took her hand and led her down the wet, glistening steps.
“You seem serious.” Susanna bumped into him as they walked the soggy path to the beach, their faces set against the thick, salty air.
“Ah, no, love, I’m enjoying myself. Very much.”
“Me too.” She brushed her palm against an overgrown palmetto. Dew splashed on his hot skin.
When they hit the beach, Nathaniel released her hand. How did one tell a girl he could never love her?
“Susanna.” He slowed with a glance back at the dancing, twinkling Rib Shack deck. “These two weeks … have been amazing for me.”
“Me too. You really did rescue me. I’m not sure what I would’ve done without you. I’m not talking about flat tires and rides to the hospital either.”
“Right, right …” He brushed his hands along the side seam of his shorts. “I–I want to talk to you … about something.” Rubbish, how did he confess the constraints of his royal position without sounding like a royal prig? Straight up, but with kindness. “Susanna, there’s a Brighton law … one for the many but that affects only a few.”
She started down the beach, into the wind. “You do sound serious.”
“More sad than serious.” He fell in step with her.
“Okay, something has you all knotted up.” She turned around, walked backward in front of him. “Out with it, Nate.”
“You see, this law … it’s been around for over two hundred years. It’s to protect the monarchy, the people, though I tell you I think its true design is to harm the one in love.”
“Love? What are you talking about? Don’t make me look it up on the internet.”
“Please, do. Then I don’t have to tell you.”
“Tell me what?” She faced forward again, faced the dew in the air.
“The Brighton Marriage Act of 1792.” He came back to where she stood. “A royal in line to the throne cannot marry a foreigner. Royal spouses must be Brighton born and bred. Preferably of nobility. But commoners are welcome.”
“What?” Her shrill response punctured the night. His barbecue dinner soured in his belly. “You brought me out here to tell me you can’t marry me?”
“It’s the law, Susanna. A two-hundred-year-old law.”
“What in the world does it have to do with me?” She walked off, her long strides quickly taking her into the night shadows.
He saw this going entirely differently. “The Crown, you see, along with the Parliament enacted a law that restricted royals in line for the throne from marrying into the royal houses of Europe after a crown prince married the
niece of King Louis XVI. She used her influence to send Brighton’s army to help her uncle in the French Revolution and nearly destroyed our military.”
His rushed words fell like stones to the sand. Nathaniel filled his lungs with the moist, saline air. He’d done his duty. Confessed. But it was no good for his soul.
He walked beside her, waiting. She said nothing.
“Susanna?”
“Shhh, I’m trying to take this all in. You dragged me out to the beach to tell me you couldn’t marry me.”
“Yes.”
“Did I miss something? When did we ever talk about marriage?”
“I wanted to be honest.”
“You’ve not wooed me or kissed me. I don’t recall any confessions of love, a sure-fire requirement for marriage. You’ve flirted a little and maybe I flirted back, but I do not remember any talk of marriage.”
“I guess I rather cut to the chase.”
“Forget the chase, you started at the finish line.” He let her rail because he deserved it. “So you confess to me something that’s not even an issue? Are you trying to hurt me? Humiliate me?”
“Blast it, no. I thought my affection for you had become quite obvious. Since hiding my true identity didn’t sit well with you, I decided I’d confess my romantic restrictions.” Blast Jon, urging him to tell her the whole truth. What did he know?
“Romantic restrictions?”
“For lack of a better phrase, yes.”
“Nate, meeting you has been the highlight of my summer. I needed you. And I think you might have needed me. But what’s hitting me in the gut right now is that two weeks ago, on this very beach, the man I thought I was going to marry dumped me. Now, tonight, the man I had no intention of marrying also dumps me.” She started down the beach. In the opposite direction. Just as the rain began again. “Perfect.” She tipped her face to the heavens, arms wide.
“Susanna, what would you have me do. Not tell you?” Nathaniel ran after her, struggling for solid footing in the wet sand. “Let things go on, then just leave you without a word, have you read in the news I’m engaged to some other woman?”
“Nate, brother, you got yourself all knotted up here for nothing.” Rain collected in the contours of her face and dripped from her chin. “It’s going to snow on St. Simons before I fall in love again.” She cupped her hands around her mouth. “Hear that, Lord? Snow. Send snow when it’s time to fall in love, okay?” She peered at Nate, and he could see her glistening eyes in the refracted light from the Rib Shack deck. “So, see, Nate, you’re off the hook. No snow. No love. It hasn’t snowed in this part of Georgia for … well, almost a hundred years.” She darted up the beach toward the Rib Shack, where the music made its way through the pines and palmettos.
“Susanna, wait. Please.” He scooted around in front of her, running backward. “Were I not heir to the throne, I’d be saying different things to you right now. My feelings for you had to show, and I wanted you to understand why I could not pursue you.” He reached for her, drawing her to a stop.
But she stared straight ahead, the rain soaking her hair, her skin, her clothes.
“Susanna?”
In the shadows, he couldn’t see her face or read her expression. Then a fast swat on his arm started him. “You’re such a dork. Don’t ever do that to me again.”
“I’m a dork, yes. His Royal Highness, Prince Dork. And I’ll never do that again. Ever.” Relief flooded every hollow part of him.
“Thank you for telling me, but I expected you to go home and live your life. I never once imagined I’d be a part of it.”
“Never once?” Her confession stung a bit more than he might have imagined. But she was wiser than her years.
“I’m getting soaked. Better get to the deck. It’s really starting to come down now.”
Together they dashed for the Rib Shack, Susanna on her side of the path, Nathaniel on his.
They were nearly to the music and the lights when his phone went off. Jonathan.
“Hello, lad—”
“Nathaniel, it’s your father.” The music faded. The lights dimmed. And his heart felt cold with the rain.
“Nate?” Susanna said when he ended the call.
“I’ve got to go, Susanna.” He chose the path around the deck to the car park and the SUV. “That was Jon. My father has died.”
Part Two
The Problem
FOURTEEN
December, St. Simons Island
I understand.” Susanna held the phone beneath her chin so her discouraged exhale didn’t echo in the man’s ear. “I appreciate your time, Mr. Flynn. It was an honor to present you with a proposal.”
She hung up and tossed her phone to her desk as she rocked back in the rickety old chair, pressing her hands over her eyes and resisting the urge to scream.
But when she couldn’t contain her frustration any longer, she let loose a rebel yell and fired out of her chair, banging her shin against the side of the desk. Of course. How symbolic. Now she really wanted to scream. She hobbled to her office door and stepped out onto the fire escape.
“What in blazes is going on?”
The sun barely acknowledged her with a fast wink between two drifting clouds across a lofty blue perch. How was she ever going to get her life going if nothing ever came together?
She returned to the closet-sized office she rented from a group of lawyers, a square hovel that had once been an outside servants’ entrance on the top floor of a refurbished antebellum. The room had one window—the narrow transom above the door.
Her drafting table and one small bookshelf barely fit in the ten-by-ten space. Using the bathroom required a trek down the fire escape, through the kitchen, past the senior lawyer’s office, and down a long tiled hallway. Her heels resounded the entire trip, announcing her destination.
Susanna’s on her way to the bathroom.
Susanna’s on her way to the bathroom.
It was embarrassing. Worse, she paid eight hundred dollars a month for this box, which served as a boiler room in August and September and now was a freezer in December. How could a third-floor room on a Georgia island get so cold?
She wore a coat all day except between noon and two when the transom managed to capture the tail end of the sun and warm the place up.
Susanna turned her portable heater on and stretched her cold hands toward the first blast of heat. The initials days of December settled on St. Simons Island with a frost that refused to let go. But there were no snow predictions in the forecast. Thank goodness.
Yet the chill in the air congealed with the chill in her heart. Five months after Nate had left, she missed him. Her heart craved his warmth, his friendship, his presence.
She’d finished his garden. A framed and matted image of it hung on her wall. Sometimes on the slow afternoons when even her email didn’t talk to her, she stared at her rendering of “A King’s Garden” and mentally added two lovers to the garden bench.
Oh, Nate, how did you get under my skin?
He’d paid her in full, up front, and sent a bonus when the job was complete. It was the sum of two gardens, but when she tried to return the money, Jonathan refused to give her a wire transfer number.
The money afforded her this grand, opulent office (ha!) and new computer, but not one job had come her way since. She made ends meet by getting her hands dirty—working at the Rib Shack and taking on small landscaping jobs that required little to no technical design.
Yet the worst part of her life wasn’t her career. It was missing him. Not Adam, the man she’d planned to marry, but Nate, the man she never planned to marry. Nor ever could.
After he left, she did her own research on the Brighton Marriage Act of 1792. Sure enough, the boy was telling the truth. No foreigners were allowed to marry into the line of the throne.
She fell against her desk. “God, I’ve got nothing. Nothing.” A rush of tears came quickly, and she did nothing to stop them.
The depth of her nothing
ness even followed her as she went house hunting. Susanna had yet to find a new place. Aunt Rue had arrived in October as promised, graciously letting Susanna bunk with her for two months. But by the amount of Christmas baking and decorating Rue was doing, Susanna knew she’d need every inch of the cottage to quarter her holiday guests.
“I’ve got nothing.” She eased down to the floor. All her plans had failed. “I–I’m one hundred percent available to you.” She reconfirmed the offering she’d made to God that day on the Christ Church lawn with Nate. “W–who do you have like me? No husband or children, no career, no one needing or expecting me. Well, Mama, to run the back of the house, but shoot, she’s got Catfish and Bristol to take my place. Gladly.”
Susanna was, frankly, a girl who could go anywhere and do anything the Lord needed.
“Jesus, I have to believe you are so good, whatever you have me do, I’ll love it.” Susanna clung to the rise of peace that came with her surrender. “I have to believe …”
She drank of the peace, then hopped up and danced a little jig as she shimmied over to turn on the radio.
Powering it up to a Christmas station, she danced across the office, about to belt out “Hark the Herald,” when Gage darkened her doorway.
“What are you doing here?” Wasn’t this embarrassing? She cleared her throat and glanced at her desk, reaching for the mouse to minimize her Euchre game. She was losing anyway. Big surprise.
“Not having as much fun as you.” He grinned and came the rest of the way into the office.
“You should know better than to sneak up on people.” She sat at her desk, though she’d rather keep dancing. “What do you want?”
Gage had been after her for the last few months to work for him again. She’d resisted. Dread crept over her heart, mocking her joy. Was this God’s answer to her surrender? Go to work for Gage? Lord, wait now …
“I just came by to let you know you’re off the hook.” He tipped his head to emphasize his point, then reached for the Super Ball she kept on top of her empty pencil canister. He bounced it against the dry, uneven hardwood.