by Nell Stark
“I can’t exactly see them putting up much of a fight, Father.” A sudden wave of fatigue washed over her, but she forced herself to attempt a smile. “They might even declare an international holiday.”
Again, he was silent. Sasha could practically see the gears spinning inside his powerful brain, churning out questions from every angle. If she renounced her claim on the throne, she would fall outside of his jurisdiction. Did he want to allow that to happen? But even more importantly, what did the British public want? Would they be relieved or upset? Would pruning this particular branch from the royal tree be a move toward undercutting the monarchy, or strengthening it? Always the intellectual, her father would want to examine this idea from all sides.
“I can’t make a decision of this magnitude so quickly,” he said, settling back into his chair. “I need at least a few days to consider the implications.”
“And consult with your advisors. I understand.” Sasha had expected he would say as much, but she wasn’t about to let him table the matter indefinitely. Straightening her spine, she played what she hoped would be her trump card. “My advice is that you not wait too long. I’ve scheduled a press conference for Friday, where I will inform the media of my intentions and release this document to them.”
His cheeks grew mottled, anger and surprise warring on his face as he sat momentarily speechless. Wanting to have the final word, she turned to leave. “I’ll see you at hospital, Father.”
As the door closed behind her, she listened for his hurried footsteps across the floor, certain he would pursue her once he had gotten over his shock. But the only sounds in the anteroom were the rhythmic tocks of the grandfather clock and the quiet patter of her father’s secretary’s fingers flying across the keyboard. Perhaps the King was rethinking his objections.
Sasha exhaled slowly and walked toward the elevator, Ian trailing behind. The exhilaration was somehow more hollow than she had anticipated. She had announced her intentions, and she’d managed, for the most part, to remain poised and articulate. But she had also hurt him through her request. That much had been plain, and the guilt weighed on her. This was a deeper wound than the ones inflicted by her frequent jabs.
Then again, wasn’t she always hurting him? Didn’t her very existence cause him pain? She couldn’t be what he wanted. Wouldn’t it be better for everyone if she renounced her birthright? Lizzie was intelligent, gracious, and beautiful. She was also unequivocally straight. She would do much better in the spotlight than her dyslexic, hot-tempered, queer older sister. Surely, she would be able to recognize that herself.
Chapter Twenty-one
Sasha found Lizzie at Arthur’s bedside, reading. As she crossed the threshold, Lizzie glanced up and her face brightened. She looked so much like their mother, especially when she smiled, and Sasha felt the familiar pang of longing all the more acutely for being in the hospital.
“How is he?” she asked as she took the spare seat and focused on the pale, still form of her brother.
“No change.” Lizzie patted the cover of her thick book. “I
read aloud to him for a little while. I just…I want him to know we’re here.”
Sasha’s heart twinged again at the memory of Kerry reading out loud to her on that morning after her disastrous speech. That had been such a watershed moment for them. “I’m sure he does,” she said, despite not having any such certainty. “What book?”
“Ulysses. For my literature course.”
“Are you reading any T.S. Eliot?”
Lizzie seemed rather surprised to be discussing literature. “We just did. What made you think of him?”
“Kerry introduced me to his work.” She hadn’t told Lizzie much about Kerry. It had seemed selfish to prattle on about her with their brother in the hospital.
“Really.” Lizzie’s eyes narrowed. “Since when do you read modernist poetry with your flings?”
“I don’t.” Sasha took a deep breath. “She isn’t a fling.”
“You care for her?”
“Very much.”
Lizzie immediately pulled her into a hug. “I know it’s been difficult this past week, but I’m very happy for you, Sash.”
That simple act of kindness made tears well up in Sasha’s eyes. If only the rest of the world could be so accepting. She held the embrace for a long moment, gathering her strength for the question she was about to ask.
“I want to be with her. Openly.”
Lizzie’s expression was somber. “That won’t be easy, but you have my support. Of course.”
“I might need something even more than that. I’m intending to renounce my position in the succession.”
Lizzie pulled back, looked thunderstruck.
“This isn’t only about Kerry. No one thinks I’m fit to rule, including me. I don’t want to be the wayward princess anymore.” She searched Lizzie’s eyes, hoping to find understanding. “I just want to be myself.”
“Have you told Father?”
“I just did. And then I needed to tell you. Because this could change your position in a radical way.” She glanced back at Arthur.
“I understand.” Lizzie reached for his hand, and for a while, they sat in silence. Finally, she turned back to Sasha. “It must be so strange, mustn’t it? To be the heir? It’s something I’ve never even considered. Most people probably wouldn’t believe that.”
“I know exactly what you mean.” Sasha squeezed her shoulder. “Arthur carried that burden for all of us, and we didn’t even realize it. Until—”
“Sasha!” Lizzie suddenly gripped her arm hard, nails digging into her skin beneath the fabric of her sweater. “His left hand. I swear it moved.”
“What?”
She leaned forward, focusing every ounce of her attention on Arthur’s hand. The ventilator whooshed. The heart monitor beeped. Sasha frowned. Was the interval decreasing? Had his heart rate sped up, just a little? She could hear her own blood roaring in her ears. Beside her, Lizzie’s breaths came fast and shallow.
And then she saw it—the faintest twitch of his index finger.
“There!”
“I saw!” Sasha stood, but too quickly. Vertigo washed over her, and she grabbed for the back of her chair. “We have to call the—”
“Arthur,” Lizzie breathed. “Oh Arthur, thank God…”
When Sasha’s vision snapped back into focus, she gasped. Lizzie was leaning forward, holding the hand that had moved, staring into the open eyes of their brother as tears of relief trickled down her cheeks.
*
The remainder of the day passed in a blur. The doctors had needed to run a battery of tests that had taken several hours, leaving Sasha and Lizzie to repeat their story over and over as other family members arrived. Once the tests were complete, they had been allowed to see Arthur only briefly. He had recognized each of them, but then almost immediately lapsed into confusion about why he was at the hospital, why he was in London rather than Scotland, and what day of the month it was. Despite having been prepared by the doctors, Sasha couldn’t help but be jarred by his obvious disorientation. Dr. Herren had indicated that it might take weeks, or perhaps even longer, for his brain to fully recover.
That somber note notwithstanding, she felt as though a massive burden had been lifted from her shoulders. Lizzie had decided to return to Cambridge to begin catching up on the work she had missed, and so Sasha found herself having an impromptu celebration with Ashleigh at Clarence House over an insanely expensive bottle of wine and a very fine steak. After toasting Arthur’s health several times, Sasha found herself quickly headed toward tipsiness. Judging from the glaze over Ashleigh’s eyes, she wasn’t alone.
“Did you decide what to do about Kerry?” Ashleigh asked suddenly, glass poised to her lips.
“No. I wish I could see her. That she could be here with us, celebrating.”
“Why don’t you phone her?”
The rush of adrenaline that greeted Ashleigh’s advice was somewhat sobering. �
�Now?”
“There’s no time like the present,” Ashleigh said, beginning to rise. “I can finish this in the sitting room.”
“Don’t be silly. Stay. I might need you.”
Heart pounding in her ears, Sasha scrolled down to select Kerry’s number. She smiled at the accompanying photograph, which she had snapped during one of their breaks for water on the climb up Torc Mountain. Kerry was sitting on a large rock, hair tousled by the wind, grinning broadly. She seemed so happy.
“You certainly have the look of someone in love,” Ashleigh said, curiosity compelling her to get up and stand behind Sasha. “And so does she.”
“Let’s hope she hasn’t changed her mind.”
But instead of ringing, the call was answered by an electronic voice that announced the number had been disconnected. Her first, panicked thought was that Kerry was trying to cut her out entirely.
“Don’t look so stricken,” Ashleigh said, squeezing her shoulders. “Likely, the American media got her number and pestered her to the point of purchasing a new phone.”
Sasha exhaled slowly. That was a logical explanation. “I’m sure you’re right.”
“Regardless, perhaps it’s time to make a grand gesture.”
“A grand gesture.” Sasha thought back to the wish she had verbalized this morning. Now that Arthur was awake, did she dare defy her father and go haring off across the ocean to make things right with Kerry? Did she dare return with Kerry at her side, in plain view of the paparazzi? Or, to put it differently: did she dare to do nothing and be plagued forever by doubt?
“You’re right,” she said, picking up her phone again. “I do believe it’s time to take a hop across the Pond.”
When Ashleigh left an hour later, Sasha took the opportunity to call Ian inside her apartment. As much as she wanted to act like the ordinary woman she would soon become, she couldn’t simply book a flight and take the Tube to the airport. His presence at her side would be necessary, and she hoped he was willing. Once she sat down at the table in her kitchen, he followed suit.
“Tomorrow morning, we’ll be going to Heathrow. I’ve already made the arrangements.”
His expression never changed. “Will we be flying to New York, ma’am?”
“Yes.” She stared at him intently. “I won’t have to contend with you trying to stop me, will I?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Your superiors might take exception to your permissiveness. Are you willing to risk dismissal?”
“I am.” His voice, as always, was calm.
“Thank you.” Quite unexpectedly, Sasha found herself on the verge of tears. “Your loyalty and dedication are inspiring. Should you be dismissed, I promise to hire you back once I am a private citizen. So long, of course, as you are willing.”
For a few seconds, Ian was silent. “May I speak plainly, ma’am?”
It was the first time he had made such a request. “Always.”
“I am willing. But forgive me when I tell you that I hope you’re able to avoid relinquishing your claim to the throne.”
“You do? Why?”
“The succession needs you.”
“It needs me? A barely literate playgirl who cares more for her nightclubs than for her charity work?”
“That is a front, Your Royal Highness. The succession needs you to be who you really are.” His gaze flickered to the doorway behind her. “If I may be excused, I will call for a replacement in order to make preparations.”
“Of course.”
His words echoed in her brain as she watched him go. Each person she had told about her plan had urged her not to go through with it. Was that simply because they were close to her, and could see what the general public did not? Were they deluding themselves? Did the institution of the monarchy truly need her to be open and honest, as well as a princess?
Or would it crumble under the weight of the truth?
Chapter Twenty-two
Sasha spent most of the seven-hour flight to New York City tossing and turning in her roomy, first class seat. All around her, passengers slept or watched their in-flight films, but she couldn’t escape the doubts that plagued her every thought. She had treated Kerry so poorly in those final weeks of their relationship. What if, upon reflection, Kerry wanted nothing to do with her anymore? What if she didn’t believe that Sasha would welcome the opportunity to free herself from the shackles of her birthright? What if she wasn’t willing to stand in the spotlight beside her and bear the inquisition of the press? What if Sasha couldn’t successfully engineer Kerry’s reinstatement as a Rhodes scholar?
When those questions sent her spiraling into a panic thirty thousand feet above the Atlantic, Sasha forced herself to think of happier things. Assuming that everything went according to plan, they could embark on a shared private life shortly after returning to the United Kingdom. Sasha’s personal inheritance was sizeable and would allow them to live quite comfortably, though in a manner worlds apart from the palaces in which she had grown up. That didn’t bother her one bit. They could pick out a small flat in Oxford to rent, and she could run her party-planning company from there, traveling to London as necessary. During holidays, they could visit the architectural marvels of Western Europe, or lie out on the pristine beaches of Mustique, or go on safari in South Africa.
Of course, it wouldn’t be perfect. The media would still hound them, even when Sasha was no longer in line for the throne. But after a while, she had to imagine, their interest would die down. Most importantly, she and Kerry would be able to be together, without royal imperatives or traditions getting in the way.
But by the time the jet touched down at JFK Airport, her anxiety had returned. Once she and Ian were firmly ensconced in one of those quintessential yellow cabs, she could barely sit still and tried to distract herself by gazing out the window. Kerry’s hometown of Pearl River was twenty miles north of the metropolis, just off the Hudson River. Once they were out of the city, the countryside rapidly became pastoral. A few orange and yellow leaves still clung stubbornly to some trees, and Sasha could imagine how beautiful the drive would have been just a few weeks earlier.
The taxi driver had looked at her incredulously when she had informed him of their destination, but after she paid half his quoted fare up front and promised a generous tip, he’d been more than happy to oblige. She had found Declan Donovan’s address quite easily online and managed to direct the cabbie there thanks to the map in her smart phone. Situated two miles outside of the town center, his house was situated just off a country road, in the shelter of a small copse of trees. The taxi turned into the driveway and pulled up next to a pickup truck with “Donovan & Sons Roofing Corp” stenciled on its door. Just the sight of Kerry’s last name made Sasha smile, and she shook her head slightly as she carefully counted out the foreign money. If only the rest of her family could see her now.
“Would you mind waiting, please?” she asked.
“Sure, sure,” the cabbie muttered as he counted the large stack of bills.
Ian opened her door and she stepped out onto the asphalt. She had agonized over her wardrobe before finally settling on a monochromatic look: black cashmere leggings, turtleneck, and cardigan, all by Donna Karan. Jimmy Choo pumps completed the outfit. She had a very stylish parka packed in her bags as well, but the day was mild enough that she didn’t need it.
Sasha was not laboring under any misapprehensions. It would be her words and actions, not her appearance, that would matter most to Kerry. But fashion was her armor, and today she needed to feel strong.
“Your Royal Highness,” Ian said as he walked beside her toward the front door. It was painted a deep red, and an autumnal wreath hung below the knocker. “Forgive me if I’m overstepping my bounds, but I just want you to know that I admire your courage.”
Sasha smiled tightly but kept her eyes on the door. “I haven’t done anything truly courageous just yet, Ian. Let’s put your vote of confidence to the test.”
Despi
te the flutter of nerves in her throat, she pressed the doorbell firmly. And waited. No sounds or movement came from within. Was no one home, despite the vehicle in the front?
“Are you from the press?”
Sasha let out a small shriek at the unexpected voice. To her right, a man stood near the corner of the house, a tool belt hanging from his waist and his curly red hair matted with sweat. Even through her surprise, Sasha could see the family resemblance immediately.
“We most certainly are not.” Ian sounded affronted. “May I present to you Her Royal Highness the Princess—”
“You must be Declan.” Sasha cut him off. “Hello. I’m Sasha.”
Declan’s mouth opened soundlessly, then closed. He looked at his feet, cleared his throat, and then managed to meet her eyes. His face was flaming in clear embarrassment. “M-my apologies, Your Majesty.”
“It’s just ‘Sasha.’ Really.” She extended her hand as she walked toward him. “And it’s a pleasure to meet you. Is Kerry here?”
“She’s working on the barn.” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the back garden. The distant sound of hammering punctuated his words.
“I’d like to speak with her, if I may.”
“Of course.” He couldn’t seem to stop nodding his head. “It’s just around the corner. You can’t miss it.”
Sasha nodded, suddenly frozen to the spot. Her heart throbbed beneath her rib cage, and she licked her lips in a vain effort to restore some moisture to her mouth. She had raced here from across the ocean, and now she couldn’t make herself move? Her brain swirled in panic, the speech she had mentally composed in a shambles. She needed to pull herself together.
“Would you mind if I use your facilities, first?”
“Of course not. Please come in.”
Sasha trailed Declan inside, praying for eloquence.
*
Kerry glanced over toward the front of the house, wondering about the fate of whatever member of the press corps had been foolish enough to drive up to Declan’s front door in a city cab. After so much intrusion over the past week, he was not in a generous mood and had insisted on kicking them out himself while Kerry stayed safely on top of the barn roof.