by Rachel Hauck
She smiled, trying not to laugh. “Thank you.”
“Gemma, bring us two pots of tea, one sweet, one bitter, a basket of your freshest, warmest, sourdough rolls, and two steamy bowls of lamb stew.”
When she scooted off, Reggie gaped at Tanner, then snorted behind her hand. “A dancing juggler? For real?”
“There actually was a redheaded dancing juggler on Talent Factor, whom I believe was not a she but a he and his act w as horrid. You can’t make this stuff up, Regina. And he-she was American.”
“And you think I can pass as a horrid he-she juggling act?”
“Oh, and lower your voice a bit when you speak.” He grinned, scratching his throat, the lingering somberness fading from his eyes. “And try for raspy.”
Reggie hammered the table with her fist. “You beat all.” She flicked her gaze at him. “This is payback for making you dress like Sonny, isn’t it?”
“You betcha.” He was so adorable when his confidence rode high.
Voices rose from the bar where a cluster of men wearing the same color jerseys gathered, talking and gesturing at the televisions mounted in the corners and behind the bar. At the tables, several men in work shirts and matching trousers sat with their hands clasped around their beer glasses, eating chips.
She sighed.
“What?”
She peered at Tanner. “Nothing.”
“You sighed.”
“I like this place.” From her coat pocket, Reggie’s phone pinged. She retrieved it and smiled at the name on the screen. “It’s Al. He says ‘Going to miss u @ court 2morrow night.’ ”
She replied.
Just thinkn same thing. @ a pub drinkn hot sweet tea.
“Where did this court thing start again?”
“Al. He dubbed the Friday night gathering my court. When I left the corporate world, my friends wanted to see what I was up to and started coming to the shop Fridays after work. We ordered pizza the first night and next thing I knew, a tradition was born.”
“Maybe Al was seeing something of the future.”
She shook her head. “Ha! I doubt it. Daddy never told him about Gram, or me, being a possible princess.” His inflection and quick gaze awakened unfamiliar flutters in her heart.
Gemma arrived with their tea and basket of bread. “Stew’s a-coming.”
Reggie reached to pour her tea, looking up when the front door opened and a cluster of young-looking professionals entered. Men in suits with their ties loosened. Women with handbags swinging, smoothing their wind-bounced hair. Gathering in the center of the pub, they shoved three tables together, talking all the while, casting the broad shadow of youth over the older, tired-looking workmen.
Tanner filled his cup, taking a long sip. “Everyone comes here. The union blokes, the professionals, mums, dads—”
“Ministers of Culture.”
He scoffed, reaching for a roll. “Yes, even the mighty Minister of Culture. And the Princess of Hessenberg, don’t forget.”
“Why do you do that?” Reggie raised her tea to her lips. Hmm, might need more sugar.
“Do what?” He sat back, defensive, leaving his roll abandoned on his plate.
“Make fun of yourself.”
“I don’t—”
“You do.”
“Haven’t you heard it’s best not to take oneself too seriously?” He reached for his knife and the butter.
“Not taking yourself seriously doesn’t mean you mock yourself.”
His jaw tensed again and he focused on buttering his bread. “Try the bread while it’s hot. It’s fabulous.”
Reggie selected a roll, noticed Clarence and Todd were enjoying the same rolls and a big plate of meat, and watched the front door again as the rugby boys from the park entered, their voices loud, their faces ruddy, their hair sticking out in all directions.
So this was the core of Hessenberg. Her people. Her life and blood.
She’d just taken a bite of bread when Gemma came with the stew. Reggie thanked her with a smile, sensing a change in the room.
The table of workers was staring at her.
“Tanner—”
“What?” He dipped his bread in his stew.
One of the men pointed at her. “I think we’ve been found out. Or that table of men really believes I’m the dancing juggler.”
He jerked around just as the gentleman with the wiry hair got up and came to their booth, dragging a chair behind him.
“You’re her, ain’tcha?” A man in his late sixties, maybe older, with miner’s wrinkles on his brow and coal stains on his fingers, straddled the chair and propped his arms on the back. His hazel eyes demanded the truth. “The heir.”
She didn’t check with Tanner. Just spoke. From her heart. “I am.”
“Well, I’ll be.” His chin quivered as a glossy sheen covered his eyes. “I–I never thought I’d live to see it . . . the heir returned home.”
Reggie offered her hand. “Reggie Beswick.”
The man started to take her hand, but stood instead, giving her a short bow. “Keeton Lombard III, at your service.” When he looked up, tears had gathered under his eyes. “Me own grandpappy was in service to His Majesty, the Grand Duke. Broke his heart the day the duke surrendered Hessenberg to Brighton Kingdom.”
“I’m so sorry. Did he think the prince was a traitor?”
Keeton returned to his seat. “My grandpappy told me he was a good man but a frightened one. They say he couldn’t read so he trusted almost no one.”
Reggie leaned toward him. “I guess it had to be hard. For all.”
“Have you come to restore the kingdom? My grandpappy used to tell me since I was a little lad, oh, about yea high,”—Keeton held his hand at waist level—“look for the kingdom to be restored, Keet, my boy. Pray for it. And, well, here you are.” He wiped his eyes. “As I live and breathe, the answer to my prayers.”
“Keeton, you’ll be wanting to keep this quiet, please,” Tanner said. “We want to give Regina, rather, Her Majesty, time to adjust, get to know the people without a media frenzy.”
“Quiet, lad? Didn’t you see the papers? Catch the talkies? And who, may I ask, are you?”
“Keeton, this is the Minister of Culture. The guy with his backside, legs, and feet flailing out of the car,” Reggie said.
“Ah, that was you? Nice to meet you, Mr. Legs and Feet.” Keeton shook Tanner’s hand with vigor and a laugh before turning to his friends and waving them over. “I was right, lads. It’s who I said. It’s her.”
The remaining gentlemen at Keeton’s table dragged over their chairs, alerting the younger crowd that something was going on. They regarded Reggie’s booth over the rim of their raised pints.
“Your Majesty, it’s a pleasure. I’m Archibald Littleton.” The man bowed with a sweeping arm gesture. Like Keeton, he was in his late sixties, early seventies, with work-hardened hands.
“I’m Carlton Borling.” Another man bowed before straddling his seat and glancing at Regina with both sorrow and wisdom in his eyes. “I’m seventy-eight years old. My grandfather was an earl in 1914. When Germany seized Hessenberg accounts, he lost a good deal of the family fortune, but when the duke signed over the land, he lost his title, his dignity, and his will to live. He was humiliated. Had to find a regular man’s job. Me father had to go to work for the shipping lines as a boy. Never finished his education. First Borling son in three hundred years who didn’t go to university. My brothers and I, along with our sons, work in the mines or out on the oil rigs. What your uncle did . . .”
“See here, now,” Tanner started.
“I’m sorry, Carlton,” Regina said, feeling his words. Feeling the pain of his ancestors.
“How ironic Prince Francis gets his wish—from the grave, mind you—to have his heir show up and restore what he destroyed. For him. But for the rest of us, it’s bully-me-down, blokes.”
“Carlton,”—Keeton tapped the man on the shoulder—“we can’t go blaming the princes
s here for ole Francis’s cowardice. Let’s be thankful he saved us from the Kaiser.” He hammered the back of his chair with a “harrumph.” “Don’t be trusting that mulligan, Seamus Fitzsimmons, Your Majesty. You might just find yourself worse off for your troubles.”
“I do blame her.” Carlton rose from his chair. “Nothing personal, miss, but if you get to inherit your dear ole uncle’s station and position, one he abdicated long ago, then you ought to bear the burdens of his sin. Where’s my inheritance? My fortune? I’m with the governor. Bully to the lot of you. No more royals. We’ve a chance to get free from them.”
Clarence appeared over Tanner’s shoulder and whispered in his ear. Concern marred his expression. “Pardon me.” He walked over to the TV bank with the somber security officer.
Reggie peeked over the old gents’ heads to see the governor’s broad face on every screen.
Tanner returned with a strong stride. Reggie knew they were leaving. And she didn’t even get a bite of her stew.
“Pardon, chaps.” Tanner urged Archibald to scoot aside. “The princess has had a long day.” He drew her into him, his arm protective about her waist, urging her toward the door.
“Tanner, my purse is back there.”
“Todd’s getting it. Clarence went for the SUV. Don’t look at anyone.”
They stepped outside into a frenzy of waiting photographers. “It’s the redheaded dancing juggler!” Cameras flashed and hummed. Voices rose. Bodies pressed against bodies.
“Look over here . . . Are you a woman or a man?”
Tanner pressed his hand to the side of Reggie’s head. “Keep walking.”
“A woman,” she hollered, trying to raise her head.
“Can you juggle for us? Do a dance?”
“Sure.”
“Regina, do not taunt them. Get in the SUV.” Tanner, tense and stiff. She laughed into his chest.
“Whoa now,” a voice boomed from among the photographers, “’tis not the redheaded dancing juggler. It’s the princess.” The photographers pressed in closer, harder, and the air between them evaporated.
Clarence was behind the wheel, firing up the motor.
“It’s the princess.”
“Princess, this way.”
The car was surrounded by photographers pressing their camera lenses against the window, trying for a picture.
“Go, go, go.” Tanner slapped the back of the driver’s seat.
When the SUV broke clear of the photographers, Reggie doubled forward and laughed the entire drive to the palace.
“I’m doing what’s right for Hessenberg, boldly, proudly. My thirty years in public service has honed my understanding of what the citizens of this small but mighty duchy need. I cannot sit idly by and watch our future be dictated by a hundred-year-old entail.”
Seamus turned the page of his speech with a purposeful glance at the reporters standing before him on the steps of Wettin Manor. He timed his press conference for the slow, Thursday-at-five hour, gearing up to make weekend news waves where the hardcore reporters would leak his message.
Soaking the press and the people with his message was the way to go. Convince everyone he was the leader for their future.
By the time the court decided on his sovereign, independent state petition, he’d have enough political backwater flowing that he’d be able to manage all outcomes in his favor.
“Governor—”
Seamus recognized the LibP reporter. “Christopher, yes.”
“It’s rumored you plan to have the princess arrested as an enemy of the state.” A snicker waved through the reporters. “Is that your intention? And on what grounds?”
“On the grounds it’s the law.” He chuckled and plied his charm. “Go home, my boy. Do your homework. Once the entail is signed, or the court grants the people’s petition to be free of an aristocratic monarchy, the constitution and authority canon of 1720 come into order and a royal can be considered an enemy of the state.”
“But did you not just say Hessenberg must move forward, away from our old laws?”
Ignorant troll. Seamus fashioned a serious, concerned expression. “Fine point. Fine point, indeed. Hessenberg must move away from a four-hundred-year-old way of life, you see. A monarchy is an institution of the past.”
“Might we say the same of governorships?”
Blast! Ban Christopher Mullins from future pressers. “The office of the governorship, no, lad. But we allow the people to decide who leads them. The democratic way.”
“Calling the princess an enemy seems a mite extreme, Governor.”
“You speak correctly, Christopher.” Seamus came from around the governor’s podium, hands grasping his jacket lapels. “It is a serious crime. Need we all be reminded of how Prince Francis betrayed his country? Yet now we are considering his heir as our Head of State, a leader among the nations?” He grumbled, shook his head, and moved back behind the podium.
“Shall we let his crime continue? What right has he to demand our land be given back to the House of Augustine-Saxon? None, I say.” He pounded the podium. “We, the people, will determine Hessenberg’s future, not Prince Francis from the grave. Not King Nathaniel II, long may he live, nor Regina Beswick of Tallahassee, Florida.”
Heads bobbed as a rousing “Hear, hear!” rose from the reporters.
Then Deanna Robertson from the Informant fired a question without waiting to be called upon. “If you want the people to decide, then let us meet the princess. Have a go at her.”
“I’m not the one keeping her from you, Deanna. Ring the Minister of Culture’s office.”
Several hands shot up in the air.
“Lord Governor . . .”
“Lord Governor . . .”
Seamus called up a BCC telly reporter. “Jordan Sloan.”
“Who do you see leading us into this new way of life, new form of government?”
“I’m glad you asked. I say with all humility, I consider myself the best and most experienced candidate.”
October 26, 1914
Meadowbluff Palace
Mamá just entered my room tonight by candlelight, grim and grieving. I am to pack my things and prepare to leave, rather flee our beloved Hessenberg. How can this be?
My maid, Priscilla, will not be traveling with us, and I am to take only what I can carry. Mamá’s instructing Esmé the same.
The palace is dark and I was admonished not to turn on my lamp or light a candle.
Uncle has signed over all rights and rule to Cousin Nathaniel. He surrendered to Brighton. I’m so confused. Wasn’t he strong and courageous to make a stand for neutrality? Now we surrender without a shot fired?
I can only imagine what the likes of Rein Friedrich are saying, and Lord Fitzsimmons, walking the gallery in the House of Lords.
“Treason!”
I pray this sin does not fall on me and mine. Help us, dear Father.
I’ve only a few moments, and I’m not sure why I’m writing. But I reached for my journal the moment Mamá left the room.
My hands are trembling. I can barely read my own writing for my tears.
Mamá said to dress warm, in my finest wool, and to wear as many layers as I can along with my winter boots.
The words of Jesus fill my heart. “But pray ye that your flight be not in the winter, neither on the sabbath day.” It is neither winter nor the Sabbath, and I should be thankful. But I am not. I’m frightened. and angry.
Will I see Hessenberg again? What of my friends? My heart . . . we are a disgraced, fallen family.
Uncle just came to my room, admonishing me to hurry. Then he said with no emotion, “The House of Augustine-Saxon has fallen.”
My heart nearly stopped beating. Surely after the war, when all is settled, we can return. I said as much to Uncle.
“It’s over, Ali. We’ve lost.” But he was most grave and so very sad I could not remain angry with him.
“I don’t understand.”
“No, I suspect you wou
ld not. I’m not sure I understand it all myself.”
“Why can we not stay? Why must we flee?”
“I’ve abdicated the throne, Alice. The earls and lords will come for us tonight. If caught, I’ll be tried. Most likely hanged. We might all be hanged.”
Then as if some punctuation to Uncle’s declaration, the windows rattled as a cannon fired. Sovereign Lord, be near us.
“Will we ever be able to return?” I didn’t bother to hide my tears.
“At the end of the entail.”
“When will that be?”
“Long after you and I are gone.”
“Then how can we return? What are the conditions of the entail?” I felt in that moment we were not uncle and niece, but peers sharing a common burden.
“One hundred years.”
“One hundred years!” I could not help but gasp. “None of us will be left. How can we return home?”
“Find your courage, Alice. The future of Hessenberg and the restoration of the House of Augustine-Saxon are within you and your children.” He handed me an envelope. “Keep this in a safe place.”
“What for? What is it?”
“For Hessenberg.” I peered inside the envelope. “Bonds? Uncle, what good are bonds when I am leaving, being forced out? By you, I daresay.”
“They will pay out, love. Trust me.” Then he seemed to lose all breath and strength as he turned to go, leaving me there with my mouth gaping. “Pack. Be ready to go.”
Pack. That’s exactly what I plan to do. Pack for my eventual return to Hessenberg. Yes, I will return. One way or another.
Alice
TWENTY
On Sunday afternoon, the clock on Tanner’s wall seemed to tick-tock louder and louder by the moment.
One-o-one. One-o-two. One-o-three.
He closed the book he was reading and turned on the telly. He was tired. Wanting to relax.
He’d spent Friday and Saturday touring Regina about the countryside, seeing the landscape through her eyes, and his love for Hessenberg’s rocky shores and high-peaked mountains deepened.
Saturday evening, they dined up by the north bay, at a hundred-and-fifty-year-old pub, Wettin Whistle, named after Wettin Manor.