Majesty

by Katharine McGee

  They kept on talking like that, trading bits of gossip and reminiscing about past adventures, until they were nearly finished with their entrées. Finally Jefferson looked down, pressing his fork into his scalloped potatoes.

  “You’ve probably noticed that Ethan hasn’t been around a lot lately,” he said hesitantly.

  Daphne knew what he wanted to tell her, and why he felt so reluctant. It wasn’t normal to complain about one ex-girlfriend to another.

  But she had long ago given Jefferson the right to tell her anything. It was how she kept her hold on him—a hold that cost her, at times, but it was worth it to have his trust. There weren’t many people Jefferson could confide in. That was just part of being a prince.

  “I assumed he was busy at college,” she replied. “Why? Did something happen?”

  There was a long silence, and then: “He’s dating Nina.”

  “Nina, your ex?” Daphne demanded, with admirable disbelief. “Since when?”

  “I don’t know. Since the party Sam and I threw, at least.”

  Daphne edged her chair closer, her perfect features creased in concern. “Did Ethan tell you?”

  “That’s the thing—he wasn’t going to tell me at all! I found out from a reporter. Then, when I confronted Nina about it, she admitted that it was true.”

  “A reporter? How did she even get ahold of you?” Daphne bit her tongue at that; she wasn’t supposed to know that the reporter had been a woman.

  Jefferson, not noticing the slipup, merely shrugged. “All I know is that she called, asking if I wanted to comment on the fact that my ex-girlfriend had moved on to my best friend. For a second I thought she meant you,” he added, “but you would never do anything like that.”

  There was a slight catch in Daphne’s voice as she replied, “Of course not.”

  The soft noises of the restaurant flowed around them, low conversations and the clinking of silverware. Daphne saw the other guests stealing glances at her and Jefferson, their eyes bright with curiosity or unadulterated envy.

  Like always, the attention was exhilarating. It snapped through her veins like a drug.

  “Daph, this isn’t about Nina,” Jefferson said haltingly. “But Ethan has been my best friend since kindergarten. We were in the same peewee baseball league, the same summer camps, the same everything. The minute we both had our licenses, we drove all the way down to New Orleans—my parents were so upset with me—taking turns at the wheel, even though my Guard was in the car, just because we could. We got drunk for the first time together, that night we accidentally had all that port and ended up puking our guts out. God, we almost got tattoos together, except Ethan talked me out of it at the last minute.”

  Daphne felt a momentary pang of regret as she realized the full extent of the damage she’d caused. She forced herself not to think about it. I’ll fix it later, she promised herself, once I can afford to.

  “Ethan probably thought he was doing the right thing, keeping it under wraps,” she offered, but Jefferson shook his head with surprising vehemence.

  “I deserved to hear about this from him, instead of being blindsided by a stranger.” The prince met her gaze, his eyes brimming with confusion and regret. “Anyway, what I’m trying to say is, this has all got me thinking.”

  Here it was, right on cue, Daphne thought. Now that Jefferson had lost Ethan, he felt alone—like he had no one else but her.

  He had wanted her before, but now he needed her. And need was always stronger than desire.

  “I owe you an apology,” he went on clumsily; apologies weren’t something he had to do very often. “You’ve always been there for me. Even when we weren’t dating, you were still on my side—god, you took Nina dress shopping, just because you saw she was overwhelmed by it.”

  “It was nothing,” Daphne demurred. That was when she’d canceled Nina’s dress order so she would have nothing to wear to Beatrice’s engagement party.

  “And I know you’ve been helping Sam lately, teaching her how to handle the media. You’re so good, Daphne. It means a lot, that you’ve always stood by me. That you’ve never…taken advantage of me.” His eyes flitted down to the tablecloth. “Thank you. I’m sorry that I took all of that for granted.”

  In a seemingly absentminded gesture, Daphne let her hand rest on the table between them. But Jefferson made no move to reach for her.

  “Jefferson. You know I would do anything for you,” she replied.

  He gave her an easy smile, the type of smile you might give an old friend.

  “I need to bring a date to Beatrice’s wedding. We’ll dance the opening waltz together, pose for pictures, you know the drill.” There was a decidedly platonic warmth in Jefferson’s voice as he added, “Would you go with me?”

  It was the moment Daphne had plotted and waited for, yet it didn’t feel romantic at all. Jefferson wasn’t looking at her like he wanted to date her or even like he wanted to sleep with her. He was looking at her like…

  Like he trusted her. Daphne wondered with a sudden panic if by cutting Jefferson away from his friends, she’d somehow friend-zoned herself.

  She could fix this, she thought frantically. She knew the prince’s mind better than anyone; surely she could make him change it.

  “Of course I’d love to go with you.” Carefully, she pulled her hand from the table. “As long as we’re going as friends.”

  “Friends?” Jefferson repeated, and she knew she’d gotten his attention.

  Daphne tossed her hair, well aware that in the restaurant’s dim lighting, his eyes would follow the curve of her neck all the way down to her cleavage.

  “I can’t be casual about you, Jefferson. We’ve been doing this for too many years and know each other too well not to be honest with each other.”

  She saw the expressions flitting over his face, surprise rapidly giving way to a puzzled interest.

  “That’s what you want, to go as friends? Not as a real date?” he pressed.

  Typical Jefferson, wanting what you told him he couldn’t have.

  “I don’t want to be confused about where things stand. I can’t keep getting my hopes up about you.” She glanced down, so that her gaze was hidden behind the thick fan of her lashes. “Better that we stay friends, rather than confuse things and end up getting hurt all over again. Don’t you agree?”

  She knew it was risky, the way she had just raised the stakes—by telling Jefferson that they couldn’t get back together if it wasn’t serious. It was an invitation wrapped in a rejection, and she knew Jefferson would puzzle over it for days to come. He never could turn away from a challenge.

  Jefferson nodded slowly. “Of course. If that’s what you want.”

  “Perfect,” she told him, and smiled.

  The sky overhead was a dazzling, brilliant blue. It seemed deceptively joyful, the type of sky that should be viewed from a picnic blanket or a sailboat. Not here.

  The National Cemetery sprawled along the northern edge of Washington, almost a city itself within the confines of the larger city. No matter the day, there were always people inside: tourists come to see the war memorials, families who’d come looking for an ancestor.

  Beatrice walked along the cemetery’s main pathway, past rows of military tombstones that gleamed white in the sun. The Tomb of the Unknown Soldier rose in solemn grandeur to her left. Inside its brass urn burned the eternal flame, which was constantly guarded by two American soldiers. They acknowledged her with a quiet salute.

  A few visitors saw her walk past, but for once they didn’t take pictures or dissolve into whispers. They just nodded their heads in silent acknowledgment of her grief.

  The former kings were all buried at the highest point of the cemetery. Beyond a shallow reflecting pool was a series of plots, one for each of America’s former kings, set apart by low stone walls. Beatrice
passed the massive sarcophagus of Edward I and Fernanda, and the tomb of King Theodore—Teddy’s namesake—who’d only ruled for two years before he died of influenza at age fourteen. As always, it was covered in a small mountain of flowers. Theodore’s tomb had become a site of pilgrimage for all grieving parents whose children had died too young.

  Beatrice turned in to the small plot that was reserved for her family, only to realize that she wasn’t alone.

  Samantha knelt before their father’s tombstone, her head bowed. There was something so intensely private about her sister’s grief that Beatrice started to retreat, but Sam’s head darted up.

  “Oh—hey, Bee,” Sam said.

  Bee. It was such a small thing, just a single syllable, but Beatrice heard it for the peace offering it was. Sam hadn’t used that nickname in months.

  Because the sisters hadn’t spoken in months, not in any real way. Last weekend in Orange, when Beatrice was on the steps of the Ducal Pavilion, she’d thought she’d seen a momentary softening in Sam’s expression. But then ceremony and duties had interrupted, as they always did, and she hadn’t been able to catch a moment alone with her sister.

  And Beatrice had so many other things to deal with right now—like Robert. Ever since their confrontation outside the House of Tribunes, she’d been trying to interact with him as little as possible. She’d started circumventing him altogether: calling people herself instead of asking him to set meetings for her, pointedly leaving him off emails. It felt liberating.

  Beatrice lowered herself to the ground, setting her bouquet of white roses by the headstone, next to a spiky green succulent. “Is that what you brought Dad?”

  “I didn’t want to bring flowers that would go brown and die right away. No offense,” Sam said hastily. “But it just felt appropriate.”

  “Because it’s prickly like you?”

  “And stubborn,” Sam conceded.

  They both looked at the headstone before them, so immutable and heavy. HIS MAJESTY GEORGE WILLIAM ALEXANDER EDWARD, KING GEORGE IV OF AMERICA, 1969–2020, it read. BELOVED HUSBAND, FATHER, AND KING.

  “I know it’s terrible, but this is my first time coming here since the interment,” Beatrice confessed. “Being here just makes everything feel so permanent.”

  “Nothing like a three-ton monument to remind you that he isn’t coming back,” Sam said, trying and failing to be flippant.

  Beatrice reached out to brush her fingers over the headstone. The polished granite felt warm from the sun. For some reason that startled her, as if it should have been bitterly cold.

  “I keep thinking that I would give anything for just five more minutes with him,” she said quietly.

  There were so many things she wanted to ask her dad’s advice about. More than that, she wished she could tell him how much she loved him.

  Sam braced her hands on the grass behind her. “I know what Dad would say, if he were here. He’d tell you that you’re doing a fantastic job as queen. That you should believe in yourself.” Her eyes cut toward Beatrice with a beat of apprehension, and then she added, “Most of all, that he always wanted you to be happy. He wouldn’t have insisted you marry Teddy when you’re in love with Connor.”

  Beatrice’s breath caught. “How did you…”

  It was the second time recently that someone had brought up Connor. Beatrice was still reeling from last week’s conversation with Daphne. She wondered what had happened to make the other girl so utterly desperate.

  And yet, every time she thought of Connor now, it hurt a little less. She knew he’d left a mark on her—but that was to be expected. Even when wounds healed, they often left a scar tracing lightly over your skin.

  “I figured it out,” Sam hurried to explain. “I just—I think Dad would want me to remind you that you don’t have to go through with this. You can still walk away.”

  “You don’t—”

  “I know it’s probably not my place, okay? But if I don’t say this, no one will!” Sam cried out, then self-consciously lowered her voice. “Bee, you don’t have to marry someone you don’t care about, just because you think America needs it. Being queen shouldn’t require that kind of sacrifice.”

  “Sam…” Beatrice swallowed, rallied, tried again. “I never told you the full story of the night Dad went to the hospital. It was my fault.”

  Sam shook her head, puzzled. “No, it wasn’t.”

  “Remember how I told you, earlier that night, that I was going to talk to Dad? Well, I did. I told him about me and Connor.” Beatrice closed her eyes, but the memories wouldn’t stop assaulting her. “I told him I wanted to renounce the throne to be with my Guard! Don’t you see? I killed him, Sam! I literally shocked him to death!”

  “Oh, Bee,” Sam whispered, stricken.

  Beatrice fell forward, bracing her palms on the grass. Ragged sobs burst from her chest. It felt like a wild animal lived inside her and was angrily clawing its way out. This time, Beatrice didn’t fight it.

  The tears that poured down her face were months—years, decades—in the making.

  “Shh, I’ve got you,” Sam murmured, folding her arms around Beatrice.

  Beatrice remembered how when Sam was born, she would beg her parents to let her hold her baby sister in her arms. And now Sam was the one taking care of her, holding her close and rocking her like a small child.

  Beatrice kept on crying her hot, ugly tears, allowing herself the heartbreaking luxury of grief.

  She wept for her father and the years that had been stolen from him. For the ordinary life she’d never gotten a chance to live. Her lungs burned and her eyes stung and she was trembling all over, and yet it felt so good to cry, as if all her mistakes and regrets were leaking out of her along with her tears.

  Beatrice felt like she’d cried out the last traces of the girl she’d been, to make room for the woman she’d become.

  Finally she sat back, sniffing. “Sorry. I just got snot all over your shirt.”

  Sam gripped her sister’s shoulders. “Listen to me. It’s not your fault that Dad died, okay?”

  “But—”

  “But nothing,” Sam said hotly. “He had cancer, Bee. If the doctors could have saved him, they would have. You can’t blame yourself for the fact he was sick.” She squeezed Beatrice’s shoulders one last time. “He wouldn’t have wanted you to carry all this guilt. He wanted you to be happy. If he was still here, he would tell you that himself.”

  Beatrice closed her eyes, casting her mind back to the day her father had died: to the last conversation they’d had, in his hospital room. He’d clutched her hand with his remaining strength, and murmured, About Connor…and Teddy…Then he’d fallen silent.

  Maybe he’d been urging her to marry Teddy, as Beatrice had always thought. Or maybe Sam was right, and he’d actually been granting his permission for her and Connor.

  Maybe it shouldn’t really matter what her dad had wanted.

  This was her life, wasn’t it? Not her father’s or the country’s, but hers. And no one should make this kind of choice but Beatrice herself.

  “I can help you figure a way out of the wedding,” Sam was saying. “We’ll charter a plane to Mustique and hide out in a villa till it all blows over. And we can make up some scandals about me as distraction—maybe that I’m pregnant with Marshall’s baby?” Sam’s voice caught, but she forged ahead. “Or we can always tell them that Marshall left me for his ex.”

  Beatrice lifted a tearstained face to her sister. “You would throw yourself to the tabloid wolves for me?”

  “I would do anything for you. You’re my sister, and I love you,” Sam said simply.

  Those three words, I love you, threatened to break Beatrice all over again.

  She tucked her hair behind her ears, trying to gather her resolve. “Sam, as much as I appreciate the offer, I wasn’t asking
you to help me call off the wedding. Actually…I should have told you this a long time ago.” She took a breath, wishing she could look away, but forced herself to hold Sam’s gaze. “I’m falling for Teddy.”

  For a moment Samantha just stared at her, her expression flickering with startled understanding. The sunlight bore down on their faces, probably freckling their arms, but Beatrice couldn’t move.

  “Okay,” Sam breathed, and nodded. “As long as you’re sure.”

  “That’s it? Aren’t you upset with me?”

  “Were you expecting me to throw a tantrum or something?” At Beatrice’s look, Sam smiled. “It’s fine, Teddy is ancient history. I’m happy for you. Seriously.”

  “I…okay. Thank you for being so understanding,” Beatrice said awkwardly.

  Sam plucked a blade of grass, twirling it between her thumb and forefinger. “I should be understanding, given the mess I’ve made for myself.” She let go of the grass, which fell listlessly to the ground, and sighed. “That’s why I came here today. I just feel like Dad always knew what to do, and I’ve made so many mistakes….”

  “Do you want to talk about it?” Beatrice asked gently.

  She listened as Sam recounted a wild and incredible story, about how she’d faked a relationship with Marshall Davis to irritate Teddy, only to realize too late that Marshall was actually the one she wanted.

  When her sister had finished, Beatrice blinked, stunned. “Let me get this straight. You negotiated a politically advantageous relationship—even if it was out of spite—and manipulated the press into thinking it was real?” At Sam’s nod, she let out a slow breath. “Well. I think the monarchy has been underutilizing you.”

  Sam started to laugh, then seemed to remember where they were, and swallowed it back. “Yeah, you have.”

  “Why don’t you talk to Marshall, tell him how you feel?”

  “I don’t know,” Sam admitted, biting her lip. “I guess the whole epic-declaration-of-love thing isn’t really my style.”