American Royals

by Katharine McGee

  The king let out a frustrated breath. “Sam, this isn’t just about college. It’s about your behavior. I know it’s not easy, being unable to do so many things that other teenagers take for granted. I was your age too, once. I understand what you’re going through.”

  “I don’t know if you do,” Sam insisted. Her father couldn’t possibly understand what it was like to be the spare. He had been the heir, the one who could do no wrong, the one everyone fussed and exclaimed over. The one whose face was printed on money, and stamps, and coffee mugs.

  “You’re right. It’s harder for your generation, with all those gossip sites and social media things,” her father replied, misunderstanding. “This life—being a Washington—is a life of privilege and opportunity, but also a life of unusual constraints. My hope for you has always been that you’ll focus on the open doors, instead of the ones that are closed to you.”

  His breath was coming more heavily; he slowed to a walk. Sweat beaded his brow.

  “I know it isn’t easy,” he went on. “You’re young, you’re bound to make mistakes, and it isn’t fair that you have to make them in front of the entire world. But, Sam, please try to give this some thought.”

  She still didn’t understand. “Give what some thought?”

  “What you want to do until you start college next fall. You could get an internship somewhere—a design firm, perhaps, or with an event planner? Or you could volunteer, find a charity to focus on.”

  “Can’t I keep traveling?”

  “You could go on a royal tour, just you and Jeff.”

  Samantha snorted. She hated getting dragged on the royal tours—parading down the streets of various small towns while the crowds shouted, “Look this way, Beatrice!” and “I love you, Jeff!”

  They turned on to the last mile back toward the palace. The city was stirring to life, people lining up at the coffee cart on the corner. Sam’s shadow danced long and distorted on the gravel trail before her.

  “You’re so fiercely stubborn,” her father went on, though the way he said it made it sound curiously like a compliment. “Whatever you do, I know it will be great. You just have to channel all that tremendous energy into something positive. You remind me of your aunt Margaret,” he added, smiling. “You act like her too. You’re all Washington, you know.”

  Aunt Margaret, the king’s older sister, had been the wildest and most controversial member of the royal family. At least until Samantha came along.

  Sam adored her aunt Margaret. They had always been two of a kind, because unlike Sam’s father, Margaret knew precisely what it felt like to be the unimportant Washington. And it must have been even more painful for her, because she was older than Sam’s dad, and had to watch her younger brother pass her in the order of succession.

  That was how it had always been for the princesses of America: the closest they ever got to the throne was at the moment of their birth. Because eventually, no matter how long it took, a boy would follow—and the boys had always taken precedence. Those princesses had stood by, silently watching as their place in the hierarchy slipped ever further, as they were demoted in importance with the birth of each successive male. Until Beatrice.

  If the law had changed in Aunt Margaret’s time, instead of a generation later, she would have been the first queen regnant instead of Beatrice.

  Sam suspected that the law changed because of Aunt Margaret. Because Sam’s grandfather knew how smart Margaret was, how much potential she had—and watched as she grew bitter and hard-edged, falling in with a reckless, bohemian set, deliberately distancing herself from the royal family. Maybe King Edward III had regretted what happened with his oldest child, and wanted to ensure that history didn’t repeat its mistakes on Beatrice.

  The security guards melted away as Sam and her father reached the palace. Its white stones soared above them, a glorious second-floor balustrade spanning the air above the Marble Courtyard. Arriving via the front drive, one had a deceptive impression that the palace was symmetrical, but from the back entrance its unevenness was glaring.

  Sam reached up to retie her hair. She wondered what Teddy was doing right now. Was he dwelling on their kiss the way she was?

  “Dad, what do you know about the Eatons?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  The king’s eyes lit on hers, and for a moment Sam felt certain that he knew Teddy was the reason she’d missed the knighthood ceremony.

  “I met Teddy last night, and was curious,” she offered, striving to sound casual.

  “You’ve met Teddy before, actually. You don’t remember?” Her dad didn’t seem surprised when Sam shook her head. “Well, you were both quite young. Teddy served as a pageboy at my coronation.”

  “Oh,” Sam breathed. She shouldn’t have been surprised. Royal pages—the children who served as attendants at ceremonial events like coronations and weddings—were always drawn from the aristocracy.

  “We’ve known the Eatons a long time,” her father explained. It was clear that a long time meant for several centuries. “The Dowager Duchess—Teddy’s grandmother Ruth—was once a lady-in-waiting to your grandmother. And of course the current duke used to serve as one of my equerries, before his father passed away.”

  “You were friends with Teddy’s dad?”

  The king smiled wistfully at some memory. “We used to get into so much trouble, breaking into the wine cellar and hosting parties at Walthorpe. The Eatons’ ducal mansion,” he added, in answer to Sam’s questioning look. “It’s probably hosted more royal visits than any other private home in America.”

  “I wonder why he doesn’t come to court,” Sam mused aloud. She would definitely have noticed a guy like Teddy if she’d seen him before last night. Most aristocratic families made a point of spending at least part of the year in the capital. No matter how vast or luxurious their estates at home, they all possessed some kind of pied-à-terre in Washington, for the occasions when they needed to be at court.

  “Well, last night he came to meet Beatrice.”

  Before Samantha could ask her dad what he meant, they had crossed into the warmth of the back hallway. A few doors down was the security control room; farther, the glow of the kitchens. Already the great beehive of the palace was buzzing to life around them.

  Beatrice stood just inside the entrance, seeming flustered. She was dressed for running in a long-sleeved top and black athletic pants, her hair pulled into a sleek high ponytail. “Sorry, Dad, I didn’t mean to—oh,” she breathed, seeing Samantha, and registering their sweaty appearance. “You’re up early.”

  “Jet lag.” Sam didn’t bother being offended by the implication, that Beatrice assumed Sam was too lazy to be awake at this hour.

  “It’s okay, Beatrice. It was an eventful evening; you deserved to sleep in,” the king assured her.

  Sam saw her sister visibly blanch at his words. “Eventful? Not really.”

  Now it was the king’s turn to look puzzled. “You didn’t like anyone you met?”

  “Oh. Right.” There were spots of color high on Beatrice’s cheeks. Samantha glanced back and forth from her sister to their father, wondering what on earth they were talking about. The newly minted knights?

  “No, I mean yes, I did like some of them.” Beatrice swallowed. “Actually, I invited Theodore Eaton to the theater with us.”

  “That’s wonderful,” the king exclaimed, just as Samantha blurted out, “You asked Teddy on a date?”

  “How do you know Teddy?” Beatrice asked slowly.

  The king beamed at Beatrice, oblivious. “Samantha was just telling me how she chatted with Teddy last night. That was smart of you, enlisting your sister’s help. It’s always good to get a second opinion from someone you trust.” With that, he started toward the staircase. “Don’t forget that we’re meeting later, Beatrice, to prepare for next week’s private audiences.”

  Sam turned to her sister. “What’s he talking about?”

  There was something unsettled about B
eatrice this morning. Her eyes kept flicking down the hall as if she were looking for someone. “Private audiences are meetings we do twice a week, usually for twenty minutes each,” she said impatiently. “High commissioners, military personnel, judges, visiting dignitaries—”

  “No, the part about you and Teddy.”

  Beatrice seemed surprised by the question. But then, she and Sam hadn’t exactly talked about personal stuff for a long time now.

  Sam wasn’t sure when the distance between her and Beatrice had begun. It had just … grown, each of them drawing back one slight inch at a time. Now it was so vast that Sam couldn’t begin to fathom how she might bridge it.

  “I asked Teddy Eaton on a date, and he said yes,” Beatrice repeated.

  “But …”

  But I’m the one he kissed, Sam wanted to cry out. Teddy had missed the knighthood ceremony to linger in the cloakroom with her, and now he was going out with her older sister?

  “But you never date.”

  “Well, I decided that now is a good time to start,” Beatrice said wearily.

  “Why Teddy?” There had been so many young men swarming around the ball last night. Why couldn’t Beatrice have gone for any of them, instead of the one boy Samantha liked?

  “He comes from a good family. And he’s very handsome,” was all Beatrice replied. Even here in private, her words sounded stilted and rehearsed, as if she were standing on a podium and delivering a speech.

  “That’s it? You picked him out of a crowd for his face and his title?”

  “Why do you care anyway? No one is asking you to find a husband!”

  “What?” Sam blinked in confusion. “Who said anything about marriage?”

  There was a momentary flash of something, vulnerability or confusion or maybe even hurt, behind the immutable expression on Beatrice’s face. It was enough to make Samantha take a single step forward.

  But then that mask slid over her sister’s features again. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand. This is a Matter of State.” The way Beatrice pronounced it, Sam could practically hear the capitalization.

  “Right,” Sam said evenly. “There’s no way I could comprehend the intricate socioeconomic and political implications of the boys you go on dates with.”

  She tried not to reveal how much it stung, that Teddy had apparently chosen Beatrice over her. Though she shouldn’t have been surprised; this was what had happened their entire lives, with everything else—their parents’ attention, the throne, the entire country.

  Samantha never could keep hold of anything once Beatrice had decided that it should be hers.

  DAPHNE

  Daphne hated hospitals.

  She hated how cold and antiseptic they felt, with that tangy metallic smell underlying everything. She hated the waiting rooms, with their depressing vending machines and outdated magazines, some so old that they dated from the previous king’s reign. Most of all, Daphne hated hospitals for how quiet they were, the silence broken only by those machines beeping their soulless refrains.

  But Daphne was no fool; she knew that certain charity hours were worth more than others. She couldn’t just be a docent at the art museum and sponsor the ballet. If she wanted the American people to truly love her, she needed them to feel like they’d had a real, meaningful interaction with her.

  Which was why Daphne had embarked upon a tireless self-directed PR campaign. She tutored underprivileged students in math and physics. She volunteered at a local homeless shelter. And every Sunday she came here to the children’s wing at St. Stephen’s Hospital, because Daphne knew that volunteering just once would get her nowhere. It had to be a habit to really count.

  And count it she did. Last year Daphne had logged over four hundred hours of volunteer work, carefully recorded and time-stamped. Princess Samantha, meanwhile, had done fourteen. All year. Daphne didn’t hesitate to slip those numbers to Natasha, who gleefully ran them in the Daily News. The comments of support had, predictably, poured in for Daphne. Though she wasn’t sure anyone at the palace had even bothered to reprimand the princess.

  Besides, what did it matter that she beat out Samantha, when saintly Princess Beatrice had completed even more hours than Daphne, all while she was a full-time student at Harvard?

  For years, Daphne had tried to model her behavior on that of the older princess. Beatrice clearly managed her reputation with the same meticulous caution that Daphne did. As the first female heir to the throne, she had to. Far too many people were silently willing the princess to slip up.

  There was no room for error in either of their lives.

  If only they could commiserate about it, Daphne sometimes thought. How hard it was to be a woman in this world of monarchies, whose structures and traditions had all been built by men.

  Maybe things would improve when Beatrice someday took the throne—when, after two hundred and fifty years, America would finally be ruled by a woman. Or maybe it would have been better if America had never been a monarchy at all, and had some other form of government.

  Daphne doubted it.

  “Daphne! It’s good to see you.” The aide at the front desk gave a shy smile, though he’d known her for years now. He was an acne-prone guy in his mid-twenties who always seemed on the verge of asking for her autograph.

  “Thanks, Chris. How’s the new kitten doing? Daisy, right?” Daphne prided herself on remembering the small details. It was what made her a professional.

  Chris brightened under her interest and pulled out his phone. Daphne made little “aww” noises as he scrolled through photos of his cat.

  She heard footsteps on the linoleum floor and turned around to see Natasha. Right on schedule. “Chris,” Daphne said sweetly, “would it be all right if Natasha accompanied me today? Just to snap a few pictures, get some quotes.”

  “We’re doing a special piece to prompt holiday donations, a spotlight on philanthropic young people. We were hoping to include Daphne,” Natasha chimed in.

  “It would be a crime not to include Daphne. She’s here every week,” Chris proclaimed, and rocked forward on his toes. “Just make sure you get permission from the parents before you publish any photos of kids.”

  Daphne had never understood why the royal family was so allergic to the press. In her experience, if you helped them out a time or two, they were perfectly willing to do the same for you. With Natasha, Daphne had long ago reached a silent understanding: she would pass along stories—some of them about her, some about other figures at court—and in exchange Natasha ensured that her coverage portrayed Daphne in the most dazzlingly favorable light.

  Today, Daphne had reluctantly called Natasha to ask a favor. This whole article was her idea; the other charitable young people, if any, would scarcely be mentioned alongside the extensive coverage of Daphne. She hated resorting to this—planting deliberate, self-promotional stories—but she wasn’t sure what else to do. She still couldn’t get over the way Jefferson had left her at the ball, the fact that she hadn’t even heard from him since.

  Of course, Daphne didn’t expect the prince to really care that she was volunteering. But he would care that America cared, because he liked being liked. Jefferson had always avoided discord or tears or harsh words of any kind, probably because, as the spoiled youngest child, he had so rarely encountered them.

  If Daphne could convince America that she should be their princess, eventually Jefferson would end up agreeing with them.

  She and Natasha walked down the hallway toward one of the younger wards. Past a sliding glass doorway was a long row of treatment rooms. Crayon sketches of fairies and snowflakes were tacked to the walls, alongside several red and green felt stockings. A gold tinsel tree squatted cheerfully in one corner.

  Several parents glanced up at her arrival, and their eyes widened. Daphne smiled at them: the disarming, winning sunbeam of a smile that she’d practiced so many times in the mirror.

  One of the little girls tumbled out of bed and ran toward Daphne, who
crouched down to make her face level with the girl’s. “Hello there,” she said. Behind her, she could hear the steady series of clicks that meant Natasha was documenting all of this. “What’s your name?”

  “Molly.” The girl reached up to pick her nose. Daphne wondered if she still had to shake her hand.

  “It’s nice to meet you, Molly. I’m Daphne.”

  “Are you a princess?” the girl asked, with a child’s tactlessness.

  Daphne forced herself to keep on smiling. Someday, she thought. And when I am, you’ll have to curtsy to me. She held on to the girl’s hand until her mother came to collect her, assuring the woman that it was no problem at all.

  “I knew it,” Daphne heard the mother say as she rejoined the rest of her family. “I knew she was even prettier in person. And so sweet.”

  This was why Daphne deserved to be princess someday—because she could play the part. If only Jefferson could see it as clearly as she did.

  Natasha unobtrusively approached Molly’s mother with an electronic release form for the photos she had just snapped. The woman, still basking in the glow of having met the famous Daphne Deighton, didn’t hesitate to sign.

  As she progressed down the hallway, Daphne made a point of pausing at each bedside: to pour a cup of water and lift it to a boy’s lips, to play with a little girl’s doll, to read a favorite story from a picture book with sticky pages. She never tired, never let her smile slip even a fraction of an inch, as all the while Natasha’s camera kept clicking away.

  “Lovely evening,” Natasha said crisply as they stepped out into the parking lot. The light was slowly leaching from the sky, a few scattered stars beginning to dust the horizon. The air felt heavy and cold; Daphne shrugged deeper into her parka.

  “I got some great shots,” Natasha went on, yanking open the door of her car to wedge her camera bag inside. Her angular dark hair swung forward with the movement. “Want me to send them to you for review before I run the article?”

  “Please.”