by Emma Chase
"Henry."
I didn't hear my grandmother come in. She stands beside my chair, gazing at me, not with anger or disappointment in her stormy gray eyes--but something else. Concern, maybe. Curiosity?
"We must discuss what went on here. What have you done, my boy?"
I give her the truth. Without deflection or excuse.
"I've made a mess of things, Granny. But . . . I'm not going to do that anymore."
She regards me for several moments and then softly says, "All right."
"I'm marrying Lady Sarah Mirabelle Zinnia Von Titebottum."
The words come out quiet and true. The earth is round. The sky is blue. I'm marrying Sarah.
She doesn't know it yet, but . . . one step at a time.
"From what I know of her, she's a bit shy, but we can work on that. She's a lovely girl."
"Yes, she is." I look back toward the fire. "She was a virgin when she met me. She's not anymore."
My grandmother folds her hands at her waist. "I see. There are ways to get around that part of the law. A physician's sworn statement should do it."
My voice is soft but steady. "I don't want to get around it. I want to change the law. We won't marry until it's done."
"But why does it matter?"
"It matters to Sarah . . . so it matters to me. And when I put Mum's ring on her finger, I want the world to know it's because I've chosen her. Not because she fits the bill or checks the boxes, but because she's magnificent. And I'm lucky enough that she's willing to put up with me."
My grandmother snorts. "Changing the law will take time. And it requires a vote in Parliament. That means . . . politicking."
"I know. I was hoping you could show me how to be good at that. Will you help me, Granny?"
She blinks down at me. Like she's never seen me before, as if she's relieved and grateful for what her eyes behold. "Yes. Yes, I can do that, Henry."
I put my hand over hers and give it a little squeeze. It's not a hug, but it's a start.
"Thank you."
Not long after that, after I've explained the entire situation to the Queen, it's time to clean house. I find Vanessa in the library, for the first time looking frazzled, shuffling papers.
My voice is soft but with a hint of lethal.
"What did you say to her?"
She lifts her pointy chin. "Nothing that wasn't true."
I straighten my shoulders and look down at her, demanding, "What did you say?"
"Come on, Henry. You know how this goes. Drama sells. And your tryst with the sister? That's some high-flying drama right there."
"Do you think this is a game? Just a show? This is my life."
She folds her arms and tightens her stance. "You're a prince. Your whole life is a show."
"Not anymore." I shake my head. "I'm done. We're done. This is all finished. You take your footage and do whatever you like. You want to eviscerate me on television? Have at me." Then I lean over her. "But I'm warning you now, and it'll be the only warning you get--if you go after Sarah, if you disparage her in any way, I will ruin you. I will use every resource at my disposal--and I have a fucking country behind me--to destroy you and everything you touch. Are we clear, Ms. Steele?"
Her eyes dart across my face, gauging my resolve and my sincerity. Vanessa may not be particularly pleasant, but she's not stupid.
"I want an exclusive."
"What?"
"If things pan out between you and the bookworm, it'll be the story of the century, and I want it. I'll sit on the footage and when you announce your engagement, I'll put together a documentary." Her eyes rise, seeing the headlines. "It'll be like a goddamn fairy tale. How the prince was tamed by the quiet girl. How, after going through a dozen mattresses, he found his perfect pea. I want an interview to go with that story--with you and Sarah."
I turn the offer over in my head, weighing the options.
"I'll give you an interview, but I won't speak for Sarah. If she wants to participate, fine--if not, you settle for me."
"Agreed."
"And I want final approval." I point my finger at her. "You don't air a second of footage until I see it in its entirety and approve."
She thinks it over and then she holds out her hand.
"Deal."
We shake on it.
And it looks like I'm not so shit at politicking after all.
An hour later, she brings me the new contracts. I sign on the dotted line and hand them back. "Now, get your equipment and get the fuck out of my castle."
Later, after Fergus closes the castle door firmly behind him, my grandmother stands beside me in the foyer, brushing her palms like she's scuffing off dust.
"Well . . . I'm glad that's over. Will you join me in the library for a glass of sherry?"
"Yes. There's more we need to discuss." I look her in the eye. "You're not going to like it."
She just nods, stalwart and unshakable as she's always been. "I'll tell Fergus to bring the extra-large glasses."
THREE WEEKS.
It doesn't seem so long. Only two more than one. Three weeks. It doesn't sound so long to say it out loud. Only two syllables. But in some ways, the last three weeks have felt endless. Filled with self-doubt and questioning of what I should have done differently--what I should do now and next. The exhausting inner debate. Do I call him? Do I wait for him to contact me? Is he still filming? Should I go back to Anthorp Castle? Is he still there or is he behind the palace gates? There hasn't been a word about him on the news or in the headlines. Why hasn't he called? Does he ever think of me? When I told him I needed time and space, I didn't think it was over. I didn't believe that was really the end. Should I have stayed longer? Did I judge too quickly, did I leave too soon?
But it hasn't all been regret and self-pity.
I stopped crying after four days.
I stopped checking my mobile for a text or missed call after ten.
After sixteen, I stopped looking up and down the street when I stepped out of the library, searching for a black SUV and wild green eyes.
After eighteen, I accepted that Henry wasn't coming for me.
I still dream of him, though. Every night, in bed, I hear his voice and imagine his long fingers plucking at the strings of that old guitar. I see his smile in my mind and can swear I smell him on the bedsheets. And then the dreams come, but there's not much I can do about that.
Because sometimes, life is very much like a book--we don't get to write our own ending; we have to accept the one that's already on the page.
Slipping back into my life was easy, because it was ready-made, like a child's bin of LEGOs--the pieces designed to seamlessly interlock. Organized and scheduled.
But at the end of the first week, day seven, something strange happened. Something that turned out to be not so bad.
I began to look for ways to deviate from my routine. To move away from the consistency I'd once craved. I went into work early and left after sunset--not just to keep busy, although that played a part, but more because I was yearning for something . . . different. Something new. I satisfied the itch with small things at first: rearranging the furniture, hanging new drapes, walking a different route home each day, offering to sit with baby Barnaby from upstairs so my neighbors could grab a bite, popping over to Mother's for dinner randomly instead of the staid Wednesdays and Sundays.
One night, Annie took me to a pub two towns over, to meet her new boyfriend, Wade, who thankfully isn't at all a douche-canoe. The place was a bit rowdy, crowded, and loud. But I didn't mind so much.
Another time, it was dinner and dancing with Willard. The funny part was, I kept glancing at the band while they played, because there was a pushing, pulling sensation inside me--and I had the maddest urge to pop up on the stage and grab the microphone for a song or two. I didn't actually do it, but I thought about it.
And I wasn't afraid.
Because once a shell is broken, it can't be put back together again--not really, not in the same
way it was. The cracks will always be there.
That's the Henry Effect.
And it's miraculous. Freeing. And despite how it all shook out in the end, I will always love him for that. I will always be grateful. And I will always remember the sweet, teasing prince who changed me for the better.
The symposium. My Waterloo.
The second week I was back at work, Mr. Haverstrom asked me if I would be presenting after all, now that my Palace business had concluded early. He told me he understood if I declined, because I hadn't had the time to prepare a presentation.
He gave me an easy out. And I could've taken it.
But I didn't.
So here I am. In the largest conference room in Concordia Library, facing a packed room, over two hundred filled chairs and more attendees standing along the back wall. All eyes on me.
Willard and Annie are in the front, as close as they can be for moral support . . . and to catch me if I pass out. I know my cheeks are bright, flaming red. My knees are trembling and my stomach spins like a top. As I step up to the microphone, the panic surges right up to my throat, threatening to swamp me.
So, I close my eyes and breathe deeply, and then . . . I picture Henry Pembrook naked.
And I laugh. Because he was right, the wanker. It does work.
An hour later, I'm wrapping up my presentation on the importance of promoting child literacy, especially among young girls. I've kept my head down, eyes on my notes, so while it probably hasn't been the most engaging of talks, I didn't pass out or Davey on any of them, so I consider it a grand victory.
I just have to get through these last few lines and the Q&A.
"In conclusion, I'd like to end with these final thoughts: Reading brings knowledge and knowledge is power; therefore reading is power. The power to know and learn and understand . . . but also the power to dream. Stories inspire us to reach high, love deep, change the world and be more than we ever thought we could. Every book allows us to dream a new dream. Thank you."
They clap.
And I close my eyes and sigh, deflating with relief. I did it, I really did it. Willard blows an obnoxious whistle while Annie fist-pumps, and it's wonderful. I only wish . . .
A yearning ache begins in the center of my chest, then spider-webs outward like a crack in a windshield.
Because I wish Henry were here. He would love this--it would blow his mind. And then he'd make a teasing comment that there are others things I could blow. Or maybe I'd say it--he always did bring out the dirty in me.
I shake my head, trying to dust off the melancholy. And I look out over the sea of clapping hands and nodding heads . . . and then my heart stops mid-beat.
My first thought is: he's cut his hair.
It was almost down to his shoulders the last time I saw him. Thick and soft, wavy and wild. But this is nice too. Short and clean, professional and powerful-looking, with just the right length in front, with a few strands falling over his forehead in a roguish sort of way.
His suit is beige, his tie light green, his shirt crisp white--so sharp and handsome--like a broker on Silver Street.
He's clapping heartily--with those strong hands that I adore. His gaze is alight with admiration and his smile . . . his smile is so tender my eyes prickle with wetness.
I blink and look away . . . and then I remember to be pissed off at him. Three. Weeks. Three fucking, awful weeks. I lied when I said they weren't so bad--they were bloody hell. And he shows up now? Here? For what, exactly?
I don't have to wonder long.
Because the moment Mr. Haverstrom calls for questions, Henry's hand shoots up high and straight, like he's a child in class who can't wait a second more to use the lavatory.
I ignore him.
The only problem is, he's the only one raising his hand.
"Questions? Anyone?" I look left and right, tilting my head to check all around. "Anyone at all?"
Henry clears his throat. Loudly. "Ahem."
And several heads swivel toward him.
But I'm still ignoring him, shuffling my papers. "Well, since no one has any questions--"
"He has a question," Willard says, clear and grinning like a traitorous Cheshire cat.
I'm going to smack him when this is over.
But, first I'm going to deal with Henry.
"Yes, you there in the back," I say like I've never seen him before in my life. Like he isn't our future king. "What is your question, sir?"
His eyebrow hitches, as if he's saying, "So that's how you're going to play this?"
Murmurs of recognition ripple through the room, but Henry doesn't seem to notice.
"My question is about Heathcliff."
And his voice . . . I've missed his voice--strong and rough, but teasing and sweet. Oh balls, I'm melting like a cheap candle.
But I don't let it show. I cross my arms.
"The fat orange cat, you mean?"
The corner of his mouth kicks into a smirk. "No. From Wuthering Heights."
"Ah, I see. Go on."
"My question is, why didn't someone shoot the bastard? Were guns not around in that time period?"
My head shakes on its own. What a ridiculous question! "No, firearms were used, but . . ."
"Then someone should have definitely shot Heathcliff in the arse. He was a thoughtless, abusive, mean son of a bitch."
"Some feel his one good quality is his love for Catherine. That's what redeems him."
Henry shakes his head, his expression sober. "He didn't deserve her."
"Well," I lift a shoulder, "Catherine wasn't exactly a saint either. And I'm sure the debate over Heathcliff's worthiness will continue for as long as people read the book. Thank you."
I turn to the rest of the room. "Other questions?"
Aaaaand up goes his hand. Quick and strong and, again, the only one raised.
I don't try fighting it this time, but sigh dramatically. "Yes?"
"It's about Mr. Darcy. He's kind of a snob--he's got a stick up his arse. A big one."
My own eyebrows rise above my glasses. "You've got a thing for arses today, don't you?"
He chuckles, totally unashamed. ""Well . . . tight bottoms are a few of my favorite things."
And he can still make me blush like no one else.
"But that's a discussion for another time. My point is, Mr. Darcy is a prat--I don't get it."
"Well, if you had read the book--"
"I did read the book." His green eyes watch me intensely. "I read all of them."
And butterflies go berserk in my stomach.
"Oh."
I shake out of my stupor, and refocus. "Well, Mr. Darcy and Elizabeth Bennet are two sides of the same coin. He is painfully reserved and she is uninhibited but they both make their assumptions and end up getting it wrong. In the end, they must put aside their prejudices and their pride and be honest with themselves and each other to make it right."
He gazes at me, soft and gentle, like he never wants to stop.
"Hence the title, I guess."
"Yes." I nod.
He rubs his knuckles against his jaw. "Now about Colonel Brandon from Sense and Sensibility."
And I smack my hands down on the podium. "No. You can say what you want about Darcy or bloody Heathcliff and hell, you can tear into every Dickens hero written--I never liked any of them. But you will not besmirch Colonel Brandon! I won't allow it."
Henry finds my outburst amusing. "I'm not going to besmirch him. I like Colonel Brandon."
"Then what is your question?"
Slowly, stealthily, he drifts forward up the aisle.
"The way I see it, Marianne messed up. Brandon was there all along, but she let herself be distracted by the wrong things. It wasn't written on the page, but I'm guessing she had to apologize and he had to forgive her."
My throat is dry and my voice is like sand. "Yes, I suppose that's true."
Closer and closer he comes.
"My question is, if their roles had been diff
erent--if Marianne had been the man and Brandon the woman--do you think she would have forgiven him? Taken another chance on him, trusted that this time, he wouldn't mess it up?"
My head swims the nearer he gets.
"I . . . I'm not--"
"I mean, if he completely threw himself into the groveling. Pulled off a stupendous grand gesture, something really public and humiliating."
He's right in front of me now. Close enough for me to touch him.
"I don't think she'd like that, the public part," I say softly. "She's still a bit . . . shy."
Henry nods, and his voice is low and raw and desperate.
"Then what if he just stood in front of her and said, 'I'm sorry. And I miss you. I want to be a better man for you and because I love you so much, I actually believe I can be.' Do you think she'd give him a chance then?"
My eyes go blurry and I blink because I want to see him clearly. "I think . . . I think that could work."
Henry smiles, and it feels like my heart is flying out of my chest.
"Good."
I nod, crying and grinning at the same time.
Then I hear Willard on the sidelines: "Are we supposed to keep pretending they're actually talking about the book?"
"Wait," Annie responds, "they're not talking about the book?"
Willard pats Annie's head. "You're so pretty."
We're stuck in the library for almost an hour after my presentation. As soon as one person recognizes Henry, the news spreads like wildfire and everyone wants to meet him. Most of the people here are visitors to Castlebrook; I don't think the regulars would be so swept up in the celebrity of a visiting prince.
Security does their best to control the crowd and Henry is gracious, but I can tell he's impatient. He keeps looking over at me, almost to assure himself I haven't run off.
Though it's only a short distance to my flat, James drives us there. When they first close the door behind us, and it's just Henry and me in the backseat, he tells me fervently, "I'm so proud of you. You were absolutely brilliant up there."
And my smile spreads far and wide across my face. "Thank you. I'm happy you were here to see it."
We're quiet then. James takes the long way around, with extra turns and diversions to lose anyone from the library who tries to follow us. And Henry holds onto my hand the entire time.
Inside my flat, I slip off my shoes and hang my coat in the closet, and Henry stands in the middle of my parlor, looking too big for it, larger than life.
