by Aven Ellis
Cecelia drives into the car park, and the crowd cheers when they see me. I wave and smile, and for me, it’s genuine. I still can’t believe these people are here to see me. This is where clothing and appearance are important. They have an image of the monarchy in their head, and I want to live up to the mystique. Even if I feel bad, I have to give them what they want to see. For all the good I can do, and how wonderful my life has been, I’m more than happy to square my shoulders and give it to them, even if I feel sick or sad inside.
Today, however, I’m happy and excited to see what these girls are doing with robotics. I can’t wait to see what they have come up with.
A man from the school moves forward and opens my car door. As soon as I step outside, the crowd gasps and phones go up in the air. The comments are carried towards me with the crisp December wind.
“Oh my god, do you see that? She’s in pink!”
“Pink? Have you ever seen her in pink?”
“LIZ! LIZ!”
“We love you, Liz!”
“She is a princess. She’s so beautiful!”
“She’s wearing pink; I can’t believe it!”
I hear more comments about pink than anything else. I turn and face the cameras, smiling brightly as the photographers call to me, too.
“LIZZIE! Why the pink?”
“Pretty in pink, are you?”
“Finally, a colour!”
I stand still for a few seconds, giving them their shot, and then head towards the members of the school and organisation who are waiting for me.
“Welcome to Greenwood Primary School, Your Royal Highness. I’m the headmaster, John Giles.”
“Liz,” I say, extending my hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Giles. I can’t wait to see what the girls are doing inside.”
I’m introduced to the scout leader and other school officials, but before we head inside, my eyes scan the crowd, where I find an elderly woman in a wheelchair, bundled up against the cold.
“If you will allow me a moment, I’d love to meet some of the people out here,” I say, knowing full well Cecelia built time into my schedule for this. It’s brief, five minutes, but at least it’s something.
“Of course, Liz,” Mr. Giles says.
I walk across the street, and the crowd cheers. While there is a police presence, I’m aware there are no protection officers surrounding me like Christian and Clementine have, so once again, I do an assessment with my own eyes for anything suspicious, smiling the entire time as I do. Nothing catches my eye, so I proceed straight to the white-haired woman in the wheelchair.
“Hello,” I say, kneeling down so I’m eye-level with her. “I’m Liz.”
“Oh, heavens, I know who you are,” she says, laughing. “I haven’t missed a chance to see you since your mother stood outside the Lindo Wing with you in her arms.”
My heart is touched. The Lindo Wing at St. Mary’s Hospital is where I was born, and where all royal babies have been born since Antonia had Xander there. “That is so kind of you,” I say, placing my hand gently over hers. It’s cold and paper thin, and I suddenly feel the years of living in that hand that has now turned delicate from time. “I truly appreciate that.”
“I knew you were destined to do great things,” she says sagely as people snap pictures of us. “I’ve always been a royalist, you know, and I had a feeling you would be a special one. You have proven me right, Your Royal Highness.”
I swallow hard. I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve such confidence. She thought I would be special, and I’m grateful to have people like this woman on my side.
“What is your name?” I ask.
“Margaret Snyder.”
“Well, Ms. Margaret Snyder, it’s a pleasure to meet you. Thank you for your kind words; they mean everything to me.”
“Thank you for carrying on the name in such a good way,” she says. “You are extremely pretty in pink. I was quite shocked to see colour on you, I must admit.”
“I was inspired to try pink today,” I say, thinking of Roman.
“Keep trying it,” Margaret advises. “One never moves forward repeating the same steps.”
I let go of her hand and wish her well. I make a few other stops in the crowd, shaking hands and taking a bouquet of flowers and a teddy bear from a little girl, but I’m urged away to keep things on schedule.
As I hand the gifts to Cecelia, I turn and take one last look at Margaret, who is waving at me.
One never moves forward repeating the same steps, I hear her say in my head again.
I smile at her. Margaret is right.
Pink is a new step forward for me.
As is my date tonight with Roman.
“That was incredible,” I say as soon as Cecelia and I are back in the car. “Did you see how excited the girls were to talk about their robotic projects? The energy in that room was brilliant, absolutely brilliant to behold. Those young women will shape our future, from medical advances to technological changes. I can’t wait to do that fundraiser luncheon for them next month!”
Cecelia nods. “They were so excited to see you, Liz. All the questions you asked, all the encouragement you gave them—not to mention the publicity for their organisation—you are the difference in them bringing the programme to more schools, to more girls.”
I retrieve my phone and swipe it open. “I truly hope I can be a part of giving them the donations and visibility they need to expand. I want those girls to believe they can do anything in this world and to encourage them to seek opportunities in science and engineering.”
“I think you are a good role model for that. You are creating your own opportunities in the monarchy, so you live what you encourage. Being genuine is important, and you recognise that.”
I shake my head. “I’ve been blessed to be in this position due to birth, not because of anything I’ve done.”
“Liz. A lot of royals can appear at an event and shake hands. You make connections with your audience, and with the press. Your energy lights up a room. Not everyone has that genuine interest.”
I know she is referencing Antonia.
“But with you, Christian, and Clementine, I see such a vibrant future ahead for not only the monarchy but the organisations you wish to support.”
I hope Cecelia is right. I want to follow in the footsteps of my father and uncle, but I feel as if they still have that reserve left from the last generation. The modern royals, as my sisters and cousins and I say, need to bridge this gap.
I go to Twitter and open my media list, eager to see the publicity that my visit has generated today. But the first thing I see makes me gasp. “Oh, no,” I whisper. “No, no.”
“Liz?” Cecelia asks as we head out of the car park.
I cringe as I see the Dishing Weekly article pop up on Twitter:
LIZZIE IS PRETTY IN PINK! HER MAJESTY BORES IN BEIGE
My stomach rolls over as I see side-by-side photos of our appearances today. One shows Antonia with an unflattering, serious expression on her face posing with doctors in the hospital, wearing a beige dress, beige wool coat, tights and nude pumps. Her brow is furrowed, her hair back in her signature chignon.
In my picture, however, I’m shown smiling and talking with girls about their mobile phone-controlled robot, my rose lipstick and pink jumper and coat lighting up my face as I give the robot a try with their help.
I can’t bear to read the article. I don’t want to see the ugliness that is going to be laid out, comparing me to Antonia, but knowledge is power, so I force myself to read it. My stomach sinks even further.
The author points out my joy and uniqueness, while mocking Antonia’s expression and saying she’s tired and boring and appeared as if she’d rather be anywhere else. Then I read a sentence that makes me gasp out loud:
The queen could take a lesson from her son, future daughter-in-law, and niece. The times are changing in the House of Chadwick. Perhaps it’s time for Her Majesty to inject some life into not on
ly her wardrobe but her personality, too.
“Crap,” I murmur, shoving my phone into my cross-body bag. “This is the worst thing that could have happened. That magazine has no idea of the bomb they’ve thrown in my lap, none!”
“What? What are you talking about, Liz?” Cecelia asks as she drives us back towards Kensington Palace.
“Dishing Weekly has done a side-by-side comparison of royal appearances this afternoon,” I say.
“That is not even a magazine; it’s a piece of rubbish,” Cecelia huffs.
I relay the headline to her. I watch as she winces in response.
“Antonia is going to be furious with me for upstaging her.”
Cecelia remains silent. She has never involved herself in the family drama, and I’m about to apologise for bringing it up when she speaks.
“We need to have a meeting with Sydney tomorrow,” she says. “She can help us come up with a strategy to deal with the fallout that is going to happen.”
“No,” I say sharply.
There is no way I can sit across a table from Sydney Cross-Jones and put my future in her hands. Sydney is part of my father’s staff. She was hired a year ago to be my father’s top advisor and prepares him for all of his appearances and meetings with heads of state. She has corporate experience that has taken her around the world, and she’s intelligent. Quick. Savvy.
She is also the woman who made my dad realise he no longer loved my mother.
“But she’s sharp, Liz. She will know how to work through this and keep your confidence from Antonia’s camp,” Cecelia protests.
Yes, Sydney is good at keeping secrets, as she has been sleeping with my father for a year now and nobody knows. I only know because I accidentally walked in on them kissing in my father’s library the weekend I moved home after graduating from university. Dad saw me, and all hell broke loose. He explained that he fell out of love with Mum many years ago. It took meeting Sydney to bring his heart back to life. I went through all the emotions—disgust, rage, disappointment, heartbreak. I asked him why he didn’t divorce Mum, which is what rational people do, but he said no one in the monarchy would divorce.
Ever.
He was going to live with love and told Mum to do the same, to discreetly find someone that made her happy. Mum didn’t accept their marriage falling apart, and the affair turned her toxic against Dad in private. She knows that I know, so she uses me as a sounding board on schemes to try and win him back and to get Sydney out.
I press my head against the car window. God, how messed up is this? These are my parents, living in a pretend marriage because the monarchy can’t bear to admit a marriage failed, and I’m trapped in their lie. I haven’t whispered a word of it to anyone. I’m too ashamed. I don’t want to burden Bella and Victoria whilst they are at university. I also feel it’s not my story to tell them. So, at family dinners, I’m part of the lie, sitting there and acting like nothing is wrong. My sisters think they live in a happy family, when in reality, that is an illusion.
To my surprise, my throat swells. I’ve pushed this so far down that I can’t believe these feelings are rising to the surface. The questions I had in the beginning roll up on the shore for me to think about again.
Is this the normal thing for people to do? My aunt and uncle don’t love each other. My father stopped loving my mother. Amelia’s parents are divorced. They all loved each other at one point. How does an emotion so deep that it leads you to marry someone stop?
I think of Roman. For a moment, I have an urge to head right back into my protected walls. What is the point of this? Even if he can adapt to the confines of the world that I live in, would he stay in love with me? Or would he fall out of love, like my dad did with my mum?
Another thought hits me.
Even if Roman did fall in love with me, and got past the monarchy, what would he think of my family if I were to confide in him what I know? He has two normal, loving parents. Good god, what would he think of this mess of a family I have?
I wince. Why didn’t I think of any of this when I decided to see if I could find him? How could I have buried this so far down that it interfered with my logical, planning self? If I would have thought this through, beyond my attraction to him, I would have stopped myself. No normal man would want any of this for the long term.
As Roman’s hazel eyes fill my mind, I know exactly why I ignored the obvious.
All the thoughts of my family slip away, and I replace them with Roman having tea with me in the greenhouse. Of him showing me a poinsettia. How he made me dinner and pressed his lips against the palm of my hand. How his eyes, with their flecks of gold, seemed to intensify when he gazed at me.
I knew from the moment I met him—from how he protected Clementine and told me the world should see angry Liz—that he was different.
Tonight, I promised him I’d tell him about this side of my life, the one I lead as Elizabeth of York.
Which will include the truth about the Duke and Duchess of York.
Should I trust a man I barely know with such explosive information?
Despite the logical answer of “no,” my head and heart say “yes.”
For the first time in my life, I have met a man I trust implicitly with my truth.
I only hope Roman still wants to take a chance on me after he learns it.
Chapter 10
That’s What Takeaway is For, Right?
I scurry around my living room. Roman will be here in about ten minutes, and I want to make sure everything is perfect for our date tonight. I have a wonderful meal planned. Rather, I have a meal that the chef at my favourite Italian restaurant in Chelsea prepared for me to reheat once Roman is here. Wine glasses are out, and I have the pinot noir ready to be uncorked.
Now, the living room. I anxiously fluff the cushions I already fluffed a few minutes earlier. I glance around. I have lit candles that smell like oranges, cloves, and woodsmoke, creating a cosy glow in the room.
I take a step back. I have a fire roaring in the fireplace, candles, and cushions. If I only had a Christmas tree, it would be perfect. But for a December date tonight? It’s incredibly romantic.
Wait. Am I trying too hard? Do women actually do these things for a man coming over on a date? Or am I relying on unrealistic scenes from movies I watched with Clem over the summer?
I’ll skip music, I decide, nodding to myself. If I put on music, that will scream over the top.
Or would it be okay if I played Christmas music? I picture “Santa Baby” or “All I Want for Christmas is You” being played. I’d probably blush a thousand shades of red.
No. No music.
But what if Roman heard one of those songs and asked me to be his Christmas present? That is the cheesiest thing I’ve ever had come into my brain.
But I like it.
Roman is igniting all these new thoughts and feelings in me, and I want to embrace them all.
Music, it is.
I turn on the TV and find a channel that plays popish-sounding Christmas songs. Music fills the air, and happiness fills my heart.
Roman will be here any minute now, if his punctuality holds true for our second date. I move restlessly around the room, studying the oil paintings of flowers on the walls and absent-mindedly moving my colouring books on the side table a millimetre. While I’m excited and eager for tonight, I can’t help but allow the thoughts from earlier today to creep into my brain.
I’m going to tell him the truth, over dinner, and hope that the tabloid life that is my world doesn’t scare him away.
The sound of a motorcycle pierces my thoughts. My heart jumps. I part the curtain to peek outside, and sure enough, Roman has driven his bike over, despite the dangers of driving at night that he warned me about. I watch as he removes his helmet and rakes his fingers through his dark brown hair.
My breath grows rapid as I watch him get off the bike. He moves around to the back and unlatches a case. He lifts something out, and I see he’s holding a s
mall box. Oh! Anticipation rushes through me, wondering what it could be.
He glances up and catches me staring at him. Roman flashes me a huge smile that lights up his face, and my knees nearly buckle in response. I smile back before heading to the door to greet him.
He’s coming up the path as I open the door. He looks dead sexy in a black leather jacket with a silver helmet tucked under his arm.
“Are you that eager to see me?” he says, raising an eyebrow.
“Most ardently,” I say saucily, quoting Jane Austen.
Roman reaches my doorstep. “I hope I’m the only man you are saying most ardently to, Lizzie.”
Oh!
Electricity surges through every inch of me from his words. Roman’s mouth is now set to serious, as are his eyes—with the flecks of gold growing even more dominant as he gazes down at me—intensely searching mine.
“Indeed.”
I see his lips twitch upwards again, sending my heart racing. “Good.”
Oh, so incredibly good.
“You’re stunning in red,” he says, his eyes moving over my outfit. “You’re incredibly beautiful tonight.”
“Thank you,” I say, ushering him inside. I’m over the moon that he noticed my red cashmere V-neck jumper. From the way his eyes drank in my jeans down to my tall, black suede boots, I knew he liked my outfit before he even spoke.
As Roman steps through the door, my excitement intensifies. He’s the only man I’ve ever invited past the palace gates, either here or at St. James’s Palace. Yet he has no idea of the significance of this moment.
“Where should I put this?” he asks, lifting his helmet. He looks around at the Chippendale tables and cream furniture. “I don’t want to get anything dirty.”
“You won’t, and this console table is fine,” I say.
Roman sets his helmet down, as well as the white box, tied with a beautiful red ribbon. He slips out of his leather jacket, and I greedily drink in his massive chest, which looks brilliant in a fitted black jumper. I’ve never seen a chest this broad. My instincts tell me it would be solid and sculpted if I were to slide my hand up underneath his jumper and T-shirt to explore it.
