A Queen from the North: A Royal Roses Book

by Erin McRae

  “Which means?” Arthur prompted.

  “You’ve just offered me a way for York to have a place at the table for the first time in a thousand years,” Amelia said. “A seat which we should never have been without.” Her heart pounded. “One of us is surely mad.”

  Arthur leaned forward. “And what say you to mad men?”

  “Well, I can’t say no.”

  Chapter 4

  A NEW PARAMOUR FOR THE PRINCE?

  19 January

  Year 21 of the Reign of King Henry XII

  It’s been four days since the Prince of Wales offered me a nearly Shakespearean bargain, and I’ve not heard a word from him since. Four days and, suddenly he seems just like any other man. So, when, dear diary, is it reasonable to expect to hear from one’s prince about destiny and dynasty?

  I can’t tell Priya. I can’t tell anyone. He didn’t forbid me to talk, but I know better. Who would even believe me if I did tell?

  I may be uncertain and confused right now, but I saw how he looked at me. I have worked in laboratories long enough to recognize when a man believes he’s just laid eyes on a long-sought solution. A scientist with a breakthrough after years of hard work. It’s not quite how Gary used to look at me, like I was a prize he had won. I’m not sure how it’s different yet, but it is.

  *

  On the fifth day, during which she spent six hours in the lab cursing over an experiment that simply would not cooperate, another cream-colored envelope arrived in the mail. Amelia opened it as soon as she got home, still smelling of chemicals and in desperate need of a bath.

  This time, it actually was to a garden party. Amelia stuck the invitation on the fridge below the picture of Prince Arthur that was still there.

  Amelia and the Prince were likely to have very little opportunity to interact at a garden party. If the matter of marriage were still on the table — and surely the garden party was not just some odd consolation prize — she wanted to discuss this situation with him more. Much more. In great and lingering detail. But she didn't know how or when.

  Her mobile rang, and she fumbled through her coat pockets to find it. It was her mother, calling to inform Amelia that she and Amelia’s father, as well as Charlie and Jo and even Nick, had received an invitation to the palace for a garden party a few weeks from now. Would Amelia like to go to dinner with them all afterward?

  Amelia said yes and then took a deep breath. “Actually, Mum, I’ve an invitation to the party as well.”

  “Have you now? Does this have anything to do with that photo of you and the Prince at the races?”

  Amelia bit her lip and wondered if her mother’s tone — curious, amused, and definitely judgmental — was a reason to confess or a reason to wait. Somehow, her situation didn’t seem the sort of thing to share over the phone. “I don’t know.” She did her best to sound normal.

  “That’s lovely. Do you want me to send down some clothes for you?”

  It was on the tip of Amelia’s tongue to say no, she had a good outfit at school, she was fine. But then she remembered that Prince Arthur had already seen her in that. She should probably wear something different. Even if she’d be wearing a coat over it. She resisted the urge to bang her head on her desk. “Yes. Thank you.”

  *

  At the palace, guests mingled in overcoats and gloves. People tried to hover near heat lamps set up around the garden without looking like they were cold. In the summer, the gardens of Buckingham Palace were lush and green, the flowers vibrant and beautiful. Amelia remembered coming to these events as a child and being admonished to stay out of the fountains.

  Now, in the depths of winter, there was a stark beauty to the grounds. The texture of the stones and the bare branches of trees stood out clearly against the snow and the grey sky. The mingled breath of the assembled formed the faintest mist, as though they all existed on the edge of faerieland.

  Surely, Amelia thought as she navigated her way through the crowd, she could find her family more easily if she weren’t quite so short. Not that she particularly wanted to find her family. Once she did, she’d have to talk to them, and she still hadn’t decided whether or not to tell them about the offer Prince Arthur had made her. Although, in public at a palace was probably not the place to break that news to her mother.

  Jo found Amelia first and walked slowly with her over to the rest of the family — Nick, Charlie, and Earl and Countess Brockett.

  “I thought you didn’t like this kind of thing.” Amelia said, grateful at the prospect of having Jo as a buffer between herself and her mother.

  “Oh, I don’t. Charlie just asked me very, very nicely.” On her lapel, an enameled pin of York’s white rose reflected the day’s weak sunlight in daring protest.

  Charlie turned at the sound of his name. When he caught Jo looking at him his face broke out in an unselfconscious grin. Jo smiled back, and Amelia had to look away. Happiness of the sort her brother and sister-in-law shared had always seemed the point of marriage. Could giving that up possibly be worth what Prince Arthur offered?

  Amelia gradually became aware that people were staring at her. She wished she’d worn a different coat than the one she’d had on at the races or that her hat hid her face better. When she’d dressed that morning it had never occurred to her that people would recognize her. God damn the Daily Observer and whoever had sent in that picture of her and the Prince.

  “Come on.” Jo looped her arm through Amelia’s. “Let’s take a walk, so when people stare we won’t have to know which of us they’re being awful about.” They made a loop of the garden, stopped at the food tents to grab tea and tiny sandwiches served on very fine china, and then cycled back to the rest of the family just as there was a susurration in the crowd.

  Amelia was suddenly aware that Prince Arthur was there, mingling his way through the throng. His niece, Princess Georgina, was at his side. She was oval-faced, with deep-set eyes, and dressed in a somber navy with her blond hair pulled back into a tight chignon. Georgina seemed to Amelia an odd mix of preternatural poise and the coltishness all teen girls possessed.

  “They’re coming over here,” Jo hissed at her. Her voice, and the elbow in Amelia’s side, were gently teasing.

  When he reached them, Prince Arthur only glanced briefly at Amelia before he greeted her parents and shook Charlie’s hand, though this time without the manly back-slapping hug. Princess Georgina said her hellos as well, and Amelia found herself deeply unsettled when the Princess’s sharp green eyes fixed on her. Once Prince Arthur had worked through the proper order of precedence, he turned to Amelia.

  “Lady Amelia.” He took her hand with both of his, which was very much not protocol. Both of them were wearing gloves against the cold, but gloves could not conceal how big his hands were or the warmth Amelia could feel through the layers of fabric. His palms dwarfed her much smaller hands, and his grip was firm and sure.

  “Your Highness,” she said with the same curtsy she had used in a room at this palace just a week before. Except that had been in private. Now Amelia’s entire family, not to mention scores of strangers, were watching.

  “I trust school is going well?” he asked.

  “Very, sir.”

  “I’m glad to hear it,” he said with just the faintest hint of a smile before moving on to the next little gaggle.

  Every member of Amelia’s family present turned to stare at her, but she took no notice of them. She was looking at Prince Arthur as he strolled away from her, at the proud line of his shoulders that tapered down to his narrow waist. Suddenly, Princess Georgina turned over her shoulder to stare at Amelia. Amelia ducked her head and pretended to study the ground. How could the Prince think it wise she take the throne from this fox-faced witch girl?

  *

  Presently came the announcement that the King and Queen Consort were arriving. The guests were chivvied by Gentlemen at Arms into two long lines while King Henry XII and Queen Cecile walked down the aisle between, greeting a few s
elect attendees. One of the Gentlemen at Arms, who was roaming a few feet ahead of the royal couple, stopped in front of Amelia and informed her that their Majesties would be speaking with her.

  Amelia had never, ever been singled out for attention like this. No one else in her family had been either, to her knowledge. Her parents may have been important and docile enough to get invited to these parties with some regularity, but they were still from the northern peerage.

  She stammered her way through her acknowledgement of the protocols. This had to have been Prince Arthur’s doing. She wondered if the King and Queen knew what their son had offered her, or what they thought of it if they did.

  Amelia felt her mother’s eyes boring into the back of her head and could sense everyone else holding their breath. With a silent and heavy grace, her father shifted to the side so Amelia could step into the front row.

  When King Henry, Queen Cecile at his side, reached where Amelia and her family were standing he did not greet her parents first or, in fact, at all. Instead, as they all made the proper bows and curtsies, the King turned his eyes — so very like Princess Georgina’s — to Amelia. He was not a tall man, and his frailty was apparent. Even so, he shone with a delighted vibrancy.

  “Lady Amelia,” he said in a voice Amelia had heard on the radio and on TV every year at Christmas. His gaze was kind but remote, distant and assessing. A king sizing up a subject and deciding if she were worthy.

  “Your Majesty.” She ducked her head away from his gaze as Queen Cecile looked from one member of the family to the next, taking in their reactions and those of the people around them. Whispers had broken out, but they fell silent as the Queen’s eyes fell on the crowd.

  The Queen murmured something warm and polite; Amelia greeted her as well; and the pair moved on down the line.

  Charlie put a steadying hand on Amelia’s back, but Amelia didn’t let herself lean into it. Now that the eyes of the King were gone from her, the eyes of everyone else in a ten-meter radius were trained on her instead. No daughter of York should be seen to collapse in the face of a Lancastrian king.

  *

  Two hours later, night had fallen on London. Amelia trailed after her family as they made their way to a Chinese restaurant for dinner. Before they walked inside Charlie fell back, took her by the elbow, and steered her to a little lamp lit spot of pavement beside the door.

  “What?” Amelia asked, blinking. “Whatever this is, can’t we do it inside where it’s warm?”

  “We could,” Charlie acknowledged. “But I thought you’d prefer not to have Mum overhear. Or anyone else.”

  Amelia folded her arms over her chest and said nothing.

  “Arthur called me three days ago,” her brother said.

  “He did?” Charlie was the only person Amelia had ever known who talked about the Prince with such familiar terms. But then, he and Prince Arthur were friends, and he was allowed. Amelia was not, even though the Prince had asked her if she, hypothetically, wanted to marry him.

  “He did. And he told me to watch out for you. And that’s all he told me.”

  Amelia tipped her face up to look Charlie in the eye. “Do you have a question then?”

  Charlie shook his head. “No. I just wanted you to know that whatever’s going on, I know a bit more about it than anyone else except you two —”

  “I assure you, I have no idea what’s going on.”

  “— and you can talk to me. If you need to.”

  Amelia scoffed. “That would be like talking to you about subduction zones.”

  “Just, look, Meels.” Charlie’s voice was low and urgent. “He’s twice your age, his life is stranger than we can fathom, and his first wife died.”

  “Ten years ago; I’m not dating him; Princess Imogene died in a skiing accident; and that’s not catching. Can we go inside now?” Amelia spoke brusquely to mask her rising anxiety. Charlie wasn’t wrong. There was no way she could fathom what she was getting into.

  Charlie wrung his hands. “I’m just saying, if he’s taken an interest in you —”

  “Do you think we’re having an affair?”

  “I think you’re my only sister, and one of my dearest friends who happens to be the Prince of Wales can be a womanizer who doesn’t always make the best choices.”

  “I promise you that’s not what’s going on.” Amelia remembered pictures in the tabloids, photos from holidays Arthur had taken with one or another of his mistresses. There had been white sand and blue water, and the press had been blamed each time said mistress did not become a princess. Whatever was going on now certainly was not that.

  “Then what is?” Charlie asked.

  Amelia said nothing and met his gaze steadily. Her determination was rising. If she did want this — and she wasn’t yet sure that was the case — it wasn’t something she could pursue half-heartedly. She could panic and run, or she could carry on. And if she carried on, the stakes were far too high for her to do so casually. She owed her brother a better explanation. She owed herself a better choice. But this was neither the time nor the place to speak the words. She wasn’t sure yet. And neither was the Prince.

  Charlie’s eyes moved over her face, looking for something. “I won’t tell Mum and Dad,” he said softly. “But you can’t keep whatever this is a secret. Not for long anyway. I don’t think you’re made for it.”

  Amelia considered every bizarre thing that had happened to her since Christmas and found herself at once furious at his doubt and desperate to, somehow, someday, prove him wrong.

  “Come on,” she said, taking his elbow like she had no secrets and he was the one in need of familial support. “Let’s go inside.”

  *

  Amelia woke the next day to half a dozen emails, sent by her brothers, her lab mates, and even Priya. They all contained the same thing: A link to an article about her appearance at the garden party at Buckingham Palace.

  The Palace had released official pictures of the event, which included photos of Amelia and Arthur during their brief conversation — complete with inset zoomed-in shots of Arthur holding her hand — as well as ones of King Henry and Queen Cecile talking to Amelia.

  Seeing herself in multiple photos with royalty was peculiar enough. The text that accompanied the shots was even stranger. Someone, very much not the Palace, had done their research and what appeared was a lengthy profile of Amelia including her family background, where she’d gone to school, what she was studying in university, and what her parents and brothers did.

  Amelia deleted all the emails and cleared the website from her browser history. It felt like having a live grenade in her bag, carrying that around.

  Lectures that day were full of turned heads and whispers that followed her wherever she went. Doing homework with other people staring at her was far more than she wanted to cope with, so instead of going to the library after her last lecture, Amelia went to the gym. An hour on the treadmill didn’t exactly clear her head, but endorphins were wonderful things. By the time she was finished she was too worn out to worry about her classmates, her parents, Prince Arthur, or anyone else.

  She had just left the gym and was trying to stuff her water bottle back in her bag when someone on the street shouted her name. She looked up, startled, and was caught completely off-guard as a flash went off in her face.

  By the time she had blinked the spots out of her eyes, the photographer was gone. Amelia stood on the sidewalk, gritty London snow from a week ago in slushy piles around her, feeling far, far colder than the winter afternoon.

  For the rest of her walk home, she jumped whenever anyone stood too close to her at intersections. Which, given that it was London and the streets were as always busy, was frequently. Amelia was annoyed at herself, but she was more angry at the intrusion into her life that had made her so. What gave anyone the right to just do that to someone?

  Back at the flat, Amelia made herself a cuppa with hands that were still shaking, then collapsed on the couch with her lapto
p. She didn’t bother to shower or even change out of her workout clothes.

  Priya found her hours later, half a cup of cold undrunk tea on the floor beside her and a half-completed lab report open on her stomach.

  “What happened to you?” she asked as she took in the scene.

  “I don’t want to talk about it,” Amelia said dully.

  “Nuh-uh. House rule. If you’re making the sofa gross you have to tell me how it got that way.” Priya folded her arms and gave Amelia a judgmental look.

  “That house rule is so you won’t shag guys in the living room,” Amelia pointed out.

  “Yeah, like that’s stopped me.”

  “Priya!”

  “Relax, you weren’t here. And it was just the one time — my life isn't as exciting as you think. Regardless the rule is still applicable. Even though the premise of it is flawed because it assumes I have shame. Which I do not. But you, apparently, do.”

  Amelia sighed. She could deflect Priya, but not forever. Eventually she was going to need to talk to someone about what was going on. “You saw the article about me,” she said.

  “The article? There are dozens now!”

  Amelia let her head fall back against the arm of the couch. “Shit.”

  “What did you expect? You’re dating the Prince of Wales! Which, by the way, when were you going to tell me?”

  “We’re not dating,” Amelia said automatically.

  “Really? Is that why he was making eyes at you at a royal garden party and introducing you to the King and Queen?” Priya shoved Amelia's ankles off the couch to make room for herself.

  “He didn’t introduce us.”

  “No? His and Her Majesty just decided to stop and say hi to you for no reason?” Priya folded herself onto the couch and grabbed a pillow to hug to her chest.