by Erin McRae
Everything had seemed to go well, but perhaps she’d been wrong. Maybe the King and Queen had objected to Amelia. Maybe George had decided that Amelia was not the right bride for Arthur. Or maybe Amelia had simply misstepped in regard to some arcane matter of etiquette or conduct. Whatever had happened, Amelia knew the outcome was likely all the same.
Silly. Silly. So silly. Except that it wasn’t. The Prince of Wales, who offered to marry her to unite their houses and bring peace to the land, had promised to call her and then had not called her. Amelia was left with a cold feeling in her stomach and a litany of all of London’s broken promises to the north running through her head.
*
Five days passed with no word from Arthur.
Friday night she sat with her knees tucked up under the covers, staring at her mobile. She considered whether reaching out again was a good idea. Gary had done this, occasionally, ghosting her in some play for power or her attention. She didn’t want to think Arthur was capable of that too. But…five days, a broken promise, and no word whatsoever.
She navigated to her contacts and hit Your Humble Servant.
He didn’t pick up, though that didn’t surprise her. As she waited for the tone, she climbed out of bed and went to her window.
“Hi, Arthur.” She peeled back the curtain to look out at the London night, bright with light. Below, the flock of photographers huddled, determined as ever. Which seemed ironic, given her current predicament.
“Just calling to say hello,” she said, trying to control any wobble of voice that would give away her nerves. “Which I think I am allowed to do, if we are planning a symbolic unification of the kingdom via our theoretical marriage. But really I just want to make sure everything's all right. And that Parliament hasn’t declared an end to the monarchy or something. Although I’m pretty sure I would have heard about that. I’m thinking about you.”
She concluded more wistfully than she had intended, but she was sure that call, at least, would garner some sort of response from him. Yet her mobile lay silent and quiet all that night and through the weekend.
When Monday came again, she fired off a string of texts to Arthur about various pieces of astronomy trivia; one of her professors had gone on and on about the latest findings from the new Mars rover. Surely, Arthur would be interested.
Her mobile chimed just as she was leaving the lecture hall, and her stomach lurched with excitement when she saw that Arthur had, finally, responded. She thumbed eagerly to the message.
Not now, please, read the text.
Amelia’s heart plummeted, and angry tears — she refused to acknowledge them as hurt — stung her eyes. She switched her mobile to mute, shoved it in her bag, and hurried back to her flat.
*
That Saturday morning — almost two weeks to the day since she had last seen Arthur — Amelia’s mobile rang with the tone Priya had assigned him. Because Your Humble Servant was really not as subtle as Arthur may have thought, and God Save the King was really what Amelia needed blaring across the flat at eleven a.m. while she and Priya made brunch.
Amelia grabbed her mobile off the counter. “Hello?”
“Amelia. How are you?” Arthur asked.
“You remembered my phone number.” It had been two weeks. Two weeks and nothing but a terse text message. She had used all her self-restraint in not to chasing the photographers outside her flat away with the announcement that Arthur had unceremoniously dumped her.
“I’ve been rather busy.”
“I assumed. It was that or you’d fallen off the face of the earth.”
“Well, I haven’t done that.”
“No,” she said. Not even a word of apology! “Was there something you wanted to say to me?”
“No. Not in particular. I just — wanted to hear your voice.”
Whatever Amelia had expected by way of response, it wasn’t that. She took a deep breath to steady herself. “Is that supposed to make me feel better about you ignoring me for two weeks?”
“Probably not.” At least Arthur now sounded somewhat guilty. Not that Amelia was mollified. Not after the worry and anxiety he’d put her through.
“Arthur,” Amelia said, carefully. She’d had a long time to rehearse this speech. “We made a deal. I will be your wife and queen. If that deal is off, I need to know so I can make other plans for my life. If that deal is not off, then you don’t get to ignore my existence as a human being. Whatever grand scheme of destiny you and I are enmeshed in, I am still a person and deserve to be treated as such.”
“Yes. You do.”
Meek agreement was not enough. Amelia needed to understand what had happened and if it would happen again in the future. “Then why didn’t you call me for two entire weeks? If that’s to be the frequency of our communications, that’s one thing, but you said you would call. And then you didn’t.”
Arthur sighed. The sound made the line crackle. “Some time on Sunday after you left the estate at Sandringham, my father suffered what is called a transient ischemic attack, also known as a —”
“A mini-stroke,” Amelia interrupted him, her stomach twisting unpleasantly. “Is he all right?”
“He is fine and spent these last two weeks recovering. Just this morning the doctors cleared him for light activities again. But I have been occupied with concerns for his health. Not to mention concerns about the nation, if I were about to become the bachelor king.”
“I’m so sorry,” Amelia breathed, in genuine sympathy. “But why didn’t you tell me?”
“We didn’t tell anyone,” Arthur responded, rather more curtly. “We couldn’t risk the news leaking to the press. Not in the current climate of political uncertainty.”
Amelia frowned at the wall. “Are you calling me a security risk?”
“We couldn’t tell anyone,” Arthur repeated. Now that she was listening for it, he sounded exhausted.
“All right, then,” Amelia said. “I’m sorry you had a truly awful two weeks. I’m glad your father is doing better.”
“Thank you,” Arthur said.
“But if we’re going to do this,” Amelia went on. “I need to know when I will have a right to know these things. And when things like this happen, I need some signal from you, even if you can’t tell me what it is.”
“I know,” Arthur said. “This would all be a thousand times easier if you were by my side, but you’re not. I’m just here doing what I can.” He paused, but before Amelia could come up with any coherent response, he said, “Come to Gatcombe next weekend.”
“What? Why?” First silence for a fortnight and now an invitation to his private estate?
“I’m trying to make up for ignoring you for two weeks. And I want to see you.”
Amelia wanted to see him too. Which was annoying, given how upset she still was with him. “Can your father spare you?” she asked a little viciously, to give herself time and to make it clear she wasn’t going to back down easily.
“He threatened to disown me if I didn’t stop hovering.”
“Can he do that?” Amelia gawked.
“Technically speaking, yes. Will you come?”
*
Gatcombe, Arthur’s country home, stood overlooking a broad expanse of lawn. Behind it, trees stretched up the long, gentle slope of a hill. Much smaller than Sandringham, the house could even be called modest by royal standards. It might even have been been smaller than Kirkham House.
A large part of her lingering anger at Arthur faded as soon as she saw him standing in front of the house, watching the car as it pulled up the driveway, much like he had that morning at Sandringham. His posture was impeccable, but there was a set to his face that spoke of weariness and worry.
“I’m glad you’re here,” he murmured as Amelia stepped out of the car.
“I could have been here sooner,” she noted more gently than she could have.
He gave her a wan smile and stepped close. Amelia’s breath caught in her throat when he leaned down, bu
t after a moment’s hesitation he pressed a gentle kiss to her cheek, not her mouth.
“Do you want someone to show you to your room so you can rest?” he asked. “Dinner will be soon.”
“It’s a drive from London, not a cross-country carriage trip. And I didn’t even do the driving. I don’t need a nap.” Now that Arthur was including Amelia in his life, she had no intention of hiding away.
“Yes, but you’re about to spend two days trapped in a house with my closest compatriots. I offer what escapes I can.”
As a footman took Amelia’s bags out of the boot of the car, Arthur turned as if to walk back up to the house. Amelia stopped him with a hand to his arm.
“I haven’t studied up. And you hardly provided details beyond logistics,” Amelia said. “Who is here this weekend? Besides us.”
“And this is why I generally do things through my social secretary.” Arthur sighed. “I invited a number of my friends because it’s been some time since I’ve seen anyone except my family and my staff. And you. Who has been furious with me, so I thought that, well, I should ask you too. But it seemed cruel for you not to know anyone here except me, and Violet surely wanted a break too. So I invited my sister and my brother-in-law and told them to bring George and Hyacinth.”
“What should I read into the fact that my brother is not amongst those here?” Amelia knew Charlie had spent many such weekends with Arthur and his friends.
Arthur looked embarrassed. “I did call Charlie. But he was angry with me because I had upset you. He told me I would have to work matters out myself, without him intervening. And Jo wouldn’t have come anyway.”
“Because of the horses?”
“Because of the horses.” Arthur tipped his head toward the house and held his arm out for her. “Shall we?”
*
As Amelia was led upstairs by a footman, she realized she should have inquired of Arthur if she was being given a room of her own or expected to share his. If they were sharing, Amelia hoped Arthur would have warned her, but recent events made her wary of assuming. She could have just asked, but didn't know how without sounding — and feeling — immensely awkward.
It wasn’t until she was ushered into a lush but anonymously appointed room that she was certain she would be sleeping alone. She was relieved. Kissing Arthur, and thinking about doing more than kissing him, was one thing. But this weekend was going to be overwhelming enough without adding sex into the mix. If he could kiss her and then not speak with her for two weeks — not even to offer an explanation as to why — could she trust him to pay her any more attention after they slept together? She wasn’t certain and that uncertainty made her nervous.
After she changed into a knee-length skirt in a deep plum and a buff-colored silk blouse she still had plenty of time before dinner. Amelia figured she might as well use it productively. She ignored the somewhat ancient-looking desk beneath one of the windows in favor of curling up on the lush tester bed with green velvet hangings. She fished her tablet with some readings for her next lecture out of her bag.
The work steadied her nerves and for a while almost made her forget where she was. Which was wonderful until she happened to glance at the clock. She should have been downstairs for dinner ten minutes ago.
She lost another minute checking her hair and makeup in the mirror and then got so turned around in the corridors she couldn’t immediately find the stairs. Her relief when she did quickly turned to dismay. From halfway down the staircase, she had a view of the dining room through the thrown-open French doors. Everyone was already seated around the table and to a one had an excellent view of her.
Including Arthur, whose eyes met hers immediately. The other guests stared at Amelia. Whispers broke out among them. Arthur rose from his seat at the head of the table. Rescue, Amelia hoped.
Never taking his eyes off of her, he navigated his way around the room to her, reaching the foot of the stairs at the same moment she did.
“I’m sorry I’m late,” she whispered.
Arthur said, “I’m glad you’re here.” He took her hand and led her into the dining room and to the empty seat at his right — the place of honor.
The room was large and yet more comfortable and less ornately appointed than Amelia expected. Golden-brown curtains contrasted with the dark blue walls and white crown molding for a look that was elegant without being stuffy. The furniture — walnut sideboards and chairs, not to mention the table — was simple and tasteful. Candles in plain silver holders marched down the center of the table and were clustered on the sideboards, giving the room a festive air. Amelia wondered which of these choices Arthur had been responsible for or if they were the product of tradition and history.
There were a dozen people seated the table: Princess Violet, Lord Matthew, the Princesses Georgina and Hyacinth, Helen the Duchess of Water Eaton, and seven others — four women and three men — Amelia didn’t know. Lord Matthew caught her eye and gave her a conspiratorial smile. Hyacinth, sitting next to him, did the same. Princess Violet merely nodded to her in greeting.
At the foot of the table, in hostess’s place, sat George. The girl wore a dark green dress that brought out the color of her eyes, and her hair was pulled back into a low knot that allowed it to gently frame her face. But her eyes, as they fixed on Amelia, were not soft. In her still-lanky teenager’s body, she was as possessed and graceful as any woman Amelia had ever seen
Across from Amelia on Arthur’s left sat the Duchess of Water Eaton. Amelia wondered what Helen thought of a low-ranked girl from a northern family being seated above her. Whatever her opinions, she was at least pleasant.
Sitting next to Arthur like this was not a pleasure Amelia would have for long. Once they were married, it wouldn’t even be a possibility. As hostess she would take George’s seat at the foot of the table, far away from her prince. Perfectly serviceable for a loveless political marriage, but not quite the intimate companionship Amelia might have once craved for herself. Still, she thought, as the soup was served, it was how her parents did things, and they were happy enough.
Conversation around the table was stilted throughout the first course. Amelia wondered if that was because of her presence, her tardiness, or if something had happened before her arrival.
“Did you see what Canada’s done?” Helen asked into an awkward silence as the soup was cleared and the next course was brought.
“The new Prime Minister?” Amelia had seen the headlines but hadn’t paid much attention beyond that. Between school and her strange courtship with Arthur, she hadn’t had time.
Arthur groaned. “I’ve had people fretting at me for the last week about that. As if there’s anything I can do.”
“The new Prime Minister,” Helen said, for the benefit of a few confused looks around the table. “Is rather enthusiastic about forging Canada’s course in the world. Alone.” She threw a teasing glance at Arthur. “Without her historical ties to the Commonwealth, Britain, and the Crown.”
“Oh,” Amelia said. She hadn’t realized the situation was as bad — at least for Arthur — as that.
“Yes.” Arthur gave an exasperated smile. “Oh. He’s being quite brilliant about it, really. His cabinet picks are exceptional, and he’s making good on his campaign promises. The people adore him, and they’ll follow where he leads.”
“It also doesn’t hurt that he’s very handsome,” Helen said with a sidelong glance at Arthur.
Arthur sighed. “No, it does not.”
Amelia looked at Arthur consideringly. For all that he was the Prince of Wales — and for all his declarations to her that they’d make history together — he was essentially a powerless man bound to an institution that, some days, seemed to be kept around more out of habit than for any practical reason.
“Would you rather have the Prime Minister’s job?” Amelia asked. She was genuinely curious.
Arthur chuckled. “Considering I think he’d rather my job didn’t exist at all….” he trailed off. It wa
sn’t an answer. As Amelia filed it away to explore more later, she caught Helen giving Arthur a look of sympathy mixed with compassion. When Helen noticed Amelia’s eyes on her, she shifted expressions swiftly and dove skillfully into a new conversational topic. Amelia filed that away too.
*
In the post-dinner milling about, Amelia lost track of Arthur as she got caught up in conversation with the Helen and Lord Matthew. When she found him again, he was in one of the drawing rooms on a sofa near the windows, looking out into the dark. He seemed, for a moment, so profoundly alone that Amelia couldn’t help but feel an overwhelming surge of sympathy. No wonder he had been something of a playboy between Imogene’s death and Amelia’s own arrival on the scene. Who wouldn’t in such circumstances seek connection desperately?
Arthur glanced over at her as she sat down next to him. He gave her a tired smile when she didn’t leave the two or three inches between them she might otherwise.
“Maybe this was too much with everything else going on,” he said quietly.
Amelia tipped her head to the side. It wasn’t an apology for ignoring her for weeks, but Amelia appreciated him at least acknowledging the situation.
“Maybe,” she said slowly. “But I’m here now. What do we do?” Perhaps he was as uncertain as she was about how to make sure she was included in his life in the future.
Arthur didn’t answer. Instead, he curled a hand around Amelia’s where it rested on her knee. He lifted it and pressed a kiss to her knuckles. His mouth was warm; Amelia had to bite her lip not to gasp. Such a small touch, but it set every nerve alight.
“I am sorry,” he said barely above a whisper. His breath ghosted over her skin. “I knew I was out of practice at letting people into my life, but I didn’t realize how much.”
Amelia tried to will her mind to work clearly. She could either declare that she didn’t want this anymore, or she could let it go and judge him by future actions.
