by Erin McRae
*
Tuesday evening, Amelia let Arthur ring her parents and break the good news to them. He had offered, and while it may have been the more cowardly route, Amelia thought that he owed her. She found it deeply satisfying to sit next to Arthur in his private sitting room while he called her parents Sir and Ma’am and was in every respect the perfectly-mannered suitor.
It also kept her from dwelling on the news coverage of the day, which had heavily featured a raven missing from the Tower and what its disappearance might mean for the Unified Kingdom. Particularly when the Lancastrian Prince of Wales had brought a Yorkish girl to stay with him in St James’s.
When it was her turn to speak with her parents, Arthur handed the mobile over with a distinct look of relief.
“You managed to get engaged this year after all.” Her mother spoke in an exceptionally dry tone.
“Thank you, Mother.” Amelia couldn’t help but echo her tone.
“Are you all right?”
Amelia wondered when people would stop asking her that. That they cared about her well-being was a positive, but that people felt the need to make that inquiry in response to an engagement was not, on the whole, reassuring. “All things considered, yes.”
“Have you slept with him yet?”
“Mother!” Amelia looked at Arthur, certain he could hear both sides of the conversation. He stared back at her placidly, but that was no denial.
“You’ve been living in the same house as him for days. Surely you’ve had opportunities.”
“Mother, I am not discussing this with you,” Amelia protested, though both she and her mother were laughing. “Can you hand me to Dad so he can scold?”
“In a moment,” her mother said more solemnly. “I want you to know I’m proud of you.”
*
Amelia woke on Thursday, the morning of the announcement, to gloomy skies and unsteady nerves. Her rooms in the palace, low-ceilinged and dark-walled, seemed even smaller despite its luxurious furnishings and the delicate cream color of the bed hangings.
She wondered how Arthur could stand to live in a place this dark. Modern LED lighting and strategically placed mirrors only did so much in such an old building. But perhaps the moodiness suited him, the habitually mournful Prince of Wales. Although, surely, he hadn’t been perpetually sad when Imogene was alive and lived here with him.
When Amelia arrived downstairs to the breakfast room, Arthur was already there. One of his dogs was curled up at his feet and perked up its ears at the sight of her.
“Good morning,” Arthur said warmly, folding his newspaper as Amelia took her seat. “How are you?”
“Wishing I could go back to sleep and wake when all of this was over.” Amelia surveyed the spread of food on the table and decided to stick to coffee.
You’re going to be fine,” Arthur said.
“Yes, all I have to do is stand there and look pretty,” Amelia noted more sharply than she had intended. Beatrice had briefed her thoroughly — and firmly — on what was expected of her today. Namely, smile, wave, and say absolutely nothing. Her worries were not about her own performance, but everyone else’s reaction to it.
“You should eat something,” Arthur said after several moments of Amelia staring at her coffee cup and neither of them speaking.
“Can you not?” This time, Amelia intended every bit of her sharpness. She was barely holding it together as it was; she did not need Arthur attempting to take care of her.
“Of course. My apologies,” he said, his tone as mild and unoffended as if Amelia had merely spoken of the weather. “Have you heard, they found the missing raven?”
“No, I hadn’t.” Amelia held her breath for a moment in order to avoid sighing with relief. She may have been joining the mythology of her nation, but she was a scientist and had no intention of succumbing to superstitious nonsense about birds. “Where was it?” she asked mildly.
“Down at the pub. Again.”
“This happens a lot?”
“More than you might think.” Arthur was clearly on the verge of laughing himself. Amelia was relieved he didn’t believe. “Apparently it’s quite the lush.”
“George must be pleased.”
“She is. She never believes me when I tell her they’ll turn up. She always thinks it’s going to be the end of the world.”
*
At the appointed time, Amelia and Arthur went to the car waiting to take them to Buckingham Palace. That there was an event scheduled at the palace, following a weekend spent by Arthur and Amelia together, had hardly been kept a secret from the public. Even so, Amelia was startled to find the short drive along the Mall from St James’s to Buckingham lined with people watching the cars as they passed. Some waved and tossed flowers; others stood unsmiling and impenetrably grave, as though the motorcade was something between a wedding and a funeral procession.
She wore a simple pale yellow dress with a navy blue jacket. In other circumstances, she might have liked to have worn a dress to match the stone in her ring. Except that stone was red and Amelia had refused to wear the color of Lancaster. Beatrice, instead of fighting with her, had declared that ‘it wouldn’t do to have her standing next to the Prince and looking like a whore.’
Amelia still wasn’t quite over the horror of that Pyrrhic victory, even if it did mean she didn’t have to wear a red dress. At least she had exceptional shoes to make up for it. They were sage green, with two-inch heels and two narrow straps across the ankle. The colors of her ensemble suited the early spring perfectly.
As they stepped into the palace, Amelia was whisked aside by a very determined assistant from H Branch for touch-ups on her hair and makeup. Amelia could perhaps put her foot down about the color of a dress, but there was no avoiding having her face powdered and her curls arranged over her shoulders. The whole world would see the pictures from today’s announcement.
At last she was released and led by another member of the staff back to the rest of the proceedings. Amelia could hear the babble of voices as she approached. When she rounded the last corner and the room came into view, Arthur was already waiting there, surrounded by a fluttering gaggle of aides and assistants.
Her heels clicked on the slick stone floor, and it might have been that that made Arthur turn to look at her. He nodded at her, a small gesture, and Amelia expected him to turn back to his people. But he kept his gaze fixed on her, watching her walk all the way down the hallway.
Arthur’s face was pensive. When she finally reached him, he held out a hand for her. She was surprised to find his fingers were cold.
“Are you ready?” he asked.
“To be honest, I don’t think so.”
“Do you want to go in there anyway?” He tipped his head toward the presentation room in which the media waited.
She tightened her hand in his. Arthur seemed to understand and share everything that was difficult about this road they had chosen to walk together. Moments like this had made Amelia fall so unwisely, so unrequitedly, in love him.
“Yes,” she said.
Arthur nodded to a footman, who pushed the door open.
Amelia had been put through her paces by the Crown’s publicity team for this moment. She had rehearsed the choreography of it: Walk into the room, hold Arthur’s arm, stand still and smile while he spoke and answered questions. But what rehearsal could not prepare Amelia for — what nothing could prepare her for — was the onslaught of light when she and Arthur crossed the threshold.
Flashbulbs went off, what seemed like thousands of them. Amelia couldn’t see anything and was desperately grateful to be holding on to Arthur. She didn’t understand how anyone could ever acclimate to this, and her encounters with the paparazzi now seemed tame by comparison. She wished fiercely that Priya was here beside her.
Arthur’s statement was brief, doing little more than announcing the engagement and thanking everyone for coming today. The press, however, were not satisfied and immediately started hollering quest
ions. Arthur answered them all calmly.
No, they hadn’t set a date yet but were planning on something this coming fall. Yes, Amelia was wearing two rings, the ruby ring and the diamond eternity band because they wanted to have something between them that wasn’t a part of their royal roles. Yes, Amelia was from York, but her allegiance was to the whole of the kingdom and the wedding would take place at Westminster Abbey, as was traditional.
“Lady Amelia, how does it feel to follow in Princess Imogene’s footsteps?”
The question, shouted over the end of Arthur’s words, was shocking. Arthur’s arm, which Amelia still held, jerked almost imperceptibly. She had to employ all her inner discipline not to gape. Considering that Imogene was dead, following in Arthur’s dead wife’s footsteps wasn’t something she was in any hurry to do quickly. And with Arthur right there, the question was just cruel.
“I know Prince Arthur still cherishes her memory, as does the kingdom. I feel very grateful that he has room in his heart for me after so great a loss,” she said. “I will be paying my respects at her gravesite.” Amelia felt strangely far away from herself as she spoke. She’d never been trained to be any sort of public figure, yet she knew what to say. Her words were surely a far better choice than her and Arthur hurrying away in the face of an awkward question. “You’re very brave for asking.”
Arthur clasped his hand over hers where she clung to his arm and squeezed. They smiled for yet another dizzying volley of flashes and then someone from the public relations team announced the event over.
The second they had retreated back out to the corridor, Amelia felt her legs go weak. There were too many people about for her to just collapse on to the floor of the palace, but she was only still standing because Arthur was holding her up.
They rounded a corner, and then he was pushing her into one of the antique, red velvet, and hideously uncomfortable chairs that lined the hall at intervals.
He crouched in front of her, still holding her hand. “You did very well,” he said.
“Even if you were wildly off script,” Beatrice said as she came clattering around the corner. Amelia still couldn’t see properly — her vision was a haze of yellow and purple spots from the flashes — but Beatrice’s voice, and the irritation in it, was distinct. “Now we’re going to have to arrange a visit to Princess Imogene’s gravesite. We’ll need to release a photo or two, but due to the sensitive nature we can keep most of the press away.” She turned to Arthur, “I’m sorry, sir, I know this must be difficult for you.”
“It was an expected question.” He dropped Amelia’s hand and stood. “We should have been prepared.”
*
That evening, Amelia and Arthur had dinner with the King, Queen, Amelia’s parents, Nick, Charlie, and Jo. After the events of the day, Amelia wanted a bath and a nap, not a formal dinner for which she would have to be alert and attentive. But this was her life now, and so she sat and talked and ate, all the while keeping her posture perfect despite desperately wanting to slouch.
After the meal was finally over, and after Amelia had hugged her parents goodbye and promised to come home soon to visit, Arthur stepped up beside her.
“Can I see you to your rooms?” he asked.
“I thought we were driving back together?” She needed to stop assuming; logistics were a thing that happened to her now, not something she had any say in orchestrating.
“We could, if you want,” Arthur said. “But it’s a lovely evening. I thought you might enjoy the walk.”
“A walk would be lovely,” Amelia said, though the offer still puzzled her. If Arthur didn’t love her, there was no reason for him to go out of his way to spend time with her out of the limelight and away from their families.
There were only a few hundred yards along the Mall from Buckingham to St. James’s, but they walked slowly. Amelia thought Arthur might want to talk about the day, but he was silent, apparently enjoying the quiet and relative solitude. Amelia, as full as her mind was, could think of nothing to say. The footsteps of security fell behind them at a discreet distance, their figures barely discernible as shadows against the lamplit trunks of trees.
They entered the gate of St. James’s together, past guards that saluted smartly to Arthur. When they reached the ancient oaken door that led to the residential wing of the palace, Arthur stopped.
“On second thought,” he said. “Could I invite you to come up?”
“To your rooms?” Amelia was more surprised now than she had been at the offer to walk her home. This amount of attention was completely unnecessary and left her confused. She wondered if she needed to say yes. She was exhausted, and if Arthur didn’t love her and their engagement was now official, what did she have to lose by saying no?
Her own happiness, a traitorous voice inside her whispered. Arthur didn’t have to love her for any number of forms of satisfaction. He just had to pay attention to her. Which he was trying to do now. Amelia would be a fool to say no.
She realized that Arthur, awaiting an answer from her, was now babbling. “Or your rooms, if you’d rather. But I’m fairly sure I have a better stock of scotch. Assuming that’s to your taste?”
“I grew up with Charlie. It most definitely is.”
“Well then.” Arthur nodded at the door. “Shall we?”
Amelia gamely slipped her arm into Arthur’s. “Is this where you show me your etchings?” If there was truly nothing to lose, there was no reason not to be bold.
He gave her a sly but cryptic smile. “If you’d like.”
The private sitting room he led her to was furnished in much the same style as Gatcombe — dark leather and warm wood — only with a few more ornate a touches, as she supposed befitted the residence of a prince in his palace. On the wall was an ancient tapestry, which Amelia wanted to take a closer look at, but Arthur waved her through the sitting room, on through another door, and into a study.
Here the walls were a light grey, and the furniture was sleeker and more angled than Amelia had seen elsewhere in St. James’s. Navy and silver accents around the room made it look modern and livable, not like the stuffy scarlet and gold that overwhelmed Buckingham.
“You like it?” Arthur asked as she took it all in.
Amelia pursed her lips consideringly. “It’s a little less fairytale prince than I was expecting.”
“Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”
“Since I don’t immediately think that everything in the room, including you and me, is a royal treasure, we’ll say good thing.” She still wasn’t sure what Arthur’s plan was for this evening, or if, in all his mercurialness, he had one.
Arthur busied himself with a decanter while Amelia studied a series of photographs on the wall. They were all black and whites in plain black frames, depicting everything from sweeping cityscapes to a macro shot of a rusted hinge on a wrought iron gate.
“These are beautiful,” Amelia said when Arthur handed her a tumbler.
“Thank you. Imogene took them.”
“Oh! I didn’t know she was a photographer.”
“I’m not surprised,” Arthur said. “It was one of the things she liked to keep for herself.”
“I suppose this is all very odd for you.” Amelia was glad she could keep staring at a picture of a swan on the wind-ruffled surface of a river rather than look at Arthur.
“On the contrary,” he said quietly. “Getting married ten years after my first wife died is probably one of the most normal things I’ve ever done. Even if it is to you.”
“Er, thanks?”
“You really did do a fantastic job today. That’s why it’s always had to be you. You’re never afraid.”
Amelia laughed, low and dark. She took a long swallow of her drink. “On the contrary. I’m always afraid. I just keep going is all.”
“Why?” Arthur sounded genuinely curious.
At that, Amelia turned to face him. “Because I’m Lady Amelia, daughter of York, and that’s what I was taught to do.
Isn’t that what you were taught to do? As a prince and a son of Lancaster and all that?”
“Mostly the all that,” Arthur said, looking at the glass in his hand. “Military life was helpful. Although I dreaded the specter of it as a child.”
“Why?” Amelia asked.
He chuckled. “Oh, I didn’t like people then either. And the army seemed to have rather a lot of them.”
“Did you like it once you were in it?” Amelia asked.
Arthur shrugged. “It was useful. I could be useful. Which is a rare enough feeling around here. But then my grandmother died, my father ascended the throne, and I got pulled from active duty in the Balkans and shipped back here to be invested as the Prince of Wales.”
There was bitterness in his tone as he spoke, and he waved a hand to take in the room, the palace, London itself. Amelia tried to do the math. Arthur would have been no older than she was now.
“I couldn’t look my friends in the eye anymore,” Arthur went on. “I’ve had nothing real to do since.”
“Just the fairly minor task of keeping the country afloat?”
“Parliament and the Prime Minister do that well enough without the monarchy,” Arthur said. “Although, speaking of that,” he hesitated, then cleared his throat. “Since we’re talking about awkward things.”
“Yes?” Amelia asked with some trepidation.
“We haven’t discussed our own physical relationship. Beyond your perfectly fair desire to wait until some future unspecified date.”
“Do we need to discuss it beyond that?” Amelia was dismayed. Engaging in pleasant banter was one thing, but perhaps her earlier flirtatiousness had been too much. Having an actual conversation about sex was not something that felt appealing in this moment.
Arthur gave an awkward laugh. Amelia wanted to dissolve into the floor. Anything would have been better than explaining to Arthur that she didn’t want to wait because she was uptight about sex, but because she felt overwhelmed and uncertain in the face of what her life had become.
