by Erin McRae
The car pulled to a stop. As the chauffeur hurried around the door and handed Amelia and then Priya out, a pair of footmen darted out of the house and to retrieve their belongings from the boot.
Amelia looked up from tugging her skirt straight to see Queen Cecile standing in the shade. She felt as if she’d been caught out, but she wasn’t sure at what. She tugged at Priya’s elbow. “Come on, we can’t curtsey from here.”
“Why not?” Priya hissed. “And why is she waiting for us?”
“Because we’re her guests,” Amelia hissed back. “Are you nervous?”
“Of course I’m nervous; she’s the Queen. Doesn’t she have anything better to do?”
“She’s also a person,” Amelia said, but Priya had a point, if not about Queen Cecile, then about the role she filled. The King was power. The Queen was all that was good and right and proper about a British woman. Amelia was fairly certain that neither she nor Priya lived up to that ideal. She’d never felt it more acutely. It must have shown on her face.
“Are you scared?” Priya asked.
“No,” Amelia lied. Lately, she was scared of everything.
*
Queen Cecile greeted them both warmly and interrupted their curtsies before they went too deep. She seemed unsurprised by Priya’s presence and greeted her by name. Mr. Jones had saved her once again.
“Girls. It’s so good to have you here. And Amelia, I am glad you’ve realized this journey you are on is not one to be undertaken alone.”
Amelia bit her tongue. The knowledge was hardly new. Not when the whole of the kingdom cared about her every move and Priya had once had to defend her from the press with shoes.
“Thank you, Your Majesty, for being amenable.”
The Queen waved a hand in a manner that reminded Amelia of her mother. “I believe we’re scheduled to take tea together to go over the itinerary for your stay, but surely you want to see your rooms and freshen up first?”
*
Despite her earlier visit to Sandringham, Amelia had not seen this part of the house. The apartments she and Priya had been assigned were luxuriously appointed with heavy, ancient furniture that bordered on the oppressive. Dark oak dominated the living and dining areas. The bedrooms, which had an adjoining door between them, seemed tiny under the command of ancient tester beds with heavy velvet canopies. Amelia had loved such beds as a child, the curtains keeping her from the prying eyes of the adult world, but now they struck her as claustrophobic. Like coffins.
Their luggage had already been brought up, and Amelia took a few minutes to unpack, hanging her clothes in a truly magnificent wardrobe. The windows by her dressing table were open, and the warm springtime breeze ruffled the curtains.
As Priya busied herself with her own preparations, Amelia went to the bathroom to check her makeup and fix her hair more thoroughly. When she emerged back into her bedroom, she shrieked.
Two minutes ago her bedroom had been empty. Now, it was full of birds. Pigeons to be precise. Perched on the tester canopy, pecking at her hat on the dressing table, striding about on the floor as if they were the masters of the house. One particularly plump specimen on the windowsill ruffled itself and cooed.
Priya barged in through the adjoining door. “What the bloody hell?”
Amelia gestured to the birds, which were too alarming to summon words for.
A frantic series of knock came from the door leading out to the hall. “Lady Amelia?” came the voice of a worried footman. “Lady Amelia, are you in need of assistance?”
She knew the birds were not her fault — how could they be? — but she felt embarrassed nonetheless. She was like a magnet for bad, awkward, vaguely spooky misadventure.
“What do we do?” Priya asked.
Amelia made a wordless noise and flapped her hands at the invading birds. One, settling itself on her pillows, flapped back.
Priya grabbed a throw blanket off the back of a chair. “Shoo!” She waved it at the birds.
The birds remained unperturbed.
The knock came at the door again, louder. “Lady Amelia! Is everything well?”
“There are pigeons!” she shouted, having finally found her voice.
The door opened, and one of the footmen who had led them upstairs hurried in through the sitting room to her bedroom. He stopped at the sight before him.
“Ah. So there are. Pigeons.”
Amelia clapped her hand over her mouth to keep from laughing at the absurd understatement. Her mobile chirped with an alert in her bag. She scurried to dig it out, if only because she could respond to a text; she could think of no response to an invasion of pigeons.
The message was from Arthur and included a picture. He was at some nature preserve, holding a koala. It was hard to say who looked more unimpressed: Arthur, or the koala.
Making great friends with the wildlife here, the accompanying text read.
What timing, Amelia texted back, and then snapped a picture of her bedroom at Sandringham covered with pigeons.
*
Once the footmen had escorted Priya and Amelia to the safety of the hallway — and their belongings had been rescued — Queen Cecile herself led Priya and Amelia to their new rooms.
“I’m sorry the beginning of your stay here has been so disruptive,” she said, ever serene, as she navigated through the hallways. “And I am sorry to have to move you from those rooms; they do offer the best view of the grounds.”
“It’s no problem, ma’am,” Amelia said. Priya nodded fervent agreement.
Queen Cecile, however, continued with her explanations. “The groundskeeper was not willing to make any promises as to how long it would take to safely remove the birds. And then, of course, the rooms will need to be…cleaned,” she finished delicately.
“Does this sort of thing happen often?” Amelia ventured to ask. “If I’d known, I wouldn’t have opened the window.”
The Queen shook her head. “No. Hardly ever, in fact. And when it does, it usually involves my granddaughter.”
“Princess Hyacinth?” Amelia guessed. She could easily see the mischievous Princess conspiring to bring wildlife into the house.
Cecile shook her head. “No. Of course not. Hyacinth’s a normal girl. I meant George. Our little court witch, obviously.”
Amelia and Priya exchanged a look.
“Now, I want to apologize again for the rooms I must give you.”
“I’m sure they’re fine, ma’am,” Priya said. “This is Sandringham after all.”
The Queen fixed her with a keen eye, such that Priya shrank back against the wall.
“No, listen to me. These are the only rooms we could put together in such short notice. And they have a history.”
“Murder?” Amelia blurted before she could think better of it. The birds had clearly shaken her self-control. Arthur might be used to her outbursts, but the Queen wasn’t.
Cecile, though, smiled. “No. Not really.”
The footman opened a door and flicked on the lights. The rooms were as beautiful, if not more so, than the set the pigeons had invaded. Heedless of any concerns related to birds, the Queen entered and pulled up the sash.
“Bosworth Field is two hours off that way,” she said. “Some of the wounded straggled up by the lake before this house was even here. Periodically the land, or the groundskeepers, or the royal archaeologists turn something up.”
“I’m London-born,” Priya volunteered. “Makes no difference to me.”
The Queen turned toward Amelia, clearly expecting a response.
“I’m quite used to living with my history,” she said with as much magnanimity as she could muster. She was uncertain if the Queen were trying to be kind or cruel in mentioning the site of Richard III’s defeat.
“I’m sure you are. But we’ve had many a guest — partial to all sorts of roses — complain that in these rooms they could hear the sounds of battle, wounded men and dying horses. I shouldn’t want you to be so uncomfortable that you wo
uld prefer to sleep with the birds.”
*
Eventually, their belongings were delivered, the Queen departed, and Amelia and Priya were left alone.
The light and breeze of the countryside filtered into the room as if nothing remarkable had occurred. But even through the vast windows the outside world seemed unreachable in the haze of peculiarity at hand. There was a creak as the house settled, and Priya grabbed her hand.
“Are you sorry you came?” Amelia asked. Everything that had happened since they’d arrived was some mix of embarrassing and frightening. Amelia felt desperately at fault for it, as if her northernness had summoned George’s birds or the rumored ghosts of Richard’s dying horses.
“Yes. No. I don’t know.” Priya shook her head. “I wouldn’t have believed you if I’d not seen it with my own eyes.” She slipped her hand out of Amelia’s and sat down on a sofa. “You’re the womb and I’m the womb’s faithful servant. The house is full of birds. The Princess is a witch; the Queen is quite possibly mad; and a ghost army might be massing on the shores of that pathetic little lake out there. Meanwhile, your fiancé is gallivanting about with koalas, which definitely seems like best choices. But I get to go home in a week, and this — or places like it — will be home for you forever.”
“Can I ask you something?”
“You hardly need my permission, Lady Amelia.”
“And you hardly need take that tone with me, Lady Flip-flop.”
Priya gave her a weak smile. “I don’t actually like being called that, but what is it?”
“I’m sorry,” Amelia said automatically. “If it had been you that met him at the races, and got sucked into this….”
“But it wouldn’t have been, would it?” Priya pointed out. “I’m not a neat little package of political expedience, am I? No well-connected brother, either. So. ”
“I wish you wouldn’t —”
“This was going to be hard on our friendship eventually. Let’s just acknowledge it and move on,” Priya’s voice was anything but conciliatory and fairly so.
“All right. Yes. It’s horrible. But it shouldn’t have been me either. And I need to know, if this had happened to you, what would you have done?”
For a long time Priya said nothing. “You won’t like this, but I wouldn’t have told anyone. And I would’ve said no.”
“Why?” Amelia asked.
“Because if I won’t let my family get involved in my personal life, why on earth would I let my country, and all its centuries of bad behavior, do so instead?”
*
The rest of the evening and next morning passed without further dramatic incident. In the early afternoon, as she and Priya were investigating books in the library, Amelia was informed by a footman that the Queen desired her presence.
She threw Priya a questioning look.
“Well go on then,” Priya said. “It’s not like you can say no.”
“You’ll be fine?”
“I’m a big girl. If I get lost or am subject to a pigeon attack, I’ll yell.”
Amelia followed the footman out of the library and through meandering corridors to a door that opened onto a study. There, amid light woods and furniture upholstered in cream and mauve, the Queen sat at a desk writing a letter. As soon as Amelia was ushered into the room, she set down her pen.
“Amelia. Thank you again for coming. I trust your rooms are comfortable?”
“Yes, ma’am. And I’m pleased to report the night passed with no ghost activity.”
“I’m glad to hear it.”
The Queen offered Amelia a seat at the low sofa under the big window, called for refreshments for the both of them, then sat down next to her. She kept up such a run of pleasantries and small talk until the tea came in that Amelia barely had to think of what to say at all. She was astoundingly grateful.
“Before we get started on anything else,” the Queen said, holding a fine bone china cup and saucer in her pale, slender hands. “I wanted to say how much I admire you for the way you spoke to that young man. And the way you stood up for yourself to Ms. Slingsby. It was very brave of you, and all the girls of England need someone who will remind the world of their worth and the respect they are due.”
Amelia nearly dropped the sugar spoon she’d just picked up. “Are you saying,” she blurted before she could think better of it, “that you invited me to Sandringham for three weeks because I yelled at my ex-boyfriend and at the head of royal public relations?
Queen Cecile gave an enigmatic smile. “No. Bringing you here is a tradition of long standing. Imogene came, before she and Arthur married. I came in my turn, when I was engaged to our king. So have all the women who have married into the family since this place was built.”
“Is this one of those things that gets mentioned in the princess binder?”
“Yes. In some detail.”
“I haven’t read it yet,” Amelia confessed.
“I know.” Cecile looked amused at Amelia’s ignorance, but not upset. “But that manual can hardly teach you all you need to know. Which is where I — and these three weeks — come in. I know Princess Violet has been helping you figure out what sort of work you want to do after your marriage. But Her Royal Highness is not the last job title you will hold. Even my own daughter cannot help prepare you for the burden you will carry, when my son is crowned king.”
“Three weeks is hardly long enough,” Amelia said.
The Queen laughed with good grace. “That is true, and it is best you know it. But you are capable and determined. And if you are willing to work hard, I know you will be able to use any tools I can give you to the best advantage of yourself, your husband, and the kingdom.”
*
The Queen had a timetable prepared for Amelia and Priya both. Amelia’s days were consumed with lessons about etiquette on the international stage, the management of royal residences, and the difficulties of raising children in the public eye. Priya, meanwhile, got to spend her days skeet shooting and playing garden croquet when she was able to avoid the clutches of the Queen’s mistress of the robes, who was determined to involve Priya in any and all preliminary wedding preparations.
Each night, Amelia returned to their rooms with the books, journals, and letters Cecile suggested she read. They exposed less the practical lessons Amelia was struggling to learn and more the personal costs that came with the crown.
As she and Priya perused them, Amelia no longer wondered why her friend would have said no to Arthur’s offer had their situations been reversed. The life she had signed up for would be luxurious yes, but worthy of much complaint; the surest way for her to receive no succor would be to vocalize any of it. Her comforts would be history, friends who would hopefully stay beside her despite her change in circumstance, and a spouse far more wedded to the nation than to his bride. Amelia couldn’t help but note how the King was not present in these days, but on his own holiday at Balmoral Castle, four hundred miles away.
*
“Think you’ll survive on your own?” Priya asked.
Amelia stuffed a lemony iced cake in her mouth, heedless of the crumbs that dropped onto her pajamas. Priya would leave in the morning, but for now lay side-by-side with Amelia in her bed, as ladies-in-waiting once did to keep their mistresses warm. The pigeons had not found their new rooms, and the sounds of battle had not been heard, but Amelia still dreaded the prospect of being alone here. She imagined the work of this trip — and the circumstances of it — would only become more difficult without her friend by her side.
“Better than I would have been had I come alone. How’s that?”
“It’ll have to do,” Priya said.
“It will, won’t it?”
Priya rolled onto her side to face Amelia. “Will you promise me you’ll leave if things get odd?”
“Things are odd now.”
“More odd. Like, really, really odd.”
Amelia promised. She couldn’t blame Priya for worrying. Anything seemed p
ossible here and not in a good way.
They didn’t fall asleep until long after midnight. When they did, Amelia dreamed of a raven, huge and solitary, watching her.
The following afternoon, after one of the Crown’s ubiquitous black Bentleys whisked Priya away down the drive, the Queen’s chief lady-in-waiting announced that the King was due for dinner, and Amelia was expected to meet with him after.
*
“Lady Amelia.” The King held the door to his study open for her. He seemed as kind and as welcoming as he had upon their first meeting, and Amelia found herself returning his smile instinctively.
He waved her into the seat across from his desk and crossed the room to a sideboard where several decanters and bottles were perched. This room was about the same size as Cecile’s study, but paneled in dark wood and furnished with heavy leather furniture. The contrast was striking, but each room seemed to suit its inhabitant perfectly.
“Drink?” the King asked. “Arthur tells me you’re fond of scotch.”
Amelia thought that was a rather unladylike thing for the King to know about her, although she was grateful for the thought of a drink. Why — and when — had they been discussing her drink preferences? “What else Arthur has told you about me?”
The King handed her a tumbler and retreated behind his desk to sink into well-worn leather. “Many, many things,” he said. “All of them good. And I know my wife’s spent a lot of time with you these last few days, teaching you about being a queen.”
“Yes, sir. As much as such a thing can be taught.” She considered confessing her fear of not being able to fill the role laid out for her, but decided against it. Doing so would only relieve her own discomfort temporarily and would benefit the King — and the country — in no way at all.
“Indeed.” The King nodded and took a sip from his glass. “I’m afraid there’s very little I can do for you, at least in the way Cecile can. I know all that she does and very little of how she manages any of it. My power in most things is of a much less practical nature. However there are some very practical things I can do for you, and we should talk about that.”
