by Erin McRae
“Amelia,” Arthur said, his voice stern. “If you don’t like the idea, we can adjust it, but we are marrying to bring our houses and our people together. We can’t do that if you pretend mine don’t exist.”
“Can I acknowledge your existence in a way that doesn’t look like blood?”
“I suppose that depends what you think looks like blood.”
“Perhaps,” the designer broke in again, “we could remove the roses on the bodice and skirt. And limit them to the train.” He pushed another sketch toward Amelia. “Something like this.”
“So you can drag my roses through the dust?” Arthur asked in a mutter.
“They’re our roses, or will be,” Amelia snapped back. She looked at the sketch and then turned toward the designer. “Red roses on the train and perhaps a few on the veil?” She was not going to let Arthur have the final word on this point. “If,” she said, turning to Arthur, “you come to York with me.”
Arthur blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“You heard me.”
“If you wanted me to go to York with you, all you needed to do was ask.”
“And all you needed to do was ask how I felt about red roses on my wedding dress and now here we are.”
Arthur’s eyes narrowed. “Yes.”
“Yes, what?”
“Yes, I’ll come to York with you. Even though I’m not convinced you have any idea what the consequences may be.”
“Protests, abusive headlines, and scoldings by your ministers and my city council?” Amelia offered.
“More or less.”
“Brilliant,” she said. “Let’s go. And I’ll wear your roses.” Internally, Amelia sighed. She and Arthur were definitely not going to bed together this night.
*
To Amelia’s disappointment, Arthur did not appear at the breakfast table the next morning. She had hoped for something that might pass for domesticity, at least while they were staying under the same roof. Their disagreement about the dresses had probably made that out of the question, however.
The Queen, who Amelia breakfasted with, made no mention of her son. She carried on as though nothing at all was amiss, talking with Amelia about the weather and the headlines in the morning’s paper. Her calm presence was a reminder to Amelia that this — mornings alone over the breakfast table — was one more part of the life she had signed up for. She could be sad about it, or she could be interested in the weather and the news, too. She had to learn to be content with her own company, or at least without Arthur’s.
Still, she couldn’t help asking, as their plates were cleared away, “Do you know where I might find Arthur this morning?”
“He’s out and about with his equerry, I believe,” Cecile said. “Not to worry, though, you’ll see him for dancing lessons.”
“Dancing lessons? But I know how to dance,” Amelia blurted.
“Of course,” the Queen said. “This isn’t a sign of our lack of faith in your ability. But everything does need to be perfect.”
Amelia hadn’t seen Arthur since their fight in front of the wedding dress designer yesterday. Faced with the prospect, she would rather not see him at all today than have to dance with him. Her emotions were still too high, too confused, to be that close. She wanted to spend time with him, but memories of Arthur kissing her in the folly hours before springing that monstrosity of a dress on her still made her cheeks burn with fury.
But she’d made her bargain and now here she was.
*
Arthur was waiting for her in the ballroom when she arrived. He wasn’t wearing a jacket, a state of undress Amelia had almost never seen him in. Standing in a bright shaft of sunlight and dipping his head to talk to their dance instructor, he wore nothing more than trousers, a shirt and a waistcoat. He was devastatingly attractive, the very picture of a modern storybook prince.
“Lady Amelia.” Arthur offered a polite nod of his head, but there was nothing of warmth in his tone and it made Amelia quail. Was he going to make her pay for her outburst yesterday? It was definitely within his power to do so, whether in the design of her dress or his agreement to come to York.
This was not the time to sort the matter out, however. At their teacher’s instruction, Arthur wordlessly offered Amelia his hand. She took it just as wordlessly. If he wanted to pass the time in silence, she could match him.
As an earl’s daughter, social dancing was a required skill for Amelia. Growing up she had taken ballroom dancing classes at her mother’s insistence. Arthur was surely at least as well trained and likely in better practice. But they could not find their equilibrium. Not with any sort of waltz, and certainly not with anything more complex. Time and again their instructor made them stop and start again, with admonishments to think less and trust each other more.
Good advice, to be sure. And, in the moment, impossible to take. Yesterday’s conversation about their houses had seen to that. How could she follow a man who had been made her enemy long before either of them had even been born?
“My father told me he asked you what name you want to use, as a princess,” Arthur said, halfway into yet another failed attempt at a Viennese. Amelia had no desire to swoon in his arms on command.
“He did,” she said cautiously. She wasn’t sure where this was going, or what fresh demand Arthur might be about to make. She just knew she didn’t want to deal with it while he was spinning her about the ballroom at Sandringham.
“What name do you want to use?” Arthur asked.
“Why do you want to know?”
“Because it will be your name. Your public one, at least. I’ll have to know eventually. More importantly, since it matters to you, it matters to me.”
If that was meant to be an apology, it was a paltry one. But Amelia had already embarrassed herself by shouting at the Prince of Wales in front of a fashion designer yesterday. She wasn’t going to compound the issue by moving on to a dancing instructor.
“I don’t know,” she admitted. “I’ve never had to decide something like this before. No one’s ever called me anything but Amelia.”
“Which you may retain if you wish and if you so choose,” Arthur said. “You could be Princess Anne or Sarah or anything else you wanted.”
“Even Princess Arthur?” Amelia asked archly.
“Even Princess Arthur.” To her surprise he smiled and squeezed her hand. “And no one could call you Amelia ever again without your permission.” “
“You mean, no one but you could ever call me Amelia again,” Amelia said. Arthur would always outrank her, and their lives would always be such where that would matter.
“Would that be so terrible?”
She flushed at the tone in his voice; he was too clever with it. Within her anger and a strange, almost intrusive, sense of intimacy warred. He was manipulating her now as surely as he had with their excursion to the folly before the disastrous dress meeting.
But he was also pointing out a truth. There was something erotic to the thought of her name as it stood now belonging only to the man that would be her husband. With that thought, they fell into to step. The dance worked, and the counts of their instructor faded into the distance, unnecessary.
She was charmed and dismayed and very much in danger of swooning until she remembered to think beyond Arthur. Without breaking step, she punched him in the arm, hard. “And your father and your mother! Yes, it would be terrible! And you just set me up.”
Arthur laughed.
Amelia stopped and broke their embrace. “You’re horrible,” she said. “And just for that I shan’t ever use Princess Arthur. Even though it was passive-aggressively tempting.”
“You really are delightful when you’re angry,” he said.
“Yes, and you really are very patronizing!”
They smiled at each other like feral creatures. Arthur took a step toward her and extended his arms in the shape of the dance’s embrace. A challenge. She stepped forward into his hands.
“You’re mu
ch more appealing when you’re asking for my consent than when you’re being a bully about your royal status,” she said.
“Would you believe me if I said it were mischief? Not everything I do is about what I am.”
“Would you believe me if I said I didn’t care?” Amelia asked. “I’m out of my element, Arthur. For better or worse, you are the only ally I have. I need you to act like one.”
“You’re right. I’m sorry.” Arthur had the good grace to look abashed. “I’ll do my best, but I do find the best ally is an adversary.”
She would not take up the incredibly tedious argument Arthur was asking her to have. “Then you really will come to York? Like you said?” she asked instead, hating herself for how hopeful she sounded.
“Of course I will,” Arthur said. “I keep my promises. Always. Especially the dangerous ones, very much including you and your precious York.”
“Good.” Amelia liked being thought of as dangerous. “Because I have a feeling there might be riots.”
Chapter 18
A KING FOR EVERY COUNTRY…EVEN YORK
5 June
Year 21 of the Reign of King Henry XII
I survived princess camp! Despite pigeons and ghosts and my utterly intolerable and mercurial fiancé. I had thought that afterwards, I’d return to my flat and life would continue as normally as it could under the circumstances, but that was false optimism.
I’ve been moved into Buckingham Palace from now until my nuptials. If I’m here, I’m taking up a massive suite of rooms with footmen and ladies-in-waiting to attend any and all of my needs. To me that seems excessive, but I’m still creating less of a logistical headache than needing to be regularly transported across the city for meetings. Maybe it’s because I’ve grown up seeing Buckingham on TV, but this palace feels less haunted than St. James’s or Sandringham. I can’t say that I mind.
I see Arthur every third or fourth day when he comes for meetings or meals. Occasionally he invites me to St. James’s for same. Perhaps I am finally letting go of what we don’t have and thinking about what we might. I’m trying at any rate.
Priya and I have given up our flat. We were planning to at the end of the summer anyway, but I still miss it. Priya has moved in with two of her other friends; they found a deal in Whitechapel and are now more fabulous than ever. I haven’t been to visit yet. I wonder if the Palace will even allow it.
Planning a wedding, even a royal one, isn’t a full-time endeavor — at least for me, the bride. But there is a veritable army of people working nearly around the clock to make sure everything goes perfectly in September. With my own copious free time I’ve begun preparing for our royal trip to York. The distance between us aside, Arthur has been true to his word.
*
Amelia had taken the train between London and York more times than she could count. But she’d never done so in such pomp and style. The royal party had two entire carriages to itself. Arthur, Amelia, their staff and their security were more than comfortable for the express ride north.
Despite the lush accommodations, the mood in the royal cars was that of people bracing for a storm. Amelia didn’t feel any more placid. She was excited to be going home for the first time in months, but the stakes were high, and there was much that could go awry. She would also be seeing her parents for the first time since the engagement announcement. She had no idea what to expect from them.
“Sir?” Vyvian, Arthur’s valet who she’d first met at Gatcombe, appeared, interrupting her line of thought. He looked worried.
Arthur, in the seat next to Amelia, looked up from the brief he was reading. “What is it?”
“Sir,” Vyvian said again. His gaze flickered to Amelia and then back to Arthur. “There’s just been a message from the Tower. I’m afraid I have some bad news. About the ravens.”
“Oh for heaven’s sake,” Arthur rolled his eyes. “Don’t tell me one’s gone missing again.”
“I’m afraid they have.”
“The Tower should just install a Yeoman warder down at that blasted pub those damn birds seem to like so much. It would save significant effort. And my niece a great deal of worry,” Arthur said irritably.
“I’ll let them know,” Vyvian said drily.
“My life would be much easier if no one took all this myth and superstition seriously,” Arthur said once his valet had left again. He spoke lightly, but his forehead was creased with worry.
“But if they didn’t, then you’d have no reason to exist. Or marry me.”
Arthur considered that. “Yes, there is that.” He wrapped an arm around her shoulders and tugged her to him.
After a moment’s surprised hesitation, Amelia went willingly, until her forehead nestled against his chest. That they both found the world they faced together strange was the sort of common ground that gave her hope. At least it did when they weren’t shouting at each other.
“I think Beatrice is glaring,” Amelia mumbled into Arthur’s shirtfront.
“Beatrice is always glaring.”
Amelia knew Arthur was right. Ever since the incident with Gary and the apology Amelia had refused to make, Beatrice hadn’t been a fan of hers. She wasn’t rude — Amelia’s titles present and future protected her from that — but there was an iciness now that hadn’t been present when they had first met.
*
When the train began to slow Amelia stood to get a better view as they pulled into the station. Arthur’s arm seemed to drop from her shoulders reluctantly, but perhaps Amelia was merely feeling the hope of being home.
The brakes squealed as the train came to a halt. Amelia turned to gather her things and found herself toe to toe with Arthur.
He smiled at her. “Are you nervous?”
“No,” Amelia said. It was even true. She knew York and York knew her.
“Really? I am,” Arthur confessed.
“Whyever so? You’re the Prince of Wales.” Amelia only half meant it as a tease, but his honesty and awareness of what York could bring might serve him well.
“You’re their princess.” Arthur nodded out at her city beyond the yellow brick of the station. “I’m just the Londoner who’s marrying you. I think I’m allowed my nerves.”
Amelia was struck with fondness. If Arthur could learn to love her, the way King Henry learned to love Cecile, her life would be good. On days like this it even felt possible.
She reached for the small enameled white rose pinned to the breast of her dress and unfastened it. Daringly, she reached up to Arthur to affix it to the lapel of his suit.
He looked at her questioningly.
“There, now they have to like you,” she said. If he would make her wear red roses, then she would make him wear white.
*
As she stepped off the train behind Arthur, she looked for the defaced poster about British unity she had seen after the races at Kempton last December, but it was gone. Instead, the station was festooned with white bunting. White tissue paper roses and Roman and Viking-style banners were draped incongruously next to each other. The timing of their visit may have coincided with the Yorkshire Heritage Days, but no such decorations had been present in previous years. With a shock, Amelia realized that they had been put up for her.
She and Arthur approached the welcoming committee side-by-side. A little girl greeted Amelia with a curtsy and a bouquet of white roses. Also welcoming Amelia back to her city were the Lord Mayor of York, her consort, the head of the York Archaeological Trust, and her parents.
Amelia knew enough protocol that she had no problem speaking with the Lord Mayor. But formally greeting her father and mother as if they were not blood relations was peculiar. They outranked her, of course, except for that little matter of her being engaged to the Prince of Wales. Her parents clearly didn’t know what to make of the situation. Amelia was unnerved. She had never seen them at a loss for words before.
Before they could find their way to small talk, Amelia was shepherded out of the station and in
to a car with Arthur, the Lord Mayor, and the head of the Trust. Before the door was closed after them, the head of the Trust was already talking at full speed about a recently-begun archaeological dig near the walls which they were now en route to tour.
All statements about the significance of the dig were directed at Amelia. Except for surprised glances at the white rose pin, the other occupants of the car all but ignored Arthur’s presence. The focal point of the research was a two-thousand-odd-year-old building from when York had been called Eboracum and a center of power and trade in the Roman world.
Amelia hoped Arthur was at least vaguely intrigued, but in truth she couldn’t wait to talk all of this over with Jo. It was impossible to be from York and not take pride in its history.
Amelia smiled as the car passed under the bar at Monkgate and then turned into one of the little side streets that were so familiar to her. Amelia had come to love London, but York would always be home.
They parked on the side of the road near the dig. She and Arthur were led round the corner of a building toward what had formerly been a carpark and was now an excavation site. In heels as always, Amelia concentrated on carefully picking her way over broken pavement.
She was startled when they came in view of the wall and there was a great roar. At first, because of the sheer volume, Amelia thought something was terribly wrong. Had there been an explosion of some kind?
But the sound went on and on. Eventually Amelia realized she was hearing not cries of alarm, but joyful cheering. She looked up from the cracks below her feet and saw people — thousands of people — lining the walls above the dig; they crowded the balconies and windows of the surrounding buildings. Some were even perched in the trees.
Amelia turned her face up to look at the crowd. When she raised her hand to wave, the crowd roared again. These were the people she had grown up with from the great distance of Kirkham House. Now they were cheering for her return as something quite different than when she had left. For the first time in her life breathtaking was not an abstraction.
