Royally Yours

by Emma Chase

  And then her hand moves to her stomach and she looks down. “The baby?”

  “He’s a boy.” I grin, my whole body finally sinking into the elation of it.

  “A boy?” She laughs with the joy of it. “We have a little boy?”

  I nod. “Do you want me to have them bring him to you?”

  “Oh, yes, please.”

  I ring for the nurse and prop Lenny up with a dozen pillows behind her. And they bring him in, wrapped in a blue downy blanket, and place him in her arms.

  And she gazes down at him with so much delight, so much pure, devoted love, it’s hard to breathe. Lenora pats the bed beside her and I slide on next to her, wrapping my arm around her back, tucking her close.

  And together, we look at our boy—his precious nose and perfect tiny mouth and delicate eyebrows and his little cheek that’s too soft to be believed.

  “He has your hands,” she says.

  “He has your chin,” I notice.

  Lenora’s eyes are shiny and wet. “Look at him, Edward. He’s so beautiful.”

  And he is—I’ve been all over the world and he’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.

  She tips her face up to me. “So . . . what will you name your son?”

  “You want me to name him?”

  “Yes. He will get his title from me, he will be a Pembrook, but the rest . . . should come from you.”

  I look down at him, and then to Lenora, and my heart goes tight with all the devotion it holds for them. “I’ve been thinking . . . I would very much like to call him Thomas.”

  Lenny’s eyes fill with tears, and I touch her cheek.

  “But I don’t want to make you sad.”

  She shakes her head, and the tears trickle even as she smiles.

  “No, I’m not sad, I swear. It’s perfect. Our Thomas . . . it’s completely perfect.”

  Three weeks later

  THERE’S A CLOCK ON THE nursery wall decorated with carved images of Humpty Dumpty, and the cat and mouse from Hickory Dickory Dock, and the cow that jumps over the moon. The tick-tock of it is like a soothing metronome . . . but I don’t hear it. Not really.

  Because when I’m nursing my baby, and gently rocking with him in the rocking chair, everything else just fades away. My advisors cautioned against breastfeeding Thomas myself. “You’ll have no time,” they said. “Too burdensome,” they warned. “Unseemly,” they criticized. “You’re a Queen not a dairy cow.”

  But one of the perks of being Queen is every once in a while, you get to make your own damn rules—and this was one I was making and keeping.

  I run my finger over the dark satin strands of Thomas’s hair, mesmerized. I relish in the feel of holding him skin to skin, and in the thump of his little heartbeat beneath my palm when I place my hand on his chest. His suckling slows and his eyes drag closed.

  I can look at him for hours, basking in the wonder of his every sigh and breath.

  I thought I understood how this would feel, I thought I knew, but motherhood is like how Edward once described war—surprising. Something that has to be experienced to be truly understood. The depth of my love for Thomas astounds me. It makes me feel invincible and . . . terrified.

  Because there is nothing—nothing—I would not do for this boy.

  Holding him is like holding my whole heart in my hand, but even more precious. And yet at the same time, there’s a peace in it. A calm, perfect assurance that I am exactly where I’m supposed to be, doing precisely what I was always meant to do.

  There are three certainties in my life, three things I know to the very bottom of my soul: I was born to be a Queen, I was born to be Edward’s wife, and now, I was born to be Thomas’s mum.

  And for the rest of my days, if I never know anything more, those will be enough.

  “It’s time to go, love.”

  I look up at the sound of Edward’s voice and see the soft tenderness that’s always in his eyes when he watches us.

  I slip my nipple from Thomas’s sleeping mouth, pat myself dry with a cloth and tuck my breast into my bra.

  “Already? I lost track of the time.”

  “You always do.” Edward smiles, lifting Thomas from my arms, so I can button up the top of my pleated periwinkle coat dress.

  And then I do some watching of my own. Because seeing Edward hold our boy, watching him press a soft kiss to his little forehead—it pulls at a deep, primal part of me—and there’s nothing on earth that could ever be sexier.

  He lays Thomas in his ivory bassinet, winds the mobile and the soft, twinkling sounds begin to play. Then Edward turns to me, adjusting my wide collar and white spinner hat before handing me my short gloves.

  And he leans down and kisses me with his firm, warm lips. I brush my nose against his, breathing in the scent of sunshine and summer and love.

  “You look perfect.” He tells me.

  I straighten his burgundy striped tie, and reach up to brush the broad shoulders of his sharp, dark gray suit.

  “You look perfect too.” I tell him back.

  Edward offers me his arm and we pass the nurse on our way out of the nursery.

  “We’ll return in about two hours,” Edward says.

  She dips her head. “Yes, Your Highness, Your Majesty.”

  We walk down the curved staircase through the grand marble foyer, outside to the waiting car that takes us to the ceremony for the yearly adjournment of Parliament. The MP’s follow their own work calendar with a one-month holiday between the final and first official session.

  One of the Monarch’s duties is to begin and end the Parliamentary year with a blessing and a wine toast. Possibly several toasts if things go well.

  It’s how we roll.

  And so, with Edward just behind my right shoulder, I stand beneath that familiar mural-painted ceiling as the Houses of Parliament and the Lords of the Advising Council stand and face me. All the friends and foes I’ve made over the course of my reign so far—allies and enemies that I’m sure will swap places and then switch back again as time goes on—because that’s how royalty and politics and government work.

  I hold my glass in my hand. “It has been a year of change and challenges and incredible, unexpected blessings.” I tell them, my voice ringing with clarity and confidence.

  I glance quickly back at my Edward, meeting his eyes, then face front again.

  “Wessco has a new Prince and a new heir and together we stand on solid, secure ground as we turn our eyes toward the future.”

  I look at the faces of these ancient men, so set in their stubborn ways. My Parliament.

  A mixture of pride and exhilaration surges in my chest as I recognize their expressions. The same countenances they wore when they looked at my father year after year. Some of them gaze at me with support and friendship, some with resentment or annoyance, but all of them—all of them—with respect.

  For me. At last. Their Queen.

  “We will do amazing things, my Lords . . . I can feel it in my bones. I look forward to working with you next year and all the years that will come after.”

  I raise my wineglass. “For the good and glory of Wessco.”

  A wave of arms raise their glasses in return.

  “For the good and glory of Wessco.”

  And we all drink.

  My husband steps up beside me then and his glittering dark green gaze touches on me a moment before he turns toward our audience and lifts his glass.

  And his rich voice resonates around the room. “Long live the Queen.”

  “Long live the Queen!” The Lords of the realm repeat and we drink some more.

  Edward may have said, “Long live the Queen,” but what I hear between his words, in his tone and in the way he looks at me is . . . I love you.

  He gives me a wicked wink. And I clink my glass to his.

  “Cheers.”

  One month later

  One afternoon, Edward and I are at the dining table in the private quarters of the palace
, enjoying an early lunch together.

  “Miriam sent a letter,” I tell him, holding up an envelope with my sister’s familiar, bubbly writing.

  Edward wipes his mouth with his napkin. “How is she enjoying Greece?”

  Miriam got married. Again. Last month to a Greek Prince, fourth from the throne. I have no idea if it will last and frankly I don’t think she does either. But she seemed happy, so for now, that’s enough.

  I show him a photograph of Miriam and her husband on a lovely sandy beach, with white-tipped waves crashing behind them. “So far, so good.”

  And that’s when a dark-haired lad strolls right into our dining room. It’s an unusual thing to happen, but he looks harmless enough—young, perhaps about thirteen—with a newsboy cap on his head and his hands in his pockets . . . and an unhappy frown on his face. He gazes at the paintings on the walls and the intricate plaster on the ceiling with one good eye and one wandering lazy one.

  “And who might you be?” Edward asks.

  “I’m Fergus, Prince Edward.” He bows to us both. “Queen Lenora. It’s an honor to meet you.”

  I raise a brow at the disagreeable-looking boy.

  “Hello, Fergus. How did you end up in our dining room?”

  “My dad’s Jonathon, the upstairs butler. He made me come with him to start training me up. Hoping I’ll earn a place in the household when little Prince Thomas has a place of his own.”

  “How old are you, my boy?” I ask.

  “I’m ten, but I’ll be eleven in the summer.”

  “Only ten? But that scowl makes you look older. Don’t you think you’re a little young to be so cranky?”

  The lad shrugs. “I’m not cranky . . . that’s just my resting face, Your Majesty. Only one God gave me—can’t do nothing about it.”

  “How’s the butler training going so far?” Edward asks.

  The staff of the palace consider it the highest honor to serve the royal family.

  Fergus shrugs again. “Could be worse.”

  Despite the disgruntled disposition, there’s something very genuine about his attitude. Honest and real. That’s still a rare commodity around here.

  Fergus’s father, however, doesn’t seem to appreciate those attributes.

  “Fergus!” Jonathon hisses as he steps through the door from the kitchen. “I told you to stay in the kitchen, you idiot-boy!” He turns to us and in a much more measured tone, says, “My deepest apologies, Your Majesty and Your Highness, that he’s disturbed your meal.”

  Edward holds up his hand. “He’s fine. Let him stay.”

  Jonathon dips his head, then takes his place standing along the wall. And Edward asks the young Grumpy Gus, “How would you treat my son if you were a member of his staff?”

  “Well . . . I’d make sure he had everything he needed—that’s a good servant’s job. But I’d want to treat him like a regular bloke as much as I could. The way I figure it, he’ll have the whole world clamoring to kiss his arse—pardon my French, Queen Lenora. It might be good for a little prince to be treated like one of us normals, once in a while . . . even if it’s just inside his own house.”

  My husband smiles at me. “I like him.”

  And I nod back, in agreement.

  “Tell you what, lad,” Edward says. “You mind your dad and complete your training, and when you come of age, I’ll make you Butler of Guthrie House.” He taps the table. “That’s a promise. What do you think of that?”

  Fergus takes a few moments to think it over. Then he nods, spits in his palm and holds it out.

  “I accept your offer, Prince Edward.”

  Edward spits in his own hand, then he and Fergus—the future cranky Butler to the Crown Prince of Wessco—shake on it.

  Three months later

  The sun is just setting when I walk into the front parlor and look at the canvas Michael’s painting. “Oh, that’s coming along very nicely. Well done, Michael.”

  “I look like a horse’s arse,” Edward grumbles from the other side of the canvas. He poses for the portrait in a leather chair, wearing a perfectly fitted gray pinstripe vest and trousers with a dark blue tie and the cuffs of his white shirt rolled up just a bit. He’s leaning back, his strong arms crossed with a smirk on his lips. Well . . . a smirk when his lips aren’t too busy complaining.

  He hated the idea from the very start. I had to bribe him with all sorts of dirty, shocking promises to get him to agree . . . although I suspect he would’ve agreed anyway.

  The dirty, shocking promises just made it all more fun.

  “Stop pouting! You look devastatingly handsome,” I shoot back.

  “I have a new filthy word for you Lenora—taint. That’s exactly what I feel like.”

  I roll my eyes and shake my head. “This portrait is going to hang right behind my desk in my office, so I can look at my magnificent husband whenever I like.”

  “That reminds me.” Michael puts his paintbrush down. “The portrait you requested is ready, Edward.”

  He walks over to us as Michael slips something out of his pocket. It’s an oval locket made of gold—about the size of a half dollar. My husband opens it and inside is a tiny painting. Of me. My hair is down, framing my face in dark waves, as I gaze back over my shoulder with sparkling eyes. I look jubilant.

  I look . . . beautiful.

  Edward whistles. “Outstanding.” He smacks Michael’s arm. “It’s perfect, mate. Thank you.”

  “How did you do this?” I ask Michael, but Edward answers.

  “It was a candid shot, before they did your hair up on our wedding day—one of the hundreds and hundreds of photographs that were taken.”

  “I remember.” I smile.

  “The Palace was going to discard it, but I saved it and passed it to Michael so he could paint this for me.”

  Warm, wanted, tender tingles spark across my body—from the crown of my head to the tips of my toes and everywhere in between. It’s how it feels when Edward swoops me off my feet . . . and in a way, that’s just what he’s doing now. But with words instead of his arms.

  “What are you going to do with it?”

  He reaches over and kisses me, quick but soft. “The same thing I do with all things that are most precious to me.” He taps his front shirt pocket. “Keep it close.”

  And a year later, Edward would add a lock of Thomas’s dark hair to the locket.

  THAT NIGHT, Thomas lies in the center of our bed, swinging his arms and kicking his little legs. I can’t stop the smile that comes to my lips as I watch him. Or the rush of possessive tenderness that drums in my chest as I look at Lenora sitting on the bed with him.

  She smiles down at our sweet boy, delighted by his every move. “Sometimes I can’t believe he’s ours.”

  Her hair is down, long; we’re both ready for bed. Lenora has given Thomas his final feeding and the night nurse will come to collect him soon, to put him down for the night. But these calm, quiet hours before then, that’s part of our time with him.

  Our time all together.

  “I think I understand my father more now,” Lenny says, picking Thomas up and cradling him in her delicate arms. “Why he was how he was with me.”

  I sit next to her on the bed, massaging the back of her neck gently.

  “How do you mean?”

  “He was older when I was born. He knew he only had ten, maybe twenty years with me—to teach me all the things I would need to know. I think that’s why he treated me more like a protégé than a daughter.” She runs the tip of her finger down Thomas’s round cheek. “If I knew my time with him would be so short, I might be hard on him too. Because I would want him to be strong, like steel, so no one could ever hurt him. So they couldn’t bend him or break him. This life, Edward—it’s so easy to be broken by it.”

  Thomas’s little mouth stretches into a yawn. Lenny kisses his cheek, then leans her head on my shoulder, gazing at him, her voice wistful.

  “But we’re young. We’ll have years and
years and years with Thomas. We’ll be strong for him and protect him. And he will go to school and have friends. And he will run and play and laugh . . .”

  “And he will swing,” I finish for her.

  When she looks at me, I stroke her cheek with my thumb. “I’ll have swings hung in every corner of the gardens so you and our boy can swing anytime you like.”

  She smiles softly. “I think my swinging days are past, Edward.”

  “Not if I have anything to say about it.” I press a kiss to her pretty lips and wrap my arm around her. “They’re only just beginning, Lenny.”

  Two years later

  WE SIT ON A YELLOW checkered blanket, a full picnic basket and a bottle of chilled Champagne, courtesy of Cook, waiting nearby. I’m in my swim trunks and Lenora’s in an outstanding red polka-dot swimsuit number that teases glimpses of all the best parts. Security is here, but far enough away that it doesn’t feel like they’re really here.

  It feels like it’s just us.

  Our family.

  Thomas runs along the shoreline, chasing the waves, with Nanny never far behind. The air is warm, but the water is brisk—though he doesn’t care. Our little Prince plays hard, swings high, laughs loud and swims like a fish.

  I hear Nanny squawk out a gasp and turn just in time to see Thomas wizzing into the ocean. I chuckle, and Lenora does too.

  “He is utterly and completely a boy,” she says, with adoring amusement.

  Then she closes her eyes, tilts her face up to the sun and breathes deeply, a contented smile on her lips. She looks peaceful. Happy. Thoroughly loved, and it’s a fantastic look on her. My chest tightens with my own soul-deep happiness—and pride—because I like to think I had something to do with that.

  “Penny for your thoughts?”

  Lenny turns her smile toward me and it’s blinding. Then she gazes up the ridge toward Anthorp Castle, out to the forest, then back down across the beach and rocks and crashing waves.