by Kate Johnson
Two days later, he thought he saw a girl who looked like Melissa Featherstonehaugh, and made the abrupt acquaintance of a tree.
Chapter Twenty-two
RoyalGossip.com: Don’t do it, urges Xavier’s ex
Marisol Vega, the woman tossed aside by Royal fiancé Xavier Rivera, has issued a public plea to Princess Elizabeth not to marry her ex.
In a heartfelt open letter published online, Marisol implored Eliza, “Don’t be fooled by a pretty face. He’s already married to his job. He has no time for you. It will be the biggest mistake you ever make. Why can’t you see he’s using you for fame and money! Do you think it was coincidence he happened to be passing by Isla Bianca when you were kidnapped? He thinks you’re stupid. As soon as he gets you pregnant again he’ll be out of there with a chunk of your money…”
The Palace declined to comment.
“It’s really not that bad,” said Xavier, hopping into the Morning Room at Brakefield on his crutches. Everyone was silent, staring in mute horror at the plastic cast on his leg and the large bruise on one side of his face. “Just a sprain. I just can’t play soccer for a while,” he said with a smile no one reciprocated.
“You don’t play soccer anyway, and it’s football,” Eliza said, to fill the gap. She felt terrible, because if she hadn’t insisted Xavier came skiing with her he’d never have lost concentration and hit that tree. He’d reassured her it would heal easily and they had months to go, but according to the countdown on her phone it was only twenty weeks away, barely any time at all.
Oh my God, is this a bad omen?
The Council of War, as she’d come to think of these wedding planning meetings, fell over themselves to explain how foolish it had been to go skiing half a year before an important event, despite that her mother and sister and half of the rest of the family had done just that too. The difference was that they’d all learned to ski as infants, and apparently it was a lot harder when you’d turned thirty.
“It’s fine,” Xavier insisted, as he sat down on one of the sofas, and Eliza fiddled with his crutches to stop them falling over. “I’ll be running marathons in no time. What’s on the agenda today?”
What was on the agenda was a lot of minute planning with spreadsheets and timetables that made Eliza’s head spin. It was like Christmas at Sandringham, where everyone was given a printed timetable with this year’s precise timings laid out and unchangeable, except that this was her wedding day and she barely had a say in her own dress.
“How was Christmas?” she asked Drina in an undertone.
Her sister rolled her eyes. “Messy. Tom turned up to Church drunk. Clodagh’s dress was too short. Granny decided no one’s gifts were funny. I’d expect reprisals if I were you.”
“If I do leave the Succession, does that mean I’ll be off the hook next year?” Eliza murmured, and was immediately called back to a discussion of floral designers.
She called the dress designer when she and Xavier had left her mother’s house, who reported that the designs had been sent to the Queen over Christmas. Probably as punishment for deserting Sandringham, suggestions had been made.
“Are you freaking kidding me,” Eliza said when she opened the email. The embroidery had been changed from silver-blue to white, lace sleeves had been added, the long bodice shortened and the veil changed to cathedral length. “It’s horrible. I’m not wearing this. It’s like… being a nun. A really lacy nun.”
“Take scissors,” was Xavier’s advice.
“And there’s more,” she said, opening the next message. “Her Majesty had some suggestions on the bridesmaid’s outfits,” she read. “This should be good.” She scanned the list of ‘suggestions’, which were similar in tone to the modifications her own dress required, then steeled herself and opened the sketches.
Silence stretched across the Library.
“They’re not that bad,” said Xavier, trying to sound cheerful.
“If I put Drina in any of those she really will look like a nun. And she’ll kill me. Ugh. I see why the tradition is just to have tiny bridesmaids.”
Lady Ogilvy-Wright, with the sensitivity of a brick, had suggested ‘that nice Melissa Featherstonehaugh’. Eliza replied that if Melissa came within five hundred feet of her wedding she’d call the police.
“What the hell am I supposed to say? If I say no there will be more corrections and suggestions until the whole thing is closer to what Lady O-W wanted.”
Clodagh hadn’t faced this kind of royal censure, but then again maybe her decisions were what had sent the Palace into a control frenzy this time around. Gold petals and hibiscus flowers, indeed.
“Drive-thru chapel in Vegas,” she muttered, wistfully. It would have been a short hop from the Rockies, too.
Xavier rubbed her back. “How about lying?” he said.
“What, tell them I love it? They’ll never believe me.”
“No, tell them you’re prepared to compromise on one or two things, send back some amended sketches, pretend to be distraught, then go ahead and get the dress you really want in secret.”
Eliza blinked at the screen, then looked her fiancé. “You are definitely getting the hang of royal diplomacy,” she said, and he shrugged modestly. Tonight, she was definitely testing the limits of what his injured knee could do.
January was spent fighting over sleeves, which Eliza didn’t want and her grandmother did. Her mother weighed in on Eliza’s side, and a short sleeve was proposed instead, which she agreed to publicly. The designer privately agreed with Eliza that it would look terrible on her broad shoulders, and continued to go ahead with the on-the-shoulder design they’d chosen.
Eliza advised Xavier to gently exercise his injured knee, and spent more time in the pool with him than she had for a while, screaming and thrashing.
February, the conflict was about lace. Eliza wanted a minimum on the bodice but more on the hem of the overskirt, which should float above the main skirt. The Palace—she strongly suspected all the Queen’s ladies in waiting were weighing in on this—thought the bodice should be mostly lace, a bobbly white-on-white effect that reminded Eliza of that time she’d got hives from an allergic reaction. The dress was also advised to be white, which she vetoed in favour of ivory, and secretly told the designer to go ahead with the silver, accented in blue.
Xavier’s knee began to heal. He spent less time in the pool, and more time organising charity benefits for hurricane relief. Eliza swum dozens of laps a night, often until the early hours.
March was the veil. Eliza had chosen a short one which didn’t cover her face. The Queen threatened to withdraw her offer of a tiara, which didn’t bother Eliza in the slightest, but she put up a token fight.
Then she spent four hours in the pool, pushing herself so hard that the moment she stopped her muscles seized up and one of the PPOs had to carry her to the car.
“This is crazy,” Xavier said, carefully stretching out her leg to ease a cramp in her calf as they sat by the fire. Eliza tried not to flinch. “This wedding is driving you crazy.”
“You mean weddings,” Eliza said morosely. “Who organises three weddings in one go? A mug, that’s who. Ouch! They keep handing me lists and things and the more stressed I get I can’t read them. It’s just… a jumble of nonsense.”
“Oh, honey.” His face was sympathetic. “Can’t they break it down? Get an assistant to deal with the stuff you can’t read?”
Eliza found her nails suddenly fascinating.
“Eliza. You haven’t told them, have you? About the dyslexia?”
She shrugged awkwardly. How to explain? She knew she wasn’t stupid, but Nanny Goodwin was still having an effect on her after all these years.
“Tell them,” he said. “Or I will. There have to be coping strategies. We’ll look them up.”
She nodded miserably. “And I’ve been told to cut back on the swimming. Apparently it’s making me look ‘stringy’, and my hair is a mess.”
Xavier gently placed he
r foot on a stool and took a deep breath. “Fuck them,” he said calmly. “You love swimming. Swimming saved your life.”
It’s saving it now, Eliza wanted to say, but that wasn’t quite true. It was having Xavier here that really made her feel better. She should spend less time in the pool and more with him. Only…
“And you’re going to do more of it after the wedding,” Xavier said softly, mirroring her thoughts so closely she gasped. “Get on the official team. The people who do Olympic selections. Be a…” he waved his hand, “brand ambassador. Promote swimming for kids. This is the thing you love, you should do it for a job.”
Overwhelmed, Eliza simply threw her arms around him, and didn’t let go even when the cramp in her leg returned.
“I’m so glad I’m marrying you,” she sniffed against his neck.
“Likewise,” he said, as her phone buzzed and she groaned. He peered over her shoulder. “That would be the florist…”
She’d already been told that her bouquet was being prepared by last year’s Chelsea Flower Show winner, which since the wedding was on the second day of the festival gave her little wiggle-room. She and Xavier went to visit the nursery in question, agreed to the suggested white flowers, and quietly suggested a couple of brighter accents.
April became a panic over fittings, which nearly became a nightmare when she and Drina were spotted meeting the designer in charge of the registry office dresses. They’d chosen a discreet London hotel for the fittings, but by the time they left the Internet had already splashed the designer’s name—and previous designs—all over the place. She was known for vintage styles, so most of the pictures were of the Queen’s own wedding, and those of other mid-century royal brides, speculating on Eliza’s choice for her first dress of the day.
“You’re so lucky,” she moaned to Xavier as she cuddled up to him in bed. “One outfit, and even if you changed half of it no one would notice.”
“Great, so I can swap it out for a Dolphins jersey after the registry office?”
“Can I?” she asked morosely. Xavier stroked her hair, which she was growing back out for the big day, and conditioning intensely after every swim.
“You’re right. I should be wearing something local instead. But the Norwich City kit is yellow and I just think that’s gonna clash.”
“With what? Virgin-sacrifice white?”
“Or maybe I should go for… your dad supports Aston Villa, right?”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “Please stop naming football teams. You’re making me nervous.”
“I know. The England team play in white, right? That’ll look great. We can be in white together. After all, they’re gonna be my national side soon.”
“Oh, because even we have a better chance at World Cup selection than America?”
“Well, I guess I’ll have loyalty to both,” he said, and Eliza went still. “I’ve been speaking to immigration lawyers, as well as the Palace staff. I can apply for British citizenship without giving up my US citizenship too. So no more family visas or counting the days I spend in and out of the country. And that also means,” he added, “that in a couple weeks, I can actually be Xavier Rivera, GC, and not an honorary recipient.”
Eliza’s eyes went very wide. “She’s giving you the GC?”
He nodded. “Apparently Jamie proposed me for the George Medal but your father convinced her to go for the George Cross.”
The George Cross was the highest civilian decoration in the Commonwealth. People awarded it had faced down terrifying things, saved multiple lives, risked death in the service of others.
“I told them, all I did was get shot,” Xavier said.
“No. You saved my life. Stop saying that.” She sat up and pushed back her hair so she could look at him properly. “You could have been killed by those men on the boat, or by that jump into the sea, by a sea animal or coral reef or infection from a cut. You could have left me there on the boat, completed your mission and left me to be sold into—into—”
“I would never have done that,” he promised, brushing his finger against her face, and she trembled.
“No. You saved me, and not just from them and that… fate. You saved me from being Drina-or-Eliza. Before I met you, no one even knew who I was. Once, someone addressed me as Drina and it was five minutes before I got around to correcting him. Before you, I was just the stupid one. And now… now I’m the lucky one, because I’ve got you. And because of you I’m not scared any more, of what people will think if I don’t do the right kind of job or wear the right kind of dresses.”
She looked up at him, this smart, kind, wonderful man who she’d never have met if she hadn’t done something really stupid for the first time in her life. “I used to want to not be a princess for a while. Because I didn’t think I knew how to be one and I didn’t think I was any good at it. And now… now I know it’s just a part of who I am, and not the thing that defines me. You did that. You gave me that. So don’t you dare say you just got shot.”
She threw herself against him, face pressed to his neck, tears threatening. Xavier had seen her cry before, quite a lot actually, but she didn’t see why he had to be subjected to her blotchy face any more than necessary.
“And if you ever get shot again I’ll kill you,” she added for good measure.
“Deal,” said Xavier softly. He stroked her hair, then said, “Hey, if I applied to be a police officer here, would they let me bring my gun?”
She raised her head and gazed in horror. Xavier winked.
“You’re not funny,” she said, but she smiled at him all the same.
RoyalGossip.com: The World Turned Upside-Down!
Well, it looks like there might be a slight hitch in the plans of Princess Elizabeth to get hitched to her beau, the irresponsibly handsome Xavier Rivera. Why? Well, Mr Rivera was raised a Roman Catholic, and as we all know the Royal Family has some serious issues with their members marrying filthy papists. A new law was proposed last year, however, to change this ruling, at least for members of the Family lower than 6th in line, but it needs to be passed into law by every country the Queen is Queen of… and there are a freaking lot of those!
Let us explain: after the British Empire was disbanded, a lot of the remaining countries formed a Commonwealth, which doesn’t really mean much except the option to have a little Union Jack on your flag and to participate in your own pint-sized Olympics. The Queen is still Head of State in 16 of these countries, so any laws regarding the monarchy have to be passed by their respective governments, or they don’t apply at all. These governments have all had the importance of the Royal Wedding date impressed upon them, but it seems Australia have thrown a spanner in the works…
“Queensland?” said her sister. “The absolute irony.”
“Are they kidding? Every state has to pass its own legislation? That could take forever!” said her father.
“Were they not aware of the time constraints?” said her mother.
“It’s fine,” said Eliza.
Xavier looked up from the newspaper article he was attempting to comprehend. Every other Commonwealth Realm had either passed the required legislation or determined that they didn’t need to in order to comply with the law, but Australia had decided that now was the time to have a debate about it, and also throw a local election at the same time.
“What do you mean, fine?” said her mother. “It means the wedding can’t go ahead unless they pass it in the next six days!”
She’d been highly strung for weeks now, the closer they got to a wedding that seemed dogged with minor disasters.
“It can go ahead.” Eliza reached for Xavier’s hand, and he shot her a look that said, Are you sure about this? before he took it. She nodded.
“No, darling—has this all gone to your head? You can’t marry him unless he has a sudden last minute change of faith—” the Princess Royal gave him a hopeful look, and Xavier thought of his Abuela and shook his head. “Well then. We’re sunk.”
&nbs
p; “We’re not. The wedding can still go ahead.” Eliza took a deep breath and said, “I will lose my place in the Succession, but it can still go ahead.”
Everyone spoke at once. Xavier thought of Eliza saying, “I liked not being a princess with you,” and kept holding onto her hand.
And when they showed no signs of stopping she shouted, “Will you let me explain?”
“But you don’t understand,” her mother began.
“I do, actually. Granny and I spoke about this. Before I even knew the agreement was going ahead, I told her I was prepared to leave the Succession to marry Xavier. I still am. It doesn’t mean much to me, not compared to him.”
Her mother looked at her like she’d grown another head.
“I was never very good at being a princess. Maybe I’ll be better at being Mrs Rivera.”
Her family shouted for a bit, or at least her parents did. Drina looked thoughtful, and after Eliza said she wasn’t listening any more and left the house, it was Drina who ran out after them.
“Lize! I agree with you. Xavier, do you have a brother I can marry?”
He smiled. “His wife might object.”
She rolled her eyes. “And besides, we all know Australia’s going to pass the agreement anyway, right? You’ll get your place back soon enough.”
Eliza shrugged. “Maybe.” She hugged her sister. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
She seemed remarkably calm, but she was terribly quiet on the way home. When they were in private again, Xavier said, “Are you sure about this?”
“Yes. We’ve planned too much to stop now. And I really don’t care, not that much, about the Succession. You’ve given up so much for me. I’m not going to let this little thing stop us now. And besides,” she toyed with his hand, “when I’m with you, Princess is just a nickname.”
He kissed her. “I can’t wait to be married to you.”
She smiled. “See, that’s exactly what I mean.”
The car journey took five minutes. They were the longest of Eliza’s life.
