by Rachel Hauck
Besides, it might be kind of cool to visit Gram’s birthplace, get a taste of her own heritage and roots.
“You will have to . . .” Mr. Burkhardt shuffled the papers, displaying the first nervous break in his steel visage. “This is rather awkward, Miss Beswick.”
“It wasn’t awkward a few minutes ago.”
He met her gaze, his confidence returned. “This will sound unusual to you, an American, but you will prepare to take the Oath of the Throne. Then take your place as head of state, and move toward a full royal coronation.”
“Oath? Head of state?” Reggie, Daddy, and Sadie spoke together, in harmonious surprise.
“Once you take the oath, you will be the official heir and enabled by law to sign the end of the entail and inherit, if you will, the duchy and return her to full nation status once more. Thus you’ll be our leader under which our government can be established.” Mr. Burkhardt offered her a document. “We’ve prepared a summary of events that must take place.”
Reggie hesitated, then reached for the paper. She skimmed the bulleted lines. Return to Hessenberg. Become familiar with the capital city, Strauberg, and the palace, Meadowbluff. Prepare to take the Oath of the Throne. Meet with government leaders.
All to return a small duchy to full nation status? Her heart pinged with increasing alarm. The paper shimmied and wavered in her cold, trembling hands. A second later she couldn’t concentrate enough to read.
“Mr. Burkhardt,”—she let the paper drift down to the table—“I–I don’t understand. How is it possible I can do any of these things?”
“Because you are Princess Alice’s great-granddaughter.” He pointed to a line of the summary. “She’s the direct descendant of one Oscar Augustine, who freed the duchy from Prussian rule in 1602. He asserted himself as the Grand Duke of Hessenberg, a jewel floating on the surface of the ore-enriched North Sea. The people were serfs in the beginning, but he organized the land into farms and mines, established a constitution and parliament. The people prospered.
“But in the end, Hessenberg was owned by the House of Augustine-Saxon. When the Grand Duke Prince Francis, your great-grandmother’s uncle, gave her up to Brighton, he abdicated his throne and legal rights to the land for one hundred years.”
The picture was becoming clear. “Then the House of Augustine-Saxon gets to come roaring back.”
“If the proper heir was found.”
“And that proper heir is me.”
“Yes, miss, ’tis you.”
“Okay, I’ll see you later.” Reggie headed for the front door without offering a by-your-leave or kiss-my-grits.
From the kitchen, Sadie made a racket wrenching her cookie sheets from the bottom cupboard. Reggie never could figure how the woman managed to bury the baking tools she used the most. But that was her stepmama.
“Reg?” Daddy called.
“Miss Beswick, please, wait.” Mr. Burkhardt hurried after her.
Reggie moved faster. A dog with a bone, that man. “I’ve got to go.”
A princess? An oath? A coronation? It was laughable. If Mr. Burkhardt wasn’t so darn serious, she’d swear someone was punking her.
No woman Reggie ever knew dreamed of being a princess after the age of twelve. Well, except for Mable Torres, who wanted to be Miss Springtime Tallahassee. And Christi Selby, who was crowned Miss Florida. But they were temporary princesses with no authority. Burkhardt was asking her to establish a country.
A country!
Down the front porch steps, Reggie made a beeline for her old ’78 Datsun, fumbling for the keys.
“It’s overwhelming, isn’t it?” A bit of kindness, of empathy, tenderized Mr. Burkhardt’s words.
“Look, Mr. Burkhardt—” Reggie tossed her bag into the passenger seat. “And, please, can I call you Tanner?”
“Certainly.” He stopped next to her, hands locked behind his back.
“I wouldn’t have a clue what to do with your country.” She regarded him in the bright white of Daddy’s driveway luminaries.
“You won’t be alone, Miss Beswick.”
“Please. Reggie. Call me Reggie.”
“You’ll have advisors. We’ve functioned under a constitutional monarchy for hundreds of years, and we can do it again. On our own. We’ve a core of stellar leaders to assist you. King Nathaniel II and his prime minister will advise and aid you in every way. As well as our own governor.”
Daddy’s dark silhouette appeared on the porch. Watching. Waiting. Probably praying.
“After the oath, then what?”
“Sign the end of the entail.”
“Then what?”
He hesitated. “That would be up to you, Miss Beswick. Stay in Hessenberg as a reigning royal, reestablishing the House of Augustine-Saxon, helping to form our new government. Or abdicate and return home, leaving us to find our way without a royal house for the first time in our history. But we will be independent again, and most grateful.”
“Abdicate? You mean quit? Sign me up to be a princess, then make me resign in order to return home to my life?” She jerked open the car door and the rusty hinges creaked and moaned. Yes, her sentiments exactly.
“If you’ll just—”
“Look, Mr. Burkhardt—Tanner—this is who I am.” She spread her arms, turning a small circle. “A Tallahassee lassie, born and bred. I love my job, don’t you see? I love my life. Save a certain Mark Harper who’s expecting too much, which I do intend to address, I want for nothing. I have my freedom, my friends and family, my faith.”
She’d just made her case for a firm refusal. “I can’t.” She turned back for the car. “And I won’t. This is crazy. I can’t even comprehend what you are telling me. And frankly, I don’t want to comprehend it.”
“Will you take this? Read it all carefully?” Tanner approached with the attaché case, his subtle scent cleansing the air between them. “Take this. Review the papers. You’ll see you are the true and only heir.” When she didn’t reach for the case, he took another step toward her. “Please. There’s something in there you’ll want to read.”
“Like what?”
“Just read . . .” He offered the case once more. “I’m staying at the Duval downtown. My card is in the side pocket with my mobile number. Call. Please. If you have any questions.”
“Breathe, sweet pea,” Daddy called from the porch. “Take the papers. Read them. Think on it. Pray. Can’t hurt.”
Reggie stepped around Tanner toward the porch. “Daddy, whose side are you on? Do you want me to move away? Far away?” She turned to Tanner. “How many miles to Hessenberg?”
“Four thousand two hundred and twelve miles.”
“Four thou—holy cow. Daddy, do you want me to move four thousand miles away?”
“You know I don’t.” He took one step down, then two. “But I don’t want you to say no to this princess thing without considering the evidence, weighing your options.”
“You mean like you wanted me to go to FSU for accounting because it was a nice, safe career?”
“Was I wrong?”
“But I hated it.” She squinted, shielding her eyes with her hand, trying to see Daddy through the backlight of the porch lamps.
“I think you came to hate it eventually. You were restless. Still are, I imagine. But that CPA job was the highway to do what you wanted, Reg. You couldn’t have started that shop without the money you saved reconciling other folks’ accounts. Same might be the case here. You might find you like being a princess.”
She groaned. “Like restoring cars is a highway to being a princess?”
“Maybe.”
Ha! “Daddy, my life is not a Disney movie.” She waved him off, turning back to the car. If she didn’t know him to be a teetotaler, she’d swear he’d been nipping at the cooking sherry.
“You liked playing princess with Gram,” he called. Relentless, her daddy. More of a dog with a bone than Mr. Burkhardt.
“I was six. And she made the best construction
paper tiaras.”
“Miss Beswick—”
“Reggie. For crying out loud, call me Reggie.” She’d hit the wall. Tired, frustrated, and confused. There was nowhere to go but straight to irritated.
“Take this.” He reached for her hand and settled the case on her palm. “You’ll want to read it, I promise.”
“Fine.” She grabbed it to her chest, her mind firing thoughts out of rhythm with the beat of her heart. Read the documents. No! Read them. No! “I’ll read the papers, but I’m pretty sure I’ll never be getting on an airplane to Hessenberg with you.”
“That’s my girl,” Daddy said. “Way to keep an open mind.”
“Miss Beswick . . . Regina,” Tanner said with a slight bow, “thank you. Hessenberg thanks you.”
She shifted her stance. “What happens if I say no?”
“Simple,” he said, locking his hands behind his back. “Hessenberg, the nation of your gram’s birth, disappears from the face of the earth. Removed from the world’s maps. A nation with history dating back to ancient Rome will cease to be.”
The last straw had been laid, and Reggie felt she might crumble to the ground. “And all of that falls on me? It’s crazy.” She spoke to her own soul, to the night, as she stared across the street at the shards of light slicing through the neighbor’s shrouding trees and shrubs.
“It’s also true—”
Reggie whirled to face Mr. Burkhardt. “Are you always this confident?”
“No, but—”
“Good, because it’s a bit grating.” She settled the attaché case in the passenger seat. “How long do I have to decide?”
“Technically, until the entail ends. Midnight, October twenty-second. But in truth, we’ll need time, a few weeks, to get you and the people ready.”
“October twenty-second? That’s a month away. So, basically, we’d have to leave . . . now.”
“If possible. In a few days, yes.”
“Y’all had a hundred years to keep track of the royal heirs to this August-Saxon-whatever house, but you lost them. So you come crying to my doorstep giving me a few days to decide. How’s that fair?”
“It’s not, Miss Beswick, I agree. But your uncle Prince Francis abdicated and scattered the family on purpose. To keep them safe, for one. And to honor his part of the entail with Brighton Kingdom. Had we known about you, we’d have stopped by sooner. But alas, your great-gram was difficult to track down.”
Hearing the recap of her royal heritage boiled the confusion in her chest to anger. Her breath burned in her lungs. “I’ve got to go.”
Reggie climbed into the Datsun and fired up the forty-year-old engine, which rattled and knocked, threatening to stall. Easing down on the gas, Reggie fed the carburetor and shifted into reverse.
Tanner leaned his arm on the door and peered at her through the open window. “Sooner is better than later, Miss Beswick.”
“And you’re leaving when?” She inched the car back down the driveway.
“When you agree to go with me.” He exhaled and stood back. “Or when the Grand Duchy of Hessenberg ceases to be a nation.”
SEVEN
The cold air of his hotel suite felt good on his hot, sticky skin. Had he known Florida nights came with such a concrete wall of humidity, Tanner might have reconsidered his late-night run.
But he had to move, stride, work out the kinks in his weary muscles and tired mind.
Down the elevator and out the front doors of the Duval, he hit the pavement, his legs refusing to coordinate at first, leaving him to trip down the city streets like an old man.
About ten minutes into the run, he found his strength as he forced his body to move and kicked up his heels, cutting in and out of the bar parties spilling into the streets. Seemed the whole town was lit for this football match tomorrow.
For forty-five minutes he ran and thought of nothing—nothing—but striding, breathing, and maintaining a steady pace.
Back in his suite, he stripped off his sweaty shirt and lifted a bottle of water from the mini-fridge. Finding a hand towel, he wiped his face and arms, then ordered a late-night dinner. Salad? No, dessert. A slice of chocolate cake à la mode.
Collapsing into the chair by the window, he fixed on the burst of amber-hued city lights flickering above the city. And like a rising moon, way off in the distance, the arching white glow of the university campus.
Tanner pressed the cold water bottle to his forehead, then took a drink. He liked this town, humidity aside. Tallahassee was a blend of government, higher education, and what Americans called rednecks.
He knew a few rednecks back home, except they were called ringers—an old term, given to the coal and ore miners when they came up out of the belly of the earth after a long day’s work with a ring of coal dust or dark clay about their necks.
The national rugby team went by Ringers until the 1914 entail. After World War I the Hessenberg and Brighton rugby unions merged and the Ringers simply became the Hessenberg Union.
Another swig of water and Tanner tipped his head back and closed his eyes. A thread of sleepy peace drew him toward slumber. So much history gone by . . . so much time past . . . never to be undone . . .
He jerked awake, sitting forward, when Miss Beswick’s face flashed across the palette of his drifting thoughts. He stood, taking another gulp of water, and moved closer to the window.
She’d gotten to him. Slipped under his skin. He’d been curious about his reaction to meeting his future monarch. Would he have feelings of respect? Admiration? Relief? Or perhaps disdain and loathing?
Any number of feelings were possible, but not the fluttery ones, not the sensation of infatuation tickling across his chest, making his stomach sink to his toes.
Blast! She was rattling him with her womanly charms.
But it was more than her fine features and mass of golden-red hair that tapped his soul. It was her determination. Her commitment to the life she’d made for herself. Her ability to stare at conflict and ask, “Why?”
He, on the other hand, surrendered the moment conflict reared its ugly head. Tanner had his demanding yet devoted father to thank for his shrinking from confrontation. The man demanded obedience, to live a life of honor, and set aside his ambitions.
Somewhere along the way, Tanner chose his own way and took a wrong step. A very wrong step. Then another. And another.
Ah, never mind. You’re beyond your past mistakes. Are you not?
Back to Miss Beswick. Tanner liked that she had a mind of her own. Pushovers and people pleasers didn’t make good leaders. Or legendary royalty. Prince Francis proved how fear of man could destroy a family dynasty. Indeed, a whole nation.
He also loved how Miss Beswick bore a strong, almost eerie resemblance to the Renoir of Princess Alice. Almost as if the former heir to the throne had stepped out of the 1914 portrait and into the twenty-first century.
Perhaps she had.
All that aside, would Miss Beswick travel with him to Hessenberg? Tanner had no idea. Would the investigator’s report and the entail edicts in the attaché case have any bearing on her heart?
One must hope. He must hope.
Turning back to the room, Tanner downed the last of his water and fired up his laptop.
Had he overplayed his hand? Put too much on her? If someone informed him the future of a nation rested on his shoulders, would he step up?
He hoped so. Especially after his past mistakes. He wanted to make good. Help others. And if possible, forget that he had dau—
Don’t awaken the pain, chap.
He shoved the almost-thought from his mind, leaving his heart reaching and yearning. What was done was done. If he’d been a wiser young man, he’d have paid closer attention to his actions and their effects on his life. But he’d been foolish and it cost him his future.
Which was how he came to owe a debt of thanks to old Seamus Fitzsimmons. Tanner had been offered a new path and a new beginning.
Launching e-mail, Tanner
also reached for the telly remote and surfed to a sports channel, looking for some American football. He’d watched a few exhibition matches in Hessenberg when the Dallas Cowboys and Indianapolis Colts came to play. He fancied it a fascinating sport.
Finding a game, Tanner set down the remote and fixed on his messages. He had several, rather a lot, from Louis and one from the King’s Office requesting an update as soon as possible.
He was about to wade into work when a new e-mail popped in from Louis. He was awake early, tackling e-mail on a Hessenberg Saturday.
The subject line disturbed Tanner’s peace: Envelope in Your Desk.
Oh, bother. Louis, what have you done? Tanner ran his hand through his damp hair and exhaled.
His stellar memory aside, Tanner could compartmentalize his thoughts and emotions. If he chose to forget an envelope in his desk, he did. But now Louis reminded him of what he wanted to forget.
He clicked on the e-mail and read his aide’s brief note.
Looking for your office key . . . found it in the middle drawer . . . saw the envelope . . . thought it might be something for your diary . . . a personal invitation . . . tenth birthday party . . . Britta and Bella . . . Sunday the 5th. Shall I schedule . . . apologies for entering your personal mail.
Tanner stared at the message, reading it once more. Birthday party . . . and he was invited? He imagined an invitation inside the fine linen envelope but he didn’t believe they’d really invite him.
It didn’t make sense. Not in light of the past eight years. Britta and Bella were the two “things” in his past he could not compartmentalize, shove aside, and forget. Though he’d thoroughly tried. For their sake. For his.
But he’d not forgotten the twins were turning ten on five October. He was just prepared to ignore their birthday. Like every other year.
Tanner took another water from the fridge and strolled around the suite. He was finally cooling off when this business with the twins sparked a flame in his heart.
On the telly screen, a player ran down the field, ball tucked under his arm, the crowd cheering.
