by Anna Bloom
“Hey.”
The Queen had visibly aged overnight. Her usually chic haircut tucked behind her ears, her skin puffed around her eyes.
“Have they drawn pistols on one another yet?” Her voice scraped with dryness and I went to a silver tray stood in the corner and poured a glass of water. Her staff must have been checking in on her, even if she wasn’t moving or doing anything herself.
“Not yet. The King has asked to be left alone.”
She nodded almost absentmindedly as her fingers stroked across Bella’s pillow. “You know when I first arrived here, I thought I could change everything too.” She glanced up, just for a second, before returning to her smoothing action against the pillow. “I couldn’t. It just swallowed me up. I tried to make the children’s life normal, I really did.”
“Margi.” I stepped closer, not really wanting to sit on Bella’s bed to get in her line of vision. “You did give them a normal life, as much as you could. It’s hard though, breaking tradition, breaking lifelong habits.” I chewed on my bottom lip. “I saw it when I went back to those flats the other day. I’d moved on. I hadn’t been there for seven years, but life there wasn’t much different. When that woman, Daisy’s grandmother, opened the door, it was like looking at my own mother. These cycles they don’t really end, we just try to make them better while we can.”
“But you won’t go back to those flats, you broke your cycle.”
I shrugged. “No. I was one of the lucky ones. So was Daisy’s father. He got out too, many don’t.”
“Were you scared when you found out someone had come forward?”
I huffed a breath. “Scared. Petrified. Ashamed.”
“That’s how I’ve felt for the last thirty years. Always thinking that someone would be able to see in and realise we were doing it all wrong.”
“Margi.” My voice cracked. “You haven’t done anything wrong. Breaking with tradition is hard. Breaking the cycle takes an event that can never be undone.”
A knock on the door stopped my words. “Yes.” I called when it was clear the Queen had no intention of doing so.
Dixon opened the door followed by John. “Ma’am, you need to look out of the window.”
I couldn’t be sure if he talked to me at first, but then he’d said Ma’am and not Your Majesty. I stood up and looked through the curtain. By the gates stood a lone figure in black.
I clutched onto the navy velvet hanging from the ceiling.
“What’s he doing?” I gasped. Ollie’s black shape slipped through the gates. I could see the flash of police uniforms the other side, but still, he was by himself. Utterly alone.
“I think he’s doing what you said,” John answered, his voice tight.
“He can’t go out there by himself.”
The Queen tugged on my hand, coming to my side. “Are you strong enough?” She echoed the words her husband said to me in the library. They’d spoken about me, about what he’d said. He’d told her his regret… it pierced deep into my chest.
“I’m not family.”
The Queen met my gaze, but I didn’t stop to say anything else or ask for permission to leave. I ran all the way down the corridor, down the stairs to the second floor where the library sat and then down to the main entranceway where the official state rooms were. Vanessa stood by the door with a black overcoat on her arm, waiting for me like she knew I would come.
Now I knew what a waiting woman was for.
“Thanks.” I shrugged into the coat. “Could you get my daughter please?”
A true professional, she didn’t ask why, or tell me my idea was the craziest one she’d ever heard. She simply nodded.
With my head held high, I stepped out the front door and walked for the gates. The journalists called my name but I didn’t give them any time. My focus remained on the people, those who would forgive everything and come together at the right time.
I saw him, he shook a woman’s hand and leant in to listen to what she had to say. He nodded and smiled tightly and then moved on. I went to his side and slipped my hand into his. His fingers were cold, and I gripped them tight. Heavy eyes met mine but he leant in and brushed a kiss across my cheek. “Thank you,” he whispered.
“Always.”
Slowly, we worked our way up and down the line, thanking people for coming, accepting flowers that a police officer would then step forward and take when we held too many. Every so often I couldn’t help myself and I’d wipe at tears that splattered my cheeks.
The love of the nation overwhelmed me.
Not one bit of gossip or slander mattered.
Everyone grieved the young princess.
Even the journalists stood in silence: no questions being called, no desperate hunt for the news that would sell their papers.
I’d lost the sensation in my toes when Oliver caught my fingers and turned me to point at Daisy who stood with Bill by the gates. His Adam’s apple bobbed visibly at the sight of her and he motioned her over. She rushed into his arms and he swept her up, burying his face in her neck as they squeezed one another tight.
He whispered into her ear and then pointed at the crowd. Setting her down on the floor, he took her hand and then he continued to walk along, speaking to more people. Lots of them reached out to touch Daisy’s blonde hair, and I realised they’d probably never got close enough to a royal to touch them before. Had anyone, before Oliver held his Dream Free fundraiser down by the river in Bermondsey, that day when he’d touched my hair.
When rain started to fall, Bill came out with black umbrellas and we huddled under them giving final waves of thanks. Not like movie stars on a red carpet, but more like people who’d just survived a bombing during the Blitz. As we turned, I glanced down at the flowers and letters, the teddy bears that had been laid against the gates. More than I could count. More than I expected many people in the crowd could afford to give. It made my heart grow in size. From the corner of my eye I caught sight of a newspaper cutting someone had put in one of those plastic slip folders.
For one awful moment I thought it would be a cut out of the salacious gossip that had been printed the last few days. Instead, it was a picture of Oliver and Bella cut from an old newspaper, some old royalist must’ve kept it in a scrapbook. Oliver and Bella were both on horses and he held her reins, a fierce look of pride on his face as he guided his baby sister’s pony. In the background of the picture stood Zoe, the exact same woman who had taught Daisy to ride at Greystone months before.
I pulled on his arm and showed him the picture. He took it with shaking hands, staring at the image of two children both innocent to the devilish ways the world would get its hooks into them.
“She loved that pony, wouldn’t let anyone else touch it.”
“No?”
He bent a little and showed Daisy. “Look.”
“It’s Daisy!” My daughter took the picture in her hands while I met Oliver’s gaze.
“Come let’s get back inside. We can come back out again later.” He pulled me in tight, not caring of his public display of affection as he tucked me into his side. “I want to thank all these people for coming.”
“Ollie.” I cupped his cheek in my hand. “You already have.”
We turned back in through the gates and a respectful silence followed us until we were at the steps to the palace, then a deep and steady applause drummed along The Mall.
We watched one another, listening for a moment and then he guided me in.
The royal family had shown their humility, but the price they’d had to pay had been far too high.
Dixon waited for us. On a tray he held a hot chocolate for Daisy and a tumbler full of amber liquid which he gave to me. I shivered uncontrollably and Freya stepped forward and flung a blanket over my shoulders. I nodded with thanks, but I knew not just the cold had me shaking.
“Your Highness.” Dixon coughed. “The King would like to see you in the State Room.”
Oliver’s eyes darted to Freya, but she shr
ugged. “He hasn’t spoken to anyone.”
For a moment he closed his eyes, then he blinked them open and straightened his shoulders. He turned for the hallway leading to the formal apartments and I watched him go. A heavy sensation rocking deep in my stomach.
Twenty-Eight
Change can come slowly, the steady build of a swollen sea that will push and push until it rises over rocks and walls and drags away houses in its wake.
Or it can come fast, a typhoon created in a flash but with destruction that takes a long time to repair.
Change felt like it came like that to the royals. People thought that the typhoon came in the shape of me and I was the one who swept it all up. But the truth is that the change had already been in place.
It started the day Oliver Beaufort snuck into the offices of Bright Futures because he wanted to help people. Maybe I gave it some charge later that day in Janine’s office when I kept it real and told him how the world truly was.
Maybe the two things worked in tandem together.
Him and me. Him, me, and Daisy. The three of us. We’d created something the world had never seen.
“How do you feel?” I asked, reaching over to squeeze his hand.
“Like I’m having an out of body experience.”
Marcus cleared his throat and looked pointedly in the direction of the far wall. Oliver rolled his eyes, which in the circumstances hinged on ridiculous, but we all focused on the flat screen television.
The King sat behind a desk in his library. In four weeks, he’d aged beyond measure. The weight of his grief for his youngest child had all but stolen the life from him. He’d clung on though during her state funeral, even eventually making it out to thank the many thousands of mourners who gathered in London that weekend.
“Your dad looks old,” I whispered to Ollie, who nodded but held his attention on the television. “He needs a holiday.” Ollie’s lips flickered and I tried to retune myself to the mammoth events going on around me. Oliver wasn’t the only one having an out of body experience.
I watched the screen as Henry reached up and held onto Margi’s hand. Their fingers squeezed until he let go and picked up the piece of paper on the desk. Behind them on the wall was the portrait Oliver had commissioned from the newspaper cutting we’d found on the steps the day after Bella died.
I bit on my lip and tried to focus.
“It’s with both a mixture of honour and regret that today I formally abdicate my title of King of England to my eldest son Prince Oliver.” As he said the words, the grey from his skin seemed to recede. My imagination possibly, but I hoped for it all the same.
“This morning I gave royal assent to a parliamentary bill that sees me formally relinquish all claim to the throne. The bill, as such, passed by our Houses of Commons and Lords, allows for a biological child of the future King Oliver to succeed the throne in his place.”
Oliver squeezed my hand. But he didn’t need to. This was one hundred percent what I wanted.
“From this moment and with the passing of this act, I now declare him King Oliver the First of England.”
I couldn’t get my tongue to move. I wanted to say something, maybe something profound, but all I had came out as. “Bleughdeblughblugh.”
Oliver snorted but then refocused on the television. The King, sorry the former king, sat in the next room to ours with his wife. I bet if I had a glass and pressed it against the wall, I’d be able to hear his words for myself as they were broadcast to the nation.
“I love my country and I always sought to serve it well, but I have realised I am not a man for modern times. My actions in recent months have been hurtful to my family. The loss of my daughter to a drug overdose, so eloquently and feverishly mourned by the people of this country, opened my eyes to the fact I have failed; not only as a king, but also as a father. I wish to spend my remaining years focusing on my job as a father, the thing that means the most to me, while allowing the stewardship of this wonderful and accepting nation to fall into the hands of a better man. King Oliver will rule this country with the compassion and love that it deserves, and I shall watch with immense pride as he brings the people and its monarchy together in ways that will truly prosper us all.
“It’s with love and a heart that is ready to heal that I officially wish you a farewell as your King.”
Sweet fuck. I wiped at my face and Daisy slipped onto my lap, hugging me tight.
We all sat still, none of us moving until the door opened and in walked Henry and Margi. Henry walked with a straight back and bright eyes to his son and then knelt at his feet. “Your humble servant, My Majesty.”
Oliver leant forward and kissed his dad on the forehead.
And that was it.
My fiancée had upscaled from Prince to King.
On a motion from Oliver’s hand, all the curtains in the room were opened and the Union Jack which had been at half-mast since Isabella Beaufort passed away was lifted above the castle roof.
The room bathed in light. It seemed strange because we’d had the curtains open in the cottage, but the palace where we’d been most days since the King had called Oliver into the library and told him he no longer wanted to be king, had been shrouded in darkness.
Now it felt like a new day dawning.
The loss of Bella still echoed everywhere. Even I, who’d only known her a short while, missed the burst of energy she’d brought to the palace. Now we knew the energy hadn’t all been her own.
Three members of staff—all Bella’s age—had been sacked, and police charges made.
With the reign of the new King came a wave of new staff; new measures… new chances.
Marcus Cartwright had just lived through his last act with the royal family, and with the end of his beloved King’s reign, so would his job.
“So what happens now, Daddy?” Daisy asked and Oliver chuckled, reaching for her and pulling her into his arms.
She’d return to school on Monday, security detail in place.
The only thing that wouldn’t return to normal was Oliver and me. He was King. And I…
Oliver turned, a glimmer in his eye. “Freya, do you have my statement ready?”
I looked at him, my mouth wide open. “You can’t make a statement now; your dad has just dropped the clanger of the century.”
Henry, who rarely smiled these days curled his lips. “Oh, Leia.” He shook his head and went off to the window. He still spent a long time sitting there staring, like he expected Bella to walk back through, to see her trip up the drive after a night out or a shopping expedition.
Oliver handed me a piece of paper and I recognised his stationery straightaway. “I’ve missed your little love notes. Maybe we could make that a thing?”
John made gagging noises until Margi shushed him.
I opened it up and stared at the paper.
“With your agreement of course.” He nudged my shoulder as he watched me read.
St Mark’s Palace, on behalf of His Majesty, King Oliver, would like to announce his wedding to Miss Leia Lawrence on the 21st of September. A public holiday has been granted and further festivities will be announced nearer the time.
The paper shook in my hand. “September? But you are only being coronated in May. It’s too soon after Bell—”
“Come now, Leia, you won’t want to miss this party.” His smile grew.
“A street party?”
“Balloons, badges—”
“Oh my god, are you going to wear your prince pants!”
“For you. Without a doubt.”
Later once we’d been out to see the people gathered in the street, this time waving flags and welcoming their new King, we walked hand in hand through the palace.
“I guess we will have to pack again?” I cast him a side-eye and he shrugged.
“Eventually. There isn’t any rush. I don’t have any official engagements until the coronation, this is the bedding-in period.”
I cocked an eyebrow. “Bedding-in
?”
“Wonderful isn’t it? I can’t think what they want me to do.” His smile flashed with devilment as he pulled me in and kissed the top of my head.
“Your Majesty?”
“Oh don’t even think of starting that up.”
“I think it’s got a ring to it.”
He pulled me to a stop, wheeling me around until he caught me in his arms. “The statement goes out tomorrow. Are you happy with it?” He actually looked like I might not be. I giggled and tiptoed to kiss his lips.
“I think we both know I’m signed up for your crazy.”
“You didn’t say anything about the date?”
“The date?”
I went to reach into my pocket of my jeans before remembering that I didn’t have the luxury of pockets.
I didn’t want to follow silly traditions that were in place with no meaning, not now we had a fresh start, but honestly, my arse had always looked humongous in denim. Some rules were created for a reason.
“The 21st of September?” he prompted.
“Coming up blank here.”
He rolled his eyes. “It’s a year from the day we met. I can’t believe you don’t remember.”
“A year on September the 21st?” I tried to keep my surprise toned down but failed.
“Yes. I’m offended now. Jeez, I’ll have it tattooed on my skin if it will help.”
I grabbed him, pulling him close, not caring that staff could walk along. “It’s because it feels like I’ve never not been with you.”
His face smoothed, the skin around his eyes pinching. “A lot has happened in just a few months hasn’t it?”
“It has.”
“But you aren’t running away…”
“I told you. Never going to happen.”
“Oh you wait until the wedding planning starts. Do you know they are taking bets on who your dress designer will be already?”
“Well that’s stupid. We all know it will be Emilia.”
He scrunched his face. “I’m not sure it works like that.”
“Well then it’s up to us to make to make it work like that.” I grinned, squeezing his arm. “Did you see those people out there for you today? Ollie, they love you. The way you’ve been the last few weeks, you’ve made them fall in love with you, just the way you made me.”
