“Chemistry?” I offered.
“Don’t be obtuse. When has chemistry been Frederick’s problem? Think back to your own life,” she said. “Not being able to go to the market. Not being able to go to work. Not being able to throw away your rubbish without worrying people will go through it. Breaking up and having the world watch you, simply because you once dated a prince. Marrying him, and having the same.” She flicked garnish off a tea sandwich with a clear-painted nail. “And now imagine that person, for Freddie, trying to coexist with you. Think of how difficult it was for Nicholas to watch you two be friends. Do you think very many women will gamble their entire lives on that?”
“Are you saying,” I said slowly, “that it’s my fault Freddie is still single?”
“I’m saying, perhaps all three of you would be happier if he chooses to make his life with someone who helps put more distance between you,” she said. “Someone unfazed by how this life works.”
“Distance between family members doesn’t necessarily solve anything,” I said. “You of all people should know that.”
Eleanor put down her teacup harder than usual. “I beg your pardon?”
“Georgina,” I said. “She kept away, and you two never made up, and then she died and that was that.” I cocked my head. “Then again, you and Marta lived in total proximity and I heard what you said to her coffin, so maybe there is no right answer.”
“Whatever you think you heard, it has most certainly been exaggerated by your active imagination,” Eleanor said. “My mother was a challenging woman who was every bit as hard on me as my grandmother. What daughter wouldn’t carry a few resentments after everything we lived through?”
Her cheeks were flushed. I sensed I should back down. “I suppose I’d prefer that Nick and Freddie followed yours and Marta’s example than yours and Georgina’s, is all,” I said.
“Perhaps you should worry less about Freddie and Georgina and focus more on your own concerns.” Eleanor settled deeper into her chair and nudged The Sun again. “It seems that you have some pressing ones.”
I took a tiny egg salad sandwich off the tea tower and placed it on my plate. “Some people would say that this is none of your business.”
“Tell that to Clive Fitzwilliam, who thoughtfully plastered it all over his paper,” she said. “Was that another of his inventions, or is it true?”
I felt a blush run up my face. “We’ve been trying since the miscarriage. No luck.”
Eleanor looked concerned. “That’s been some time,” she said sharply.
“You’re telling me.” At this, Eleanor raised her brows, but did not speak. “But we’re seeing a very good specialist,” I continued. “She’ll get us sorted.”
Dr. Akhtar’s brochures popped into my head again. I had not brought up the issue of sperm donation with Nick at all; instead, I’d told him that Dr. Akhtar thought my body could use a little break, and we’d broken out some of the plonk.
Eleanor was staring intently at the smoked salmon. I could not read her.
“Don’t worry,” I told her, but my voice sounded quivery. “We’ll figure it out.”
Eleanor placed her hand, cool and dry, over mine. Then she patted it sharply, more monarchical than maternal. “See that you do, my dear,” she said. “If I die without your having added a few heirs to the line, I shall be enormously cross.”
* * *
“It’s about time,” Nick said as Freddie bounded down the steps to the courtyard, an overnight bag slung over his shoulder. “I’d hoped Cilla would keep you on a tighter clock.”
“She is,” Freddie said. “But unfortunately, her husband brought a large lunch spread over and it demanded to be consumed in full.”
Freddie had indeed walked right out of Bea’s office, offered a job to Cilla as his personal secretary, and gotten Richard’s stamp of approval—all within the span of an hour. It seemed to put a bounce back in Freddie’s step that he’d been granted even this much autonomy, and Cilla and Bea—bruised, but aware she’d brought this on herself—had spent one very long dinner at Dishoom formulating a workflow plan and generally cementing that this was not going to make either of them unhappy.
Freddie paused and felt around in his pockets for something. “Do I have my cigarettes?”
“I thought you’d quit,” I said.
“No one ever really quits,” he said.
“Come on,” Nick said. “We’re going to be late.”
“Keep your knickers on, Knickers,” Freddie said. “It’s not like they can leave without us.”
“I reckon Gran would try,” Nick said as PPO Twiggy popped the back gate of the Range Rover and Freddie threw his bag on top of mine.
“Gran might leave one of us,” Freddie said. “But she can’t leave all of us. That’s the whole point of this little trip.”
Nick and Freddie and I were joining Eleanor on the Royal Train to commemorate the hundredth anniversary of the armistice that ended World War I, which had been signed on a locomotive in France. The festivities began with a splashy exit out of London in the evening, after which we’d eat and sleep on the train, and disembark in Inverness at 10:00 a.m. to coincide with the exact time the war ended. Eleanor and Freddie would then attend a brunch with veterans while Nick and I unveiled a new exhibit of military art at the cathedral. This anniversary was a big deal, historically, but Eleanor also knew that any event featuring her and the three of us was going to get a ton of media coverage, and she was apparently in the mood for some splashy positive PR.
Nick and I had been enjoying our IVF vacation. We’d relaxed, had some cocktails, drank coffee instead of green juice, recklessly skipped our vitamins, and used the Buckingham Palace hot tub for the first time. But, as good as that freedom felt, we couldn’t completely brush aside
