As they shook, Freddie’s face flooded with relief, and he pulled Nick into a hug.
“Thank you,” he said. “The whole thing is very nerve-racking. Fortunately, all I really have to say in Dutch is ja,” he said. “It will be a little odd to be married in a ceremony I cannot totally understand. Good thing they’re all pretty much the same, right? Love, honor, etc. Various pledges of troth.”
Nick and I exchanged a glance, which Freddie intercepted. “Don’t,” he said. “That wasn’t me being blasé. You can’t second-guess everything I say about this for the rest of my life.”
“We know, we promise. You’re right.” Nick pulled at his hair. “You wouldn’t be spending hours with a Dutch tutor if you weren’t serious. You didn’t even do your schoolwork when you were in actual school.”
“Dank je,” Freddie said. “That’s Dutch for ‘thank you.’ See? I’m very committed to this. We need to get it done before the babies arrive.”
“Freddie,” I said, “I’m not going to be housebound forever after the babies come. Or, worst-case, Nick can hold up a big iPad and FaceTime me in.”
“No,” Freddie said. “I don’t want to wait any longer than I already am. What’s that old line from When Harry Met Sally? When you figure out the rest of your life, you want it to happen as soon as possible?”
“Since when are you watching When Harry Met Sally?” I asked.
Freddie shrugged. “Marj and I watched a lot of rom-coms over the years.” He stood up and stretched. “Right, I’m off to talk to Father about boring logistical issues regarding what I have to give up and what I don’t. Anyone want to join?”
“Tempting, but I’ve got to make breakfast for dinner,” Nick said. “I can’t tell if they’re real cravings, or whims.”
“As long as that’s healthy for my nieces and/or nephews,” Freddie said, crossing the room to squeeze my shoulder on his way out. “Little Prince Sun Pat Peanut Butter and Prince Flora Margarine.”
“What happened to naming them after charities?” I asked.
“More sponsorship money in corporate Britain,” he said, and with a jaunty wave, he strolled out and banged shut our front door.
All this engagement fuss did give me a convenient shield from public scrutiny as I waited nervously for a safe end to my first trimester. The only people who knew about the pregnancy were Lacey, my mom, and Freddie and Daphne. The Porter side of the equation had been rapturous; Freddie and Daphne had been vocally and facially and in all other outward ways relieved and pleased, the former probably in part because he didn’t want to give any more samples than necessary, and the latter…probably for a similar reason. But as the twelve-week mark drew nearer, Nick and I began to feel guilty keeping a secret this big from the one person who was the most obsessed with what it meant to history, even if we knew that same person would gloat mercilessly about how she’d solved the problem. So we invited ourselves to tea to give the Queen the news in person.
When we arrived, though, we found Eleanor’s door closed and guarded by Richard’s chief of staff, Barnes. He was holding a rolled-up copy of a newspaper in his hand, and his toupee was a tad askew.
“We have an appointment with my grandmother,” Nick said.
“You’ll need to wait,” he said. “His Royal Highness and Her Majesty are having a private conversation.”
“…need I remind you that you are still married?” came Eleanor’s voice through the door. Even Barnes raised his brows. “You are not legally free to be cavorting about London with some gold-digging socialite.”
Nick’s eyes were wide. “What’s going on?” he asked Barnes.
In a wordless huff, Barnes handed Nick the paper. I peered over Nick’s shoulder at the front page of the Evening Standard.
ROYAL ROMANCE IS CONTAGIOUSFreddie’s Not the Only One Catching Feelings
Prince Richard has been bitten by the love bug.
As his younger son prepares to marry the Princess of Orange, the Prince of Wales’s customary Range Rover was spotted idling outside The Goring Hotel, where it picked up socialite Jane Archibald-Jones and drove them to a private dinner at Soho House. She returned to her hotel in the early morning hours, alone, after a lengthy stop at Clarence House.
Archibald-Jones, 58 and thrice divorced, had been living on the Continent until the dissolution of her last marriage. Richard himself, troublingly for the Palace, is still wed; this marks the first time romantic rumors have surfaced about him since it was revealed that his wife, Emma, Princess of Wales, has been debilitated by mental illness. It’s not known how or when Prince Richard and Jane connected, but royal watchers of a certain age will recall that Jane’s daughter was one of the young bridesmaids in the Prince’s wedding to Emma…
“I was not cavorting. We simply ate dinner,” Richard boomed as we read.
“Yes, and then had a very leisurely nightcap, it sounds like,” Eleanor said. “We all know what that means, Richard.”
Next to me, Nick closed his eyes. “I wish we’d gotten here fifteen minutes later,” he said.
The door to her quarters burst open and the Queen herself stuck her head out into the hallway. “Stop lurking, Nicholas, and come in.”
“I really can’t see that this is any of their business,” Richard said, from his spot on the silk sofa. Both his arms and legs were crossed.
“I’m not going to leave them skulking about the hallway,” Eleanor snapped as she sat back down in her armchair. “Besides, luncheon is about to arrive. I thought perhaps sushi?” she said, peering at me. “Some very soft Brie?”
“Sounds great,” I chirped. There was no way Eleanor had ordered sushi. She once told me that the idea of placing raw fish in her mouth was as appealing as being forced to catch it herself.
“I should be off, then,” Richard said.
“No,” Eleanor said, turning back to him. “We’re not
