“To be adored?” I asked.
“To be respected,” she said. “That’s far more powerful. Far more lasting. I wanted the legacy.” She gripped her cane, but did not stand. “Perhaps I was being naïve in assuming my son and my grandson felt the same.”
Her eyes fell upon every now vacated chair in the room, in turn. “I’ve watched Edwin grow up to be a gadabout, and a shirker,” she said. “I’ve watched Agatha care more about the symbols of the monarchy than the monarchy itself. Richard has always been the person who took it seriously. Dedication is in his nature. He’d have been dutiful to the core no matter what his place was. I believe that.” She pursed her lips. “The throne is only weak when the wrong person sits on it. A direct line matters less than a solid one.”
“That’s great, but you’ve had decades to make peace with the idea,” I said.
“Accepting something does not mean making peace with it,” she spat. “This was a nightmare that I was called upon to make the best of, and I did that. Largely alone, and for Richard’s benefit.” She pointed at me. “If he doesn’t see that, make Nicholas.”
I spread my hands. “They have their own minds, Eleanor. We just have to wait.”
“Wait,” she repeated emptily. “To find out if a lifetime of agony was for nothing.” A note of desperation crept into her voice. “He will come around. They all will. They have to.”
“Why?” I asked, leaning forward. “For you, as a person, or for the Crown?”
Eleanor did struggle to her feet then, and looked down at me. “Rebecca,” she said. “You should know by now that there is no difference.”
* * *
“Darling moeder!” gushed Queen Lucretia, gliding over to me and cupping my now very pronounced bump with a featherlight touch. “The miracle of life is the most powerful sunshine! I am overcome.”
She kissed me three times, twice on the right cheek. She was resplendent this evening in a royal-blue strapless gown with a beaded bodice and a simple cape; this was not a tiara event, but some truly bananas diamonds hanging from her earlobes had a pretty similar effect. One of them bonked me on the cheekbone when she came in for the second kiss.
“It’s wonderful to see you, Your Majesty,” I said, trying to rub at it subtly. The last thing I needed was to be at Freddie’s wedding with a shiner.
“And Prince Richard looks wonderfully well,” she said, clasping my hands. “I did fret. It seems every time we are to cross paths, illness mars the day. But he is tall and strong. A statue!”
Lax gestured absently toward the carvings over our heads in the Royal Palace’s Citizens’ Hall, a vast, high-ceilinged space bedecked with sculptures looking down upon us—of the Amsterdam Maiden, of the planets and the elements, of Atlas. Daphne’s family was based in The Hague but used the impressive Amsterdam palace for official functions, its two-story sandstone façade somewhat evoking Buckingham Palace, but crowned with a cupola and a ship-shaped weathervane. Richard had kept us guessing about his whereabouts right up until the minute his car arrived outside. I glanced up at Atlas, the world on his back, and thought how apt it was that we were all here circulating underneath the very symbol of how it felt to carry something bigger and heavier than you are.
In my case, it was doubly true. I’d been cleared to travel by private jet for the wedding, though at thirty-three weeks pregnant with twins, this had come on the condition that we bring two doctors and keep Lax’s obstetrician on call—in addition to the fact that Cilla would be lurking on the fringes of the wedding, ostensibly helping Freddie, but also watchdogging me. My swollen feet and ankles were ably concealed by an emerald lace gown that matched my engagement ring; my discomfort, I’d been told, was about on par with a woman nine months pregnant with one fetus, and I sent up a prayer of thanks that the afternoon’s public pre-wedding variety show had always only been planned for Freddie, as a way for his new country to welcome him into its arms. I only had so much stamina, and the stress of wondering whether Richard would show his face had drained me of a fair bit before the rehearsal dinner had even begun.
“Poor thing,” Lady Elizabeth had said to me as we walked into the hall for cocktails. “I remember when I was about that pregnant with my first. I felt like my undercarriage was going to explode. Which of course it did, in a way, but—”
“Father,” Nick had blurted out.
We had all jumped a little and turned to see the Prince of Wales, looking tanned and handsome, striding in with Eleanor on his arm. The hush that blanketed the room was nearly palpable, as the band whipped up “God Save the Queen” as a sign of respect. Even in a non-Commonwealth country, as guests of another monarchy, Eleanor carried a special kind of majesty and gravitas—and incited genuine deference, even from other rulers. She’d been queen for as long as nearly everyone in this room could remember, and I think she represented, to them, the best of what our lives as royals could be: devoted to service, beloved by country, and a living symbol of history.
“I don’t envy them,” Elizabeth had said to me, nodding at Richard and Eleanor. “Everyone wants their ear. No room for an extra tipple or a spot of mischief in a dark corner.” She smirked. “Eddybear would burst if we couldn’t steal away for a snog. Oh, look, he’s already giving me the tug on the ear. No rest for the wicked.”
Once she flitted off, I sidled to the bar and sucked down a very large glass of ice water, and took stock of the rest of the party. It was nice not to be the center of attention for once; lurking at the bar, people-watching, I felt like
