“No holds barred?” I asked him.
“None.”
“There is no clean exit for us,” I said. “It might be different if there were. But something will always be chasing us.”
Nick gazed pensively at the daughter in his arms. “Gran said that when she first held Father, he seemed so pure, and all she wanted was to raise him strong enough to face his destiny. All I can do is make my best guess at which path is right for them, and ultimately, being infamous won’t be any easier for them than being famous. It could be rather worse.”
He gestured with his chin in my direction. “And imagine the teenage rebellion when she finds out she could’ve been the bloody queen,” he joked. “I’d better double down on this now.”
“Like a vow renewal, of sorts,” I said.
“If I’ve learnt anything from all the Real Housewives, it is that renewing one’s vows is a death knell for any relationship.”
“Too true,” I said. “I’ll think of another metaphor.”
Both babies began to wriggle and mewl.
“What’s the matter, poppet?” Nick cooed. “Did luncheon go down the wrong way?”
But the energy in the whole room had started to shift, and maybe the girls sensed it. I craned my neck and saw, in the distance, the doctors and nurses exchanging frantic expressions, then scurrying over to form a line toward the door. I heard the water at the scrubbing station turn on, and the tear of the plastic around another sterile pre-soaped brush, before a very specific voice drifted through the NICU.
“This soap smells ghastly,” we heard Queen Eleanor say. “How dreadful that these poor babies start life thinking that the world reeks of loo cleaner.”
Nick and I exchanged holy shit looks, and shortly thereafter, the Queen appeared in front of us wearing a lavender coatdress and matching hat, smiling and nodding and politely thanking the staff for taking such wonderful care of all the babies. “And particularly mine,” she said, stopping in front of me. She leaned down and poked at a little foot that had come free of its swaddle. “Hello, madam,” she said. “It’s your favorite relative.”
Everyone scattered, having paid sufficient respects, and the three of us were alone in our corner of the NICU. One of the nurses, as she left, pulled the curtains around us for privacy.
“They’re so tiny,” Eleanor marveled.
“Would you like to hold one?” I asked. Eleanor shrank back a bit, nervous, so I added, “Like all the women in this family, they’re tougher than anyone thinks.”
Eleanor looked pleased, and sat in the nearby empty glider. I carefully handed over the baby in my arms, who blinked with interest up at her great-grandmother.
“Look, Nick,” I said. “A pair of queens.”
She whipped up her head, more surprised than I’d seen her before. “Are you implying what you seem to be implying?”
“Yes,” Nick said. “You’ve had enough traumatic chapters in your life. We’re not going to be the authors of another.”
Eleanor took a deep breath. “I know all too well that it’s one thing to make a decision but quite another to live with it,” she said. “As someone who had to do that for a very long time, I can tell you, at times the pain made me wonder if the alternative would have been easier.” She looked up at Nick. “Are you ready for that? Do you think you can live out this choice without regrets?”
Nick gazed at his grandmother, his smile rueful but resigned. “No one lives without regrets, really,” he said. “But when they surface, and I’m sure they will, I just have to remember that I’m doing this for something bigger.” He glanced at the baby in his arms. “And something much smaller. The same way you did.”
“My darling, darling boy,” she said. “Thank you.”
She looked over at the baby Nick held, and then down at the one in her arms. Then she cleared her throat and turned to me. “Rebecca, there’s something I need to tell you,” she said. “I realize I abused our relationship by telling you a very specific version of the truth, but it’s important to me that you know the relationship itself was not a lie.” She took a moment, and cleared her throat. “You matter to me very much.”
I smiled at her, there in her signature dress and topper, holding my firstborn daughter, her latest-born heir. “I love you, too,” I told her.
“Also, no one else is interested in my thoughts about the Cubs bullpen. Murray simply cannot grasp it,” she said, sounding put out about it. “We need to get these babies home and start teaching them about managing your middle relievers.”
“Yes, it’s high time we all moved forward,” Nick said. “In that vein, Gran, Bex and I have decided to pack up Georgina’s writings. All of them. We’ll have Bea personally deliver the box this week.”
She blinked. “Aren’t you afraid I’m going to burn them?” she asked.
Nick shrugged. “They’re yours, not ours. It’s your story, yours and Father’s. Neither one of you got to write the beginning of it. It only seems fair that you be allowed to write the end.”
The baby reached out and grabbed Eleanor’s finger. Eleanor cooed at her, then pursed her lips. “Whether or not the proof dies with me,” she said, “the truth doesn’t have to. When these ladies are old enough to understand your decision, you have my blessing to offer it to them. Although I would certainly hate to deny the world…”
She looked expectantly at me and Nick. I glanced at him, and he nodded.
“Nick is holding Margaret Eleanor Mary,” I said.
“And you, Gran, are holding our future queen, Georgina Emma Victoria,” Nick said. “It felt right. I hope you agree.”
Eleanor’s lips trembled. “It is absolutely right.” A tear trickled down her cheek. “History has all but forgotten her. Perhaps now, it never will.”
She gently began rocking the chair, then looked up with a start as Georgina burped in her face. Eleanor’s expression relaxed into a chortle, and Nick joined her
