“No, goofus. To watch.” I sat up straight and wriggled my shoulders proudly. “I, Rebecca, Duchess of Clarence, and daughter of Earl Porter of the Iowa Porters, am going to turn the Queen into a Cubs fan.”
Nick grinned. “God save us all.”
“That is indeed the dream,” said Marj, sweeping in behind us and dropping a binder onto her desk. She sat down behind it and folded her hands together. “You are aware, of course, that Nicholas broached the topic of going on tour. Congratulations. The Prince of Wales and the Queen agree that it is time for our newlyweds to engage in a little diplomacy.”
She opened the binder to the title page, which read A Selective North American Adventure. “You’ll go in July, which gives us about five months to plan. You’ll start in Canada, and then pop over the border to Rebecca’s homeland. Strengthening the special relationship, and so forth. It’ll mean a lot of work, but we’ve procured help.”
She waved at someone in the hallway—I hadn’t even noticed that the door was open—and suddenly, standing beside Marj was Lady Bollocks.
“Bea?” I said, startled. “Are you, like, an expert on Canada, or something?”
“I did live there for five years,” Bea said.
“You did?”
“No,” Bea said. “But the fact that you didn’t know for certain is telling.”
“Everything is a quiz with this one,” I said to Marj, hooking my thumb at Bea as if we were some kind of vaudeville act.
“Beatrix was essential in our efforts to prepare you to join this family,” Marj said, “and so I thought she’d be ideal in this capacity. Which brings me to another announcement.”
At this, she closed the binder and looked at Nick with a lifetime of tenderness. “This tour shall be my swan song,” she said. “I’m retiring this summer.”
“What?” Nick sat bolt upright. “Marjie, no. How can we live without you?”
“My dear.” She beamed. “It’s been my honor to watch you grow from a sweet little boy into a fine young man, and a privilege to help you along that path.” She rested her hands in her lap. “But I’m tired. And I’m old. And I have a husband whom I don’t see nearly as much as I’d like. I plan to work in tandem with my replacement on this operation, and then hand over the reins.”
“Marj…” Nick shook his head. “I can’t believe it. You’ve been brilliant. I hope you know you’re irreplaceable.”
“I certainly hope not,” Bea said.
With growing alarm, I noticed a satisfied smile lurking at the edges of Bea’s mouth.
“Beatrix is the easiest hire I’ve made,” Marj said. “She’s trusted. She’s loyal. She’s already worked with Rebecca, and she knows the two of you very well but isn’t afraid to crack the whip, as it were.”
“With Bea that will probably be literal,” I muttered.
“And there’s her impressive resume, and all the crisis management work she’s done with major global organizations,” Marj said.
“She has?” Nick said.
Bea crossed her arms and looked stonily at me. “You really do think that I hang about doing dressage all day.” She and Marj traded an amused glance. “You’re about to get rudely awakened.”
“If she can handle the Red Cross, she can handle you two,” Marj said. She put on her glasses. “Beatrix and I have already hashed out the logistics for the next several months of planning.”
“Logistics about the logistics,” I quipped.
“We’ll run point together until you leave, and then I’ll merely consult while Beatrix is in charge,” Marj said. “Once you’re home from what I’m certain will be a smashing success, I shall step away completely, and you’ll be all hers.”
“In other words, don’t muck this up, or else we will not have a pleasant beginning.” Bea leaned over and placed her hands on the desk. With her slicked-back hair and black pantsuit, she looked like a panther poised to spring upon its prey. “Is that clear?”
Nick and I raised our eyebrows at each other. As a friend, Bea’s loyalty was peerless and fierce. But almost any directive from Eleanor promised to be a vacation compared with being under the professional, official thumb of Lady Beatrix Larchmont-Kent-Smythe.
CHAPTER FOUR
That is appalling.” Eleanor sat back in her armchair in disgust. Her pewter topknot bobbled. “Does that man need an eye exam? That pitch clearly painted the corner.”
I bit back a smile. “Are you having fun yet?” I asked.
“There’s an awful lot of spitting and adjusting oneself,” she said.
“I did warn you,” I said.
“Yes, well, you were also correct that a proper game is very diverting,” Eleanor allowed. “I particularly like the players who pull their socks up over their trousers. It’s jaunty.”
True to her word, Eleanor had spent the last ten weeks having me explain the rules of baseball. Our lessons had started off rocky; I hadn’t realized how weird baseball is until I had to dive into the nitty-gritty with a person who felt the need to interrogate absolutely everything.
“Are you telling me,” Eleanor had said irritably, “that you pitch the ball, but you can also pitch a ball, and they mean different things?”
“Yes,” I said. “You’ll get used to it.”
“It’s nonsensical,” Eleanor said. “They need to call it something else. A fault, like tennis. Or a miss.”
“Okay, but a missed swing is already a miss,” I said.
“A ball is already a ball,” she fired back. “Ludicrous.”
Eleanor also felt that the “safe” signal looked like it should mean “strike,” and deeply disapproved of the concept of a checked swing (“No wonder men these days don’t understand commitment,” she sniffed). But she was a scrupulous pupil, so much so that I exhausted myself cuing up illustrative ESPN highlights to answer her questions, and nearly went hoarse the day we discussed the designated-hitter rule. A few times, I had to call in sick, just so I could plow through the piles of trip-related homework Bea had assigned. My dedication was paying off, though: Eleanor was easily more fluent in the sport than Nick.
Marta had scoffed at all this,
