My first official participation was the morning of the funeral, as the royal family followed the casket and the accompanying pipe band on foot—excepting Eleanor, who would arrive by car—from Westminster Hall into the church. Agatha held Richard’s arm; Edwin had a tot on each side and walked behind with Elizabeth, who carried the baby, which obligingly spit up on her lapel as she shook hands with the archbishop.
“Ugh. Could you be a dear and turn that into wine, too?” She’d winked, waving her hand in a magic-making gesture toward the archbishop, to his barely suppressed horror.
When Clive later wrote that “anyone who’s anything anywhere” came, he wasn’t exaggerating. This guest list made our wedding look like we’d rounded up a bunch of randoms at the Tube. It was all I could do to keep my head down and look solemn, as in my periphery alone I spied three American First Ladies, four British prime ministers in addition to the beleaguered Doris Tuesday, at least half of the England national football team, the president and First Lady of France, the prime minister of Canada, Angelina and Brad sitting on opposite sides of the room, and the heads of every single royal family in Europe—including the former king of Belgium, who was in the middle of a paternity scandal and had been hiding out in Mallorca. I wished fleetingly that I’d gotten the Cubs to pay their respects.
Despite my valiant effort not to rubberneck, the truth was that I could have gawked all day if I wanted to, because for once no one was looking at me. Everyone—from Brad Pitt to the Prince of Monaco and his young Olympian wife—was waiting to see Eleanor. And she knew it.
I firmly believed she’d also known no pub in England, not even one with PPOs in it, could contain guests’ urges to snap iPhone photos. A few grainy pictures of her appearance at Lacey’s reception had leaked to the press, in which the Queen looked hale and hearty enough to back her truculent son into a corner: step out of the regent role and announce her full recovery, or stir up suspicion among royal watchers.
“What an unfortunate situation, but of course we must do as the optics demand,” Eleanor had said airily the day the photos ran. “Pity a lady can’t simply wish a loved one well in peace.”
I’d nearly choked on my sandwich, and not just at the notion that Lacey was her loved one. Eleanor could play innocent all she wanted, but I’d go to my grave swearing this was a carefully crafted checkmate.
Initially, I’d been hugely annoyed that Eleanor manipulated my sister’s wedding day for her own gain, but the emotional wallop of Marta’s death knocked all that away. I’d grown fond of her during the past two years, but that was nothing compared to what I worried Eleanor might be feeling. Due to the early deaths of both their husbands, and later Georgina, they’d been each other’s touchstones for a lifetime. Eleanor was now the only one left in her family who remembered what she was like before she was a queen. I hoped the loss wouldn’t have an adverse effect on her own vigor, but when I went to see her, she was every bit as feistily frank with me as she’d been since she woke up.
“You are the only person I can say this to,” she’d said. “But while of course I’m very upset about Mummy, I am pleased that my debut will be a splash. If you’re making a comeback, make a comeback.”
“I’m sure Marta would agree,” I said.
“I doubt that,” Eleanor said. She massaged some lotion into her right hand. “For every ear-bending I got from Victoria II about duty and etiquette and the requirement that I have no fun, there were three from Mummy. It was like the current battering you against a rock. After a while you simply go limp.”
“I can’t imagine you going limp against anyone,” I said.
She laughed harshly. “Where do you think I learnt that?”
“Marta always came across as more of a…harmless curmudgeon to me.” I shrugged. “Maybe all the losses in her life eventually changed her, mellowed her a little.”
“I told you, people don’t change,” Eleanor replied curtly. “However…”
She stood up and walked over to the elegant Danish credenza set against the far wall of her sitting room. She rummaged in the top drawer for a bit and emerged with a velvet box.
“I thought you might like to have this,” she said, coming over and setting it in my hand. “We haven’t dealt fully with Mummy’s will yet, but I think she’d agree you could use a little luck.”
I opened the box to find a small emerald-and-diamond brooch in the shape of a four-leaf clover. “Eleanor, it’s gorgeous. I couldn’t possibly take it.”
“Nonsense. It matches your ring,” Eleanor said. “Besides, you brought a great deal of amusement to my mother’s life over the last few years.”
“That’s a diplomatic way to put it.”
Eleanor smiled. “You may remember that I am a master of diplomacy, Rebecca,” she said. “Wear it to the service. We’ll leak to the press that it was bequeathed to you, which will give you a boost with the public. That is a gift, too.”
“Thank you. I’m touched. Really,” I said, lifting the brooch out of its box. It glimmered in the light. “It turns out I am becoming a jewelry person after all.”
“Of course you are,” Eleanor said. “The only people who think they aren’t are the ones who’ve never worn really good jewels.”
We both turned and looked at the chair Marta had favored, all those days and nights by her daughter’s bedside. Her iPhone charger was still plugged into the wall.
“It has been quite a year,” Eleanor said, sounding resigned. “Perhaps the building will burn down next.”
Back in Westminster Abbey, I glanced down at the brooch, which I’d pinned
