Page 4 of Coronation
I don’t bother looking at him. “More ribbon cuttings?” I suggest, my tone making my distaste for that kind of engagement quite plain. Arthur positively adored a good ribbon cutting. Now, after partaking in more than my fair share, theman’s fetish for giant scissors is even more bewildering than it was when I was relegated to standing on the sidelines.
“No, sir, I’ll be sure to have an agenda prepared for you. We’re also putting together the guest list for the palace’s annual garden party. It wasn’t held last year, obviously, with the country still in mourning.” He pauses, apparently waiting for me to display some sort of emotion at the mention of my late brother, sister-in-law, and nephews. When no such reaction occurs, and the silence between us has been stretched to unbearably awkward lengths, he moves on. “If there is anyone in particular you would like to be in attendance?—”
“There isn’t.”
Thomas hesitates, apparently warring with himself on whatever it is to say next. The man must have more courage than I thought, though, for his next words have my already foul mood darkening ominously. “Several royal advisors suggested we extend an invitation to Miss Alba Porter.”
Oh, for fuck’s sake. The woman in question, Miss Porter, is the daughter of a well-known lord, and at the very top ofthe list.
The need for me to remarry has been discussed with increasing regularity as the country has moved away from its state of mourning and toward the date of my coronation. With the bitter, political arrangement with my ex-wife being what it was, the prospect of making babies with her wasn’t particularly inviting. We tried for a while, but our efforts were lackluster at best, eventually fading away when my brother took the throne, and the spotlight moved off our new marriage.
Nobody particularly cared if we failed to provide a second set of heirs. Not until now, when the situation has obviously changed. Drastically. Arthur’s death, and the deaths of his sons, have trimmed the once-flourishing royal family tree down to a single, very short branch.
“Isn’t one divorce enough?” I question Thomas, glowering.
My press secretary blanches. “I assure you, Miss Porter islovely. We’ve met in several social situations, and she is the very picture of grace. I believe it would be beneficial for the two of you to be seen together.”
A vivid memory of the lady in question throwing a plate at my head comes to mind. “You said the same thing about my ex-wife. Perhaps you don’t recall, you did have quite a bit more hair back then.”
Apparently determined not to let my barb get to him, Thomas puffs out his chest, looking more self-important than ever. “Do you wish me to cross Miss Porter from the guest list, Your Royal Highness?”
The petulant, bitter part of me wishes dearly to tell him I would. Apparently, my natural resistance to The Crown’s machinations has weakened over the course of my lackluster tenure because I don’t seem to have enough fight left in me to accept this reluctant offer. A bitter taste fills my mouth as I shake my head. “No. Invite her. The more the merrier, yes?”
Thomas appears delighted, seizing upon my resignation with great enthusiasm. “Yes, sir. I quite agree.”
I don’t hesitate to take advantage of the opportunity this presents. “Is that all?” I ask, arranging my expression to one that hopefully conveys this was more of a rhetorical question.
As the third king my unfortunate press corps director has had the dubious honor to serve under, the man knows how to take a hint. Sure enough, Thomas inclines his head respectfully, visibly relieved I’m not going to further question his professional abilities. “Yes, Your Majesty. I deeply appreciate your attention today.”
His gaze weighs on my back as I leave, stepping into the well-appointed professional wing of the palace. My mood, which has been at a permanent low for months, is more bitterthan usual as I stalk down the familiar, carpeted corridor. There are more people here than usual, and I’m scarcely aware of my surroundings as I brush past a pack of interns who all but fall over themselves to get out of my way, and a housekeeper who drops into a perfect curtsy at the sight of me.
I ignore all of them.
Ornate oil paintings of long-dead ancestors glower down at me as I journey into more private areas of Ashwell Palace. Their gilded frames, interspersed with the occasional marble bust or decorative urn, are just the same as they were when I was a boy, and I liked them as little then as I do now. Somewhere nearby, a grandfather clock chimes, the melodic gong reverberating through my temples. It’s laughable that even the damn clock sets my teeth on edge these days.
The need toget outseems to be growing more urgent with every step I take. There are a whole host of things I know I need to see to, a pile of paperwork waiting in my study that needs my fussy, self-important signature, and a meeting with the prime minister which I’ll need to prepare for.
At the moment, I couldn’t give less of a damn about any of it. So, without pausing to allow my more rational side to take charge, I turn away from my study, stepping out a side door and into the palace’s sun-soaked rose garden.
It’s hardly easier to breathe amidst the meticulously pruned greenery than it was indoors. For one thing, a very good number of the palace’s offices overlook the gardens, and the weight of unseen eyes has me keeping my back straight as I stride forward, my shoes crunching on the gravel path.
If anyone is watching, they’ll know where I’m headed.
As a boy, I’d been certain that no one knew the way through the hedge maze of Ashwell Palace as well as I did. Before I went away to school, I spent summers mapping out every corner of the intricate layout and arranging treasurehunts for my younger brother, Leopold, who was not nearly as invested as I was.
Surely it wasn’t a secret to the adults in my life where I was spending all this time, but the prospect of hunting me down wasn’t worth the pleasure of my company. When I was in the maze, everyone left me alone, and the refuge I found within its walls afforded me a deep fondness for the place. A fondness which certainly didn’t carry over to any other part of my opulent childhood home.
With each step I take, the pressure on my chest seems to grow more unyielding, and by the time I pass beneath the arched entrance, I’m struggling to draw breath. It’s darker and cooler inside the high, living walls, and I stop nearly the moment I’ve turned the corner, sucking in greedy lungfuls of air.
Perhaps it’s ridiculous for a grown man in my position to spend such an inordinate amount of time wandering through a maze, but in the eighteen months since I found myself back here, it’s been the only place where I’ve been able to breathe freely. Even the shame and self-disgust at my weakness aren’t enough to deprive myself of such a luxury.
The tops of the hedges rustle in the summer breeze as I move forward, joining in a familiar symphony with my heartbeat. After so many hours in this place, my muscles know the way forward without my mind needing to participate in the journey.
It seems impossible that I’ve only been back here for so brief a time, when each day seems to stretch twice as long as the one before, and I feel no closer to settling into my role as I did the day it was thrust upon me. Christ, even in the darkest, most miserable days of my charade of a marriage, I had my work as an escape. Now, there is only protecting and upholding an institution I resent, in the shadow of men better suited to it than I could ever be.
Perhaps if, like Arthur, I had been raised to know this was my future, it would have been easier. When our father died, my brother was prepared for the throne. Not even six hours later, and he was on national television, delivering a deep, moving tribute to the late king—only about seventy percent of which was utter bullshit—and reinforcing his undying dedication to this country.
My shoulder brushes the hedge as I take a corner too quickly, and a bird caws, disgruntled, from within.
