Page 134 of American Royals
Beatrice let out a single anguished sob. He didn’t need to finish that sentence for her to know what he meant. He was telling her that she needed to let go of Connor—to marry Teddy, and start the rest of her life.
She felt the grinding and turning of some axis deep within herself as the human part of her fell silent and the part of her that answered to the Crown took over.
“Your Royal Highness.” The doctor creaked open the door. “I think it’s time you let the king rest.”
“I don’t …” Beatrice didn’t want to leave when her father was like this, when he’d just expended so much energy on that speech. It felt somehow that she was tempting fate.
“It’s all right, Beatrice. I’m going to sit with him awhile.” The queen appeared in the doorway. She’d washed her face and redone her makeup, clearly trying to hide the evidence of her tears. “Why don’t you step outside? You could take Sam and Jeff. I’m sure the crowds would love to see you. Many of them have traveled a long way to be here right now.”
The last thing Beatrice wanted to do right now was a walkabout, but she lacked the emotional strength to say no. “Okay. We’ll be back soon.”
She gave her father’s hand one last squeeze, then headed out to give her siblings, and Connor, the heads-up.
Sam and Jeff immediately agreed with her plan. “That’s a nice idea,” Sam said softly, running a hand through her ponytail.
“Teddy. You’ll come with me, right?” Beatrice’s voice nearly broke, but she held out a hand toward him. “It would be good for the country, to see us together right now.”
There was a moment of strained silence. Beatrice felt Teddy’s questioning gaze, felt Samantha’s radiating resentment as they both realized the import of her words.
She couldn’t end her engagement with Teddy, not right now. Not after the threat of leaving him had literally sent her father to his deathbed.
None of them spoke as they headed down the elevator and out to greet the waiting crowds.
It was a sunny afternoon, the sky overhead a byzantine blue that felt distinctly at odds with what was happening in the hospital room upstairs. The golden light streamed down on them, making Beatrice wish she could shade her eyes, or wear sunglasses. She forced herself to blink until her vision adjusted.
The air felt cold and sharp. She drew in a great lungful of it, as if by breathing double she might somehow breathe on her father’s behalf. Then she turned toward the expectant crowds.
Beatrice couldn’t remember the last time she’d been part of a walkabout this subdued. Usually they were festive, because usually they were part of parades or parties: children cheering and waving flags, asking her to pose for selfies or sign her autograph.
Today she simply shook hands, accepted a few hugs. Many people handed her flowers, with notes or cards for her dad. She murmured her thanks and passed them all to Connor. As she handed things to him, she occasionally let her fingers brush his, in a silent, selfish touch. Even after she stepped away, she felt the weight of his grave gray eyes resting on her.
She had no idea how she would find the strength to give him up. Not after everything they had already been through.
Beatrice forced herself not to think about that. She focused on nodding and shaking hands, on making her lips recite a string of sentences over and over: Thank you for being here. We appreciate your prayers. Your presence means so much to my father. For once she was relieved to do this—to fall back on her training and become the marionette version of herself, let ritual take over.
She was vaguely aware of Teddy doing the same thing a few paces away from her. Sam, on the other hand, had retreated as far from Beatrice as possible. Beatrice could still feel her sister’s gaze, boring like daggers into her back. She knew Sam was angry with her for appearing with Teddy in public, when she’d said that she was calling off the engagement.
A few times Beatrice reached for a water bottle and took a sip, hoping it would settle her stomach, which suddenly felt so empty. Or maybe she was empty. Maybe she was as cold as her sister had always thought, driven only by duty. She felt as hollow and heartless as this plastic bottle, utterly empty of everything.
It wasn’t until her father’s surgeon came running down onto the main steps of St. Stephen’s that she knew.
The doctor stumbled forward like a white-robed ghost, Queen Adelaide behind him. Lord Robert Standish froze, his arms full of dozens of bouquets. He let them all fall to the ground in his shock, roses and tulips and soft white freesias blanketing the steps like a carpet of tears.
Connor turned to Beatrice, sorrow—and his love for her—etched on his features, right there for all the world to see.
“I’m so sorry, Bee,” he whispered, shocked into forgetting protocol. “I’m so, so sorry.”
The entire world seemed to be spinning, and gravity was shifting, and Beatrice felt like she’d collided with something impossibly hard. Maybe this was all just a nightmare. That would explain why everything felt tinged with a slight glow of unreality—why the world had gone fuzzy and shimmering at the edges.
She dug her nails into her palm so sharply that tears sprang to her eyes, but she didn’t wake up.
“No,” someone kept whispering. “No, no, no.” It took a moment for Beatrice to realize that it was her. She felt fragmented by anguish, as if she’d reached some edge within herself she didn’t know was there, some boundary of grief and fatigue and pain that no one should ever venture to.
Connor was the first to come to his senses and bow—a deep, ceremonial military bow, lacking only a flourish with a sword to make it complete. Teddy quickly followed. Jeff gulped, then did the same.
Beatrice’s face was stinging. She wondered if it was tears, freezing on her very skin.
For a single drawn-out moment, she let herself be a young woman who cried.
