Page 133 of American Royals
“If something happened last night that really surprised my father—something he hadn’t expected,” she said clumsily. “Could that have caused the blood clot?”
“A shock cannot create a clot in itself. It can only accelerate the process by which the clot enters the bloodstream. Whatever … startled your father last night,” he said tactfully, “may have contributed to the timing. But the king was already sick.”
Beatrice nodded. She tried to stave off the fear that crept through the cracks in her armor, to keep the placid Washington mask on her features. It was getting harder by the minute. “Could I … could I see my dad?”
Maybe it was what she had just confessed, or maybe he simply felt sorry for her, but the doctor stepped aside. “Five minutes,” he warned her. “There can’t be any more stressors to His Majesty’s system.”
It’s okay. I already told him that I’m in love with my Guard and that I want to renounce my claim to the throne. There’s nothing left I can say that will shock him any more than I already have.
“Thank you,” she murmured, as graciously as she could.
The hospital room was thick with silence, broken only by the methodical beeping of clustered machines. Beatrice hated them. She hated all those illuminated lines and ridges, plotting her father’s pulse as it struggled to right itself.
When she saw him, panic seized her with ice-cold fingers. Her legs suddenly felt unsteady.
Her dad was in a hospital gown, tucked beneath the blankets on the narrow bed. His face had a blue-gray tinge. Something about the angle of his arms and legs seemed awkward, as if they were superfluous limbs that he no longer knew how to employ.
He’ll be fine, Beatrice told herself, but she could taste her own lies. This didn’t look like fine.
“Dad, please,” she begged. “Please hang on. We need you. I need you.”
Some deep emotion in her voice must have reached through the fog of his pain, because the king stirred. His eyes forced themselves open.
“Beatrice,” he rasped.
“Dad!” She gave a cry of joy that was part grateful laugh, and turned to shout for her mom. After all these hours, he was conscious again. Surely that was a good sign. “Mom! Dad’s up, you need to—”
“Wait a second. There are some things I want to tell you.”
Her father’s voice was quiet, but there was an urgent gravity to it that silenced her. He reached one hand, feebly, to take Beatrice’s. She clasped both her hands around his, so fiercely that the signet ring of America pressed uncomfortably into her palm, but she refused to let go.
She couldn’t help thinking of the last time she’d been at a hospital bedside, when her grandfather had used his dying breath to remind her that the Crown must always come first.
No, she thought fiercely. Her dad couldn’t die. It seemed so impossible, so cosmically unfair, that he could die when they all needed him so desperately. He was only fifty years old.
“I need you to know how much I love you,” he told her, before a fresh wave of coughing racked his chest.
Beatrice forced back the tears that threatened to spill over. “Stop it, Dad. You can’t talk like this. I won’t let you.”
There was the faintest hint of a smile on his lips. “Of course not. I have every intention of getting better. Just … wanted to say these things, since they’re on my mind.”
She knew that an apology might upset him. It would only remind him of what she’d said in his office, which had caused his heart attack in the first place. Beatrice forged ahead anyway. “Dad, about last night—”
“I’m so proud of you, Beatrice. You are incredibly smart, and wise beyond your years.” He didn’t seem to have heard her. “Trust your judgment: it’s sound. If someone tries to push you into something you have a bad feeling about, take another look at it. Don’t be afraid to ask for help, from your advisors or from your family. There is so much glamour, so much pomp and circumstance. Don’t forget …” His voice began to trail off, but he forced the last few words out as a whisper. “Don’t forget that it’s your position being honored, and not yourself.”
Beatrice held tighter to him, as if she could keep him here through sheer force of will. “Dad, I’m sorry. About Teddy—”
“Don’t be afraid to push back against your opposition. It won’t be easy for you, a young woman, stepping into a job that most men will think they can do better. Harness some of that energy of yours, that stubbornness, and stick to your beliefs.” He spoke carefully and slowly, each word underscored by a wheeze or a bit of a cough, but the words were certain. Beatrice had a sense that he’d memorized them. That he had been lying here in his hospital bed, composing them in bits and snatches, in the moments he hovered near consciousness.
“Dad …,” she said, in a faint voice.
“It’s been the greatest honor of my life, helping prepare you to take on this role. You are going to be a magnificent queen.”
Beatrice bit her lip to keep from crying. “I love you, Dad.”
“I love you, too, Beatrice,” he said heavily. “About Connor … and Teddy …”
His head tipped back against the sheets, his eyes fluttering shut, as if the effort to stay awake had been too much.
