Page 117 of Reign
She watched as her brother headed toward one of the toughest conversations of his life. It was so much easier thinking about Jeff’s problems than her own—easier if she could keep herself from thinking of Marshall at all.
Daphne held on to her smile with all her might as the photographer knelt before her, his camera’s shutter clicking rapidly.
She was oddly grateful that Nina was here, hunched in a puffy coat over her gown. “I still can’t believe you’re taking photosoutsidein the middle of winter,” Nina muttered.
The photographer shot Nina a sideways look, but Daphne replied, “I have to get a sprig from the cherry tree anyway.” When Nina stared at her in confusion, Daphne added, “Every Washington bride for the last century has carried a blossom from this orchard in her wedding bouquet. Since it’s winter, I’m carrying a twig.”
“A twig,” Nina repeated, her voice flat.
“Yes, Nina, a royal twig! Like the sprig of myrtle the Windsors all carry in their wedding bouquets. At least ours is grown here on the grounds. They ship theirs in from a myrtle tree that Queen Victoria planted on the Isle of Wight.”
“The Brits, always high-maintenance,” Nina replied, in a way that made Daphne want to laugh.
Truthfully, she loved how the orchards looked during winter. There was a light dusting of snow on the branches, making them seem frosted against the slate-gray arc of the sky. The ambient light would photograph beautifully, its layers so much more nuanced than the bright light of spring.
“If you please,” the photographer muttered. He directedthe comment at Nina, but Daphne obediently sucked in her stomach and smiled.
Underneath, her mind was in turmoil.
For years she had dreamed of marrying Jefferson. They were perfect together. Everyone thought so: just look at the cheering crowds outside the palace, and the newspaper articles full of praise, and the gushing fans who wrote those weird romance scenes about the two of them. Daphne would do a better job as princess than Samantha ever had, not that Samantha set an especially high bar. Daphne would organize charity events and always be perfectly dressed and charm everyone she met….
And then what?
At some point, the events would end and the tiaras would come off, leaving Daphne alone with a husband who didn’t actually know her at all.
Ethan’s words echoed in her mind.I love everything about you—your determination and your inner fire and your fierce loyalty.
Ethan, who had seen into every last dark corner of her heart and chosen to love her anyway. Who lovedallof her, not just the parts of her that were convenient or easy to understand. Ethan, who’d been her co-conspirator, her partner, her friend.
“You’re shivering.” The photographer stood up, waving at an assistant. “Can we get a space heater? A mug of tea?”
“Actually, I’d like to take five. I need to go warm up inside. Nina?” Daphne gestured to the veil that trailed behind her like a fragment of cloud, and Nina obediently grabbed it. Funny how after everything they’d been through, Nina was acting like her maid of honor.
As they started toward the Cottage, Daphne whispered, “You’re right.”
Nina seemed as surprised as Daphne by the admission. “You’re changing your mind?”
“Yes. I need to call it off. But…”
She fell silent, noticing the golf cart that had just driven up to the Cottage. Samantha was behind the wheel—and Jefferson was stepping out of the passenger seat.
He looked utterly resplendent in his ceremonial dress: his navy blazer with shining gold epaulets, his white gloves, the sash of the Edwardian Order over his chest. But there was a worried gleam in his eyes that didn’t belong there on his wedding day.
“Hey, Daphne?” He sounded a bit nervous. “Can we talk?”
“It’s bad luck for him to see you before the wedding!” the photographer exclaimed, and Daphne almost burst out laughing, because how could anyone possibly be worried about luck at a time like this?
“Let’s go inside,” she told Jefferson.
Nina looped the veil around Daphne’s arm, then retreated a step. “I’ll sit with Sam,” she murmured.
Jefferson held the door open so that Daphne could shuffle inside, the weight of her outfit making it hard to move. The interior of the Cottage had been repurposed as a prep station for wedding photos. Near a small love seat was a buffet table with water bottles, coffee, slices of wedding cake, and an enormous full-length mirror. Daphne’s eyes darted toward it reflexively; she always looked at every mirror she passed.
The young woman reflected there didn’t feel like her at all, but some twin who had walked into her life and taken her place. She reached up to touch one of the curls that fell from the tiara to frame her face, then ran her hands over the intricate lace of her skirts. Was this really her wedding gown? It felt like it belonged to a stranger.
She needed to say it now, the single sentence that would act as the pebble that starts down a mountainside and causes the earth-shattering avalanche.
Daphne knew it was a betrayal of everything she’d spenther life working toward: her childhood fantasies, her parents’ ambitions, the hopes and dreams of the entire nation. And still she spoke.
