Page 33 of The Impossible Princess
I shake my head as I subside and look around, not often finding myself in this corner of the palace. Caroline’s office looks exactly like her. A couple of terrified potted plants grow on a ledge by the window, careful not to overstep their bounds, and a discreet copier/printer looks as elegant as possible perched on a William and Mary side table, the power cord apologetically slinking off behind some drapery.
Caroline herself has managed a wardrobe even more modest and self-effacing than my own. A dark blazer is draped on a thick wooden hanger, ready to be donned in an instant, and she is wearing an uncrushable jersey dress in muted tones. Her shoes are black, and her make-up is so unobtrusive as to be almost non-existent.
I am stirred from my examination when a tiny light on her desk flashes and she touches a button, dousing it. On goes the blazer. On goes a bland, pleasant smile. Out she goes through the door on her left.
Mama breezes through the small anteroom a bare minute later, Caroline on her heels. One of Caroline’s small nods tells me that I should follow my mother into her office, and I do so without any fuss, closing the door behind me.
Her Majesty sits behind her desk. Rain lashes the windowpanes, and I dip an unconscious curtsey, waiting for her to begin.
“What is it, Clara?” she asks, unceremoniously.
My words to Max tumble in my head, just as they have all night. It was so easy to tell him what I thought. I can’t wait for a patronage that matters. If I only have a few years to carve out my role in the royal family, I need to start doing more than absorbing the spillover from events no one else wants or attending engagements to which I have no connection. I have to find work that will sustain me for years.
I want to say all this, but the words are thick on my tongue.
“It’s about a patronage,” I manage, and Mama brings her hands to the desktop, lacing them together. Does she know that she looks like the famous Dragon of Sondmark when she stares at me like that? “I feel it’s time to take on an assignment.”
Her brow notches. “The charities are divided between working royals, and there are no patronages to be had, at present. A review is not scheduled until next year.”
I am tempted to apologize for taking her time, but I think of Max—of the family garden promised to his brother and five years on a list to get an allotment of his own. I think of circumstances beyond his control and how he found a path to get what he wanted anyway.
“I would like to research the patronages and—”
“How would it look,” Mama begins, “if a charity were simply tossed from one member of the family to another like a hot potato? Would it look like we had its wellbeing at heart or our own?”
“I didn’t mean—”
“No one expects you to know.” She smiles and I feel five years old again, standing on a tarmac with my hand tucked firmly in Lady Greta’s, waiting for my mother to finish being the queen. “You are getting something no one else got, and goodness knows I could have used: Time to acclimate yourself to your role before taking on the burdens of it. I was your age when the Crown passed to me, and it’s a wonder I wasn’t crushed. You have a rare opportunity to find your feet and prepare yourself for when the moment arrives. I’m certain you will make the most of your time.”
I’ve binge-watched all seven seasons ofChicago Lawthree times. I know this is the kind of speech a partner would give a junior associate, hoping to squeeze 80 hours a week from her subordinate. Yet her words also make me feel uniquely qualified for my present position. Honored by my mother’s consideration.
I curtsey.
Only when I’m standing on the plush carpet of the hall do I realize I haven’t gotten even a sliver of what I came for.
Wind rattles the glass door at the end of the hall, and I brush shaking hands against my sober skirt, lifting my chin to return to my suite. I pass officials and courtiers, housemaids, and distant family members. My mother shut me down so effectively that I’m half impressed. The other half of me is shattered.
I think of Max and wonder what it would be like if I ever stood in front of Mama and told her I wanted him.
16
Hot Skillet
MAX
A car has been on my tail for the last kilometer, at least. I adjust my rear-view mirror, pulling up at the base gatehouse.
“Identification,” the guard says and I present my badge, eyes scanning the road behind me. Green Ciprio. Older model. This is the third time I’ve noticed a car like that following me into base. It’s gone, disappeared up one of the side streets before the gatehouse and I shake my head. A few clandestine dates with Clara have made me paranoid that someone will find out and alert the papers. But it’s hilarious to think that a quiet dinner or two would make the news. Our last appearances in the press had the novelty of highlighting fashionable public events.
The barrier lifts and I drive through, parking my car and heading to the HMSThetis. Before I’m halfway up the gangplank, I smell the aroma of fresh paint and spot some sailors with long-handled brushes working near the water line, evidence that my orders have travelled successfully in a line from myself to the lieutenant, chief, ensign, and sailors.
After mustering the crew, I meet with my department heads on the helicopter deck, as far removed from the memory of last night, of the mellow warmth of the fire and the girl with laughing eyes, as it is possible to get. Inspections commence in a few days, and I dole out assignments to each department to inspect a counterpart’s area.
“I’m coming on those tours,” I announce and watch the lieutenants sit up. There’s no shifting or nervous looks jumping from person to person, only curiosity at such an unusual order.
“So you’d better get yourrivin gear,” a voice barks. The scrape of folding chairs echoes in the large bay as we stand and salute. The captain dismisses the heads who have, by now, begun to exchange nervous glances, and I follow him up to his office.
“At ease,” he waves, sinking into his chair. “Inspection tours, Andersen? Bit beneath you.”
