Page 2 of The English Queen

“How so?” Robbie asked. “It’s your wedding.”

It was almost as if he said it to pre-emptively shush the room’s older women.

“We’re not getting married in a church. We’ve reserved the Marylebone Guildhall for the wedding. It will be the first Friday in December. But most of you do not need to mark your calendars because it will be a small affair–immediate family, closest friends. Yes, cousins, you are invited. We will host the party the next night.”

“So where is that?” Sabine asked. “I suspect you’ve already reserved it.”

“We hired a planner already, mother,” Rita winced.

“You are so dreadfully sneaky!” Sabine shook her head.

“Well, we chose NoMad–it’s new–and we rented out the whole place. It’s not going to be huge–about 150 people. There will be dining in several spaces and dancing in the subterranean lounge for the younger people. This isn’t a ball. It is white tie. Don’t get too excited, Duncan, it will require a suit.”

Duncan, Robbie’s younger twin brother laughed. “Nonsense but I will do it for my dearest cousin. I rather prefer this. It sounds fun.”

“It does,” Louis agreed. “Not that—”

“You can say it, darling. The penultimate royal wedding is not fun. It may be a joyous occasion, but we are aware of what it entails. We can attend. We will ensure we can,” Beth said.

“That’s the weekend before the Nobels in Oslo,” Louis groaned.

“Yes, it’s a busy week for the King. Not new. I relish the opportunity for multiple parties.”

“Does Beth count as our representative?” Robbie asked his mother.

“God, no. I’m sending you both and Duncan and Rebecca, naturally.”

Rebecca, Duchess of York, was sister to the Crown Princess of Norway. Christine married their family friend Crown Prince Gustave about a decade earlier. Duncan introduced them at a New Year’s party. Rebecca was always required to attend. It was a given.

“You act as though it is below you. You and Louis both need to wise up. This is the job,” Maggie said.

“Woof, mother, yes, tell Louis how to do the job he already does,” Beth clapped back.

Oh, it was the old family feud.

“Does it make sense to institute a dick measuring contest over who can be the most, Mum?” Robbie asked. “No one here is shirking. I busted my arse as regent when you were sick. I handled a new prime minister and Westminster Abbey burning to the fucking ground. You haven’t gone to the Nobels in ages. But, yes, let us do them. And leave Louis out of it. The man has been doing ‘the job’ for years, too.”

Louis looked deer-in-the-headlights; Beth shook her head as if telling him to drop the rope. Of the four Lyons kids, Robbie was a strategic mastermind. Duncan was the most beloved and usually left alone by his mother. He sided with his twin most of the time, even if he often delivered his opinions less-bluntly. Elliot was a typical middle child and didn’t work for the family. Beth had also left the fold to be normal before getting sucked back in by Louis, the writer of filthy and adorable love letters. Like Robbie, her favourite sibling, she didn’t understand or care why protocol should make people miserable. “It’s tradition” was not a phrase either accepted without good justification.

“Let’s not wade in here when we’ve got a perfectly good reason to celebrate,” Keir, The Duke of Inverness, said. “A couple, in fact.”

He sounded knackered. Keir loved his wife, but had raised four children, often on his own. Keir, however, had been all-too-happy to play the primary parent. He thrived in it. In Rita’s family, things had been opposite. Malcolm was an adoring father but delegated almost everything with his four children to his wife. Keir’s dogged fatherhood put him in a bind whenever Maggie’s pig-headedness came out.

“It was not my meaning to challenge either of you two a duel,” Maggie’s voice was controlled and deliberative. “Obviously, Louis, you have been delt many difficult cards in the past six months. I do not mean to make it sound as if you have handled it less-than-admirably.”

Louis nodded but didn’t give an inch, “As I’ve said before. I do not need your opinion, Maggie. I very much have these things organised. Beth and I will figure it out.”

Louis’s faith in Beth was high. Everyone else expressed doubt about the twenty-eight-year-old ingenue’s abilities. The public seemed to believe she could. They found her to be a brilliant happy ending to a difficult life for their now-King. Louis was forty. His first engagement end unexpectedly a decade before. It had been a geopolitical nightmare. Louis was Flemish. The woman, Phillipa, was Wallonian and raised in Paris. The Flemish contingent blamed the Francophones for Louis’s heartache. Beth spoke lovely French, was a foreigner, and Belgians were more accepting of a foreigner than a Wallonian. She was a bit of both. Either way, Rita suspected Maggie was once again feeling upstaged. Maggie hated to play second fiddle.

“Of course, you will,” Maggie said in a way which was downright condescending.

Beth didn’t respond verbally. Instead, she threw down her napkin.

?????

Louis stayed at the table looking confused after Beth stormed off. He heard her slam the door to the grand dining room behind her, fighting a footman for the honours. Most of the table cringed at the sound of it. Beth had her mother’s temper and father’s fighting spirit. When she felt slighted, she reacted swiftly and with little care about the feelings of the aggressor. Louis loved her for it. Now, he faced a political showdown with Maggie.

Maggie seethed. The look on her face suggested she was willing to light Louis on fire if he dared double down on his statement. Meanwhile, as Louis saw it, she had thrown down the gauntlet when she had implied he and Robert were slackers. This was rich coming from Maggie who delegated most of her travelling responsibilities to her son–part of which probably was to punish his wife whom she still did not approve of.

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