Page 87 of The English Queen

“What? How did you—”

“Deny it, Bethany,” Louis said in Dutch. “Tell me you are lying.”

“Excuse me. I do not need the stern, Flemish attitude from you, Your Majesty. I don’t think Pa has favourites.”

“Bull-fucking-shit!”

Beth always suspected this might be the case. Beth knew she was coddled and babied. She knew she was spoiled within an inch of her life.

“Here’s the thing,” Beth said. “Marta and I aren’t like you. We didn’t grow up with a hope to have anything tangible. We knew we’d be irrelevant. People were always trying to give us this or because they felt a big guilty and were trying to equalise the fact, we… we didn’t get to have the big promotion. And not the spoils, either. It’s complicated.”

“You think they consider birth order that much? Your parents? My parents?”

“How many times in your life have you been reminded it is your job to marry and produce heirs, Louis? How many?”

He shrugged. “You got me there. If anything, that’s a win for you.”

“It is but… it’s not. The system we grew up in—the institution—it doesn’t have a place for daughters like Marta and me. We don’t serve a modern purpose. It isn’t sure what to do with us.”

“I mean, I can think of a few things of what to do with you and have,” Louis joked.

Beth rolled her eyes and slapped his arm. “Louis, I’m serious. Think about it. A 150 years ago, I would be useful to my parents as a political object. I could buy them something. My dowry would have been useful to you. We’re worth more than you are. So, I would have been a win for your family. But without it, what good am I? I’m a shiny object at best. I was born sick and too soon. I’ve always been the runt. I never let that own me, but in the annals of history, this was the story written about most women. The difference is I get to write a new chapter. But think about it…”

“It still took you marrying a king to do that,” Louis admitted.

Beth rolled onto her stomach and unclasped her bikini top, taking another sip of beer before flattening. “Marta… she has the benefit of laying low, but the liability of being raised in a bizarre system without a place for her. It’s why I moved to Paris, anyway.”

“And then I ruined it for you,” Louis looked lovingly at her.

Beth laughed. “You did, yes. And here I am, stuck on a yacht with you. Suffering. My theory is why I’m opposed to having more than two.”

“I think you need more than two. Some will leave. It’s best to have reserves.”

Beth reminded him, “I will give you two. I’m only obligated to two.”

“I think we will have more than two. No one in your family has two.”

“My family’s fecundity is no excuse. We’re not Catholic.”

Louis smacked her bum, “I’m giving you shit, maanstraal. Don’t freak out. I’ll be dead if we have four.”

“Don’t joke about that,” Beth said.

His joke wasn’t funny. It was insensitive considering the current situation. Beth could wake and have a good day, but something would trigger the shutdown every day. It was as if she could never again reach peak happiness without some reminder her mother was dying slowly of brain cancer and might not make it to their first wedding anniversary.

“I am sorry, that was a poor take,” Louis said. “I’m… I didn’t think about it like that. You’re right. It’s not funny.”

“Just don’t plan on dying on me. I… I have many fears about this. Watching my father widowed in his early seventies was not what I thought my life would be. Watching my mother die in her sixties wasn’t it, either. The idea of losing you like this, Louis… it’s so heavy. We’ve only begun and then what? In twenty-five years, you’ll be Mum’s age and dead? Don’t joke about it. It’s not funny.”

“I am sorry, Beth,” Louis said. “I hope I live to be old as dirt. You’ll hate me for it. I’ll be downright insufferable.”

“I look forward to it. I will tease you about being old.”

“So will our kids,” Louis chuckled. “God, Mom, why are you with this loser?”

“The answer being he writes completely unhinged love letters and wastes tax dollars isn’t the right one?” Beth asked.

“What about devastatingly handsome?”

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