American Royals (21 page)

Pain exploded in her head. And there was a roaring in her ears, the sound of different pieces of reality fragmenting and shattering all around her.

“Dad …,” Beatrice whispered, her eyes burning, and she saw that tears were trailing down his face, too, as he nodded.

“I know,” he said heavily. “I know.”

She collapsed back onto the couch and threw her arms around his shoulders. Her dad just hugged her and let her cry, great forlorn sobs that split her chest open from within. He ran a hand lightly over her back, the way he used to comfort her when she was a child. It made Beatrice wish she could melt back down to little-girl size: back when everything was so simple, when a kiss and a Band-Aid could solve almost any problem.

She couldn’t bear the thought of losing him. Her dad, who used to throw her into the swimming pool and pretend that he was rocket-launching her into space; who read stories to her stuffed otter when she was too proud to ask for them for herself; who had always been her greatest advocate and fiercest champion. Her dad—and also her king.

“I love you, Dad,” she whispered through the rawness in her throat.

“I love you so much, Beatrice,” he told her, over and over. His voice was steady, but she could tell that he was still weeping, because her hair was damp with his tears.

He didn’t have to say it for Beatrice to know what he was thinking. She needed to do all her crying now, in private, because she wouldn’t get another moment like this. From now on, she would need to be tough, for her father’s sake. For her family’s. And most of all, for her country’s.

Beatrice’s resolve quavered a little at the thought of what was coming—the fact that she would have to rule, so much sooner than she had ever imagined—but she would deal with that later. That fear was nothing compared to the grief coursing through her.

Eventually she sat back, her sobs subsiding. The early-morning light filtered through the window to dance over the scrolling carpet beneath their feet.

“Who else knows?” she asked, still sniffling. “Have you told Mom?”

“Not yet.” The king’s voice sounded ragged. “And if I could have kept from telling you, I would have. I wish there was a way for me to tell Beatrice, my successor, without telling Beatrice, my daughter. This is a matter of state, a matter between monarchs,” her father said.

“I understand.” Beatrice willed herself to be strong for her dad, to be Beatrice the successor. But Beatrice the daughter couldn’t stop the silent tears that kept sliding down her cheeks.

“I promise that I’ll tell your mom soon—and Sam and Jeff,” her dad hastened to add. “But right now I want to enjoy this time, however long it is, without the shadow of my illness hanging over us. And over the country.”

As if to prove just how little time he had left, he subsided into a fit of coughing: heavy, racking coughs that seemed to shake his entire frame. Finally he looked up at her, his mouth set into a grim line.

“How long?” she asked.

“Hopefully a year,” her father said softly. “More likely, months.”

Beatrice bit her lip until it felt like she might draw blood.

“You will be a great queen.” Her father spoke slowly, as if choosing his words with care. “But as I’ve said before, this isn’t an easy job. It’s so much more than the charity work, or the politics—the Cabinet meetings, the ambassador appointments, being the commander in chief of the armed forces. More than any of that, the most important role of the monarch is still a symbolic one.

“When you are queen, the people will look to you as the ultimate symbol of stability in a confusing and ever-changing world. The Crown is the magic link that holds this country together, that keeps all the different states and political parties and types of people peacefully interwoven.”

Beatrice had heard all of this before. But hearing it now, knowing her time would come far too fast, she felt the sentiment take on a whole new meaning.

“I’m just—” She braced her hands on the fabric of her jeans to steady herself. “I’m not ready for this.”

“Good. If you thought you were ready, it would have been certain proof that you’re not,” the king said gruffly, yet with unmistakable warmth. “No one is ever ready for this, Beatrice. I certainly wasn’t.”

Her heart careened wildly from sorrow to panic. “I’m terrified I’ll mess up.”

Instead of assuaging her fears, her dad only nodded. “You will. Countless times.”

“But …”

“You think your predecessors never made mistakes?” he asked, then swiftly answered his own question. “Of
course
they did. Our nation’s history is woven from their errors in judgment, their wrong decisions, as much as it is from their achievements.”

Beatrice followed her father’s gaze to the portrait of King George I that hung above the fireplace. She knew precisely what her dad was talking about, because it was something they had discussed before—the horror of slavery.

George I had
known
that slavery was wrong; he had freed all his own slaves upon his death. Perhaps if he’d listened to his conscience instead of to the Southern Congressmen, he would have abolished the institution altogether. Instead that hadn’t happened for another two generations.

“I wish I could tell you that becoming the monarch will give you infallible judgment. If it did, maybe America would have a history I felt unequivocally proud to represent.” Her father gave a disappointed breath. “But unfortunately, this is the history we’ve got.”

Beatrice had never quite thought of that part of the job. That as the living symbol of America, she would be the inheritor of the nation’s legacy, the bad as well as the good.

“I wish we could erase all those—those atrocities,” she stammered, and was surprised by her father’s reply.

“
Never
say that,” he insisted. “Say you want to make things right, to build a better future. But erasing the past—or worse, trying to rewrite it—is the tool of despots. Only by engaging with the past can we avoid repeating it.”

Beatrice remembered something her history tutor used to say: a good queen learns from her mistakes, but a great one learns from the mistakes of others.

She reached for the photo album, which had slid off her lap onto the carpet. It had fallen open to a photo from an old balcony appearance. Beatrice’s eyes quickly moved past her waving parents to focus instead on the roiling sea of people beneath. The sight of them, the sheer
number
of them, suddenly felt overwhelming.

“How do you do it?” she whispered. “How do you represent tens of millions of people who all want such different things? Especially when …”

She didn’t finish the sentence, but her dad had always been able to guess the direction of her thoughts. “Especially when some of them would rather have Jefferson than you?”

“Yes, exactly!”

“You do it with grace,” he said gently. “You listen to those people with respect, and try to address their concerns, even when they refuse to grant you the same courtesy. Because you
will
be their queen. Whether they like it or not.”

Beatrice flipped to another page in the photo album. She knew her dad was right. But sometimes—when newspapers accused her of “getting emotional,” whatever that meant, or when the media spent more time critiquing her outfits than her policies—she wished she could act with a little less grace and a little more aggression. That she could be a little more like Samantha.

She blinked, surprised by that last thought.

“Beatrice,” her father went on, sounding hesitant, “there is one thing I was hoping to ask you.”

“Of course,” she said automatically.

“You are the future queen, and the people have known you, have
loved
you, since you were born. But as you pointed out, there are still so many Americans who aren’t ready to have a woman in charge.” He sighed. “I hate to say it, but not everyone will like the idea of you ascending the throne as a young woman, alone. The transition would be so much easier on you if you had a king consort by your side.”

No. Surely he wasn’t asking this of her.

“I—I don’t understand,” she stammered. “You just told me that our duty is to learn from our forefathers’ mistakes. To be
better
than they were.”

Her dad inclined his head in agreement. “It is.”

“But suggesting I get married … You’re saying I can’t do the job on my own.”

“
No one
can do this job on their own,” the king clarified, and attempted a smile. “Beatrice, this is the hardest role in the world, and it never lets up or slows down or offers you any kind of reprieve. I love you far too much to let you take on this burden without someone to share it.”

Beatrice opened her mouth in protest, but no words came out. Her dad didn’t seem to notice.

“I wouldn’t suggest it if I didn’t think you were ready, but I watched you and Teddy at the New Year’s Eve party. You seemed so at ease with each other, so well matched. And more than that, you couldn’t stop smiling to yourself. You looked so happy.” Her dad’s voice was urgent and earnest.

Beatrice blanched. If she’d looked like that on New Year’s, it was because of the secret glances she’d been exchanging with Connor. It had nothing at all to do with Teddy.

“I just—I haven’t known Teddy very long,” she stammered. “It’s barely been a month.”

“Your mother and I had only been on eleven dates before we got married, and look how it turned out for us.” Her dad’s expression softened, the way it always did at the mention of her mom. “I know that other people sometimes wait years before they commit to decisions like this, but we aren’t like other people. And your instincts about Teddy are sound. I got to spend some more time with him in Telluride, and I liked what I saw. He has strength, integrity, and humility, and most of all, a warm heart.”

Beatrice twisted her hands in her lap. “I’m not ready to be engaged.”

“I know this seems fast. But let me tell you from experience, you would be miserable as sovereign without a partner to help you face it. It’s such a lonely, isolating job.” Her father’s eyes glimmered. “Teddy will take good care of you.”

Beatrice wrapped her arms around her chest, trying not to think of Connor. “It all feels so …” Overwhelming, impossible,
unfair.
“It feels like a lot,” she finished.

Her father nodded. “I understand if this is too fast for you. But I’ve always dreamed of walking you down the aisle. I would love to do that, before I die,” he finished.

Those three words,
before I die,
seemed to echo plaintively around the room.

Those words were like the ruler Beatrice’s etiquette master used to snap across her knuckles, yanking her sharply back to reality. All the things she’d been dreaming this morning felt like just that: dreams. Foolish, impossible, hopeless dreams.

From now on, you are two people at once: Beatrice the girl, and Beatrice, heir to the Crown. When they want different things, the Crown must win. Always.

She thought of the task that lay ahead: of all the things she would have to embody and build and improve and unite. Of all the millions of people whose voices she was charged with representing. The colossal weight of that duty settled over her shoulders like a cloak sewn with stones, pressing her downward.

Beatrice’s spine instinctively stiffened, her shoulders squaring, bracing themselves beneath that weight. This might be a near-impossible burden, but it was
her
burden. The one she had been training for her entire life.

She could never be with Connor. She knew it, and so did he. Hadn’t they both said it that night in Montrose, before they flung themselves at each other?

“I love you, Beatrice,” her father told her. “Whatever you decide. And I’m so proud of you.”

Beatrice rubbed at her eyes, reached up to run her fingers through her hair, took another breath. Somehow she found the self-control to stand up.

“I love you too, Dad,” she told him. Enfolded in that sentence was her promise, her solemn vow—part of the same vow that she had made long ago, that had been sworn on her behalf the moment she was born. She saw that her dad understood, because his features visibly relaxed with relief.

She knew, now, what she had to do.

“I’m thinking of dropping Film Studies,” Rachel announced, reaching across the table to swipe one of Nina’s French fries.

They were in the freshman dining hall at King’s College. It was one of the older buildings on campus; the arched wooden ceiling rose high above them, and massive pendant lights hung over each table.

“Same,” agreed Logan, the guy who Rachel was on-again, off-again seeing. They must be on-again right now, from the way they’d been deliberately bumping elbows throughout the meal.

“Wait, why?” Nina asked. When Rachel tried to steal another fry, she slid the plate across the table in amusement.

The three of them had agreed to take Film Studies together: Rachel and Logan needed a fine arts credit, and as for Nina, she’d just thought it sounded interesting. Plus, it counted toward her departmental GPA. Perks of being an English major.

Logan shrugged. “Too much work. Who wants to attend film screenings every Thursday night?”

“You can still go out Fridays and Saturdays,” Nina reminded him.

“And Tuesdays and Wednesdays and Sundays,” Rachel added, only somewhat kidding. Nina had known her to go to parties on pretty much every day of the week. Honestly, she appreciated it; anytime she felt like doing something, she could count on Rachel to know what was going on.

Nina leaned back in her chair, stifling a yawn. She’d gone over to the palace last night to curl up in one of the media rooms and watch a movie with Jeff. After they’d gotten away with it in Telluride, it felt silly telling him that she couldn’t come over—though Nina still felt weird about sneaking around, trying to avoid Sam.

When the movie ended, Jeff had insisted on driving back in the car with her: “A normal boyfriend would take you home.”

“A normal boyfriend would walk me to my door,” Nina had countered.

Perhaps because it was so late, the campus quiet and deserted, Jeff had taken her words to heart. Ignoring his protection officer’s angry grunt of disapproval, he’d followed Nina out of the car and walked her to her dorm’s entrance, watching as she scanned her campus ID over the key-card reader.

“Let it never be said that I can’t act like a normal boyfriend. At least a fraction of the time,” he’d teased, and dropped a quick kiss on her mouth.

Nina smiled at the memory of his thoughtfulness, then started to push back her dining hall chair. “Either of you want froyo? I saw that the machine has salted caramel today.”

“Could you bring me some?” Rachel had her phone out and was scrolling idly through her newsfeed. “You still owe me, since you missed my New Year’s Eve party.”

“I was sick.” It was a flimsy lie, but Nina hadn’t come up with anything better.

She was getting tired of all the secrets that kept crowding into her life, multiplying and building on each other.

“Fine, fine, I’ll come with you,” Rachel started to stay—and froze. She was staring at something on her phone, her mouth open in shock.

“Everything okay?”

Logan leaned toward Rachel to read over her shoulder. His eyes widened, and he lifted them incredulously to Nina.

“Are you dating the
prince
?”

Nina’s stomach plummeted. “How …”

Rachel wordlessly slid her phone across the table.

Nina was stunned to see her own face sprawled on the home page of the
Daily News.
THE PRINCE’S SECRET NEW GIRL! ran the headline, which had been posted just fifteen minutes ago—along with photos of her and Jeff, from last night’s goodbye kiss.

“I
recognize
that archway!
Nina!
” Rachel squealed, incredulous. “You’ve been making out with Prince Jefferson outside our dorm and never
told
me?” A few students at nearby tables turned in their direction, curious.

“Oh my god,” Nina whispered, her mind racing.

Someone must have known about them. She hadn’t seen anyone nearby last night, and from the high resolution on the photo, she could tell it hadn’t been taken on a phone. This wasn’t an accidental royalty spotting.

Someone had been lying in wait for them, stationed across the courtyard with a long-lens camera, just hoping for the chance to snag a picture like this. But who had possibly known? Had Jeff told someone?

Nina zoomed in to look at the photos in closer detail, then winced in immediate regret. She looked disheveled and sloppy. Her coat wasn’t fastened, and beneath it her shirt was riding up, revealing a line of bare midriff. Somehow the angle made it look as though
she
was the one draped over Jeff, as if she was coming on to him rather aggressively.

The article contained just enough truth to make it dangerously credible. It stated that Nina was the daughter of the Minister of the Treasury, who also happened to be the king’s former chamberlain, and that she now attended college just a few miles from the palace—which she had apparently chosen because she wanted to stay near Jeff. She was clearly a fame whore, a social climber—“though the prince is so far above her,
social mountaineer
is a better term,” the article pointed out.

People Nina hardly knew had come out of the woodwork to denounce her:
She wasn’t even pretty or nice enough to make homecoming court,
sniffed a girl in Nina’s high school class, who spoke on the condition of anonymity.
She’s been friends with Princess Samantha for years, and the whole time she’s been using the princess to get access to Jeff,
someone else chimed in. The article had even tracked down an unflattering picture from one of the football games in the fall—with Nina in the background, taking an enormous bite of a hot dog as mustard spilled down her shirt.

The adjacent picture was of Daphne Deighton, reading to kids in the children’s wing of the hospital. When you stacked them next to each other, it made Nina look … trashy.

“The picture really isn’t all that bad,” Rachel said, watching Nina’s face. “At least you have a healthy appetite?
And
school spirit!”

“Daphne Deighton would never allow that kind of photo to be taken,” Nina said quietly. Because that was the problem, wasn’t it? She wasn’t Daphne.

People didn’t hesitate to say as much in the comments. Nina was taken aback at how vicious they were. Everyone seemed to have their own reason for despising her—because she had two moms, or because she was Latina, or simply because she was a commoner. They attacked her tattoo and her pierced cartilage and her hipster wardrobe.
#TeamDaphne,
cried out one commenter after another.

Seriously, Jeff, get rid of that skanky commoner

I don’t know who she is but I hate her

The beginning of the end for the royal family

Or, strangest of all:
Don’t worry, the queen will just have her killed.

The blood drained from Nina’s face. She had
known
this would happen, had
told
Jeff that America would never approve of her as a match for their beloved prince. And events had played out exactly as she’d feared. In the span of a single half hour, she’d gone from blissful anonymity to being the most hated girl in America.

Someone must have started circulating the article around campus email chains, because it suddenly felt like the dining hall, normally a low rumble of conversation, had erupted into agitated gossip. Nina sank farther down on the bench.

“I’ll find out who took that football photo and
incinerate
them,” Rachel said under her breath.

If only it were as simple as a single photo, Nina thought sadly. Though she was still grateful for Rachel’s vehement and unquestioning support.

She glanced down at her phone and saw, belatedly, that she’d received dozens of text messages in the past ten minutes. Most were from Jeff, variations on
Are you okay?
and
I’m so sorry
and
Please call me.
A good number of the rest were from Samantha, alternating between versions of
I can’t believe you didn’t tell me!!
and
I’m getting worried—please call?

Her parents had only sent a single message:
We’re here if you want to come home and talk.

Nina forced herself to stand, ignoring the hungry, curious eyes around the room. “I’m sorry, I—I have to—I can’t—” she stammered. Rachel nodded in understanding.

Somehow Nina made it outside. She started toward the bus stop on the corner, wrapping her arms around her torso. She was wearing a thin fleece, but she couldn’t bring herself to go back to her dorm room for a real jacket; she couldn’t wait another instant before getting out of here. She stared down at her chunky brown boots.

“Look, it’s
her,
” someone whispered. Nina glanced up and saw two women staring at their phones, then at Nina, and back again. They began snapping hurried photos of her.

“Jeff could have had any woman in America, and
this
is who he chose?”

“Is she seriously about to take the
bus
with us?”

They were no longer even pretending to keep their voices quiet.

Nina brushed past them with her head held high, stepping out onto the curb to hail a taxi. She couldn’t remember ever being so grateful to slide into a backseat. She told the driver her home address and closed her eyes.

Her phone kept buzzing. Nina fished through her purse for it and saw that Samantha was calling, again. She started to accept—but her finger paused over the bright green icon. Did she really want to talk to Sam right now? Part of her longed to, if only to unload some of this onto her best friend. But she knew she would also have to explain why she’d kept a secret this big. She didn’t have the energy for that conversation right now.

“Miss? Are you sure this is the right house?” the taxi driver asked hesitantly. Nina looked up, and cursed aloud when she saw her street.

It was flooded with paparazzi.

Their townhome lacked any sort of gate or fence, so the photographers had flocked all the way onto the front lawn, in a cluster that was at least six people deep. The moment they realized she was pulling up, they swarmed toward the car, their bulbs flashing in a steady eruption of light.

“This is the right house,” Nina said hoarsely. She thrust a wad of cash toward the driver, then threw open the car door and tried to run toward her porch.

The paparazzi shuffled alongside her, thrusting their cameras into her face, bombarding her with questions.
Nina, baby, are you in love? Nina, what’s the prince like in bed?

She ducked her head and tried to move faster, but several of them had darted ahead to get in front of her, circling her tighter and tighter, like a noose. A few of them actually grabbed at her with rough hands in an attempt to slow her down.

Nina pushed through to her front door, fumbling with her keys, which she dropped in her confusion. She knelt down to scramble on the front step for them, and just as she picked them up, Julie opened the door and pulled her swiftly inside.

The door slammed shut behind her, and the entire world went from roaring chaos to blissful silence.

“Mom,” Nina said, broken. She started to step forward, but her mom’s expression stopped her.

“Nina. You have a visitor.” She nodded to the man poised on a wingback chair, one leg crossed over the opposite knee. It was the king’s chamberlain, Lord Robert Standish. His graying hair was close-cropped, his mouth drawn into a harsh line.

Isabella sat across from Robert, the two of them staring at each other—two sets of warring brown eyes, one fierce and protective, one cool and disdainful.

“Miss Gonzalez,” Robert began, which was oddly formal; on the rare occasions he’d addressed Nina in the past, it was always by her first name. “Please, have a seat,” he offered, as if this weren’t the Gonzalezes’ house.

Well, technically this house did belong to the Crown. It was a grace-and-favor house: a property owned by the royal family, and leased rent-free to those who worked in their service. Nina and her parents had lived here for twelve years, ever since her mamá took the job as chamberlain.

Nina remained standing. “Can’t you get
rid
of them?” She jerked her head toward the front door, to indicate the raucous hordes of paparazzi outside.

Robert held out his hands in a helpless gesture. “If you were a minor, you would be protected by the privacy laws of the Press Compliance Commission, but now that you’re eighteen, there’s very little I can do.”

Nina sank onto the deep blue couch across from him, next to Isabella. Her mom took the spot on her other side. It was reassuring, Nina thought, having a parent on either side of her. Defending her flanks from the attack that was surely coming.

“I’m here to discuss your relationship with His Highness Prince Jefferson,” Robert began. “But before we get started, let me say that I am here in an
un
official capacity. The palace can’t officially be seen encouraging this sort of behavior.”

“What sort of behavior? Nina has done nothing wrong!” Isabella challenged him. Julie wordlessly reached for Nina’s hand and squeezed it.

“We can’t condone premarital
relations,
” Robert said carefully. “Which you should know, Isabella. You’ve been in my position before.”

Nina squirmed. “We haven’t—I mean—” She couldn’t believe she was saying this, but she felt the need to clarify. There had been absolutely zero premarital relations between her and Jeff.