The Royal We (34 page)

“Once you walk out that door, you are one of us,” she said. “Ready or not.”

Nick and I would be last in the procession. The press release about our engagement had been out for almost an hour, with word spreading fast, and everyone else spilling out of Sandringham first was effectively a human drum roll (never let it be said that Eleanor lacks a sense of drama). My hand floated up to my pin and I rubbed it for luck as, one by one, Nick’s family—my family, soon—passed through the door to cheers and the pop of flashbulbs.

People don’t usually get to take stock of the exact second everything changes; by the time they catch up to it, like a breeze, it has passed. But as we reached the door, the world slowed down so my artist’s mind could engrave upon itself every sight and smell and sound of what I was doing. The light spilling through the open doorway. The roar of the villagers. The clammy, nervous sweat starting to form under my arms. The tie Nick chose, the exact shade of his blue suit, the heaviness of his ring on my finger. For years we’d walked the razor’s edge between public and private, together and apart, and as we stood there on the verge, I was struck hardest by the power of what it felt like to
decide
. To take an outstretched hand knowing it would lead me on a journey I could not reverse. And when I let out that breath and followed Nick into the glare, I left a part of myself behind.

P
ractically overnight, I went from being vaguely recognizable outside Great Britain—like an itch you can’t quite scratch—to being very famous. Aggressively famous. The kind of famous where I looked so glossy on the covers of
People
and
OK!
and
Hello!
that I found myself abstractedly intrigued by that shiny celebrity with the friendly face and the well-groomed eyebrows.
Vogue
featured a lengthy but still only half-accurate piece about my background; lesser magazines dissected The Mysteries of Bex abetted by people I barely knew who crawled out of the woodwork with old yearbooks and apocryphal stories and colorful descriptors like
brash
and
ballsy
, and
giant raging bitch
.
SHE WASN’T EVEN QUEEN OF HER PROM
, shrieked Xandra Deane, as worked up about our impending matrimony as if I’d been dispatched specifically to seduce Nick and then take down the monarchy as the final and very delayed parting blow of the American Revolution.

My mother archived all the clippings—good and bad—in alphabetized acid-free boxes. One night she fell asleep with them on Dad’s side of the bed, and told me he’d appeared in her dream to warn her that I shouldn’t wear pink on my wedding weekend. Mom seemed to derive peace from the notion that he’d weighed in from the Beyond (even if we both knew it would’ve been more his style to duck in and leave a message about the Cubs’ bullpen), and having something positive to concentrate on cut through her grief, which in turn cut through mine. When Gaz heard the news, he burst into tears and offered our unborn children free legal counsel for life. Joss surfaced for some excited noises about who might design my wedding dress, and I texted Lady Bollocks a message that said,
He WILL. Marry. An American.
Her response was simply,
Wrong number.

Clive was tougher. The bombshell interview with Katie Kenneth was picked up worldwide, along with Alistair’s newest photo: Nick and Freddie crouched around Emma, smiling, while she stared dreamily off to the side, a freshly tended pixie cut giving her face a stark vulnerability. It was superb black-and-white portraiture, bathed in light and shadow, capturing the tragedy of the story without wallowing in it. Eleanor had conducted the orchestra flawlessly: After the initial media freak-out, the boys were praised for their silent bravery in the face of Emma’s decay, the news cycle moved toward a discussion of the unnecessary stigma surrounding psychological issues, and then everyone got so distracted by the prospect of Richard wheeling Emma into the Abbey that the whole thing took on the air of an epic, tragic romance. Bonuses came fat and frequent at Clarence House, and Clive, an unofficial staffer in his own mind, felt left out in the cold.

“Two scoops,” he sputtered. “
Two
, and no scraps for a friend?”

“This was over my head, mate,” Nick said, handing him an apologetic lager across the dining table at Kensington.

“Not even a hint,
mate
?” he asked. “I thought we were scratching each other’s backs.”

“Marj gave you the polo bit, though,” Nick said earnestly. “You broke that. Caused a total stir. That had to have helped, yeah?”

“That was ages ago, Nick, and a trifle compared to this,” Clive said. “I’ve done nothing but support you. I buried India sneaking out of Clarence House. I could’ve dined out on that, but I didn’t want to, not at your expense. I’ve never once said any of what I know. About anything. Or
anyone
.” He gave me a very brief but pointed look. “But no one will take me seriously if they think you lot don’t, and by freezing me out, that’s exactly what you’re suggesting.”

“I’m so sorry, Clive,” Nick said, distressed. “These were bigger than I am. It comes from the top.”

“What about going forward? A wedding date, the honeymoon, the dress designer?” Clive asked, his face taking on a desperate sheen.

Nick spread his hand helplessly. “I can ask, but I can’t promise,” he said. “It’s a delicate balance with the various papers, and there’s a protocol Marj follows. I know it’s my wedding, but it simply isn’t my show.”

“But someday it will be…?”

“Right, yeah,” Nick said, and maybe he meant it, but to me it sounded like he wasn’t completely comfortable with this negotiation.

I fretted about that to Cilla about a week later. We were in the airy dining room of her and Gaz’s rented townhouse and home office, on a picturesque street called Hans Crescent that ran around the back side of Harrods—chosen because Gaz thought it made him look desirable if one could shop for his legal help and a diamond-encrusted nine-iron in the same block.

“I get worried that Clive is relying on us for big boosts that we can’t give him, you know?” I said as Cilla bustled around her kitchen.

“Clive will get over it,” Cilla promised, setting down a plate of tea sandwiches, the crusts neatly cut off. “The Fitzwilliams have been loyal friends to Nick’s family longer than Clive’s been alive.” She slid me a cup of tea and a sugar dish. “How are
you
?”

“I’m not sure,” I told her honestly. “Ever since Nick and I got back together it’s been this rush of happiness and activity, but as soon as I slow down I get sad again. About Dad, about Emma…” I looked down at my ring. “I know she’s still here, but not the way Nick wishes she was.”

“I can’t believe he kept that to himself for so long,” Cilla said. “When did he finally tell you?”

“A few years ago,” I said. “I don’t think he’d ever said it out loud before. He went so pale.”

“No wonder he was always so sensitive.” Cilla sighed, dropping a sugar cube into her tea.

“He is a lot lighter now,” I said. “I wish they’d done it years ago.”

The film of sadness that covered Nick might never wholly disappear, but it did diminish. He talked about Emma more. His insomnia had ebbed. And, perhaps because he was finally rested, he even relaxed about the press. And then just as quickly as the tide turned in him, he rode it out of town: His Navy frigate, HMS
Cleveland
, deployed that January just two weeks after the Emma interview did. It was hard not having him around in those euphoric days when all we wanted was to be privately obnoxious about calling ourselves
affianced
, and it meant that I was left alone to find my footing.

I was telling a very sympathetic Cilla this when Joss blew into the flat like a tornado. She’d missed two buttons on her shirt, and mascara had run all over her face.

“It’s over,” she wailed, flinging herself into a chair with such force that Cilla’s tea spilled. “The store. It’s gone. It’s all gone.”

The bigger surprise was that Soj had lasted this long. But as foolhardy an enterprise as it seemed, Joss never saw it as a passing fad. In fact, her design aspirations may have been the only real constant in her life, especially because her impatient parents—whom she saw as faithless—had essentially closed her out of theirs.

“I knew we were losing money, but I didn’t realize it was that bad.” She sniffled. “I told Hunt we could still get a shirt on Bex, but—”

“I think your style is too edgy for Bex’s new position,” Cilla said tactfully.

“Doesn’t have to be,” Joss said. “People change. Hunt changed. Turned me out on the street and crawled back to his wife.” She sniffled savagely. “Good luck having two hours of sex with a man who thinks he’s so bloody innovative just because he likes nipple clamps. That’s
so
three years ago, you stodgy old bastard. God, Viagra is the
worst
.”

By the time Lacey joined us, looking elegant in a gray and black L.K.Bennett dress that I realized with a jolt was one of the finalists for my engagement shoot, the three of us had hammered out a plan for Joss to stay with me until her subletters moved out, and run Soj from her maisonette.

“And maybe we can collaborate on something for you,” Joss said, brightening.

“I will try,” I said. “I don’t get a lot of…”

“You picked out what you’re wearing today, didn’t you?” Lacey asked, watching me as she poured cream into her tea.

“Well, sure. To go to Marks & Spencer, and then here,” I said.

“Were you photographed?” Lacey pressed.

“I don’t think so.”

Wrong. The press would briefly dub me Princess Penny Pincher. I had just needed socks.

“So you have
some
freedom,” Joss prompted.

“It depends,” I hedged.

“On what?” Lacey asked.

I felt like she was increasing the target on my back rather than helping erase it.

“On whether my twin sister has already stolen what I was supposed to wear,” I said as good-naturedly as I could manage.

Lacey looked at herself. “This? I thought you didn’t want it.”

“Yes, but Marj needs to return it,” I said. “What’s mine can’t be yours if it isn’t actually mine to begin with.”

Lacey bit her lip. “I’ll pay for it, then. It’ll look great with the booties I got for when Tony takes me to Paris.”

“Tony the Drug Dealer?” Joss asked, the thrill of gossip cutting through her depression.

“That was all extremely exaggerated,” Lacey said smoothly.

When the New Year dawned without any sign of Freddie, Lacey had glommed onto Tony. He’d evaded jail time for Club Theme’s alleged extracurricular activities, but I still thought he was crooked, and I’d hoped Lacey would figure that out and tire of him. But instead, they’d been in the paper with increasing frequency. The press now compared the members of the old Ivy League instead of coupling us; every time Lacey got dinged for her hair or her tan or the length of her skirt, she redoubled her efforts (and possibly her credit card bills) to look flawless the next time. Barnes and Marj were grumping about it to me, but I was not about to dive into Lacey’s personal life.

“Mind that Tony,” Cilla warned Lacey. “He’s all about the game.”

Lacey waved her off. “He’s changed, Cilla,” she said. “He’s so driven, and he knows absolutely everyone. He wants to take Club Theme overseas, and wants me to help.” She turned to me. “You and Nick can come to the opening! It would be great PR.”

That made it the second time in under a minute that someone had traded on our relationship to ask me to do something for their own personal gain.

“Let’s talk about happier things,” Cilla interrupted smoothly. “I haven’t had this much insider dish on a royal wedding since my fourth cousin Ramona objected to that obvious farce in Liechtenstein. When does the planning start?”

“I’m sure a binder for it was born the same day Nick was,” I said. “He’s on the ship until summer, so the ceremony probably won’t be until next year. Marj started listing off all the details we need to lock in between now and then, but I blacked out somewhere around choosing which carriage we’re going to ride in afterward.” I grinned at Lacey. “My maid of honor will have her hands full with me.”

“Of course,” Lacey said. “When I can,” she added, not entirely meeting my eyes. “I might be up for a promotion at Whistles, and this Paris trip—”

“Lacey,” I said. “I can’t pick out a dress and a tiara and wedding shoes without you. I can barely pick out my own jeans.”

Lacey looked uncertain. “The Palace might not let me weigh in that much.”

I thought back to everything Freddie said about feeling like the spare, and about how much Lacey and I had already lost this year. I would hold on tight if it killed me.

“I’ll make them,” I said wildly. “You’re my sister. This is our adventure. Period.”

“What is the difference between a baron and a baronet?” Lady Bollocks asked, pacing in front of me, tapping her riding crop in the palm of her hand.

“The last two letters,” I joked.

Bea cracked the crop onto my coffee table. I pitied her horse.

“I am not doing this for my health,” she said. “Who is the premier marquess in the peerage?”

“Um.” I rubbed my forehead. “Hereford. No! Shoot. That’s the viscount. Dammit.”

“How do you pronounce this honorable surname?” she asked, handing me a piece of paper that read
Crespigny
.

“Wait, aren’t you going to tell me any of the other answers?” I asked.

“No,” Bea said, poking me with the crop. “Because you ought to know them like breathing. Figure it out. I am not here to coddle you. Now name the heraldic tinctures.”

The first months of Nick’s deployment were a learning curve whose slope rivaled the Alps we’d skied in Klosters. The business of renovating Bex into Duchess Rebecca had kicked into high gear, and the Palace made it clear that, like a puppy, I couldn’t be taken out in public until I was properly trained.

“Her Majesty knows that the Soane museum and Paint Britain value your contributions,” Marj had told me at my first private meeting with her without Nick by my side. “But perhaps the time has come for your positions to become opportunities for a person who does not have so many new responsibilities.”

Translation: resign, and begin the uphill journey to ladyhood that Eleanor clearly thought would be an even more demanding full-time job. Marj’s desk was stacked so high with binders and agendas, and revisions to the binders and agendas, that I once walked in to see her and walked right out again because I thought she wasn’t there. Everything had a painstaking timetable; I wouldn’t be surprised to learn Marj was charting my ovulation. She micromanaged my appearance and comportment, assessed the curve of my back in my natural stance, weighed and measured me weekly, drafted nutrition plans, and diagrammed what about my personal grooming needed to change and how fast. My eyebrows were filling in, and now it was my head’s turn: a nominal number of extensions were bonded to my insufficient hair, with more added every two or three weeks for maximum subtlety, until we reached the desired level of luxuriousness.

Most of that I’d known was coming, at least in the abstract, although I admit I’d assumed the contents of my stomach were my own business. But the raft of reading, tutoring, and tests, like some kind of High Society High School, were a surprise. I thought Lacey might get a kick out of helping—she was always better at making flash cards; she even color-coded them—but it was Cilla who pointed out that Bea, as the actual titled lady in our circle, was the perfect candidate: a ruthless taskmaster who never pulled a punch and loved dining out on her superior breeding.