Tammy shakes her head, as if she doesn’t know what to say. “I’m just telling you what my source has told me.”
“Your source must be wrong.” I stand, and it takes me a while, my legs like jelly. “What if everyone is wrong?” This time, I do look at the TV, and I wish I hadn’t. There’s an aerial view of a field, the crumpled remains of the royal helicopter scattered over every square meter of it. “Oh my God.” I’m pulled back, my face forced away from the TV. “I need my phone,” I demand, heading for Tammy. “I need to call Damon.”
“I turned it off in case they were tracking you.” She pulls it from her pocket quickly, and once I’ve wrestled with my trembling hands to switch it on, I see the dozens and dozens of missed calls from Damon, Davenport, even my mother. And I know that the nightmare behind me being broadcasted to every country in the world is true. My hands shake as I fight to unlock the screen, and when I eventually dial Damon, he answers with it barely ringing. The tone of his voice is like I have never heard before. Anxious. It adds credence to the reported news. “Adeline, where are you?”
Emotion tightens my throat. “Tell me they’re wrong,” I sob, feeling Josh close behind me, ready to catch me when my fears are confirmed. “Tell me there’s been a massive mistake.”
“I can’t,” Damon breathes, and I fold, agony ripping me in two, my cries wretched and broken. I can’t keep hold of the phone, can’t keep myself upright. My landing is softened by Josh, and he finds my mobile, taking over the call.
“Damon, it’s Josh.” He uses his free arm to pull my jerking body onto his lap, and I make myself as small as I can in his chest, my mind muddled, my devastation growing. “And John?” he asks, following it up with a curse.
“No,” I cry, pushing my face into Josh’s chest, like I can disappear into my heaven and escape this hell. His hand is on the back of my head, holding, stroking, trying to comfort me.
“I’ll bring her back now,” Josh says, all kinds of unease in his voice. “You need to prepare for her arrival . . . Yes . . . Good.” He hangs up, but he doesn’t move, keeping us on the floor, holding me. “I need to take you back to Claringdon, baby.”
“This is all my fault.” Regret and guilt tear through me, destroying everything in their path. Destroying me.
“No,” Josh snaps. “Don’t you start talking like that, Adeline.” He forces me from his body, looking fuming mad, but his hands in contrast stroke my face softly. “You didn’t tell him to follow you to Scotland. You didn’t tell him to chase you back to London.”
My chin trembles uncontrollably. “I need to see my mum. And Eddie. I need to see Eddie.”
“I’m taking you back now.” He looks past me to Tammy, giving her a sharp nod. “It’ll be chaos outside the palace. The Met are controlling the growing crowds and Damon is sending a few more cars to escort us.”
“Got it.”
“The press release?”
“I stalled.” Tammy doesn’t sound apologetic. “I . . . I wanted to make sure you were as sure this morning.”
Josh breathes out, obviously relieved. “Adeline.” He coaxes me out of his lap gently. “You need to dress, baby. I’m taking you home.”
I don’t have the will or inclination to make myself look half decent. So Josh is forced to dress me himself, while I try to wrap my mind around what is happening.
I can’t.
This can’t be real.
THE BLACKED-OUT WINDOWS ARE THE only thing between Josh and me and the rest of the world. Swarms of people—bystanders, journalists, news networks from across the world—are camping outside Claringdon, the police presence the most prolific I have ever known.
Our convoy is forced to a crawl as we near the gates, a police motorcycle leading the way. Everything is a blur. Sound, movements, sights. I feel like I’m floating on the outside looking in on the carnage. Lights flash, people shout. There are even officers manhandling people out of our path. The palace beyond the gold railings and gates looks gloomy, the usual glittering golden detail dull. The flags are at half-mast, every curtain at the dozens and dozens of windows drawn. My limp hand in Josh’s is squeezed tightly, though I am unable to acknowledge his gesture, not with a return flex of my hand, nor by looking at him, when I know he is looking at me. I haven’t spoken a word since we were chaperoned from the apartment. All I can hear are the reporter’s haunting words. All I can see is the helicopter in a million broken pieces scattered across a field. More tears tumble, more desolation and guilt attacks me.
What have I done?
We’re driven through the archways to the rear entrance of the palace to avoid the prying eyes of the crowds out front, and when I’m helped from the car, I look to the sky, seeing helicopters circling the airspace, more cameras giving the world the pictures and footage they’re hungry for. We’re center stage. The most anticipated production.
An arm is placed around my shoulders, and I’m hurried into the palace. I don’t realize it’s Josh who has hold of me until I’m through the doors and the buzz of talking dies, my father’s advisors falling silent and gawking at my companion like the impostor they believe he is. Looks of judgment, eyes full of shock. It all has me finding Josh’s hand and holding it like my life depends on it as Sir Don and David Sampson stare on. They look like they have just arrived back at Claringdon themselves, still in their coats. “You weren’t on the flight.” I say quietly.
“His Highness left rather abruptly.” The spite in David’s words cut me in two, and I look away, silence falling.
“Your Highness.” Davenport is the first to break the uncomfortable quiet, moving in and bowing his head in respect. “My deepest condolences.”
His offer of sympathy is another confirmation that I am not in a horrific dream. “My mother?”
“The Queen Consort is in the Claret Lounge, ma’am. She’s awaiting your arrival.”
I cast my eyes across to David and Sir Don. They’re statues, judging me. It’s not intentional, but I again let my gaze drop to the glimmering marble floor, shame getting the better of me. They know this is entirely my fault.
I move toward the lounge in a haze of desolation, bracing myself to face my mother. Josh is by my side, his thumb working circles over my skin where our hands are held. The doors to the lounge are closed, though the grief within the room is so strong it’s seeping through the thick wood and sinking into my skin. I reach for the handle and pull back when another hand finds it first. Flicking my eyes upward, I find Davenport with his signature cold, stoic expression. “I believe Mr. Jameson would like a cup of tea,” he tells me as diplomatically as he can, and I look at Josh, knowing he will have caught the Major’s not-so subtle hint.
Josh throws a mild scowl toward Davenport before he centers his attention on me, taking both of my hands and turning into me. “You need to be with your family,” he says, and I open my mouth to object, needing him with me. Needing him to stay close and catch me when I fall, because I know I will. But he places a soft finger over my lips, hushing me. “I won’t go anywhere.”
Maybe so, but that won’t stop them from making him go. I scope my surroundings for Damon, locating him only a few feet away, behind David and Sir Don. He gives me a mild smile and a thumbs up, his way of telling me Josh will be safe while I am gone. I believe him. I nod and draw breath, as Josh dips and pushes his lips to my cheek. “I love you,” he whispers quietly, only for me to hear, and I nod when he leaves me to hold myself up.
Once Josh is gone, Davenport opens the door, and the grief that was being partly contained within the four walls of the Claret Lounge spills out, so potent it could take me from my feet. I hear Helen first, her sobs uncontrolled and loud. And I see my mother sitting on one of the couches, staring ahead at nothing, while Uncle Phillip helps Aunt Victoria pour tea, no maids or footmen in sight. Uncle Stephan is here too, looking grave standing by the fireplace, his wife by his side, and Matilda is in a chair by the window, her face damp and blotchy. She’s the first one to notice me, her
eyes lifting, her face softening. Then the door shuts behind me and the rest of the room all look up. All eyes on me. I swallow and step forward on unstable legs, as my mother struggles to her feet with the help of Uncle Stephan who rushes to help her. I’ve never seen the Queen Consort looking anything less than pristine. Now, she looks washed out. Weak. Vulnerable.
I try to keep my emotions contained, if only to appear strong for my mother, but it all wants out and there is nothing I can do to fight it back. I choke, going to my mother’s open arms and burying myself there, hiding, feeling her warmth, our trembling bodies merging and shaking us to our very centers. “I’m so sorry,” I sob into her neck, wetting her skin with my relentless flow of tears. She says nothing, no words of comfort and no reassurance, and despite the fact she’s holding me, it tears me apart.
I gently break away to find her face, and when I do, she holds my cheek, thoughtful and quiet. I clench her hand, silently begging that she won’t hold me responsible. When she finally speaks, it’s with the softest tone she is famous for, though I hate what she says. “Where have you been?”
I shake my head, remorse churning my insides. She doesn’t know? “I’m here now.”
“Lucky us,” Uncle Phillip mutters, claiming the attention of everyone in the room, including me. His eyes, full of disdain, are firmly rooted on me. “If you had not scarpered to Scotland, the King would not have either. We wouldn’t all be standing here, the family devastated, the country shocked.” He flings a deranged arm in the air, snorting his disgust. “I hope you’re happy. Your insolence has lost us our King.”
I feel my mother’s hand squeeze mine, though she doesn’t retaliate, and I shrink, knowing I deserve his wrath.
“My husband is dead because of you,” Helen wails, and I close my eyes, Mother’s hand tightening further still. “All you had to do was marry, you spoilt, self-important little bitch.”
“Please.” Uncle Stephan jumps to my defense, the only person who I know will. “That’s enough.”
“Please leave us,” Mother demands, casting her watery gaze around the room. “I would like a moment with my daughter.” No one argues with the Queen Consort, everyone immediately leaving the room quietly. “You can stay, Helen.”
Helen stops and looks over her shoulder, confusion evident on her face. She waits until everyone is gone before she turns to face my mother. “Catherine?”
My mother’s head tilts, thoughtful, and Helen’s confusion turns into worry. “I know, Helen,” Mother says. “I know your little secret.”
What?
Helen rushes across the room to us, noticeably panicked. “Catherine, please.” Her hands, full of crumpled tissues, grab my mother and turn her away from me. Instinct has me intervening, not liking the force being used by my sister-in-law, whether she’s grieving the loss of her husband or not.
“Helen,” I yell, pushing her away, yet she pays no attention to me, muscling me out of the way to get to my mother.
“Catherine, I beg you. Please.”
My mother’s face gives nothing away, her eyes taking in her frantic daughter-in-law as she begs and pleads.
“What’s going on?” I ask, my attention bouncing between the two women, one bordering deranged, one completely impassive.
“Nothing,” Helen snaps, shoving me away. “Nothing’s going on.” Her eyes bore into my mother, something definitely passing between them. What?
I seize my mother, taking her from Helen’s clutches to pull her away, staggered when my sister-in-law fights with me. “Helen, get off,” I shout, wrestling her off Mother, her motionless form being pulled back and forth between us.
“Enough,” Mother yells, startling me into stillness, as well as Helen. She points a fire-filled, angry glare at her son’s pregnant wife, who cowers, her head shaking, as if in denial. Then Mother casts her eyes to me, eyes that are usually soft and friendly, but are now hard and determined. She points to Helen’s midriff, prompting Helen to cover it with her palms protectively. “That baby is not your brother’s.”
My mouth falls open in utter disbelief, my eyes flying to Helen’s. She crumples, defeated, and starts sobbing again. “What?” I know I heard right, but shock has taken my ability to string a sentence together.
“Catherine.” Helen sniffs, backing away. “Please don’t.”
Mother, stone cold, wanders away and takes a seat on the couch. “What do you think is going to happen, Helen? Your unborn child takes the throne? It’s inconceivable.” Cold eyes find a wilting Helen, while I stand, motionless, trying to allow this bombshell to sink in. “I remained quiet, but did you think I didn’t know? You might have fooled the King, but you most certainly did not fool me. Eight years trying to conceive and nothing. And now by some miracle, you’re pregnant?” She laughs coldly. “The only question I have for you now, dear daughter-in-law, is who is the father? Because I sure as hell know it isn’t my son.”
Hearing my mother say the word hell is alarming, a show of her anger, even if she’s speaking void of emotion. I watch, rapt, unable to comprehend what I am hearing, as Helen backs away, tears streaming. “Catherine—”
“The throne belongs to my children. You are neither my child, nor is that baby you are carrying my grandchild.”
“I was desperate,” Helen blurts, her words only just audible through her broken voice. “Our future hung on it. The pressure from the King was getting too much.”
“I don’t doubt it for a moment.” Mother turns away from her daughter-in-law, as I unravel what I’m learning. As far as the world is concerned, with John gone, Helen’s unborn child is now the King or Queen of England, and a Regent would be carefully selected to reign in its name until they come of age. But we are not in the sixteenth century anymore. Not that it matters, since Mother has just revealed the shocker news that Helen’s baby is illegitimate.
“I’ll be banished,” Helen whimpers. “I’ll have nothing. I’ll be hated. Please, Catherine.”
“The only people who know of your betrayal are Sir Don, David Sampson, and us in this room.” Mother looks to me and then Helen. “I plan on keeping it that way. So we will avoid the scandal by bypassing my unborn grandchild. This is the twenty-first century. A child ruler would be ridiculed by the public. Laughed at. The monarchy is already under enough fire without giving the haters ammunition to shoot us down even more.”
What my mother’s saying suddenly hits home. Bypass the next in line? Bypass Helen’s unborn child? “Where’s Eddie?” I ask, my hand reaching for my neck, feeling his suffocation as if it is my own. If the crown is bypassing Helen’s unborn child, then it will be landing on Eddie’s head. “Mother, does he know?”
“He knows,” she sighs.
My worry amplifies by a million. My God, he’ll be devastated. He wanted the crown as much as me.
Not at all.
“So where is he?” The urgency coursing through me is increasing by the second, my need to get to my brother making me panic. He will hate this. I need to find him. Comfort him. “Mother,” I yell, losing my patience. Her reluctance to answer me is positively maddening.
She looks across to me, and I see the sorrow on her face. Sorrow for the burden of the crown now passing over to our beloved Eddie. “Helen, leave us,” the Queen Consort demands, and that’s all it takes for my sister-in-law to run out, sobbing uncontrollably as she goes. I have no sympathy for her. That’s all reserved for Eddie now. As soon as the door closes, Mother is up and across the room to me, but I instinctively back away, not liking her change in persona, from the unfamiliar harshness, back to her soft and pacifying approach. “Adeline.” She reaches for my hands, and I pull them back, wary, backing up more.
“Where’s Eddie?” I ask, my jaw tight. “Tell me, Mother.”
Her shoulders drop, defeated. “I don’t know. He ran out.”
“This is madness,” I yell, heading for the door. I should be grieving the loss of my father and brother, and instead we’re dealing with lies and betrayal, f
ighting our way through the poisonous web that is my family.
“Adeline, wait.”
I ignore my mother for the first time in my life, swinging the door open, on a mission to find Eddie. He can’t have left the grounds; no one is coming in or out, so he must be here somewhere. I head for the library, catching Davenport’s anxious stare as I pick up my pace. Not even Josh stops me when he appears ahead, obviously hearing the commotion, Damon behind him. “Have you seen Eddie?” I ask, not slowing my rushed steps, passing them all and entering the library.
“Not since we returned,” Damon confirms, hot on my heels.
“What’s going on, Adeline?” Josh joins my side, not attempting to slow or stop me, but demanding in his question.
“I need to find Eddie. John’s unborn child is being bypassed, which means Eddie is now King. He doesn’t want to be King. I need to find him.”
“Oh Jesus,” Josh breathes, looking back at Damon. “Any ideas?”
“The maze.” It comes to me as I push my way out of the doors into the gardens of Claringdon. It’s where he always hid as a child, the place farthest from the stifling palace as we could get as children. Adrenalin pumps through my veins as I race toward the back of the grounds and weave my way into the center of the maze with efficiency.
And when I emerge into the clearing, I see him. On his arse, back against the shins of our grandfather, a bottle of whisky in his hand. His green beret by his thigh, his eyes closed, his head limp and dropped. “Eddie.” I rush to him, kneeling by his slumped form. The smell of Scotch hits my nostrils, strong and pure.
His heavy head lifts, his eyes barely open. He’s wasted, a sorry state. “Sister,” he slurs, a disorientated arm feeling for me. “What a pleasant surprise.”
I sigh, thinking today has been too much for everyone. How much more can we take? But I must prioritize the troubles that have been rained down on us relentlessly. Eddie is my priority right now. I look back when I hear the sound of heavy steps, finding Damon and Josh have found their way to me. I shake my head at them both when they find me on the floor with my wasted brother, telling them to leave us be. Both men back off, and I return my attention to Eddie.