Chapter Twenty

PRESTI LOVED ME.

Had he meant to tell me that? Had he meant for me to hear those words? Had I dreamt them? He loved me, and I loved him. It should be as simple as that, but it wasn’t. That much I knew. I couldn’t, shouldn’t, even be thinking about this now.

My father was dead.

Dead .

I’d whispered the words a thousand times since it happened, let them roll around in my mind, and I still couldn’t believe them. The last day had to be a nightmare. I so desperately wanted my father’s death and my brother’s injuries to be nothing more than a terrible dream. But I knew they weren’t. A terrible pain had taken root inside me. A grief that I didn’t know how to deal with.

Four years ago, I’d lost my grandfather. And that was it. That was the total loss I’d experienced in my life. I’d been lucky in so many ways.

How was I going to get through this? And how was I supposed to do it alone?

Every cell in my body screamed as though I was being torn apart. Duty and family loyalty pulled me in one direction. But from thousands of kilometres away, Presti’s warmth and love pulled me in another.

Though soft, the knock on my door echoed like a drumbeat in my foggy brain. Nothing seemed real. Perhaps I was in a dream, a nightmare that I was having a damn hard time waking from.

“Come in,” I called.

Simon de-fucking-Montfort skulked into my rooms, looking pristine, polished and too fucking put together for someone who should be grieving the loss of his beloved future king. “The queen wishes to see you, James.”

“What does my grandmother want?” I asked rather spitefully. I hated this guy and all he represented. Simon de Montfort didn’t see any of us as people. We were part of the establishment to be maneuvered and used as our courtiers saw fit.

“There are plans to be discussed, James. The princes’ vigil at your father’s coffin, a walkabout with the mourning public—”

“You expect me to go out there, shake hands, and smile for strangers mourning my father? No. Absolutely not. The vigil I can do as respect for my father, but the walkabout…NO!” I shook my head just to put an exclamation mark on my unwillingness. Did the public expect me to go out there and accept their condolences days after losing my father? And while my brother’s life still hung in the balance?

Impossible.

“I think you’ll find that’s exactly what Her Majesty expects of you, James. This country has lost its future king—”

“I’ve lost my fucking father,” I raged. “What does my mother have to say about this?”

My mother was at the hospital with my brother after her flight home from the Caribbean, where she’d been on royal duties when the accident occurred. She surely did not want me to do this. She would come and wrap me in her arms, under her maternal protection, during this awful time. That’s what I expected of my mother.

“Your mother intends to join you on the walkabout,” Simon replied, leaving me thoroughly agog.

“I don’t believe you.” I stormed past Simon, accidentally knocking into him as I went. Damn, it felt good when I almost put him on his arse.

The palace halls were quiet, except for my pounding feet as I strode toward my grandmother’s office. She’d be in there, eighty-one years old, and rather than mourning her son, I knew she’d be working, trying to save the monarchy from my father’s loss.

Ignoring twenty-odd years of indoctrinated protocol, I opened her door and entered uninvited. “Granny, I’m not doing it.”

Her Majesty looked at me over the rim of her glasses, displeasure rather than grief etching the lines of her forehead and colouring her hazel eyes. “James. Do come in.”

Chastised, I entered the office and closed the door behind me, leaving Simon de Montfort on the other side. “I can’t do it, Gran. The walkabout. All those people watching me, wanting me to give them comfort. I can’t. I have nothing to give. He was my father.”

“And he was their future king,” came her response. “Sit down, James.”

I watched her face, searching for a hint of a grandmother comforting her grandson over his terrible loss. All I could find was duty and stoic acceptance.

“This is a difficult time, James. I know that. I’ve lost my own father. I know how it hurts, but our lives aren’t our own; our grief is not private. We belong to our people. It’s the price we pay.”

“I don’t believe that, Gran. I don’t believe the people expect us to get out there and accept flowers and handshakes when we’ve just lost someone…when I’ve just lost my father.” Tears pricked at my eyes, but I knew tears in the queen’s presence were… Well, it wasn’t how things were done.

“It is exactly what they expect. It’ll only be for a short time. Hannah and your mother will be with you—”

“Hannah? No. No way. You cannot ask that of her. She’s a new bride, her husband might yet die, and she’s…she’s pregnant. She could lose the baby.”

Only a handful knew of Hannah’s pregnancy. She’d been pregnant at the wedding, and Gran wanted to do everything she could to prevent people from finding out. A pushed-out due date would be given when the pregnancy was eventually announced, and then, of course, she’d go into labour early when the time came. It simply wouldn’t do for the public to know there’d been a ‘shotgun’ wedding for the second in line to the throne.

No.

He was now the first in line to the throne.

“Hannah will do her duty, as must you, James. She will need you there.”

And there was the manipulation I knew would eventually spawn its ugliness. I hadn’t known where it would come from, but I knew there’d be something the queen and Simon would have up their sleeves to get me to toe the line. There always was.

“When is it to be?” I asked, defeated. I’d never let Hannah go out there alone.

“Your mother returns in two hours. The walkabout is planned for this afternoon. Sufficient floral tributes have built up, and a substantial crowd still ambles about the palace gates to make a success of it. I’ll do my walkabout tomorrow with your uncles, John and Albert.”

Make a success of it . We weren’t talking about a garden party, for Christ’s sake.

“And the Vigil of the Princes?”

“Two days from now. Queues are already forming to file past your father’s coffin.”

The coldness, the businesslike way my grandmother was discussing her son’s death appalled me and turned my stomach to acid. I’d always admired my grandmother’s sense of duty and work ethic, but this was too much. I needed to get the hell away from her before I said something I couldn’t ever take back.

“I’ll be ready,” I muttered and fled, ignoring the smug look on Simon de-fucking Montfort’s face as I blew by him in a blur of frustrated anger and bone-deep sorrow.

“Harlan, are you busy?” I asked without preamble when Harlan answered my call after I returned to my room.

“Just saw poor Hannah off to sleep,” Harlan replied. “Poor sparrow finally crashed with exhaustion. She won’t take anything, not with her being…well, with child, and she hasn’t slept a wink since—”

“Are you still at the palace?”

“Yes. What can I do, James?”

“Could you pop by my rooms? I need… Well, I’m not certain what I need except to not be alone with my bloody thoughts.”

“On my way,” Harlan answered and ended the call.

He wasn’t the man I wanted—needed—but he was a damn sight better than the cold nothingness of my grandmother. I’d never have dragged him from his sister’s side, but I’d borrow him for a few minutes while she slept.

George and Hannah’s rooms were down the hall, so Harlan’s knock came in moments. He looked almost as wrecked as I knew I must.

“Well, you look bloody awful, James,” he said, voicing my thoughts. “To be expected.” Harlan embraced me, his slight body belying the strength of his hug.

“How’s Hannah?” I asked. “Stupid bloody question.”

“She’s holding it together. I um…” Harlan looked about, his gaze landing everywhere but on mine.

“What is it, Harlan?”

He sighed and finally met my eyes. “I’m not happy about this bloody walkabout, James.”

“Me neither. I’ve tried to talk Gran out of it, but… If Hannah isn’t up to it, Harlan, tell her to stay in her rooms.”

“That’s just it, James. Hannah insists she must do it. Wants George to be proud of her when he wakes up.”

“Jesus,” I murmured and dropped into my favourite chair.

“Anyway, I told her I’ll be with her if she must do it.” Harlan sighed, ran his fingers through his messy hair and sank into the armchair opposite mine.

“Good,” I sighed. “We’ll both be there for her.”

“And you, James. We’ll be there for you too.”

This wasn’t the first time Harlan would have my back. Yet, he wasn’t the one I needed. If I’d dared to show the world who I truly was, I might have had Presti here when I needed him most. But I’d been a coward, and now I was so horribly alone.

“I wish… I wish Presti could be here. I feel so lost.”

“Could he not be here? Surely, they would allow it.”

They were the queen and her advisors and courtiers. And they would never risk Presti’s presence during this time. Though they might be willing to allow me to come out, it would be at a time, place, and in a manner of their choosing.

“I’m afraid not. But they can’t stop me from calling him.”

Harlan leaned forward and squeezed my knee. “I’m so sorry, James.”

“Thank you, Harlan.”

“I’ll leave you to your call.” Harlan left me, returning to his vigil at his sister’s side.

I found my phone, curled up in my chair, and called Presti.

He answered on the first ring. “James?”

“Hey.”

“Hey. How are you?”

“Angry,” I replied.

“At what?”

“My grandmother is making me do a walkabout.”

“Sorry?”

“Mum, Hannah, and I are going out to walk amongst the mourners gathered at the palace.”

For a moment, Presti said nothing, and then shouted, “What the bloody hell for?”

“To keep up appearances. To be there for our subjects. Take your pick,” I snapped. “Shit. I’m sorry, Presti. I shouldn’t be taking this out on you.”

“James, if you need to yell, you go ahead and yell. You won’t scare me off. When my grandfather died, my grandmother yelled at Mungo Phillips for twenty minutes but said she felt much better afterwards. Turned poor Mungo’s hair white with the language she used, but she wasn’t angry with him. She was furious Pa had left her, even if he was a mean old curmudgeon.”

A chuckle slipped out at Presti’s words. God, I missed him. “I wish you were here,” I whispered.

“James,” he whispered back.

“I can’t believe he’s gone. Do you know that when I was little, Dad used to call me Fanta because I loved the colour orange? Mum wanted me to wear blues and greys, but Dad used to buy me bright-orange shirts and pants.”

“I didn’t know,” Presti said.

“There’s some photos of me in some very questionable outfits Dad used to let me get away with that nobody else would have.”

“I shall have to do some googling.”

Suddenly, the floodgates opened, and I wanted to tell Presti everything I could about my father. “And he used to sneak treats to George and me that the palace chef would have had a heart attack about if he knew.”

Presti laughed, so I told him more and more. I spoke to Presti for hours, and before I knew it, there was a knock on my door, and there stood my mother, eyes red-rimmed, her slight body looking even more vulnerable. “Presti, I must go, but thank you for listening.”

“I will listen to you whenever you need, James. Please be careful on your walkabout and know I’m thinking of you the whole time.”

Grief and gratitude lodged in my throat, and my words choked on the emotions. “Thank you,” I murmured, then hung up.

“Mum…” I ran into her arms as soon as I put the phone down. We gripped each other as though we’d fly apart if we were to let go. “Mum.”

“Shh, James. I’ve got you,” she whispered.

“I’m so sorry, Mum. So, so sorry.”

My mother was a strong woman, and she’d loved my father. Her grief sapped her strength as she sagged in my arms. “Oh, James. I can’t believe…”

“I know. I can’t believe it either.”

“I spoke to him just an hour before.”

“Mum,” I said and pulled out of her arms. “Tell Gran you don’t want to do this walkabout. You shouldn’t have to be out there—”

“No, we shouldn’t, but if I’m out there putting on a show, then I’m not thinking about what I’ve lost—what we’ve lost.”

I hadn’t thought of it that way and wasn’t sure it would work for me, but if it helped Mum, I’d do it.

A short time later, Hannah, Harlan, my mother, and I did our duty. We smiled ghoulishly at the people when they offered us their condolences. We accepted their flowers, handshakes, and the odd attempt at a hug from small children.

And I was selfishly glad of Hannah’s presence because it gave me something to focus on. I was so busy worrying about her that I didn’t have time to consider my loss and how I was walking about in front of strangers with my chest torn open and my heart shredded in pieces.

*

THE NEXT FORTY -eight hours felt like I was trying to wade through quicksand. George remained in a coma. Mother was busy with the queen making arrangements for a funeral that had been planned since my father became an adult. All our funerals were planned. Nothing about our lives was spontaneous or left to chance.

Once I’d turned eighteen, I’d been invited to attend a meeting to plan my funeral. My death had been codenamed London’s Eye Stopped Spinning so it could be spoken about without alerting anyone not in the know until the palace was ready to make an announcement. Unbelievable.

After the torturous walkabout, I’d been left pretty much alone. Presti and I called each other frequently. He often stayed on the line with me, listening as I rambled, or sharing the silence of my grief with me. Though not physically with me, he was the strength keeping my head above the quicksand.

It had been hours now since I’d spoken to him, however. I’d finally managed some decent sleep, and I knew it would be the middle of the night for him now. He’d stayed awake with me for almost three days, and I wanted to let him sleep.

But I also wanted to hear his voice before I faced the nightmare of the princes’ vigil. My uncles, eldest cousins, and I would stand at my father’s coffin for one hour as crowds continued to file past, paying their respects to a man they didn’t know and who would never be their king now.

Though I’d been to many solemn occasions in my life of public duty, I’d never had to stand still in one position for an hour. Given the flux of my emotions, the roiling in my stomach and my utter exhaustion, I had no idea how I would manage it.

Presti’s soothing voice and quiet confidence in me were what I needed.

But I didn’t get it.

My fifth and final attempt to call him went unanswered only seconds before I stepped into the hall containing my father’s coffin.