Princess Ever After (Royal Wedding Series) (14 page)

He’d chide himself later about the inappropriateness of his affection, but he was tired, still famished, and on the cusp of winning her over. So he gave his heart permission to feel.

“Then what? You said something about an oath.”

“Oath of the Throne. To be the proper heir, the proper princess. You’ll pledge to protect and defend Hessenberg. I don’t think you’ll find any of it objectionable.”

“Tanner, I’m an American.”

“Yes, well—”

“I have to give up my citizenship?”

“You will be a sovereign of Hessenberg, Miss Beswick . . . Regina.” Could she hear what he whispered to her?

“Oh no, no—”

“Not even for your gram? For her people?”

“But she left Hessenberg. She left Europe. Came to America and lived like an American.”

“And you’ll return, to do what your gram couldn’t do. Return to her royal house and her people. Establish the Augustine-Saxon throne once again.”

Regina made tracks for the door. “Be sure to text me when you leave, okay?”

“You’re not coming with me?” He must not let her make her decision so quickly. “Regina, give it another day.”

She turned back and grasped the front of his shirt with lightning speed.

“Look me in the eye.”

“Steady on.”

“This is real? All of it? For real?” Determination flared in her eyes, poured forth in her words.

“You’re the one with the box, Regina. With the ring, with your gram’s fairy tale message. I’ll ring His Royal Highness, King Nathaniel II, if you’d like—”

“No.” She released him, stepping back. “I believe you.”

“Th–then you’ll come?” He adjusted his shirt, moving around to see her face. Her eyes. He was already becoming familiar with her visual messages.

“Maybe.” She went to the door and jerked it open. “I would need a couple of days to get ready.”

“Regina?”

“What?” she said, one foot in the hall, her back to the room.

“Thank you. All of Hessenberg thanks you.”

“I said maybe, Tanner. Maybe.”

And she was gone.

August 10, 1914

Meadowbluff Palace

From the Grand Ballroom and through the open windows, I can hear the orchestra tuning. The music is so lovely. And the breeze is rising up from the bay, cooling off the August heat and bringing the scent of the sea mixed with honeysuckle.

It’s nearly eight in the evening and the sun is setting, leaving a beautiful but curious white glow over Uncle’s stable. Almost like a beacon. Oh for my Brownie camera! How could I have left it behind
at Wettin Manor? Must ask Mamá if Lark can take me into the city tomorrow to retrieve it.

If I cannot have a paintbrush in my hand, I should like to have my camera. There is so much beauty and wonder to capture in life.

I taught Esmé to use the camera. For a picture of Rein Friedrich and me when he came to call. But that was before . . . Oh, he’s so rude and mean toward Uncle.

Mr. Elliott brought the picture development round last evening and I had half a mind to tear up the photograph of Rein and me. Right in half, I tell you.

Though I must say, having a ball when the talk of war escalates and burdens us all does seem untimely.

But Mamá is so looking forward to tonight’s festivities. It’s been a year since Papá’s death and she longs to wear a colorful gown.

Uncle and Mamá want to present me as the official Hereditary Grand Duchess of Hessenberg during the ball as well. Though I’m a bit young yet, only sixteen.

I’ve mixed feelings about it all. About so many things.

War.

Love.

Men.

Rein.

He insists he and the other lads are restless, wanting to go to war. They are congregating in the afternoons and evenings in Wisteria Park, in the avenues, and on the university campus demanding Uncle and Prime Minister Fortier enter the fight. They ask why the grand isle of Hessenberg should sit by while our brethren in Brighton and Britain—yes, even Germany—spill their blood on the battlefields.

Uncle’s advisors, Lord Raeburn and Lord Strathem, have already joined the Brighton navy, serving as officers for His Majesty, King Nathaniel I.

I do believe Uncle’s pride is wounded, but even more he is afraid. He will not enter the war because he cannot lead Hessenberg through.
He has said so to Mamá and me many times over. He claims he has no mind for military strategy..

Let the Kaiser and Tsar fight their own battles. What has it to do with Hessenberg?

But I can tell Uncle regards this as his worst failure. He fears, as do I, our English and German heritage will divide rather than unite us. We are literally cousins to them all.

So Uncle continues the summer social season as if Germany, Russia, Austria, Serbia, the United Kingdom, and Brighton have not chosen up sides and are preparing, perhaps this very hour, to fire upon one another.

It seems impossible to think our young men may fight against one another. Some decry, “Fight for the Kaiser.” While others are fighting for the king of Brighton and sporting about in their brown-and-navy uniforms.

Last week when Rein came to call, he criticized Uncle for not joining in with Kaiser Wilhelm. When I defended Uncle, Rein insisted, to my face, that Uncle was arrogant and selfish, caring only for his royal ways with no care toward the bourgeois.

Uncle has every care toward the bourgeois. He’s built three schools for the mine workers, the “ringers,” and for the poor. He charges nothing for their children to attend. He’s even begun a special program for children who cannot read well. Something about the letters flipping about on the page, or dancing around. He’s never said aloud but I do believe he suffers from such a malady. ’Tis why he employs Otto to do his reading and writing.

I suppose he does appear self-righteous regarding war, but his fears and inability to read leave him no choice.

The sun is moving farther west and elongated shadows fall on the lawn, taking my heart with it. I am remembering my friends and our days at the summer shore. Was it only a month ago we walked along the beach, kicking at the waves, holding hands, us all, singing the evening song, reminiscing of our school days? Laughing and laughing and laughing.

“La-da-da. Moonlight, sunshine, waves upon the shore—”

I think it’s my favorite evening song.

Rein asked permission to call on me tonight. I told him yes, but he must face the duke first.

“I shall make the arrangements,” he said.

Now I wonder. He was so hard on Uncle, on all of us. We shall see tonight.

Alice

NINE

H
e prayed it wasn’t too late. In the inner sanctum of his office in Wettin Manor, Seamus Fitzsimmons poured himself a shot of whiskey from the decanter he kept hidden away behind a panel in the wall. He wasn’t sure what possessed the ancients to build palaces and manses with hidden corridors and secret panels, but he appreciated them all at the moment.

After tossing down the shot, letting the liquid burn down his throat, Seamus set his glass down. How had he not acted sooner? He’d let familiarity and gentle politics dull his senses.

He’d become too enamored with his position and ease of life. And because he’d been mates with King Nathaniel’s father, King Leopold, at Bryn Academy and Knoxton University.

When King Leo appointed Seamus to the governorship of Hessenberg, Seamus pledged his loyalty and devotion to the king and kingdom.

Now the security of his political future rested solely in his willingness to lead Hessenberg toward her future. If this so-called heir to Hessenberg’s throne proved solid, then what chance did he have to survive this new wave of government? He must assert himself. Take the bull by the horns, as it were.

Who in blazes ever imagined a long-lost princess being found? Five months ago, not a soul in Brighton Kingdom or Hessenberg. Now Seamus felt he’d tarried too long in taking action.

He couldn’t delay to see if this
heir
, Regina Beswick, embraced her inheritance and assumed the Hessenberg throne.

He must seize his opportunity now. Besides, kowtowing to King Leo was one thing. Seamus could even tolerate it for his son, King Nathaniel II. But bowing and scraping to an uncouth American? He’d not do it. It was beneath him. Even his wife said as much at dinner last night. With, mind you, their guests agreeing quite heartily.

Do something, Seamus. Don’t sit idly by.

He reached for the decanter and poured another shot of whiskey.

Then an idea came to him after the guests departed. A clever way around the need for a royal heir.

Seamus downed his drink as his vice governor, Courtland Hamish, entered.

“It took all morning to go through the entail, comparing it with old laws, new laws, and court rulings. But you were right. Hessenberg never filed a petition with the European court to be a sovereign state on behalf of the people. The petition always came from Brighton on behalf of the government, but not the people themselves. Very clever twist, Seamus. Anyway, the court always upheld the entail as ironclad based on the state-to-state law.”

“Precisely. But we’ve found a way round,” Seamus said. “What about the other issue?”

Courtland exhaled, shuffling the papers in his hand. “We can do it, though I’m not as confident with this move, Seamus. There is legal precedent, but let me warn you on behalf of the duchy’s legal counsel, this could wreak havoc.”

“Of course it will. But suing Germany for financial restitution dating back to 1914 is our bargaining chip. Our throwaway
argument. Once they agree to back our case with the European court, we drop the suit.”

“You do realize if the EU court decides to hear our people’s case and rules in our favor, that we can be a sovereign nation without a monarchy? But we will immediately be without a government. Every anarchist and communist, conservative, liberal, you-name-it political faction will fire out of the woodwork and wharf-side pubs, from the universities and Market Avenue, decrying their right to form the new government of the new Hessenberg state.”

“Precisely, and that’s where I come in. Papá Fitzsimmons. ‘Let me lead you through these turbulent waters.’ ”

Courtland grinned with a shake of his head and took a seat in the wingback chair adjacent to the desk. “I’ve known you for twenty years, Seamus, but I never saw your devious side before.”

“Devious? My dear fellow, I take offense.” Seamus smoothed his tie beneath the folds of his jacket and walked over to the window where he could see the glorious afternoon sun streaming over Strauberg through white pillars of clouds. “I’ve found my purpose.”

“To rule Hessenberg?”

“Do you disagree?” Seamus returned to his desk and leaned toward his colleague, his friend. “Now we just need the court to decide on hearing the case. Preferably before Tanner returns with the princess . . .”

“
If
he returns with her.” Courtland cleared his throat and nodded toward the decanter. “You might want to pour another glass. There’s more to this tap dance.”

Seamus rose up, the implication of Courtland’s words darkening his mood. He’d been feeling spry and fine just a moment ago, basking in his brilliance.

“Tell me.”

“If and when Tanner returns with the princess, King Nathaniel II can style her as a royal princess and have her take the Oath of the
Throne, making her officially Hessenberg’s royal. We will have our monarchy as the entail requires and you will be hard pressed to get her out of the way. Especially if she earns public favor.”

“Well, let’s just see to it that she doesn’t.” Once Seamus inhaled the heady nectar of power, of steering Hessenberg toward a new horizon in history, nothing less than being the duchy’s leader would do. He’d destroy the monarchy or himself in the process of power, but Seamus Fitzsimmons would not so much as bow or nod to this American interloper.

“Seamus, be careful here. We don’t mean to harm the very country we love. And the innocent people along the way.”