Page 47 of Royal Love
“I just want to say, Your Majesty—I mean, Amelia—that your education initiative has made a huge difference at the school where I teach. Because of the funding, we now have a proper music program.”
Amelia’s face lights up. “That’s wonderful to hear. Music education was one of my passions before…” She gestures around us, encompassing the life change that brought her to the throne.
“I know,” the woman says with a shy smile. “I read your dissertation on the impact of arts education on academic achievement.”
“You did?” Amelia looks genuinely surprised and delighted.
“I cited it in my master’s thesis,” the woman admits. “I never thought I’d get to thank you in person.”
I watch as my wife engages in animated conversation about educational theory, the initial awkwardness melting away. This is what makes her such an extraordinary queen—her genuine interest in people and causes, her ability to connect on a human level despite the crown she wears.
By the time Linda calls the class to order, the atmosphere has shifted. We’re still the royal couple, but we’re also just Tristan and Amelia, nervous first-time parents like everyone else in the room.
“All right, everyone,” Linda begins, “today we’re focusing on breathing techniques and positions that can help during labor. Partners, your job is incredibly important. You’re the anchor, the support, the coach who helps keep mom focused when things get intense.”
I straighten, taking the responsibility as seriously as I take running a country. Amelia catches my expression and suppresses a smile.
“First, let’s have the moms get comfortable in a supported sitting position,” Linda instructs. “Partners, you’ll sit behind them, providing back support.”
I position myself behind Amelia, my legs on either side of her, her back against my chest. The position feels oddly vulnerable here in this public space, but also right. This is where I belong—supporting her, being her strength when she needs it.
“Now, let’s practice some deep breathing,” Linda continues. “In through the nose for four counts, out through the mouth for six.”
We breathe together, my chest rising and falling in sync with Amelia’s. The rhythm is calming, meditative, and I find myself relaxing into the experience despite my initial reservations.
The class progresses through various positions and techniques. When Linda demonstrates how to apply counter-pressure during contractions, I listen with intense concentration, determined to get it exactly right. Amelia winces when I press too hard on her lower back.
“Sorry,” I whisper, immediately easing off.
“It’s okay,” she assures me. “Just maybe don’t approach my spine like you’re defending the realm from invasion.”
The tattooed man next to us chuckles. “First time I tried that on Zoey, she nearly took my head off.”
“Men,” Zoey says with an affectionate eye roll that reminds me of Amelia. “They either go way too gentle or act like they’re kneading bread dough.”
“Exactly!” Amelia agrees, and suddenly we’re part of a universal conversation about the challenges of pregnancy and partnership that transcends our royal status.
By the time we move on to massage techniques, I’ve forgotten to be self-conscious. When Linda suggests the fathers try massaging their partners’ shoulders, I focus entirely on Amelia, working my thumbs into the knots I know she carries from hours of reading briefing documents.
She sighs appreciatively, leaning into my touch. “You should add ‘royal masseur’ to your list of titles,” she murmurs.
“Only for you,” I reply, dropping a kiss on the top of her head.
The rest of the class flies by in a blur of information, practice, and surprisingly genuine connection with the other couples. When Linda concludes the session, I’m almost disappointed it’s over.
“Next week, we’ll go over more advanced techniques and start discussing birth plans,” Linda announces. “Great work today, everyone.”
As we gather our things, several couples approach us, the initial awe replaced by the camaraderie of shared experience.
“Do you know if you’re having a boy or girl?” one woman asks Amelia.
“We’re waiting to find out,” she replies, her hand finding mine. “Tristan thinks it’s a girl, but I’m not convinced.”
“Mother’s intuition says boy?” another father-to-be asks me.
“She thinks it’s a boy, and she’ll tell anyone who asks,” I grin.
“I do not!” Amelia protests, then pauses. “Do I?”
