Page 140 of The Unlikely Heir
That’s right.
I won’t be talking to Oliver tonight.
I miss him.
The last week has boiled down to that.
I miss him more than I thought it was possible to miss anyone.
We haven’t spoken since our argument at Buckingham Palace the day he called the referendum.
I was angry at him, of course. But now my anger has changed. Now I’m just devastated at the impossible situation we’re in.
I understand Oliver was doing his job. But that’s part of the problem. We will always have competing priorities that will sometimes pit us against each other.
That’s the main reason I haven’t contacted him. Because where do we go from here? I can’t see a way forward that won’t create more heartbreak for both of us.
Will I never kiss him, touch him again? The thought is too awful to bear.
I will see him tomorrow at the investiture ceremony. My stomach is in knots about seeing him again. I don’t know what I should say.
One thing I do know is that I will never stop loving him.
I drag my attention back to the Master of Ceremonies, who is telling me about how I’ll walk through the Lower Ward of the castle, through to the Chamberlain Tower, where I will wait for the queen to command the Earl Marshal to direct the Garter King of Arms to summon me from the Chamberlain Tower.
“Then, you’ll come down here, and once you reach the dais, Her Majesty will pass you the sword, making you the Earl of Chester. Then she’ll place the coronet on your head, and the gold ring on your finger, which symbolizes the unity between you and Wales. Next, she’ll hand you the gold rod, which symbolizes temporal rule, and then the queen will place the kingly mantle around your shoulders.”
All the formalities and ceremony threaten to swamp me.
“I’m receiving a lot of gifts,” I say faintly.
“Yes, you are,” Raymond says with no hint of humor.
* * *
Once I’m back in my hotel, I try to soothe my nerves about tomorrow and distract myself from thoughts of Oliver by watching the recordings of the BBC coverage of Uncle Albert’s investiture. It’s from the mid-eighties, and the coverage contains a palpable excitement around a young, handsome Albert becoming the newest Prince of Wales.
In the ceremony, the camera pans to his brothers, the three other princes, sitting in the audience, and there’s my seventeen-year-old father, already far more handsome than a teenager should ever be, looking mildly bored as he watches Albert take his formal vow.
As the fourth son, could he have ever imagined his son would one day be on the dais taking the ancient vows?
I doubt it.
There’s a knock on my door.
I have a brief surge of hope that it’s Amelia. I know she’s staying in the same hotel, and I could do with a visit from my little sister right now. Besides Oliver, Amelia is probably the next person on the planet I trust as a confidant. But do I want to burden my little sister with my problems right now? What advice would she give me? There’s no way to resolve the conflict between wanting Oliver and being the Prince of Wales.
I open the door.
But it’s not Amelia standing there.
Because I’ve just been watching footage of our father, it gives me a start to see Nicholas. He looks so much like our father that, for a brief moment, it hurts to see him.
“Nicholas. Come in.”
“I can’t stay for long,” he says.
“What’s up?” I ask as I stand back to let him in.
