Page 39 of American Royals
She flipped open the Playbill and saw that the opening number would be performed by Melinda Lacy, in the role of Emily.
Of course, Beatrice realized: the title alone should have given it away. This was the story of Lady Emily Washington, the Pretender—or as some people persisted in calling her, Queen Emily.
The only child of King Edward I, Emily remained one of the most controversial, romantic, and tragic figures in American history. Her parents had done their best to arrange a marriage for her. But despite being pursued by half the world’s kings—supposedly the kings of Greece and Spain once fought a duel over her—Emily refused to ever marry. Upon her father’s death in 1855, twenty-five-year-old Emily attempted to establish her claim to the throne, as a woman, alone.
And then, after just a single day of being the so-called queen, Emily vanished from history.
Scholars still debated what had happened to her. The prevailing theory was that her uncle John had her killed so that he could become king. But rumors persisted, each wilder and more outlandish than the next—that Emily fell in love with a stable boy and ran away to live in anonymity; that she became a lady pirate and spied for the British; that she escaped to Paris, assumed the name Angelique d’Esclans, and married the French dauphin, which therefore meant that the true heirs to the American throne were actually the kings of France.
“I didn’t realize this was about Emily,” Beatrice said softly. “I wonder which ending the show will give her.” She scanned the list of musical numbers in search of a clue.
“I like to think that she escaped to safety. Canada, maybe, or the Caribbean.” Teddy leaned an elbow on the armrest between them.
“Unfortunately, like to think isn’t the same as believe,” Beatrice argued. “The evidence suggests that her uncle murdered her.”
“That very same uncle is your ancestor,” Teddy reminded her. He had a point. “And until you, Emily was the only woman who could ever claim to have been America’s queen. Don’t you want her story to have a happy ending, even in fiction?”
What use was fiction when confronted with cold hard facts? “I guess so,” Beatrice said noncommittally.
She felt relieved when the houselights dimmed and the curtain lifted, shifting Teddy’s attention, and that of most people in the theater, away from Beatrice at last.
An actor in a braided red jacket and paste crown stepped onstage, accompanied by an actress in a glittering rhinestone tiara: most likely the pair playing King John and doomed Queen Emily. Their eyes fixed on the royal box directly across from them, they both sank into a deep reverence.
It was a tradition dating back to the founding of this theater two hundred years ago: any actors portraying royalty must bow and curtsy to the real royalty before the show could begin.
The lights softened, gleaming on the reflective sheen of Emily’s costume. The rest of the world dissolved into oblivion as she began to sing.
And Beatrice’s self-control began to slip.
She’d never heard music this powerful and emotional and poignant. It reached deep into her core, grabbed at the feelings that were tangled there in hot angry knots and unspooled them like a skein of thread. She leaned forward, rapt, her hands clutching tightly at the program. She felt so brittle and transparent that she might snap in two.
Emily sang of nation-building, of legacy and sacrifice. She sang of love gained and lost. And as the score swept toward the end of the first act—as Emily launched into a heart-wrenching ballad about how she would need to give up the person she loved, for the good of her country—Beatrice realized that she was trembling.
She stumbled to her feet and fled, ignoring the startled glances of her family and Teddy. The hallway was mercifully empty, save the flock of her family’s security stationed outside the door to their box.
She didn’t let their murmured protests slow her down, didn’t stop even when her heels almost tripped over the red carpet. She just charged frantically down the hallway, not sure where she was going, knowing only that she couldn’t bear to be still.
“Are you all right?” Connor fell into step alongside her. “Did that duke say something to upset you? Because if so, I promise I’ll—”
“It’s okay. I just got emotional, watching the show.” She tried to dab at her eyes without Connor seeing, but he reached into his jacket to give her a handkerchief.
“A musical made you cry,” he repeated, with evident disbelief.
Beatrice gave a strangled laugh. “I know it doesn’t sound like me.” But then, she hadn’t really been herself since the Queen’s Ball.
She drew to a halt partway down the mezzanine’s hallway. Snatches of music drifted through the closed doors to the boxes. The light of the ornate wall sconces fell on Connor’s uniform, on his hair, on the molten steel of his eyes. Those eyes were now locked meaningfully on Beatrice’s.
So many things lay unspoken between them, and Beatrice didn’t know how to begin to say them.
“Connor,” she whispered. His name on her lips was a plea, a prayer.
He ventured a step closer, so close that Beatrice could see each individual freckle dusted over his nose. Her face tilted upward—
“Your Royal Highness! Are you okay?”
At the sound of Teddy’s voice, Connor took a quick step back. Beatrice had to bite her lip to keep from reaching for him again.
Quieting the expression on her face, she turned around to where Teddy was striding briskly down the hall in their direction. “I’m fine,” she said evenly. “I just needed a minute, after that song.”
