Page 74 of American Royals II: Majesty
“I could ask you the same question,” she said carefully. “Are you trying to close Congressyourself?”
Through the sliver of open doorway, she could just see a glimpse of the House of Tribunes: several hundred seats arranged on either side of the aisle, and at the far end of the room, a carved wooden throne.
Three hundred and sixty-three days a year, that throne sat empty. It was purposefully left so: perhaps to remind Congress of the silent presence of the monarch, or perhaps to remind the monarch that they had no say in the legislative branch. Only when the monarch ceremonially opened and closed each session of Congress could this throne be occupied.
And now Robert was trying to keep her from it.
“Of course I am,” the Lord Chamberlain replied, without an ounce of contrition. “In any case when the monarch is not able to preside over the opening or closing of Congress, the monarch’s designated representative shall do it.”
Anger swelled in her chest. “I didn’t designate you! And if Ididdesignate a representative, it should traditionally be my heir,” she added, remembering a time when she was much younger, when her grandfather had been ill and her father had presided over Congress in his stead.
The chamberlain scoffed. “You can’t honestly mean that you would have sent Samantha.”
“Her Royal Highness, the Princess Samantha,” Beatrice corrected.
She was dimly aware of Charles, watching this exchange with unconcealed fear. But Beatrice couldn’t worry about him. She had much bigger problems.
“Your Majesty, you’re not welcome here,” Robert said firmly.
“You can’t honestly expect me to—”
“If you don’t leave, you could incite a serious constitutional crisis.” When she still didn’t move, his lips thinned into a frown. “Now is not the time for this.”
“You keep saying that!” Beatrice burst out. “I’ve been queen for months now! Whenwillit be time?”
“When you aremarried!”
She drew herself up to her full height, wishing she’d worn taller heels. “I am the Queen of America,” she said again. “It doesn’t matter whether or not I’m married.”
He raised his eyes heavenward, as if silently cursing her stupidity. “Beatrice. Of course it matters. Having a young, single woman as the figurehead of America—it makes the entire nation feel unsettled, and juvenile, andemotional.God, most of the men in this room havechildrenolder than you.”
She hated that he’d referencedthe men in this room,as if all the female members of Congress didn’t even bear mention.
“Just…wait until you have Teddy by your side,” he added. “Maybe then it will be easier for people to take you seriously.”
Robert wasn’t smiling, but his eyes gleamed as though he was. It reminded Beatrice of the girls who’d made fun of her in lower school, who’d spoken cruel words in deceptively kind voices, their faces underlit with malicious delight.
Until this moment, Beatrice hadn’t realized just how adamantly Robert was working against her.
He didn’t do it openly, like the people who booed her at rallies or left nasty comments online. No, Robert’s way of opposing her was far more insidious. He’d been systematically undermining her: whittling away at her confidence, distracting her with the wedding, twisting the Constitution’s intention to keep her from acting as queen.
And her own Congress had let him. Beatrice didn’t know what had happened—whether they had withheld her invitation on their own, or whether Robert hadaskedthem not to invite her—but did it matter? Either way, the invitation hadn’t come.
“Why are you doing this to me?” she whispered.
“I’m not doing thistoyou. I’m doing itforAmerica,” Robert said stiffly. “You should know that there is no room for personal feeling in politics.”
The Imperial State Crown slipped backward, and Beatrice hurried to grab at it before it could clatter loudly to the floor. Seeing the gesture, Robert bit back a smile.
Shame rose hot to her cheeks. She felt suddenly foolish, like a glassy-eyed doll dressed up in a paper crown.
At least the closing session of Congress, unlike the opening session, was never televised. Otherwise, this image would have been all over the newspapers tomorrow: Beatrice, knocking at the door of her own Congress, being told that she couldn’t come in.
Later that night, Beatrice sat up with a weary sigh. Moonlight poured like cream over the hardwood floors, making everything feel deceptively peaceful.
Restless, she threw back her covers and walked barefoot to the window.
Earlier, when she’d confronted Robert Standish, her body had been flooded with white-hot adrenaline. Yet now…Beatrice just felt exhausted, and unsettled.
