Page 101 of The Heir Apparent
Richard narrowed his eyes at me, irritated that I wasn’t behaving the way he’d expected. But he kept his fingers on my bare skin.
“Perhaps you’re hoping the public will forgive you when they find out about your night on the Italian Riviera. But I think you know, deep down, that they won’t. You lost their trust forever when you left, and while they’re giving you a second chance now, this revelation will confirm that all their suspicions about you were correct. It will sink you. Your reign will be over before it even begins.”
I smiled and eased myself out of his grip. “Mr. Rossi and I spoke a few days ago. He’s still waiting for you to deliver on all those promises you made, by the way. Have you been having trouble getting the cash together?”
When a servant appeared with a tray of champagne flutes, I took one, although Richard seemed too stunned to notice he was there. The waiter drifted away to another group of guests nearby. He glanced in Granny’s direction, perhaps tempted to tell her everything. He could storm over to the cameras in fury and announce that I had once abandoned my mother in the Ligurian Sea. He could call up the tabloids tomorrow and tell them all that he knew. But Richard was not a man who ever spoke in his own voice. If Davide Rossi was unwilling to speak for him, he knew this was over.
“I know you’re wondering how I did it,” I whispered. “It’s simple. Your friends are busy hiding their assets from Western sanctions and trying not to fall out of windows. Butmyfriends have demonstrated far more loyalty to this family than you ever have.”
I stepped back, clutching my champagne flute so he wouldn’t see the tremor in my fingers. And as if I’d planned it, which I really hadn’t, the Shankars appeared in the doorway to the gallery. All three of them were dressed in black. Amira was by her father’s side, looking daunted but beautiful. It was Vikki who led the way, striding before her husband and daughter to greet us with a smile.
She gave Granny an elaborate curtsy and then came over to kiss both my cheeks. “How are you, my darling Royal Highness?”
“I’m very well, Mrs. Shankar. Thank you so much for your show of support,” I said. “You remember my uncle?”
Trapped by the cameras, Richard stood there with the ghost of a smile on his face while Vikki nodded.
“Yes, of course I remember,” she said. “We once met at the estate in Scotland, I believe. And you called me… what was it? A trolley dolly? A cart tart? I can’t quite remember anymore; it was so long ago.”
Before Richard could form a response, Vikki turned back to me and squeezed my hand.
“If you’ll excuse me, I must go find this brilliant doctor and write a great big cheque for her cause.”
Madhav arrived and offered his elbow to Vikki, and we watched as they exchanged the kind of smile that was only possible between two people who were living in the rubble of their old life. But they still found beauty in it, because they still had each other. When they walked away, Richard stood beside me, stunned into silence.
“Why don’t you go mingle?” I said to him. “I’ll see you at Christmas.”
He opened his mouth to speak. Then he stalked off in the opposite direction, probably heading upstairs to the private apartments, where he could either sulk or scheme. But I was no longer afraid of him. I would allow no one to shadow my doorstep for the rest of my life.
When Amira came before me, we stared at each other for a moment before she curtsied deeply. It was the first time she had ever done that. In silence, we kissed each other’s cheeks, but neither of us could manage a smile. She had always known me better than anyone and, somehow, she knew that I knew.
“Shall we talk later?” I murmured.
“If you like.”
She walked deeper into the gallery until she was swallowed by the crowd. And then it was time to give my toast in honour of Dr. Miloyo and her life’s work. Mary passed me the cards onto which she had carefully written my speech. We had drafted and submitted my toast to Stewart, who returned it with whole sections crossed out in red pen. I was to make no references to Britain’s colonial history in Kenya, only celebrating our countries’ “strong bonds of friendship.” I was forbidden from pointing out that pregnancy was such a perilous endeavour for so many because of the legacy of empire. And I could make no allusions to my own history in medicine. We went back andforth, until I had conceded every point, and he finally permitted me to speak.
At the lectern, I looked into the faces of our guests. Jenny stood with the Shankars. Granny was now seated in a gilt chair, Stewart forever keeping watch by her side. Dr. Miloyo and her associates stood at the centre of the room, waiting. So I gave the speech that Stewart had approved, but as I reached the last card, I glanced up one final time to look at Barbara over the mantel. Her DNA might have spiralled down through her descendants so that part of her was still alive within me. I might have had her name and the position she conspired to make mine. But she was just a woman in a painting. She was old bones buried deep beneath the Abbey floor. Her time had passed, and soon mine would too.
I put the card down on the lectern. “As many of you know, I once dreamed of being a doctor—specifically an obstetrician, after seeing the good work of Dr. Miloyo in action when I was a girl on a trip to Nairobi with my mother.”
I could sense more than I saw the lengthening of Mary’s spine as she stood in the shadows beside me.
“When choosing a cause for this event, I thought a lot about the good things my family can do with our position,” I went on. “When we speak, the world sits up and pays attention. But if you choose to speak, you must be as truthful as you know how to be. Otherwise, no one will ever trust your words. And the truth is that the British empire’s historical actions in Kenya and elsewhere have a long and terrible legacy. Until we can have a frank conversation about the past and make amends for our sins, we will be unable to move into the future.”
I raised my glass and finished my toast, and when I was done, there was a brief lull before the crowd filled the room with their applause—some of it enthusiastic, some of it merely polite. I noted the exchange of meaningful glances among the guests, the straight line Stewart made of his mouth as he pressed his lips together. But I had no regrets.
After I spent some time chatting to our guests, I slipped away for a moment to stand on the landing of the grand staircase alone. When I looked up, I saw that Amira was sitting on one of the narrower flights of steps that curved up to the palace’s third floor. I climbed up, sank down next to her and leaned against the gold-leaf banister. In our silence, we could hear the laughter and voices from the other room.
“So I think we’ve both been holding out on each other,” I started.
“Colin texted me,” she said. “He’s furious.”
“Why didn’t you tell me about that?” I looked at her. She was staring into her empty hands. “I can’t imagine what it’s been like for you all these months.”
She twitched as if rejecting the notion that she could feel pain. “You two make sense. My feelings are irrelevant.”
“Amira,” I said. “You’re my friend. Your feelings are extremely relevant. You were in love with this man, and you had to keep it a secret when it ended, and then you just watched while he carried on with me.”
