Page 109 of The Heir Apparent
“I had no idea you knew.”
“Things reach me one way or another,” she said. “It was a foolish thing to do, but I think he just couldn’t bear to be at the centre of another scandal.”
“Maybe he thought he was protecting me,” I said, suddenly desperate to defend my father.
“Maybe,” she said, sighing out a foggy breath.
The dogs ran in circles around our feet and shot off again towards the trees.
“If you’re worried about the truth coming out, I do think it’s possible for you to survive this. Your mother was extraordinarily irresponsible that night. Many people have wondered what her intentions were. We could very easily give the impression that your father merely sought to protect her reputation after she made a reckless decision in the throes of a great crisis.”
I looked at her, stunned. “No, I can’t do that.”
It was a theory I could never entertain. She would not have taken me out there just to leave me alone.
Granny gave no sign that she had heard me. As we approached the forest, she turned and leaned against the craggy trunk of a Scots pine. Then she pulled a handkerchief from her pocket, unfolded it and scattered bits of roast ham from lunch on the forest floor for the dogs.
“Richard has always wanted this desperately. It must be a terrible misfortune to be born second,” she said. “Did you ever resent your brother?”
“No, it was always meant to be him.”
She smiled to herself. “Yes, he was special.”
“Richard knew things about him. He was going to expose Louis,” I said, staring at her, desperate for a sign that she could hear me. “When they went up the mountain that day, they were scared, and they weren’t thinking clearly.”
She shook the last of the meat from her handkerchief and dusted her hands. When she finally looked up, her eyes were shining with tears.
“This entire year, all I’ve heard is how much you wanted it to be me,” I said, remembering how she once taught me to handfeed a horse with an open palm, how to curtsy, how to prune roses without taking the bud eye.
“Yes.”
“I would have done anything you asked me. I was willing to change my life, I was willing to give up—” I faltered, unable to say his name. Tears came, but I held them back. “I was willing to give it all up for this duty. But I know now that the only way for me to do this is to keep burying all these secrets inside myself, and I can’t do that anymore.”
She looked sad but unruffled. “I understand.”
“Do you?”
Delicately, she pressed a gloved fingertip to her cheek to absorb the tear before it slid any further. Then she waved her hand over her face, as if commanding herself not to shed a singletear more. When she looked at me again, my grandmother was gone, and Queen Eleanor had returned.
“For some monarchs, the moment the crown is placed on their heads feels like a death, as if they have lost themselves forever,” she said. “For others, it is the moment the crown lands that we are finally,finallyour true selves. It’s not always easy. But we would never give it up, no matter how much we might be tempted, because that would be giving up who we really are. You, my dear girl, don’t want it enough. Richard does.”
“Everyone says he could be the end of this thing.”
“He won’t,” she said and crossed her arms across her chest. “He won’t. People are reluctant to give up their traditions. He’ll be the one who stayed, and you’ll be the one who left. You’ll be shocked by how they cling to him.”
I shook my head. “You think that little of them?”
She held her hands open, palms up, nothing left for me. “Quite the opposite. I just know them better than they know themselves.”
I saw then that she would always choose the crown over her family. It was the pact you made for the honour of wearing it, and it was not a weight I could bear. I looked back towards the house again. A servant was turning on the lights one by one, making the manor glow in the winter dusk. Inside, Richard stalked the halls. He had spent his life methodically removing every obstacle until, finally, it was only the Queen standing in his way.
“I should get you inside,” I said to my grandmother. “It’s getting cold.”
When we reached a snowy street in Brixton, Charlie parked his van and led me to a narrow terrace with a red door. Mary, unfamiliar in jeans and a sweatshirt, pulled us into the claustrophobic hallway. She and Charlie wore identical pinchedexpressions as Chino pushed past their legs and ran into the house.
“How did it go?” she asked.
“Yeah, fine,” I said in a breathy voice that failed to sound cheerful. “Thanks to Charlie.”
