Nick looks astonished. I laugh in spite of myself.
“Your mother had a lot more spirit in her than anyone remembers,” Marj says to Nick. “Whatever went wrong, mark my words, it was fated that way. She had an iron streak, from what I saw.” Then she turns to me. “We put you through a wringer of the sort Emma never had to endure. I’d not have blamed you if you had a tantrum in my office. You probably ought to have.”
“I am terrified of Barnes,” I admit.
“That man has a Bunny-A-Day calendar in his desk drawer, and if you ever breathe a word of that, I will make up an outrageous lie about your medical history.” She pauses. “Rebecca, I have no doubt you’re ready, but if you ever need bucking up, I’m here.”
Her eyes are misty. It’s so bittersweet to hear this now, long after it’s needed, and I think the only reason I am not crying is that my peripheral vision is trained on Nick, and the way he is listening, and whether this is changing anything. His face betrays no answers.
Marj collects herself and ushers us toward the terrace doors. Eleanor isn’t coming, preferring to save her grand entrance for tomorrow, which means that tonight Richard is the Head Bastard In Charge—a free preview of a movie that won’t come out for another decade—and he is being very formal about it, right down to making a footman bang a gold-and-black-striped stick on the ground and announce the guests as they enter down the terrace steps. Marj whispers in his ear and he gives the instructed five poundings before booming our arrival. Our smiles snap into place. Nick is much faster at this than I am. He has had a lifetime of practice.
“May I present the guests of honor, His Royal Highness Prince Nicholas of Wales, and his bride, Miss Rebecca Porter,” he booms in a perfect voice for radio. “Who shall tomorrow become Duke and Duchess of Clarence, Earl and Countess of Athlone, and Baron and Baroness of Inverclyde, by the grace of Her Majesty the Queen.”
“It was decided an hour ago,” Nick mutters through his teeth. “Surprise.” He does not sound excited.
Nick and I are separated by well-wishers as soon as we reach the bottom of the stairs. I wish I could appreciate the romance of the garden’s landscaping and soft amber lights, but for the next ninety minutes, I am too busy cycling through every etiquette lesson Barnes and Marj drilled into me. I hold my Champagne in my left hand and sip it openly, leaving my right empty and dry; I do not eat; I ask people with children about their children, and people with dogs about their dogs. I remember that our pageboy’s mother is called Kristen, and our flower girl’s mother is Kirsten. I recognize Gregor of Hanover, whose calling cards dub him a sock baron; the trio of temptresses from Marta’s family in Sweden, all most likely in the binders meant to warn Freddie away; and two of Nick’s toff godparents for whom my notecards had read only, Don’t mention Transylvania (which might be too tempting to resist, if I need to create a diversion later). I introduce Cilla to anyone of whose name I am not certain, forcing them to repeat it when they shake her hand so I can sort through my mental Rolodex and pull out helpful conversational tips—like that the Bulgarian Tsarina owns an original prop from every Harry Potter film, or that the Margrave of Baden prefers not to explain what a Margrave is but that the Landgrave of Hesse will wax for hours on the derivation of Landgrave, so it’s best to avoid both topics.
“Aren’t you exhausted?” Lady Elizabeth asks, as two Comfortably Distant Relatives from Norway wander away in search of more caviar. “All this palaver is why we didn’t have a whole to-do. Well, one of the reasons.”
She rests a hand on her pregnant belly; a third baby is coming in four months’ time. “This one is going to be big,” she groans. “It was a bit soon, really. The Maldives are just such an aphrodisiac. You should see Eddybear in his Speedo.”
I try not to imagine this, and fail, and genially tune out while Lady Elizabeth rhapsodizes about pregnancy sex (by the look on her face, the Thai princess nearby understands more English than she’s let on). Lacey keeps shooting me glances that say, alternately, are you okay, what is up with Nick, and that dude with the tray of lollipop lamb chops never comes over here. It’s a comfort that I can read her mind again, but the catharses we’ve had are not the same thing as fixing what went wrong. I can’t get complacent and forget that we still have so much work to do.
“Listen to me, blathering on about episiotomies when you’ve got a wedding night ahead of you,” Lady Elizabeth says airily, giving me a sideways hug. “We have our whole lives to talk about these things. Go have fun. I need more olives for my orange juice.” She makes a face. “It tastes like Agatha’s hairspray smells, but I can’t get enough right now.”
She sails off and I feel a pang, because if the worst happens I will miss her. I can’t wallow, though, because I have to chat up the King of Bhutan about land reform, and Christiane of Greece about wrestling (she is a lifelong fan of The Rock). Richard, right in my eyeline, pretends not to watch Christiane as she laughs. There is a lovely what-if quality to his face before he thinks to erase it, underlining a long-ago revelation made in the heat of rage. Richard can’t ever reach for what he wants. I hope I still can.
“But it wasn’t de Pluvinel who first used pillars to train his mount,” Agatha says as she walks past me. “There’s clear evidence Eumenes was doing it first.”
“How did I never notice how bloody sexy your horse talk is?” purrs none other than Edgeware Fitzwilliam.
I have never worked harder to keep a neutral expression on my face.
“You’re doing wonderfully,” Marj whispers, suddenly at my shoulder. “Clarence is a good title, too. It was King Albert’s, as a lad. Very historically meaningful.”
She steers me to the foot of the terrace stairs, where Freddie and Nick are waiting in silence. I recognize the look on Nick’s face. Aggressively Pleasant. Bad sign.
“Prince Frederick has asked to give a toast in lieu of your father, and then you and His Royal Highness can sneak out and get some sleep,” she says. “Freddie, if you make any inappropriate jokes about genitals I will neuter you with a toast point, do you hear me?”
“Yes, Your Marjesty.” He salutes her.