Nick and I would be last in the procession. The press release about our engagement had been out for almost an hour, with word spreading fast, and everyone else spilling out of Sandringham first was effectively a human drum roll (never let it be said that Eleanor lacks a sense of drama). My hand floated up to my pin and I rubbed it for luck as, one by one, Nick’s family—my family, soon—passed through the door to cheers and the pop of flashbulbs.
People don’t usually get to take stock of the exact second everything changes; by the time they catch up to it, like a breeze, it has passed. But as we reached the door, the world slowed down so my artist’s mind could engrave upon itself every sight and smell and sound of what I was doing. The light spilling through the open doorway. The roar of the villagers. The clammy, nervous sweat starting to form under my arms. The tie Nick chose, the exact shade of his blue suit, the heaviness of his ring on my finger. For years we’d walked the razor’s edge between public and private, together and apart, and as we stood there on the verge, I was struck hardest by the power of what it felt like to decide. To take an outstretched hand knowing it would lead me on a journey I could not reverse. And when I let out that breath and followed Nick into the glare, I left a part of myself behind.
Chapter Three
Practically overnight, I went from being vaguely recognizable outside Great Britain—like an itch you can’t quite scratch—to being very famous. Aggressively famous. The kind of famous where I looked so glossy on the covers of People and OK! and Hello! that I found myself abstractedly intrigued by that shiny celebrity with the friendly face and the well-groomed eyebrows. Vogue featured a lengthy but still only half-accurate piece about my background; lesser magazines dissected The Mysteries of Bex abetted by people I barely knew who crawled out of the woodwork with old yearbooks and apocryphal stories and colorful descriptors like brash and ballsy, and giant raging bitch. SHE WASN’T EVEN QUEEN OF HER PROM, shrieked Xandra Deane, as worked up about our impending matrimony as if I’d been dispatched specifically to seduce Nick and then take down the monarchy as the final and very delayed parting blow of the American Revolution.
My mother archived all the clippings—good and bad—in alphabetized acid-free boxes. One night she fell asleep with them on Dad’s side of the bed, and told me he’d appeared in her dream to warn her that I shouldn’t wear pink on my wedding weekend. Mom seemed to derive peace from the notion that he’d weighed in from the Beyond (even if we both knew it would’ve been more his style to duck in and leave a message about the Cubs’ bullpen), and having something positive to concentrate on cut through her grief, which in turn cut through mine. When Gaz heard the news, he burst into tears and offered our unborn children free legal counsel for life. Joss surfaced for some excited noises about who might design my wedding dress, and I texted Lady Bollocks a message that said, He WILL. Marry. An American. Her response was simply, Wrong number.
Clive was tougher. The bombshell interview with Katie Kenneth was picked up worldwide, along with Alistair’s newest photo: Nick and Freddie crouched around Emma, smiling, while she stared dreamily off to the side, a freshly tended pixie cut giving her face a stark vulnerability. It was superb black-and-white portraiture, bathed in light and shadow, capturing the tragedy of the story without wallowing in it. Eleanor had conducted the orchestra flawlessly: After the initial media freak-out, the boys were praised for their silent bravery in the face of Emma’s decay, the news cycle moved toward a discussion of the unnecessary stigma surrounding psychological issues, and then everyone got so distracted by the prospect of Richard wheeling Emma into the Abbey that the whole thing took on the air of an epic, tragic romance. Bonuses came fat and frequent at Clarence House, and Clive, an unofficial staffer in his own mind, felt left out in the cold.
“Two scoops,” he sputtered. “Two, and no scraps for a friend?”
“This was over my head, mate,” Nick said, handing him an apologetic lager across the dining table at Kensington.
“Not even a hint, mate?” he asked. “I thought we were scratching each other’s backs.”
“Marj gave you the polo bit, though,” Nick said earnestly. “You broke that. Caused a total stir. That had to have helped, yeah?”
“That was ages ago, Nick, and a trifle compared to this,” Clive said. “I’ve done nothing but support you. I buried India sneaking out of Clarence House. I could’ve dined out on that, but I didn’t want to, not at your expense. I’ve never once said any of what I know. About anything. Or anyone.” He gave me a very brief but pointed look. “But no one will take me seriously if they think you lot don’t, and by freezing me out, that’s exactly what you’re suggesting.”
“I’m so sorry, Clive,” Nick said, distressed. “These were bigger than I am. It comes from the top.”
“What about going forward? A wedding date, the honeymoon, the dress designer?” Clive asked, his face taking on a desperate sheen.
Nick spread his hand helplessly. “I can ask, but I can’t promise,” he said. “It’s a delicate balance with the various papers, and there’s a protocol Marj follows. I know it’s my wedding, but it simply isn’t my show.”
“But someday it will be…?”
“Right, yeah,” Nick said, and maybe he meant it, but to me it sounded like he wasn’t completely comfortable with this negotiation.
I fretted about that to Cilla about a week later. We were in the airy dining room of her and Gaz’s rented townhouse and home office, on a picturesque street called Hans Crescent that ran around the back side of Harrods—chosen because Gaz thought it made him look desirable if one could shop for his legal help and a diamond-encrusted nine-iron in the same block.
“I get worried that Clive is relying on us for big boosts that we can’t give him, you know?” I said as Cilla bustled around her kitchen.
“Clive will get over it,” Cilla promised, setting down a plate of tea sandwiches, the crusts neatly cut off. “The Fitzwilliams have been loyal friends to Nick’s family longer than Clive’s been alive.” She slid me a cup of tea and a sugar dish. “How are you?”
“I’m not sure,” I told her honestly. “Ever since Nick and I got back together it’s been this rush of happiness and activity, but as soon as I slow down I get sad again. About Dad, about Emma…” I looked down at my ring. “I know she’s still here, but not the way Nick wishes she was.”
“I can’t believe he kept that to himself for so long,” Cilla said. “When did he finally tell you?”
“A few years ago,” I said. “I don’t think he’d ever said it out loud before. He went so pale.”
“No wonder he was always so sensitive.” Cilla sighed, dropping a sugar cube into her tea.