The Heir Affair

turned to a genteel life of quietude and spiritual reflection, as all respectable aristocratic ladies do.” She looked down at her buzzing mobile. “Piss it, Edwin just played bat. What a git.”
I bit back a smirk. “Do you want to read the diary?” I asked. “I can bring it to you.”
“Perhaps.” She tsked. “Whatever Eleanor paid for Edwin’s schooling was highway robbery. He took four days to put down that bloody word.”
I continued into Eleanor’s room. Her flutter had forced light bed rest for longer than expected due to an issue with keeping her blood pressure down, though I couldn’t imagine what it was, given how placid she was every time I saw her. Today was no different: Calmly, she leafed through yesterday’s Globe and Mail wearing a green bed jacket and a brooch that was a bigger version of the Lyons Emerald. Pulling rank, but more luxuriously than most.
I settled into my usual armchair by the side of the bed and opened my large pad of paper. But instead of doodling, I uncapped a Sharpie and wrote, GOOD MORNING TO YOU, TOO.
Eleanor glanced up.
THE NEW CANADIAN PRIME MINISTER HAS GREAT HAIR, I wrote next.
Eleanor raised a brow and flipped a page. This was the most she’d ever even looked at me during one of these sessions, so I pressed onward.
TECHNICALLY, “SPEAK WHEN SPOKEN TO” DOES NOT APPLY TO WRITING. HOW ARE YOU FEELING?
I heard the newsprint crunch slightly as Eleanor’s hand tightened on it. I said a quick prayer that Lacey was even partly correct about Eleanor having a secret appreciation for moxie, and turned to another fresh page.
SOME WOULD ARGUE ETIQUETTE DEMANDS A LADY’S TIMELY RESPONSE TO A WRITTEN MISSIVE FROM A FAMILY MEMBER.
Eleanor lowered the paper and stared at me, stone-faced. Maybe she would have me killed. That would solve a lot of her problems.
“Technically,” she said, “etiquette only requires a written response. But my stationery is out of reach at the moment.”
Holy shit. I did it.
“Would you like me to fetch it for you?” I asked, in as polite a tone as I could manage.
Eleanor folded her paper and set it aside. “No,” she said. “Congratulations. You crossed the first hurdle.”
“So it was a test. I thought maybe you were just being petty!”
“They are not mutually exclusive.” Eleanor tapped her tented fingers together like Mr. Burns. “I hadn’t thought of the writing loophole. I assumed that eventually you would blurt out something asinine.” She raised an eyebrow. “Which of course you did, but about one of your baseball gentlemen.”
“I knew you were listening.”
“My ears are not the problem,” she said. “I’ve never heard words put together in that order.”
When I cracked up, Eleanor glared at me again, and my laugh died almost as fast as it came.
“Do not press your luck,” she said. “We have much to discuss, and none of it involves complimenting your vocabulary.”
I braced myself for another litany of my faults, and what further penances I had to perform, but Eleanor merely appraised me sharply.
“For a time in my youth, I was the closest approximation to you,” she said.
“Me?” I blinked. “How do you mean?”
“Uncle Arthur came to the throne before my father did, but even before that, it was clear he and Ingeborg couldn’t have children,” Eleanor said. “I was an heir presumptive. A few places removed, certainly, but all eyes were on me.”
Comprehension dawned. “As they’re on Nick.”
“As they’re on you.” Eleanor folded her hands. “Richard will never remarry. You are the next queen this country shall have, and the public knows it.”
She said this with such certainty that I was tempted to wonder aloud if Richard knew remarriage was off the table.
“You married an unusual man, and thus you shall have an unusual fate. You need to be ready,” she continued. “Men are weak, Rebecca. All of them. Richard, Nicholas, Frederick.” She held out her hand to stop my protesting. “I know whereof I speak. Men are weak, but women are not. We aren’t afforded that luxury. And unfortunately, I will not live forever.”
“Nick is solid, Your Majesty,” I said. “I know we’ve made mistakes, but you don’t need to worry about him.”
“Nicholas has a good heart. But he is not strong, not alone,” Eleanor said. “He will wobble. He already did. My patience with that has expired.”
“With all due respect,” I said, “if the point is to steady him, then why play him against Freddie by making Freddie a Counsellor of State first?”
“Nicholas needed a reminder that being born first may not always mean coming first,” Eleanor said sharply. “A title is not entitlement. Frederick erred, but at least he knows it. If your husband would like to be treated as someone who can handle the responsibility of his position, he needs to act like a responsible person.”
“I believe in Nick,” I said.
“As did I, once. I should like to again,” she said. “I have grave concerns about your ability to stabilize him after all the ugliness. But what is it you Americans say? You break it, you buy it? Well, you broke it, and you’ve bought it, so it must be you who mends it. You will either make or ruin those boys, and it had better be the former, Rebecca. Soon.” Her glare ran through me like a knife. “Do not disappoint me again.”

CHAPTER EIGHT
That woman is a conniving genius,” Bea announced, stomping into Cilla’s postage-stamp-size back garden and dropping her briefcase right into a surprised Cilla’s lap.
“The Queen, I presume?” Cilla asked, pointedly putting the bag on the ground.
“No, Bitsy Armbrister-Shayles. Yes, the Queen.” Bea crossed her arms. “But in point of fact, also Bitsy Armbrister-Shayles. She ran a bidding war for her stallion’s sperm knowing full well she’d already sired him out six other places. I’ve half a mind to neuter him.”
She sank hard into one of Cilla’s white metal chairs and teetered precariously to one side. She shrieked and struggled to collect herself. It was the first time I’d ever seen Lady Bollocks