My hand rubs over my face and I take a deep breath.
“The fact that you are the people’s only choice is the very reason you should view this position as an honor. A service. A sacred duty, Jane.”
Her features soften, sliding from stubbornness to thoughtfulness. And I think maybe—just maybe—I’m getting through.
“There is a trust between government and its people. An agreement. We govern them because they allow us to. And that is dependent on the monarchy putting the people’s well-being above all else—above ourselves. The good of the country must always come first. The day you forget that, is the day you don’t deserve to wear the crown—entitlement be damned.”
Sometimes, I can make myself sound like Granny too.
Jane slips her phone out of her pocket and begins typing rapidly.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m writing this down. It’s excellent advice.”
The tension in my shoulders begins to ebb. Until…
“I want to make sure my biographer includes it.”
Oh for fuck’s sake.
“Jane…”
“No—I understand. You’re right. I’ll do better. I’ll take this all to heart, Dad.” She gives me a lovely, charming smile. “I’m very lucky you’re so wise.”
Now I roll my eyes. “Don’t patronize me. I was patronizing the best of them, before you were anywhere close to being born.”
She nods sweetly. “Of course, you were. There—got it.” She puts her phone away. “Was there anything else? Sasha, Mellie and I are going to Monaco for the weekend. I don’t want to be late meeting them.”
“No.” I sigh. “I suppose that’s it for now. Do you want me to tell security to accompany you in plain clothes?”
Her little brow furrows. “Why?”
“Moving about in public will be easier if it’s not obvious that you are who you are.”
Jane looks genuinely confused. “But I like being me. Why would I want to pretend to be anyone else?”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Take a look in the history books—royals who enjoyed being who they were too much are not remembered kindly. And there’s a reason for that.”
Slowly she nods, playing at agreeing with me.
I invented that too.
“I’m so glad we had this chat, Dad.”
Then she gets up, comes around the desk and hugs me, kissing my cheek. “I love you.”
I hug her back, wishing she could be a little girl again—when it was all so much easier.
“I love you too, Janey. Be good, be safe.”
“I will.” She stands up and pats my shoulder. “We’ll chat again soon.”
And I want to slam my forehead into my desk.
Instead, after the apple of my eye breezes from the room and closes the door behind her, I spin in my chair to gaze at Granny’s painting. One eyebrow seems raised higher than before, her smirk more self-satisfied.
“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” I ask.
And I can almost hear her answer.
Not so easy, is it, my boy?
“Go ahead, laugh it up.” I raise my tea-cup, toasting her. “Chuckle away.”
****
The next time I look up from the work at my desk, it’s dark outside—almost nine o’clock. Most days I make a point of eating dinner with Sarah and our children who aren’t away at boarding school. But when I can’t, Sarah holds off eating, so we can dine together.
I close up shop, wish my personal secretary, old Christopher, a pleasant evening as I walk by his desk and go find my wife. At this time of night, I don’t have to search hard—there’s only one place she’ll be.
I hear their voices before I reach the nursery door, and the corners of my mouth automatically tug up into the best kind of smile.
“…and then James climbed back into the sticky, giant peach ready to visit more amazing places and see the most extraordinary things!”
The snap of a closing book echoes, before a tiny voice objects.
“Wait! You can’t stop there—I have to know what happens.”
“That’s the end of the chapter, Gilly.” Sarah says in her soft tone. “You’ll find out what happens next tomorrow.”
Gilbert, our youngest, will be six in two weeks. If Jane was our honeymoon baby—well…slightly pre-honeymoon, if I’m being honest—Gil was our surprise. Sarah was forty-three when she gave birth to him, though the doctor said she had the uterus of a twenty-one-year old. Jane, who was fourteen then and Edward, our second oldest at a year younger than her, were mortified by the news that another sibling was on the way. They called us freaks of nature, the ingrates. While their little sisters, quiet Margaret and happy Isabel, who were ten and eight at the time, didn’t know what all the fuss was about.