Majesty (American Royals, #2)(68)
“Thank you for coming to greet me.” She passed him with a few crisp steps, trying not to think about how utterly wrong this all was. She should have been stepping over this threshold with fanfare, not stealing through the back door of her own government like a thief in the night.
“Please, Your Majesty,” he breathed, rushing to catch up with her. “I’m afraid we weren’t expecting you.”
Beatrice’s heels made sharp clicks on the polished granite of the floor. She drew in a breath, summoning every last shred of her confidence. “Will you lead the way…” She trailed off, waiting for the young man to provide his name.
“Charles, Your Majesty.” His eyes drifted to the crown, and his resolve wavered. “I—that is—it would be my honor,” he stammered, and fell into step behind her. Of course, he couldn’t actually lead the way, since no one was permitted to walk ahead of the reigning monarch.
Beatrice started down the long hallway of Columbia House, past various wooden doors, all of them shut. She had to walk with agonizingly slow steps; the robe of state dragged behind her like an enormous velvet rug. It felt like someone had grabbed hold of her hair and was yanking her backward.
At the entrance to the House of Tribunes—the lower chamber of Congress—Beatrice looked expectantly at Charles. “Please knock. Do you know what to say?”
His throat bobbed, but he managed a nod. Then he sucked in a breath and pounded on the door—once, twice, a third time. “Her Majesty the Queen requests the right to address this gathering!”
Utter silence followed Charles’s words.
Except it was worse than silence, because Beatrice realized she heard a soft chorus of sounds from within: uneasy whispers, the rustling of robes, hurried footsteps. Everything except what she should have heard, which was a shouted response to Charles’s statement, welcoming her inside.
The heavy wooden door swung inward. Beatrice took an instinctive step forward—but when she saw who stood there, she went still.
Robert Standish slipped through the door, his steps surprisingly light for such a ponderous man. “Your Majesty,” he hissed. “What are you doing here?”
Beatrice had to remind herself to keep breathing—inhale exhale inhale exhale, over and over in succession.
“I could ask you the same question,” she said carefully. “Are you trying to close Congress yourself?”
Through the sliver of open doorway, she could just see a glimpse of the House of Tribunes: several hundred seats arranged on either side of the aisle, and at the far end of the room, a carved wooden throne.
Three hundred and sixty-three days a year, that throne sat empty. It was purposefully left so: perhaps to remind Congress of the silent presence of the monarch, or perhaps to remind the monarch that they had no say in the legislative branch. Only when the monarch ceremonially opened and closed each session of Congress could this throne be occupied.
And now Robert was trying to keep her from it.
“Of course I am,” the Lord Chamberlain replied, without an ounce of contrition. “In any case when the monarch is not able to preside over the opening or closing of Congress, the monarch’s designated representative shall do it.”
Anger swelled in her chest. “I didn’t designate you! And if I did designate a representative, it should traditionally be my heir,” she added, remembering a time when she was much younger, when her grandfather had been ill and her father had presided over Congress in his stead.
The chamberlain scoffed. “You can’t honestly mean that you would have sent Samantha.”
“Her Royal Highness, the Princess Samantha,” Beatrice corrected.
She was dimly aware of Charles, watching this exchange with unconcealed fear. But Beatrice couldn’t worry about him. She had much bigger problems.
“Your Majesty, you’re not welcome here,” Robert said firmly.
“You can’t honestly expect me to—”
“If you don’t leave, you could incite a serious constitutional crisis.” When she still didn’t move, his lips thinned into a frown. “Now is not the time for this.”
“You keep saying that!” Beatrice burst out. “I’ve been queen for months now! When will it be time?”
“When you are married!”
She drew herself up to her full height, wishing she’d worn taller heels. “I am the Queen of America,” she said again. “It doesn’t matter whether or not I’m married.”
He raised his eyes heavenward, as if silently cursing her stupidity. “Beatrice. Of course it matters. Having a young, single woman as the figurehead of America—it makes the entire nation feel unsettled, and juvenile, and emotional. God, most of the men in this room have children older than you.”
She hated that he’d referenced the men in this room, as if all the female members of Congress didn’t even bear mention.
“Just…wait until you have Teddy by your side,” he added. “Maybe then it will be easier for people to take you seriously.”
Robert wasn’t smiling, but his eyes gleamed as though he was. It reminded Beatrice of the girls who’d made fun of her in lower school, who’d spoken cruel words in deceptively kind voices, their faces underlit with malicious delight.
Until this moment, Beatrice hadn’t realized just how adamantly Robert was working against her.