Majesty (American Royals, #2)(78)
Beatrice turned in to the small plot that was reserved for her family, only to realize that she wasn’t alone.
Samantha knelt before their father’s tombstone, her head bowed. There was something so intensely private about her sister’s grief that Beatrice started to retreat, but Sam’s head darted up.
“Oh—hey, Bee,” Sam said.
Bee. It was such a small thing, just a single syllable, but Beatrice heard it for the peace offering it was. Sam hadn’t used that nickname in months.
Because the sisters hadn’t spoken in months, not in any real way. Last weekend in Orange, when Beatrice was on the steps of the Ducal Pavilion, she’d thought she’d seen a momentary softening in Sam’s expression. But then ceremony and duties had interrupted, as they always did, and she hadn’t been able to catch a moment alone with her sister.
And Beatrice had so many other things to deal with right now—like Robert. Ever since their confrontation outside the House of Tribunes, she’d been trying to interact with him as little as possible. She’d started circumventing him altogether: calling people herself instead of asking him to set meetings for her, pointedly leaving him off emails. It felt liberating.
Beatrice lowered herself to the ground, setting her bouquet of white roses by the headstone, next to a spiky green succulent. “Is that what you brought Dad?”
“I didn’t want to bring flowers that would go brown and die right away. No offense,” Sam said hastily. “But it just felt appropriate.”
“Because it’s prickly like you?”
“And stubborn,” Sam conceded.
They both looked at the headstone before them, so immutable and heavy. HIS MAJESTY GEORGE WILLIAM ALEXANDER EDWARD, KING GEORGE IV OF AMERICA, 1969–2020, it read. BELOVED HUSBAND, FATHER, AND KING.
“I know it’s terrible, but this is my first time coming here since the interment,” Beatrice confessed. “Being here just makes everything feel so permanent.”
“Nothing like a three-ton monument to remind you that he isn’t coming back,” Sam said, trying and failing to be flippant.
Beatrice reached out to brush her fingers over the headstone. The polished granite felt warm from the sun. For some reason that startled her, as if it should have been bitterly cold.
“I keep thinking that I would give anything for just five more minutes with him,” she said quietly.
There were so many things she wanted to ask her dad’s advice about. More than that, she wished she could tell him how much she loved him.
Sam braced her hands on the grass behind her. “I know what Dad would say, if he were here. He’d tell you that you’re doing a fantastic job as queen. That you should believe in yourself.” Her eyes cut toward Beatrice with a beat of apprehension, and then she added, “Most of all, that he always wanted you to be happy. He wouldn’t have insisted you marry Teddy when you’re in love with Connor.”
Beatrice’s breath caught. “How did you…”
It was the second time recently that someone had brought up Connor. Beatrice was still reeling from last week’s conversation with Daphne. She wondered what had happened to make the other girl so utterly desperate.
And yet, every time she thought of Connor now, it hurt a little less. She knew he’d left a mark on her—but that was to be expected. Even when wounds healed, they often left a scar tracing lightly over your skin.
“I figured it out,” Sam hurried to explain. “I just—I think Dad would want me to remind you that you don’t have to go through with this. You can still walk away.”
“You don’t—”
“I know it’s probably not my place, okay? But if I don’t say this, no one will!” Sam cried out, then self-consciously lowered her voice. “Bee, you don’t have to marry someone you don’t care about, just because you think America needs it. Being queen shouldn’t require that kind of sacrifice.”
“Sam…” Beatrice swallowed, rallied, tried again. “I never told you the full story of the night Dad went to the hospital. It was my fault.”
Sam shook her head, puzzled. “No, it wasn’t.”
“Remember how I told you, earlier that night, that I was going to talk to Dad? Well, I did. I told him about me and Connor.” Beatrice closed her eyes, but the memories wouldn’t stop assaulting her. “I told him I wanted to renounce the throne to be with my Guard! Don’t you see? I killed him, Sam! I literally shocked him to death!”
“Oh, Bee,” Sam whispered, stricken.
Beatrice fell forward, bracing her palms on the grass. Ragged sobs burst from her chest. It felt like a wild animal lived inside her and was angrily clawing its way out. This time, Beatrice didn’t fight it.
The tears that poured down her face were months—years, decades—in the making.
“Shh, I’ve got you,” Sam murmured, folding her arms around Beatrice.
Beatrice remembered how when Sam was born, she would beg her parents to let her hold her baby sister in her arms. And now Sam was the one taking care of her, holding her close and rocking her like a small child.
Beatrice kept on crying her hot, ugly tears, allowing herself the heartbreaking luxury of grief.
She wept for her father and the years that had been stolen from him. For the ordinary life she’d never gotten a chance to live. Her lungs burned and her eyes stung and she was trembling all over, and yet it felt so good to cry, as if all her mistakes and regrets were leaking out of her along with her tears.