12. “Don’t You Worry Child” - Swedish House Mafia
“Don’t You Worry Child” - Swedish House Mafia
The night after our fight, I don’t sleep. Henry has decided the east bedroom of our flat in the palace is more appealing than the one he shares with me.
I miss his warm body spooning me until I get so hot I need to roll away from him.
I miss the way he lets me put my chilly feet on him regardless of how cold he is himself.
I miss the way he kisses my hair and nuzzles my ear, whispering, You smell so damn good.
I try convincing Tundra to jump up next to me, but he just looks at me like I’ve lost my mind and plops onto his dog bed.
This morning, my eyes are heavy from lack of sleep, and the only thing I can think about is the Henry-Elizabeth-Axel scandal that’s about to hit the newsstands.
Which reminds me, I need to update Preston on how our meeting with her went so we can formulate a plan to deal with the wreckage to follow.
He’ll be disappointed to hear my plan didn’t work and that Elizabeth is refusing to be bought. Her claiming she only wants a father for her son is nothing but a ruse. Henry may be blind to it, but I’m a woman, and women can sniff out other manipulative women.
I should know. My younger sister is one of the best.
Speaking of Bea, I’ve got another crisis on my hands. I text Preston to meet me in my office later and decide to use the quiet of this early morning to do some research for her.
I’m about to type “abortion clinics Wesbourne City” into the search bar when it hits me that not only will Bea need to leave the city, maybe even the country, so that she’s not recognized, but I should be using incognito mode for my search.
I start a private browsing session and widen my search to greater Wesbourne. The results are less than promising. I can’t risk her going to some village clinic that may or may not know what they’re doing. And there’s no guarantee the secret wouldn’t arrive back at the palace before we did.
It will have to be done overseas. I opt for England. The British are less enamored with royals from other countries due to having their own.
America went wild when Henry and I took a month-long tour there after our honeymoon. Every city we visited was stuffed with crowds, like fans at a Taylor Swift concert, all cheering and vying for the best spot to catch a glimpse of us. The thing that hit me most was the noise. They’re so loud.
Henry was most impressed by the food. One night after a particularly lavish buffet, which offered every single dish known to mankind, he collapsed into bed beside me and pulled me close, then tucked my head under his chin. “We’re never leaving,” he murmured. “This is my food heaven.”
I push that memory from my mind. It’s no good dwelling on it now. I have too many crises on my hands at the moment.
I find a few state-of-the-art clinics in London that are both trustworthy and private. I print their brochures to show Bea later.
Next, I look for some luxury maternity resorts, also in Europe.
Something tells me Bea might be more interested in this option, because she’s terrified of doctors and will relish the thought of skipping off to a private resort for six months while the whole world misses and pines for her.
She can put the baby up for adoption before coming home, and no one will be the wiser.
There are a few promising options, and I print those brochures as well.
I’m just gathering the stack of materials and heading to my sister’s room when a brisk knock sounds on my office door.
Maisie sticks her head around the corner. “Got a minute?”
Without waiting for my answer, she enters and closes the door behind her. Her hands wrap around her belly instinctively. She is the picturesque image of what a mum should be. I’d prefer to not have been about to marry her husband right before she did, but that is water under the bridge.
I quickly stuff the brochures beneath some other papers on my desk. She doesn’t even notice.
“What’s up?” I say, hoping she’ll make this quick.
“We have a bit of a . . . situation,” she says.
I raise a brow at this. “What kind of situation?”
“I’ll just show you.” She pulls her phone from her pocket and hands it to me.
I study it, but after a few seconds, I hold it out to her. “I don’t know what I’m looking at.”
“Look closer,” she says. “That’s my desk. Or at least that used to be my desk. It’s currently buried under stacks of mail that are taller than I am. We are going to have to work around the clock to process it all, and that’s if all three of us pull twenty-four-hour shifts.”
I hand the phone back. “How do you normally handle it?”
“Normal mail stacks are half that size. And most of those are invitations, not letters.”
“Why the sudden influx in correspondence?”
The breath rushes past her lips, and she sinks into the chair opposite my desk. “Oh, I don’t know. Could have something to do with that article in the Sun.”
“Could have or does?”
Maisie blinks at me. “Given the ratio of pastel-colored, floral-scented envelopes to normal mail, I’m going to go with does.”
“You’re kidding.” My stomach curdles. “Do I dare ask what they want?”
“The majority are professing their love for Henry. The rest profess their love and claim to have had his child.”
“Good god.” I sink into my own chair.
“Yeah.” The word rolls out of her mouth like a boulder down a hill. “I’ll bring you a big stack of them. You can read them whenever you’re in doubt as to whether you have the catch of the century or not.”
I toss a pen at her head. “Not funny.”
She moves to climb out of her chair, a cumbersome process. This right here is why I never want to have a child. You become a lumbering elephant for six months of your life.
“Hey, can you refill my prescription sometime this week?” I ask once she’s upright.
“You got it. Same thing?”
“That’s why they call it a refill.”
Maisie sticks her tongue out and closes the door.
I give her a few minutes to head to her own office across the hall, then grab the pages from my desk and walk to Bea’s suite.
“It’s open!” she calls when I knock. She’s perched on a chair in her sitting room, computer on her lap. She turns when I walk in. “Oh, darn. I thought you were Lavinia with my muffin.” Her lips curl down in a pout, and she turns back to her laptop.
“Sorry to disappoint.” I take a seat on the sofa, wondering if she was planning to eat the bottom of the muffin or save it for Henry.
“What do you think of the name Gemma?” she says without looking up.
“I’m sorry?”
“The name Gemma. If it’s a girl. What do you think?”
“If what’s a girl?” I say, genuinely not following.
“The baby, doofus.” She pats her flat belly. “I’m hoping for a girl.”
Air rushes against my eyeballs as they widen. “You can’t be planning to keep it,” I say.
She glances up for the first time. “I am.” She turns her laptop so I can see the screen. “Look at this. Isn’t that the most adorable thing you’ve ever seen?”
I’m about to point out that it’s a baby romper, but something in her face tells me she’s already acutely aware of that fact. “Bea, what are you doing?” I say instead.
“I’m just browsing, yeesh,” she says. “I won’t buy anything until I find out the gender. Which BabyCenter tells me can be done as early as fourteen weeks.” She squeals and flips her screen again. “Oh my gosh, is this dress not to die for?”
I wouldn’t even give a chipped nail for the thing, but that’s not the answer she’s looking for. I offer a tight smile instead.
“Just imagine a tiny little princess wearing that!” Bea says, still in rapturous over the floral-print outfit.
Is now a good time to remind her that her child would not receive a royal title, whether she chose to raise them or not? Based on the glow on her face, probably not. Plenty of time for that later.
“I did some research,” I say as I pull the brochures from my bag.
“Me too,” she says, eyes lighting up as she finds yet another gem from the baby boutique she’s “just browsing.” “It turns out there are a lot of foods pregnant women should avoid. Shellfish, cured meats, unpasteurized dairy. Alcohol, obviously. Do you know how well the kitchen washes the produce?”
“Uhh,” I say. “Pretty well?”
“Because it’s super important to get all of the bacteria and pesticides off. It can cause birth defects otherwise.”
I’m questioning the integrity of the sites she’s been visiting, but before I can voice my concern, she pipes up again. “Oh, and the electromagnetic rays from electronics can be so harmful to unborn babies.” She lifts the laptop. “That’s why I’m using this.”
What I thought was just a blanket in her lap turns out to be a “radiation-blocking cover” for her belly.
God help us.
“Bea, why don’t we talk about a few options.” I slide the abortion pamphlets to the bottom of the stack. She’s not in the right frame of mind for those. I hand everything over to her. “Look through these and tell me what you think.”
She sets her computer aside and takes the brochures from me. “I can’t thank you enough for helping me. It has taken such a load off my mind.”
She opens the first brochure and skims through the info. It’s for a maternity resort in Switzerland, complete with prenatal massages, personalized meals, and one doctor for every three patients on site. It’s expensive, but in this situation, worth every penny.
“This place looks amazing,” she says. “Do they have warm tubs?”
I furrow my brow. “Warm what?”
She looks up from the page. “Hot tubs are not safe for pregnant women, so they now make an alternative: warm tubs. It’s basically the same thing, but the temperatures can’t climb higher than one hundred degrees.”
I nod along in agreement that this is a fantastic product to hit the market, but all I’m actually thinking is What is happening here?
Bea flips to the next brochure, one for a similar resort in Dubai. “Oh my god,” she says. “Oh my god. Can you imagine giving birth here?”
I can’t imagine giving birth, period, so that would be a no.
“It’s Dubai for me, all the way. This place is fantastic,” she says, still thumbing through the pamphlet. “I don’t even need to look at the rest of these.” She hands the stack back to me.
Great. Guess we’re doing this then. Turns out those incognito abortion tabs weren’t necessary after all.
“They work closely with an adoption agency to make that part of the process as smooth as possible too.” It was one of the requirements I had when researching.
“Oh, that’s nice.” Her voice has a faraway quality to it. “I don’t understand how some women can go through nine months of pregnancy and childbirth and then still decide to give their baby away.”
“Plenty of women have strong reasons for doing so. Such as keeping their secret,” I hedge.
Her eyes meet mine, a newly kindled fire flickering there. “I know what you’re doing, Celia.”
I smooth the lines of my skirt. “You do?”
“You’re trying to talk me into giving up my baby,” she says. “But you may as well give up now, because it’s not happening.”
I stare at her. “Bea, you asked for my help. I told you that you have options.”
“I thought you meant for a birth plan or how to raise the baby. I didn’t think you meant to give away my little girl.”
“Bea, please listen to—”
“I’m surprised you didn’t just drive me to a nearby abortion clinic.” There’s a sharpness in her voice that contradicts her soft femininity. “Or are there brochures on those in there too?” She motions to the pamphlets.
Heat climbs my neck and spreads to my cheeks. I close my eyes and lower my head, focusing on my breaths. “You can’t keep this baby, Bea,” I say at last.
She looks at me like I’m out of my mind. “Why not?”
“God, Bea. Do I really have to spell it out for you? You’re not married. You’re not even engaged or dating anyone.”
“So? That way of thinking is super old-school.”
I sigh. How is it possible that she is a member of the royal family and still so clueless about these things? “You are the Princess Royal. You can’t have a baby out of wedlock.” Frustration is leaking into my voice despite my attempts to maintain my cool.
“Plenty of single mums are raising their kids just fine.” She lifts her chin with a haughty tilt. “I think I’ll make a great mum.”
No doubt she would, but— “You’re still a royal.”
“I know that,” she snaps. “But I don’t understand why you keep pointing it out.”
“We’re held to a different standard than the rest of the world, Bea. They look to us as an example of moral conduct.”
She fiddles with the radiation cover on her lap, then tosses it onto the floor. “This isn’t 1950. I’m pretty sure no one requires us to be married in order to have kids these days.”
She’s right, but what she’s missing is the fact that the royal family is around fifty to one hundred years behind the times when it comes to morality. It’s always been that way, and it’s not changing anytime soon.
“So this whole thing—you looking into options for me—was just a way to get this baby out of the picture?” she says.
“I thought you were scared, Bea,” I say, leaning forward. “You told me you were scared.”
She looks down, rubbing circles over her belly. “I was scared.” Her voice is so quiet I have to lean forward even more to hear her. “But then I thought about the miracle inside of me. Another human being chose me to give them life.”
I don’t think it works like that, but I can’t bring myself to break her spell of wonder.
“I didn’t think I was ready to be a mum.
Sometimes I’m still not,” she says. “But every day I feel myself growing more and more confident.” She looks up and meets my eyes.
“I know I can do this, Celia. I’m sorry it throws a wrench in your plans for the family, but this baby is the best thing to ever happen to me. ”
After that, there’s not much to say. She’s not willing to listen, but I haven’t given up. I’ll wait until she’s in the throes of morning sickness. When she’s cut off from eating sushi with the rest of us, she may be more open to reason.
“I’m happy,” she says as she hugs me.
I give her a smile in return. I have no choice but to come up with a solution. If she can’t be talked out of this preposterous idea, it, coupled with the Elizabeth Gable scandal, will mean our entire image going up in smoke.
There won’t be anything remaining. The whole thing will be ground zero.