Chapter 5
NATALIE
Steam curled from the spout of the silver teapot, carrying the scent of bergamot and dried lavender into the damp air of the greenhouse.
I adjusted the porcelain cups on the wrought-iron table, ensuring the delicate, painted handles were perfectly aligned.
The cups were mismatched, salvaged from a vintage shop during our first trip to Paris.
They were entirely inappropriate for a royal residence, and that was exactly why I loved them.
They were a physical reminder of a time when our lives belonged only to us.
I remembered the day we bought them. It had been raining, a sudden downpour that sent us sprinting through the cobblestone streets of Montmartre.
Henrik had grabbed my hand, laughing, a genuine, unguarded sound that felt like magic.
We ducked into a cramped antique store that smelled of old paper and dust. The tea set was sitting in a dark corner.
Henrik had bought it without hesitation.
He had carried the fragile box himself, ignoring a direct phone call from his father, the King, to stay in that tiny shop with me.
He had promised me, right then and there, that he would always choose us.
The greenhouse was my sanctuary. It sat on the western edge of the palace gardens, a sprawling structure of glass and wrought iron built centuries ago by a queen who shared my disdain for the suffocating walls of the main estate.
Inside, it smelled of crushed leaves, damp soil, and the sharp, clean scent of blooming jasmine.
The air was thick and humid, clinging to my skin like a warm embrace.
It was chaotic and vibrant, a stark contrast to the sterile, manicured perfection of the estate grounds visible through the glass panes.
Today was our third anniversary.
I smoothed the fabric of my dress, a simple cotton sundress that offered no restriction and required no corsetry.
I had refused the assistance of the palace styling team this morning, opting for comfort over protocol.
I wanted Henrik to see the woman he married, not the polished consort his staff had created.
He had promised me this afternoon. He had looked me in the eye three weeks ago, his grip firm on my hands, and sworn that no minister, no trade agreement, and no diplomatic crisis would interrupt our anniversary tea.
It was a rare, uncompromising vow from a man whose entire life was built on compromises.
I checked the face of the gold clock sitting on the edge of the iron table. It was two in the afternoon. He was due at any moment.
“The Earl Grey is steeping too long, My Lady.”
Mrs. Higgins, the head housekeeper of the western wing, stepped into the greenhouse.
She carried a small silver tray holding a plate of lemon scones.
She was a stern, uncompromising woman with iron-gray hair and a fierce loyalty that she rarely demonstrated with words.
She navigated the narrow dirt paths between the raised garden beds with a practiced ease, her dark uniform spotless despite the mud.
“He will be here soon, Mrs. Higgins,” I said, offering a small, hopeful smile. “He promised.”
Mrs. Higgins set the plate of scones on the table, arranging them next to a small jar of clotted cream.
She looked at the clock, then looked at me, her expression softening a fraction of an inch.
“Princes make many promises, Natalie. The crown often demands they break them. Their broken promises are simply matters of survival. You should pour the tea before it turns bitter.”
“I will wait,” I insisted, adjusting the arrangement of the scones to busy my hands. “The morning sessions run late sometimes. The Chancellor likes to hear himself speak, and Henrik is too polite to cut him off when the trade agreements are so delicate.”
“The Chancellor departed the estate an hour ago,” Mrs. Higgins noted, her voice quiet. She did not say it to cause pain; she said it to prepare me. “I saw his motorcade leave through the primary gates while I was supervising the delivery of the fresh linens. The courtyard is empty.”
A cold spike of apprehension pierced the warmth of the greenhouse.
If the Chancellor was gone, the morning sessions were over.
Henrik should have been walking down the gravel path toward the glass doors.
I looked past Mrs. Higgins, scanning the manicured lawns that stretched toward the palace.
The path was empty. The gray stone of the estate offered no clues, its massive windows dark and unreadable.
“He is likely finishing paperwork,” I rationalized, grasping at the frayed edges of my hope. I refused to let the disappointment set in. Not today. “He is reviewing the final drafts of the treaty. He is preparing for the European tour. He will be here.”
Mrs. Higgins sighed, a low sound that carried the weight of decades spent serving the royal family.
She had raised Henrik. She knew the machine that was slowly crushing him better than anyone.
“I watched his father do this to his mother,” she said, her voice dropping to a near whisper.
“I watched the King prioritize the state until there was nothing left of the marriage but a series of polite public appearances. Henrik swore he would be different. But the palace changes a man, Natalie. It trains them to be stone. It trains them to view love as a vulnerability.”
“Henrik is not his father,” I said, my voice sharper than I intended. I gripped the edge of the iron table, feeling the cold metal press into my palms.
Mrs. Higgins nodded once, a gesture that conveyed both respect and profound pity. She understood the brutal arithmetic of a royal marriage. “I will leave you to your tea, My Lady. Ring the bell if you require anything further.”
She turned and walked out of the greenhouse, leaving me alone with the ticking clock and the cooling tea.
I sat down on the wrought-iron chair, folding my hands in my lap. I watched the steam rising from the teapot slow to a thin wisp, then disappear entirely. The air in the greenhouse, usually a source of immense comfort, began to feel stifling.
I remembered our first anniversary. We had spent the entire day locked in a tiny coastal cottage, ignoring the relentless ringing of the secure telephones.
We had burned dinner and laughed until our ribs ached, eating cold sandwiches on the floor while the rain lashed against the windows.
Henrik had kissed the crown of my head and promised me that we would always protect our private world from the demands of the state.
He had looked at me with a singular focus, his eyes devoid of the calculating, strategic glint that now defined his every interaction.
That man felt like a stranger now, a ghost haunting the corners of my memory.
The man I was married to now would never ignore a ringing telephone.
He would answer it on the first ring, apologize for the delay, and immediately begin managing the crisis.
He believed his constant vigilance was a noble sacrifice, a burden he bore to secure our future.
He did not realize his vigilance was starving us in the present.
The clock ticked. Two-thirty.
My posture remained rigid, but the fracture in my chest deepened, a slow, agonizing separation of tissue and bone.
I focused on a cluster of rare orchids hanging from the iron rafters above me.
One of the vines had slipped its wire binding, drooping toward the soil, desperate for support.
My fingers twitched, aching for the familiar, grounding work of pruning and tying.
I wanted to plunge my hands into the dirt, to fix something tangible.
But I was wearing a clean dress. I was playing the role of the waiting wife.
I kept my hands folded in my lap, forcing myself to remain still.
The silence in the greenhouse was absolute, broken only by the rhythmic dripping of condensation falling from the glass roof onto the broad leaves of a fern.
I watched the water droplets form, swell, and eventually surrender to gravity, hitting the dark earth below with a soft, persistent thud.
It was a hypnotic, maddening rhythm that mirrored the steady, relentless ticking of the gold clock on the table.
Every drop felt like a second of my life slipping away, a fraction of a promise broken.
I traced the intricate wrought-iron patterns of the chair with my thumb, feeling the rough texture of the painted metal.
I had chosen these chairs specifically because they reminded me of a small cafe in Vienna where we had hidden from the press for two entirely uninterrupted hours.
Now, they felt like a cage, a physical boundary keeping me confined to a designated waiting area while my husband managed his empire.
The damp air, previously a source of immense comfort, began to feel stifling, pressing against my chest and making every breath a conscious, exhausting effort.
I focused on a cluster of rare orchids hanging from the iron rafters above me, desperately searching for a distraction.
Three o’clock.
The tea was entirely cold. The lemon scones sat untouched on the silver plate, looking dry and unappetizing. The silence in the greenhouse was absolute, broken only by the rhythmic dripping of condensation falling from the glass roof onto the broad leaves of a fern.
I closed my eyes, the reality of the situation washing over me in a freezing tide. He was not coming.
The crunch of gravel outside pulled my eyes open.
A surge of desperate hope flared in my chest, a final, defiant spark.
I stood up from the chair, smoothing the skirt of my dress, expecting to see Henrik striding down the path.
I prepared to forgive him. I prepared to listen to his apologies, to accept his frantic explanations about delayed meetings and unavoidable crises.