18. “Illumination” - Jennifer Thomas
“Illumination” - Jennifer Thomas
On the morning of the wedding, the sky is ominous with clouds as a storm rolls in. Isn’t there a saying about not getting married during a thunderstorm? If not, there should be. The weather never lies.
I’m in my sitting room watching the downpour through the window, a princess locked in her tower. The wind blows the trees outside nearly sideways, until I’m convinced they’ll snap in half, but they never do. The howling gusts are chilling, and I rub my arms through my lace sleeves.
My hair is arranged in a cascade down my back, a veil and tiara over it. Helena’s dress has been altered to fit me like a glove. My bouquet of roses and lilies teases my nose with its cloying perfume.
Everything is ready. Everything except my heart.
I’ve been avoiding Henry since that stupid, incredible kiss. And while it hasn’t been too hard to forget about when on the brink of the wedding of the century and preparing to rule a country, the memory still torments me when I’m trying to fall asleep.
As if conjured by my thoughts, a text lights up my screen.
Henry: I’m sorry about everything. I’ll make it up to you, I promise. x
I toss the phone back onto the table. Typical. He thinks everything can be forgiven with a box of chocolates or tickets to a movie premiere. He doesn’t know that I’m just as upset with myself as I am with him.
There’s another ping.
Henry: I know you’ve been avoiding me. Please don’t let your feelings about me change what you do for Wesbourne.
Damn the man for thinking he can read my mind.
An efficient knock sounds at the door, and my mother steps inside before I can answer it. “All set?” she asks. One would be forgiven for thinking today is her wedding day, given the colossal smile on her face and her bridezilla insistence on perfection.
“I don’t know if I can do this, Mum.”
She clasps my shoulders and spins me around so we’re both facing the window. “Do you see those trees out there? The wind is doing everything in its power to destroy them. But look at them.” She squeezes, her warm hands imparting strength. “It’s going to take more than wind to break you, too.”
I stroke the lace at my wrist. “Is it silly that I’ve always wanted a fairy tale for myself? Not the falling for a prince part, but feeling like fate smiled down especially on me, giving me a life I don’t deserve?”
“Who says it hasn’t?”
I swivel around. “I don’t want this. I want to marry the man I love, to have a family with him, and to spend the rest of our lives making a difference. That’s the fairy tale.”
“Sometimes we write our own fairy tales,” she says.
“Don’t pretend to sympathize. This is your fairy tale.”
“I’ll admit, I think fate has not only smiled on you, but rained its bounty upon your head.” She spreads her arms. “You’ll make more of a difference as queen than in a thousand lifetimes as anyone else. You can have anything you want.”
“Except the man I love.”
“Love the man you’ve got.”
“Like it’s as simple as that,” I say.
“It’s not as difficult as you might think.”
“How would you know?”
“Because that’s what I did.”
The room swirls around me, and I take a step back. “You loved Dad.”
“Of course I did.” She shrugs, as if we’re discussing which variety of potatoes to have for dinner. “But not at first. Not for a long time.”
“Okay, but at least you didn’t have to marry him before you loved him.”
“My mother would have said I got to marry him. In spite of love, or the lack thereof.”
A desert storm twists through my mouth. “What are you talking about?” I say quietly.
She sighs and sets her mouth into that all-too-familiar line. She’s shoring up for battle. “Your father was a catch. I was not. One does what one must.”
“You seduced him?”
“Let’s just say I hid my lesser qualities and overlooked his.”
“You just said he was a catch.”
“Of course. He was the Duke of Whitmere.”
“But—” Hot, angry tears warp the room. It’s all a lie. She’s just trying to keep me from backing out. “Dad was a good man. There’s no way he would have married you unless he loved you.” It’s too frighteningly plausible that my mother married him for his title.
“Theodore was a good man, yes. But he wasn’t perfect.”
“I never said he was.”
“Come on, Celia. It’s no secret you idolize him. But the danger in putting someone on a pedestal is that sooner or later, they’re going to topple off.”
She hands me a tissue, and I dab at the corners of my eyes carefully. Best not to mess up the work of the team that just spent three hours on my makeup.
“I brought you something,” she says, holding out a small velvet box. Inside is a tiny charm, my father’s face in a gilded frame. “For your bouquet.” She helps me attach it to the ribbon wrapped around the stems.
“Thank you,” I murmur.
“He would want you to do this.” She gives my hand a final squeeze. “Dry your tears and lift your head. You have a wedding to attend and a country to rule.”
A limousine is waiting to take me to the cathedral, where the whole country will be waiting, breathless, to see if “Princess Celia” will actually work up the courage to marry her nemesis.
My mother helps me lift the train of my dress into the car, then climbs in after me. We ride in silence, her seeming to sense I want to be left alone, and me too absorbed in the severity of what I’m about to do to pay attention to anything she might say.
The rain is still coming down in torrents, and the sky occasionally cracks open in a bright flash. Water splashes up from the wheels as we drive, and we’re slowed by the blinding downpour. The storm is a symphony in its final movement: loud, dramatic, and emotionally wrecking.
As we pull up to the curb in front of St. John’s, a fiery ball forms in my chest, and my tears threaten to fall again.
Thousands of people are gathered in the streets, dressed in slickers and hats and carrying umbrellas of every color.
They seem incognizant of the storm beating down on them.
Many are also holding signs, and my heart drops.
I remember the angry messages from before and at first thinking they’re here to protest the wedding.
But when I squint to read through the rain, I realize they’re all variations on the same theme: they’re congratulating me on my wedding day.
A few weeks ago, I was the Duchess of Whitmere and the director of the Historical Society.
My biggest achievement was having saved the old North Chapel from being leveled to make way for an apartment complex.
Today, everyone in Wesbourne knows who I am and will be watching my wedding broadcast on live television.
I have to do this for them.
I glance toward the church. A sidewalk canopy has been erected as protection against the rain, although it looks as effective as tissue paper in a hurricane. A soggy green carpet lies beneath it. Personal protection officers are hovering near my car door, waiting for my signal.
Taking a deep breath, I tap on the window. The door opens, and someone holds an umbrella above me as I climb out.
“We’d better hurry, Your Royal Highness, if you wish to remain dry,” the man says.
I’d like to see him hurry in a two-hundred-year-old, ten-pound wedding dress and heels.
“One moment.” I motion for my mother to keep my train inside the car.
Then I turn to the crowd behind me, raise my hand, and wave.
They’ll never know the turmoil that has brought me here.
To them, I am privileged beyond comprehension—about to be married to the most sought-after bachelor in the country, if not the world, and crowned Queen of Wesbourne.
It’s enviable, really, when you look at it like that.
They cheer above the din of the rain and wave back at me. Several women throw bouquets in my direction, which are immediately pelted by the downpour. What would they think of me if they knew how close I came to deserting them less than an hour ago?
“Okay.” I turn back toward the church. “I’m ready.”
My mother follows behind me and keeps my train from dragging on the wet carpet. PPOs flank us on every side as an innovative shield against the rain whipping under the canopy.
As I climb the steps where Beck and I had our engagement photos taken a few months ago, my throat tightens. I try not to think about what he might be doing today, whether he’ll watch the wedding, if he feels as sick as I do.
Inside the dry interior of the cathedral, hairdressers and makeup artists swarm me to ensure their work survived the trip. My train and veil are given a quick blow-dry. My mum slips away to her seat at the front of the church.
It’s almost time.
Behind the closed doors leading into the nave, the organ plays, but the music does little to calm my anxious heart or dry my sweaty palms. Beatrice steps out from the shadows and gives me a perfunctory peck on the cheek.
She looks gorgeous in her emerald dress.
Every maid of honor in every royal wedding since Wesbourne’s founding has worn the national color.
We couldn’t exactly break tradition now.
My father is supposed to be here, offering his steady strength as he leads me down the aisle. God, what I wouldn’t give for five minutes with him. Instead, I have to make that terrifyingly long journey by myself.
The attendants swing the doors open, and the music shifts to “Prelude to the Te Deum.” Taking one shaky step after another, I begin my walk to the front.
Has the aisle always been this long? The page boys follow with my train, and the guests rise and gaze at me, smiling.
If I block out everything else, I can almost imagine this is the wedding of my dreams.
Except the wrong man is waiting for me at the chancel.
When I reach the front, Henry turns to take my hand, and I see his face for the first time. He is breathtakingly handsome in his military uniform, and he’s looking at me strangely, like he doesn’t know what to say.
The knife that’s taken up residence in my gut twists sharply. What am I doing here?