Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
Scottie
She wanted to wear jeans, a T-shirt, a UT hoodie, and sneakers for her day at the Midlands Faire, but a militant Choko insisted she slip on a pair of wide-leg tan trousers with a sunny yellow-and-blue floral print top, and a pair of espadrille wedges.
Then she wrapped Scottie’s hair in a loose braid with tendrils curling around her cheeks and neck.
“You’ll be the belle of the faire, Lady Royal.”
“I’d rather blend in.”
“You can’t. You’re representing Her Majesty.”
She was also cold. Did it ever warm up in Lauchtenland? The sea air sank into her bones and never let up.
“You ready for this?” Michael said when they met in the Grand Foyer. He looked regal and serious in his dark suit and white shirt. “A journey into enemy territory?” His gaze swept her up and down, but he said nothing about her appearance, beautiful or otherwise.
She’d not seen him since they arrived at Perrigwynn early yesterday, and his presence now was the warmth she craved. He’d been her rock on the solo engagements earlier in the week, and she’d become dependent on his company.
“Enemy territory? I thought we were going to the Midlands Faire.”
“Six of one, my lady.” Opening the door, he bowed with a sweep of his arm, drawing her attention to his broad, thick hand. The one that had held hers so tenderly Saturday night. “Scottie,” Michael added as he aided her into the car, “the faire will be crowded. Please stay close.”
“Yes, boss.”
Settled into the car, she retreated to her memories, where she could still feel Michael’s hand holding hers.
Neither one had realized what they were doing until he opened her car door.
Then they broke apart as if caught making out under the football bleachers.
Nearly a week later, the look he gave her in that moment, as his hand slipped from hers, still made her sigh.
As they’d driven the two hours back to Hadsby, he let her talk about Dad’s engagement to Remi while the radio played a soft jazz.
He thanked her for accompanying him to the party. She replied she was grateful to tag along.
Neither one mentioned the hand holding. In some way, it seemed too surreal to speak of in the cab of a Range Rover.
Whatever was happening between them fit in the annals of a summer love, of a passion fleeting on the heels of going back to school, all tied up in a thanks-for-the-memories kind of way.
Between the music and late hour, along with the hum of the road, she’d drifted to sleep, thinking she’d never felt so comfortable. Once at Hadsby, Michael parked in the motor garage and escorted her to the Grand Staircase, where he said goodnight and disappeared toward the staff stairwell.
She tried to get more engagement details from Dad on Sunday, but their calls were brief as he was in New Orleans meeting Remi’s family then hustling back to Hearts Bend to tour a reception venue.
“We’re thinking of an October wedding,” he’d said.
“October? Five months from now October?”
“Yes.” Dad had answered with a small laugh. “We’re not getting younger, Scottie. We want to tie the knot, start our lives together. By the way, I want you to be my best woman. What do you say?”
“Of course. You and me, not three.” But their little saying didn’t apply anymore, did it?
Now she teared up, remembering, fearing she was losing him. For missing out on this part of his life where love was at the helm.
Yet wasn’t her time in Lauchtenland with Kate a similar way of love? How selfish of her to explore new paths while expecting Dad to sit aside and do nothing. He put a pin in his love life while raising her. Yet seeing him pull the pin out left her a bit breathless.
Then there was the reality of Kate. She battled pain and fatigue, leaving Scottie to attend her royal tasks on her own. Kate was in bed when Scottie stopped at her apartment on her way to the faire.
This past week revealed how much Kate really needed Scottie in this season.
She often reached for her hand, leaned on her for conversation or to secretly sweeten her tea or retrieve a slice of cake.
At the banker’s tea, she gave Kate’s speech and remembered to collect every offered bouquet of flowers.
“I’ve learned to take the flowers home,” Scottie told one woman. “Her Majesty personally arranges them in colorful vases and sets them around the castle.”
“So Hadsby is perfumed with the flowers of the people.”
“Why, yes,” Scottie said. “I believe it is.”
“We’re here,” Michael said as the driver of the dark-windowed Range Rover slowly maneuvered through the gathering crowd.
“Lennox and Schueler are behind us.” He gently touched Scottie’s arm.
“Wait for me, Lady Royal. I’ll come round.
A crowd is already gathering.” Michael popped open his door before the car had completely stopped.
“Here we go,” she whispered to herself as she exited the car, waving while oddly, strangely, feeling as if she’d been here a hundred times.
Down the narrow cobblestone of Ribbons Avenue, the crowd pressed close. Michael boxed her in on one side, Lennox on the other, with Schueler behind.
“Stop where you want, Scottie.” Michael’s voice was low and protective. “But if I say move, move.”
Okay, but did she stop at one or all? If she skipped a stall or a shop, would the headlines be “Lady Royal Dissed Midlands Faire Vendor”? This was nerve-wracking.
Spying a stall with young women selling handmade knitted and crocheted throws, scarves, and sweaters, she raved over their work, encouraged them to keep going, then hovered into a large group selfie. As she departed, a pretty redhead handed her a finely knitted gold crown on blue backing.
“Your crown, Lady Royal.” Her cheeks reddened as she curtsied. “I made it for you.”
Scottie reached her arm around the girl’s shoulders, then held the crown on top of her head. “How do I look?”
The girls, probably ranging from eighteen to twenty-five, cheered, smiling. “Beautiful, Lady Royal.”
“I like them,” she said to Michael as they headed on down the lane, and she tucked the crown into the clutch Choko had jammed into her hands on the way out. “Can I give them a Royal Warrant?” She looked over at Michael.
“Not sure they could meet any sort of demand, but talk to Her Majesty.”
And so it went. All afternoon. Shaking hands.
Sampling savory and sweet foods. Then Scottie paused at a stall manned by a fiftyish woman suffering from a disability that prevented her from engaging in real conversation.
She kept curtsying and offering Scottie her cookies, saying over and over, “My dog’s name is Fred.
I feed him the best. We go on walks.” She’d reach down to pet the ole boy that was no longer there.
“Fred is very lucky,” Scottie said as she purchased a dozen cookies, paying twice the quid demanded.
“She’s had a stroke,” a woman said, coming from around the back of the stall. “But she loves the faire. I’m Sheba, her daughter.”
“Keep doing what you’re doing. Our mothers are precious and—” Scottie clipped her words. The kingdom knew Queen Catherine was ailing but not how much.
“We pray for Her Majesty, Lady Royal.”
“Thank you. It means so much.”
The deeper they traveled within the faire, the more they left the modern world and entered ancient Lauchtenland, where thatched roof row shops, replacing the portable wooden and canvas stalls, lined the winding and even more narrow avenue.
Scottie could almost hear the old-time merchants calling to one another early in the morning.
“Oh, a bookshop.” Scottie turned inside, sensing all eyes on her. She perused several book tables, then turned to the man behind the sales counter. “Any suggestions of local authors?”
“Yes, um, yes, Lady Royal.” The man in neat, creased trousers, white shirt and waist coat slipped a book from a shelf. “A local chap wrote this one. I suppose he’d be akin to your American Jett Wilder.”
“Then I’ll take it.” Scottie had only read one Jett Wilder book, a memoir-like tale about a group of strangers who unraveled their lives while meeting in what remained of a Gilded Age New York mansion, and she intended to read more of his work.
As the man rang up her purchase, he motioned to a woman with long flowing hair and a long flowing skirt who’d just entered. “Love, look, Lady Royal. Might we snag a photo with you?”
Michael stepped forward. “Lady Royal, we should be moving on.”
“I think we have time for a photo, Officer Cross.”
His eyes narrowed with that fiery look a parent gave to an errant child. She’d hear about this later.
Back out to the street, where the crowd had grown significantly, Michael gripped her arm. “Stay close. Where to next?”
“Eloise Ltd. I promised Eloise Bright I’d visit her shop.” She stopped to face him, ignoring the raised phones surrounding them. “Are we good? Everything okay?”
Michael spoke into his com, then motioned for Lennox, whispered a few things to her before tapping Scottie’s arm. “Eloise Ltd. is down the lane on the left. Stay close, please.”
She stayed close as they passed relatively unnoticed toward Eloise Ltd. Inside the shop, Eloise, with her tamed red hair and fitted slacks and top, greeted Scottie with wide-smile enthusiasm.
“You came, Lady Royal. I wasn’t sure you could make it this far.”
“I wasn’t going to miss your place.” Scottie glanced about, her eye falling on one beautiful outfit after another, all displayed like art.
She recognized some of the materials she’d been using for lightweight men’s slacks.
“I love this wool and cotton blend. We find it wears well. And you make these in the Midlands? Have you had any trouble with the sewing process?”
Talking to a designer and clothier transported Scottie emotionally to her home field.
“This is our retail location,” Eloise said. “Our production is in The Haskells. You know our story of losing the manufacturing plant of our choice. But we must move on. The kind of space we need is rare and expensive in the Midlands. Yet this is the best place to be for materials, fabrics, labor.”
“Do you do bespoke work?” Scottie inspected a display of women’s blouses and tops. “I’ve been pushing for a small women’s line to complement our men’s fashion. I’d love an option for tailoring skirts, dresses, tops, slacks for women.”
“Really, Lady Royal?” Eloise moved in close. “We do a great deal of bespoke work. I’d love to explore this idea. Wh-when would you be available?” Eloise pulled out her phone, tapping the screen, searching her calendar.
Michael stepped up. “Lady Royal’s diary is set for the duration.” He glanced at Scottie. “Take her card. Contact her at your leisure.”
“Yes, of course, of course. I’m terribly sorry—” Eloise scurried to the counter and reached in a drawer for her card. “Thank you, Lady Royal, for thinking of us. I’ll look forward to hearing from you.”
“I’ll be in touch.” Scottie slipped the card into her clutch as Michael steered her toward the door. “I can speak for myself, Michael.”
“Just doing my job as your equerry as well as protection officer. You can ring Eloise Bright whenever you like but for now, we must keep moving.”
It was then the shop door burst open, giving way to a horde of photographers jockeying to catch Scottie’s eye first.
“Lady Royal, over here.”
“Lady Royal, Lady Royal.”
Around her cameras clicked, flashed, and recorded. She heard voices but could not discern from where. With each second, more and more people crammed into the shop, shoving and pushing, calling for her.
“Let’s go.” Michael. His broad, thick hand that had held hers so tenderly now pressed on her back, moving her forward. Lennox and Schueler collapsed around her. “To the back door.”
“Poor Eloise, they’ll destroy her—” The back exit was blocked with more photographers and gawkers. The fervor was too much. They were surrounded.
“Lady Royal—Clark Wilson, The News Leader.” A dark-haired, bespectacled reporter stood on Eloise’s sales counter, holding up his phone.
“Are you aware that land Eloise Ltd. was to purchase was sold out from under them to Reingard Industries? A deal largely brokered by your dead sister-in-law’s father, Lord Cunningham. ”
“Are you serious?” She took a step back, then her gaze met with Michael’s. Steady. The best way to deal with this was to face it. “Look, Clark Wilson from The News Leader, I’ve been in this country for all of five minutes. What else you got?”
Laughter peppered through the crowd.
“Lady Royal, here—Perry Copperfield, Cable News PF.” He also stood on Eloise’s counter. “How do you see your role in the House of Blue? Are you for the expansion of the monarchy or reduction? What do you think of the Family’s rival, MP Hamish Fickle?”
“Boys, boys, listen to yourselves.” Scottie buttered her words with her southern accent. “I’m just a girl spending time with her mother. Giving her a helping hand. I’m not here for politics.”
“But you’ve engaged several people, including MP Fickle, on matters—”
“Indeed, she has.” Hamish Fickle emerged from the crowd like he was lord of all. “I think Lady Royal’s here to check out the competition. Steal industry and land from Lauchtens to expand O’Shay Shirts’ global brand.” He looked at her as if waiting for her to confess.
“Lady Royal has no such intentions.” Eloise stepped up. “She’s offered to help, even—”
“Don’t be fooled, Ms. Bright,” Hamish said.
“Lady Royal’s trip isn’t about a long-lost daughter spending time with her long-lost mother.
It’s about a shrewd businesswoman taking advantage of her new royal connections, of our ailing queen, to expand her American business.
As if we don’t have enough Americans in places of influence in the House of Blue.
” Hamish jumped up on the counter next to Clark and Perry.
“We aren’t going to stand for it, are we?
” He pumped his fist over his head. “Go home, Lady Royal. Go home.” The chant became wildfire in the crowded shop.
“Go home, Lady Royal. Go home, Scottie O’Shay. No more Americans. No more Americans.”