Chapter 2
One Month Later
S tumbling through the front door, I shush Atticus with a giggle as his drunken limbs pinball between the furniture. With another fit of giggles, I trip over the rug and topple into the suit of armour displayed in the entryway.
The bodiless sentry drops his sword with a clatter and it’s Atticus’s turn to press a finger to his grinning lips. Picking up the blunt weapon, I try to prop it back against the armoured thigh but give up after it slips for a fourth time and, instead, I balance it against his codpiece.
‘Sorry, sir. You must forgive me,’ I slur and pat the knight on his pauldron. The whole thing gives a wobble and the sword falls with another crash. ‘Sod you then.’ I point an accusatory finger at the polished breastplate and bend down to unbuckle my shoes.
‘Ah, I think you should let me take care of that.’ Atticus catches me by the elbow as I sway precariously, staring at the clasps as they seem to dance around my two pairs of feet. He helps me over to one of the chairs and, getting to one knee, releases me from the tight binds of my first shoe.
Atticus takes his time with the second, letting his soft fingertips trace over my ankle. I just begin to doze off when his voice startles me awake again. ‘Who is she?’
Peeling open one of my bleary lids, I can just about make out the portrait he has his eye fixed upon. At the very top of the wide staircase, a gold frame towers above everything else in the room. The likeness is of a young woman, draped in ermine furs with a coronet balanced on her fair hair. Standing tall, she flaunts a pair of stern eyes that keep a watch of the whole ground floor, seeming to follow each one of your steps. Nothing in her face suggests a smile. There has always seemed to be a kind of power emanating from its brushstrokes. Her persistent gaze haunts even your consciousness in this room as you live in fear of her perpetual judgement.
‘That is Princess Alexandra. My grandmother. Terrifying, isn’t she?’ I whisper the latter part, afraid of the two-dimensional representation’s wrath.
‘Incredible,’ Atticus breathes, the giddiness of only moments ago entirely replaced by intense seriousness.
‘She’s only nineteen there but already not a woman to be trifled with. She had grown up through the war, even worked the land at one time, trying to inspire other women at home to do the same,’ I add, still slurring slightly. ‘I was scared of her portrait as a child. I would always run past her with my eyes closed, just in case she one day barked through the canvas telling me to stand up straight or to not smile with my teeth. Still do it now sometimes.’
‘Does that mean that you are in line for the throne? With her being a princess, I mean.’ He flicks the fastening of my shoe and it pops open with ease before he gets to his feet and draws closer to the painting.
‘My grandmother was. But I’m so far down the list now that something terrible would have to happen to a great many people before I was even a thought in anyone’s mind.’
‘What about on the Danish side?’ He looks at me expectantly, the grin on his face clear as day through my hazy vision.
‘Danish side?’
‘Didn’t you say Felix was your cousin and that’s how you set him up with Kitty?’ He strides back over to me as I stoop in my seat and he takes my hands in his. ‘So surely that means you’re somewhere in their line of succession?’
‘Oh, I have no idea. I don’t even think we’re cousins, at least not first, second, or even third. I suppose it’s just a weird thing the family do with the European royals to make the bloodline look strong, or just imply that all of the leaders are inherently connected.’ Resting my head against a side table, I yawn loudly. ‘I don’t know … who cares. All of this is hurting my brain.’
‘I’d say that is most likely the whisky with the port mixer you insisted on being your nightcap,’ Atticus declares. Massaging my temples, I hardly take heed of his words as he scouts about the room, running his fingers along my mother’s questionable interior design choices.
‘I think we should set your sister up with my cousin.’ My lips are numb and words seem to tumble from me as though I have lost all ability to gatekeep them.
With my eyes still closed and the room spinning, I’m hardly sure if I am speaking out loud until Atticus replies, ‘Is this one an actual cousin, or … ?’
‘Yes, an actual cousin. My mother’s nephew. James, I think his name is.’
‘You think? What is it with you trying to play Cupid? You even tried to set up the secretary of state for environment with your father’s private security at the charity conference tonight, if you can remember.’
I actually don’t remember even meeting the secretary of state, or even what charity the conference was in aid of, and I am struck with the stark reminder of why I don’t usually drink. ‘Have you ever actually accomplished anything with your meddling matchmaking?’
‘Well like you said, Kitty and Felix are one of my creations.’ I smile sloppily at Atticus and he rolls his eyes.
‘Kitty would date a lamppost if its father was rich. How far were you actually involved?’
‘Well, I said, “Kitty, this is my cousin Felix. He’s from Denmark,” and I looked over five minutes later and they were snogging in the conservatory.’ Atticus gives me a pointed look. ‘Ah yes, I see now.’ I wobble to my feet to stand before him.
Stretching up, I kiss him softly. ‘I suppose I just love love. Some people just need a helping hand to know where to look. Every good story needs a narrator, or an author. I like to think that’s me: penning people’s happy endings, giving fate just that little nudge in the right direction.’
‘You’re so drunk.’ Atticus laughs softly, shaking his head. His light hair falls across his forehead with the motion and I lean up twirl a few of the thin strands between my fingers.
‘Of course I am. That’s the only time I make any sense.’ With an overly exaggerated wink I add, ‘We can’t all be lucky enough to find an Atticus Beaumont.’
‘I think you’ll find it was me who found you.’ He smirks before pulling away and returning his attention to my grandmother’s portrait. ‘Has anyone ever said that you remind them of her? At first glance I thought it was you.’
‘Only in looks. My father likes to remind me on an almost daily basis that that is where the resemblance ends. She was a firm woman, powerful, knew exactly what she wanted and got it. I, on the other hand, have my head too far in the clouds and my nose too firmly wedged into sappy romance books and childish fairy tales to take notice of much of the rest of the world. At least that’s what Mother says.’
Atticus only hums in reply. Overcome with the desire to continue to hold his interest, to prolong his stay, I rush off down the hall, calling behind me, ‘Wait there one moment; I have a surprise.’
Along the vast corridors of the east wing, each doorway is guarded by a mannequin, draped in various items of ceremonial clothing. It’s a rather striking guard of honour that leads to my father’s office at the end of the hallway, designed to impress his litany of guests and remind them of his authority. That was my mother’s idea, of course. The last headless figure boasts the very furs from my grandmother’s painting, and with the gall only a drunken mind can summon, I whip it off and sprint back to Atticus as though my theft would set off a series of booby traps behind me.
Pausing to hook the heavy hide about my neck, I begin to stride past Atticus as if walking down the aisle of Westminster Abbey to my coronation. Ascending the stairs, I stand beside my grandmother, mimicking her pose, though unable to control the smile that takes over my face.
‘A vision of perfection,’ Atticus calls from the bottom of the stairs, as he takes out his phone and snaps a photo.
‘What is the meaning of all this?’ My mother’s voice booms around the room, startling us both to attention. My father scurries behind her, wrapping himself in his dressing gown and clutching it around his throat.
‘Oh my, you did give me a fright. I thought you were the ghost of Mother for a moment there.’ My father’s wide eyes soften for a split second before the realisation hits him and anger tightens his features. ‘Alice, please tell me that isn’t what I think it is,’ he growls through gritted teeth.
My stomach drops and suddenly the alcohol coursing through my bloodstream seems to curdle – sucking out all the Dutch courage and transforming it into plain old English regret.
An all too familiar feeling gurgles within me. ‘Sorry, sir, may … may you excuse me for one moment?’ I say quickly, my words slurred through my attempts to keep my lips closed for as long as possible. My parents both stare at me, confused, their anger still threatening to boil over. Stumbling across to the nearest mantel, I grasp at my mother’s ugliest vase and vomit directly into it.
‘I think, Mr Beaumont, that may be your cue to leave.’ My mother gives Atticus a hard stare, and though her tone is polite, her expression is far from it.
My boyfriend doesn’t need telling twice, and with a look that tells me he will come back for me, Atticus turns on his heel and strides away with as much control as a sober man.
As soon as we hear the latch of the door click, my father mellows slightly. ‘You know you aren’t supposed to drink with those tablets, Alice. There’s no wonder you’re in such a mess.’
My mother rolls her eyes. ‘I have no idea who you have become these last few weeks. Not long ago, I thought you almost worthy of a cape like that; now I feel sick to see it lowered in such a way.’ She stomps back across the landing and out of sight as I sway, unable to move my feet from where they stay, rooted to the stairs.
My father descends the few steps between us, and holds out his hand to me. Assuming it to be a peace offering, I take comfort in resting my palm on his, just as I did as a child when the world felt too overwhelming. With an exasperated huff he quickly shakes me off.
‘The cape,’ he demands, without meeting my eye.
I unhook it wordlessly, lay it across his outstretched arm, and watch as he returns it to its rightful place.
‘Get to bed, Alice. We shall speak in the morning.’ Father returns after a moment and passes me without stopping, as he heads in the opposite direction to Mother, to his own bedroom.
As I stand still beneath the gaze of my grandmother, my heart throbs so thunderously in my chest that I’m sure even her cold and soulless figure would be able to feel its beat around the room. I know my mother and father cannot think much less of me – that much is a given – but Atticus? How humiliating that in trying to prove myself to him, to appeal to him, he has witnessed me scolded like a child. The common sadness that usually comes at night spreads its cold winds through me again as I stare at Princess Alexandra, the woman whose face I inherited, and wonder why I keep getting it all so wrong.
The evening plays over and over in my head at such an invasive pace that I can hardly manage to catch a breath in between its repetitions. Unsure of how much time has passed, my body regains just enough strength to carry me off to bed before I fall into a deep, dreamless sleep.
Fishing for complaints?
Lady Alice Walpole makes a splash at the Save our Salmon conference where she appeared to be too drunk, on booze and men, to bother—
My clock says eight-thirty when I open my eyes again and read the headline of the newspaper left on my bedside table. It’s gone midday before I can bring myself to leave the confines of my duvet. In all the time in between, I just stare at the walls, telling myself that I need to get up, only for my body to remain paralysed, afraid of what darkness awaits me outside of the warmth of my bed.
I am almost grateful for the hangover; at least I’m feeling something , even if that something is like a pneumatic drill through my skull.
Dressing hurriedly whilst I have the energy, I dry-swallow the tablets that have been hidden beneath a small blacked-out bell jar on my bed-side table and scurry downstairs, doing my best to plaster a look of complete serenity on my face.
I don’t get far until my name is called and I see my mother standing in the open doorway of my father’s office. I’ve never seen her look less than pristine and, despite her rude awakening in the early hours, today is no exception. Her lipstick is without a single smudge; not so much as an eyelash has been permitted to stray out of place. All I do when I look at her is wonder whether she’s so organised on the inside, or if her mind is anything like mine: disordered, a series of broken pieces superglued back together in just ever so slightly wrong positions, a constant cacophony of screams. Knowing her, it’s probably like the Sistine Chapel in there.
Walking past her and doing my best to avoid her gaze, I cower into the office like a scared dog with its tail between its legs.
‘Your mother and I have been talking …’ my father begins as I take the seat across the desk from where he sits, looking back and forth between me and his wife, his anxiousness etched onto his face. ‘And, well, we think it might be best if you take a little … sabbatical.’
My mother forces a laugh as she joins him on the business side of the desk, standing over him in her heels, drowning out any air of intimidation he might be prevailed upon to summon. ‘Taking a sabbatical implies she has actually done any work, Henry. Considering I had a rather uncomfortable phone call with Lionel from the Save our Salmon Foundation where he informed me that you were too inebriated to make your speech last night, I should say you don’t qualify.’
One of my jobs as a working royal is to be a patron of, and show support for, charities across the nation. By working alongside them and becoming the face of a good cause it seems to make the rest of the world start paying more attention. A rewarding job, of course, and I have no objections to fulfilling my duties.
I hadn’t gone to the fundraiser with the intent of getting drunk either. Save our Salmon is just as worthy as any charity: specialising in the protection of the fish in British rivers and lakes. But the irony in all of this is that I am deathly allergic to seafood. Just a staring contest with one of the slimy things would bring me out in a rash the colour of a salmon with sunburn and a one-way ticket to the nearest hospital. So, becoming the patroness of a species that is one sloppy kiss away from killing me wasn’t exactly top of my list of things I’m willing to devote myself to. It was Atticus who suggested one drink, to calm my nerves, but it seemed that no matter how much I drank, my glass remained half full, whilst I became half-cut.
In all honesty, I don’t know where my passion lies. I suppose that is half of the problem. Being twenty-two, having just completed a degree in philosophy, where I realised halfway through that I would rather never have a single thought again than read another word of Kant, I have no idea what I want or who I am. I know what is expected of me, of course. That has been drilled into me since the moment I was born. But the thought of spending the rest of my life reciting prepared speeches at events, where I have no idea what half of the things I’m saying even mean, hardly fills me with hope for the future.
Expressing any of these cynical thoughts out loud had my father getting his doctor to prescribe me up to the eyeballs with antidepressants, so there was little point in arguing with mother about my work ethic. As someone who believes wealth is all a person can really ever need, the thought of me being too depressed to make it out of my four-poster bed only makes her roll her eyes. How can one be depressed, when one has everything that one could ever dream of? Something I learnt very quickly, however, is that one cannot balance the chemicals in one’s brain with a trust fund alone.
We’re not supposed to mention the pills. Royals aren’t meant to get depressed, so although almost everyone I know takes them in secret, and my mother could probably use a prescription of her own, they still remain an unspeakable taboo in this family.
‘Before you tarnish the family name any further and give the king a reason to interfere, we believe you would benefit from spending the summer in Balmoral.’ My father refuses to look at me as his wife lays out my sentencing.
‘Scotland?’ is my only feeble response.
I am no one without London society. Without love, without parties, what do I have to offer? If I go to Scotland, if I go alone , what will become of me? When I have none of the distractions of home? When I have to exist within my own mind, and actually have to stand my own company?
The thought is nauseating and I have to stifle a gag as I cover my mouth with a shaking hand.
‘It is the family’s furthest and most secluded residence. There will be no way for you to embarrass us from there. No distractions, no way to continue this self-destructive spiral you’re on. I would at least hope.’ Mother adds her two pennies’ worth.
‘Alone?’ I ask, half pleading for an answer in the negative.
‘The family will be popping in intermittently for their summer holidays but yes, far from any bad influences and hopefully far enough away that the teenage rebellions you seem to still be making in your twenties don’t continue to make it onto the front pages.’
I should fight, I should argue that I am no child, that I am a woman with my own mind and her own desires. But I have no energy left. And I’m hardly sure if that is true anymore. Mustering the energy to brush my hair in the morning is hard enough these days, so trying to convince my parents who are so stubborn in their ways that I am trying, that I will change, that I need to stay, is just futile. They would only remind me that I am dependent on them and their finances, they would only reiterate that I owe this family my life in exchange for my privilege, and every word I say in protest will only fall on unbothered ears.
Father looks up at me for the first time. ‘It’s for the best, Alice darling.’
That is no term of endearment; it is the final killing blow as he pretends that any of this is for my sake.
Isolate the woman who has to fill her empty spaces in the day with music in an attempt to fight off thoughts that hurt just a little too much? Isolate the girl who is desperate for the company of others because she cannot make herself happy? Isolate the child who pines for touch, who just needs a hug?
This isn’t for my good, or the good of the family. No, they simply want me far enough away that they don’t have to see me spiral.
And spiral I shall.