Chapter Twenty-Seven
Over the past twenty-four hours, we’ve received an uptick in anonymous tips in regards to a particularly juicy—and flat-out treasonous—rumour that’s been making the royal rounds for nearly two decades.
And while we always make sure to vet our sources before sharing anything substantial, there’s simply too much smoke to ignore.
Before we announce anything that might be considered treason ourselves, we ask you to examine a few facts we know are true, straight from the royal family themselves:
The former Queen Helene and the Duke of York have admitted to having had an affair for nearly a year now, likely longer. Photographic evidence of how close they’ve been over the years is below, but of course we cannot claim to know what goes on behind palace doors.
Her former Majesty also admitted that His Majesty was, at the time the dual pregnancies were discovered, planning on leaving her and abdicating the throne to his younger brother, which indicates that a significant breakdown of their marriage had already occurred, and it’s unlikely they were still… maritally engaged.
One must wonder, then, if there might be any truth to the vicious whispers between courtiers and throughout the aristocracy that perhaps Princess Mary is not His Majesty’s daughter after all.
We have even received a copy of a supposed DNA test that claims to prove this, which is included in the gallery below, though we ask our readers to keep in mind that the source is, as of yet, unverified.
Still, could it be true? Could our sweet princess be—gulp—illegitimate?
—The Regal Record, 16 September 2024
I keep to myself for the next two days, refusing to leave our bedroom, let alone the apartment.
Kit chases everyone away—including my parents, who visit every few hours in an attempt to convince me to talk to them.
Tibby is banished to the sitting room, where she mostly works on our upcoming appearance schedule and digitally organizes my wardrobe, according to Kit.
And I huddle under a quilt in bed with Poppy, my eyes locked on my laptop as I read every single article I can find about Maisie’s life.
I read every birth announcement, every milestone, every birthday post, every article about her achievements—her first days of homeschooling, her awards for horse-related things I don’t understand, her first public appearances, Christmas cards, every time she’s ever been present on the balcony for Trooping the Colour and other important events.
Each time she’s been a tiny bridesmaid at a wedding for one of her million godparents.
Snapshots shared from Balmoral and Sandringham and other family holidays.
Paparazzi photos of her when she’s older, the walk to church Christmas morning, boating adventures that seem to universally make her look like a windswept model.
I dig so deeply through multiple search engines that eventually I only find duplicates, and then I start using keywords on different social media sites to see if I can find more.
I read about every moment of my sister’s life that only happened because Alexander chose her instead.
Every glimpse of the comfort and emotional safety she had that I didn’t.
It isn’t just jealousy that eats away at me—it’s longing and self-pity and a deep, primal need to be loved that has never fully been sated.
But I don’t hate her for it. I don’t even stop thinking of her as my sister, because she is. The choices our parents made aren’t her fault, and I can’t bring myself to hold them against her, even though I know she’s held plenty of things against me.
“I don’t know how to go out there and face them,” I admit to Kit two days after the family meeting that sent shock waves through both our lives. “How am I supposed to ever believe a word Alexander says now? How am I supposed to even look him in the eye?”
We’re sitting up in bed with our empty breakfast trays at our feet, a paperback in his hands while I’m a hundred posts into a blog devoted exclusively to Maisie’s fashion choices over the years.
He slips a bookmark between the pages and turns toward me, giving me his full attention in a way I’m not sure I deserve after two full days of wallowing.
“Alexander knows he needs to earn back your trust,” he says, tucking a wayward lock of hair behind my ear. “And I’m certain he’s willing. Just because things aren’t okay right away doesn’t mean they won’t be in time.”
“Easy for you to say,” I grumble. “You don’t have to deal with them anymore if you don’t want to.”
“With any luck, I’ll be dealing with your parents for a very long time,” he says with a faint smile. “Eventually it might help to speak with them. Not right away, but…when you’re ready.”
“I don’t know if I’ll ever be ready to talk about why he didn’t love me or want me enough to be my real dad,” I mutter, leaning into Kit.
“Even if he really did let my grandma bully him into staying away from me after my mom got sick, that hurts, too, you know? You think your parents will do anything to keep you safe and be with you—”
“And if those two things are incompatible?” says Kit gently. I frown.
“What do you mean?”
“If keeping you safe and being with you were two parts of a Venn diagram that couldn’t touch.”
I sigh. This is exactly the argument Alexander made to me during our first heart-to-heart—that being there for me the way I needed him to be would’ve put me in danger, simply by exposing my existence to the press. “But it happened anyway. Everyone still knows who I am.”
“Now that you’re an adult, yes,” agrees Kit.
“Imagine this level of fame and interest when you were four years old, while your mother was severely ill and going through the legal process. Imagine the amount of worldwide attention that would have attracted, and how that would have changed everything for you.”
If Alexander or even my mother had asked me to think this scenario through, I would’ve refused out of sheer spite. But because it’s Kit, I let myself sink into the daydream that, moment by moment, looks more and more like a nightmare instead.
Paparazzi shouting at four-year-old me. Hunting us down at my grandma’s condo.
Surrounding my mother’s house, even though it was undoubtedly empty for the years she was going through inpatient treatment.
Harassing her doctors, the nurses, the staff—anything to find out a morsel of information.
Blackmailing them. Paying them off for clues.
Not allowing my mom the opportunity to heal in peace and privacy.
Not giving Alexander the chance to visit her every weekend, like he did the whole time.
It would have changed everything. I would’ve been a completely different person—maybe still hidden away at boarding schools to protect my privacy, but that would’ve only lasted for so long.
And it wouldn’t have just been my bad behavior that forced me to switch schools so often.
I would’ve been hunted, even though I was still a kid.
I would’ve been known as the King’s bastard daughter my entire life, and by now, at the age of nineteen, I would’ve never given him a chance to explain himself. Ever.
“Things would’ve been worse,” I finally admit. “A lot worse.”
Kit nods. “I think so, too.”
“But…” I rub my face, pressing my palms into my eyes. “All he had to do was choose me and my mom instead of Maisie and Helene. Nicholas could’ve married Helene, and Maisie could’ve been born legitimate, and no one could’ve stopped them. And everything would’ve been the same.”
Kit studies me for a long moment. “Is that what you really think?”
“Yes,” I say, determined now, but after another beat, I huff. “Okay, it would’ve been a rough few months, maybe a year—”
“Even the most loyal of royalists would’ve lost their bloody minds at the thought of Alexander abdicating, divorcing his pregnant wife, and his brother stepping in to take his place,” says Kit.
“They would’ve had to go public with the affair in order to legitimize Maisie, and that alone would’ve done more damage to the monarchy than—well, anything any monarch has ever done, I suppose. Kings have been beheaded for less.”
“It’s not the seventeenth century anymore.”
“No, it isn’t,” he agrees. “And we know now what some people are willing to do in order to see the monarchy abolished. Nicholas, Helene, and Maisie—that mess would’ve been more than enough for people like Dylan and John Phillip Michaels to get the following they needed to see their so-called revolution through. ”
I’m quiet for a long moment, my fingers dancing silently over the smooth keys of my laptop. “So you’re saying that Alexander sacrificed his relationship with me in order to save the monarchy,” I say finally. “Because that isn’t helping.”
Kit shrugs. “I’m saying we won’t know until you’re ready to talk to them. But there’s a pretty good chance there was much more at stake than either of us realizes.”
I grit my teeth and ease my laptop closed.
He’s not wrong, and while I’m not mad at him for it, I’m mad at the situation for being nuanced.
I want to be angry. I am angry, and no matter how many facets there are, I have every right to be.
But I also love Alexander more than I ever thought I could, and I love my mother with blind faith.
If she thought it was a good idea, or at least the only workable option, then there’s a possibility—a small possibility, but one that still exists—that she was right.
“I’ll consider talking to them,” I finally mumble, sinking down onto the pillows and giving a sleeping Poppy a scratch behind her ear.
It’s late morning now, but I haven’t even showered yet, let alone changed out of my pajamas.
There’s no point, not when I have no intention of leaving the bedroom today.
Kit kisses my cheek. “Thank you,” he says. “Only when you’re ready, though, all right? There’s no pressure—”