Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
MABLE
My phone buzzes on the kitchen counter, Truly’s name lighting up the screen.
I lift my hands that are covered in dough and flour.
“Crap,” I mutter to myself, quickly fold the last of the sourdough and wipe my hands on the apron Mrs. Halloway gave me, pale pink with tiny red strawberries on it, before I grab my phone off the counter.
“Hey,” I say, answering the call. I miss the hell out of her, but she’ll come here soon.
“Whatcha doing?”
“Making sourdough.”
“That sounds so good. When I come, you better stuff me full of it.”
“I think I can handle that.”
“Good, because I need you to handle something else.”
“Good or bad?” I ask, leaning up against the counter.
“I’m pregnant!” she shouts into the phone, unable to contain herself.
I’m shocked she made it this long. This is what Truly always wanted: a family that was her own and not connected to her controlling family.
I’ve always wanted that too; we bonded over that.
All those years with my mother traveling all over the world only made me want to have roots.
“I’m going to be an aunt,” I gush into the phone. “I’m so happy for you, Tru.”
“I’m happy for you too.”
“Thanks.” I feel myself getting shy. I don’t know why I get bashful when I talk about Wells in this way.
“Any updates?”
“I think yours takes the cake,” I tell her.
“I’ll take the cake and sourdough.” I laugh. “But seriously, what’s going on?”
“No big changes since we last talked.” My brain is still stuck back on her being pregnant. I mean, I knew it was only a matter of time, but how freaking stupid am I?
I haven’t thought about the possibility of being pregnant. Now that I think about it, when was my last period? It was before I’d taken off on this grand adventure that doesn’t appear to have an expiration date on it, though there hasn’t been any talk of getting engaged or married.
“Not even on the land issue?” I’ve kept her pretty up to date on everything going on. My plan had been to tell her everything when she’d gotten back home from her long honeymoon, but I hadn’t thought about how public Wells’ relationship with me would be.
“No,” I sigh. “I’m still digging in the archives, but it’s sucking up a lot of Wells’ time.
” He’s been having to work a lot, which I get.
It will be a complete mess for Solaria if I don’t find something that will establish their claim.
The country would lose that section of land for a ton of residents.
I don’t want that to happen either. I’ve already grown attached to the community.
I have never felt so welcome before. I don’t understand why, but I’m being well received. I wasn’t expecting that at all.
“If anyone can find it, it’s you.” Tru has been dying to come out and see me, but I told her to wait. I’m spending all my free time researching. When she comes, I want to be able to have the time to spend with her.
“I hope so. I’m starting to feel like Willy Wonka in the chocolate factory every time I open one of the archive boxes, hoping that a golden ticket will be there.”
“How is it going with the mom?”
“Better?” It sounds more like a question with how I say it. I mean, she has been. There are times when she feels cold in her delivery, but when the words settle in, I don’t think she has bad intentions.
“Give it time,” Tru reassures me. “By the time I get to come, you’ll be a princess.”
“Oh my God, I am not a princess.” That’s ridiculous, but is it? I haven’t really thought about it that way.
“Yet.”
We talk for a few more minutes before we hang up. It’s a lot to unpack, because now I’m wondering if I could be pregnant, why Wells has never talked about the possibility of marriage, and then there’s the whole princess thing. Why is that only now hitting me?
I stare at my phone long after Truly hangs up, the screen dark. Pregnant. She’s pregnant. And I’m... I count backward in my head again. I’m not sure why because I know since I met Wells, I haven’t had a period. We make love every day, and that would have come up by this point. Shit.
“Miss?”
I jump. Mrs. Halloway stands in the doorway, her expression carefully neutral. “Her Majesty is here to see you. In the sunroom.” What? Why? Wells is working.
“Eleanor?” I double-check. But Mrs. Halloway only nods.
“She asked specifically to speak to you. Would you like me to tell her you’re occupied?”
“You’d do that for me?” I give her a smile.
She only shrugs, and I know she would without a doubt.
“No. No, I’ll come.” I don’t want anyone getting Eleanor’s wrath because of me.
I smooth my apron, realizing I’m still wearing it, and pull it over my head.
“Just let me wash my hands.” I don’t think there is time to change.
It feels wrong to meet a “Majesty” in jeans, but it is what it is.
I didn’t know she was coming, and I have plans with a dusty archive room.
I head toward the sunroom. I call it a conservatory. It’s big enough to be one.
Eleanor sits at one of the tables, her posture perfect, holding a teacup.
“Mable.” She motions to the chair across from her. “Please. Sit.”
“Mrs. Halloway said you wanted to see me.” I feel nervous, like a kid that’s been called to the principal’s office, which has never ever happened to me in my life, but I’m guessing this inner panic is on par.
“You’ve been helping with the land issue.” It’s not a question, but still I nod. “You’ve been spending a considerable amount of time in the archives. Mrs. Pembroke tells me you’ve made significant progress organizing the uncatalogued materials.”
“I mean, I’m happy to help. It’s interesting work.” Only people who love to research understand the passion. I have always had this need to absorb all information.
“Yes.” Eleanor sips her tea. “The land dispute has consumed my son’s attention for weeks. Your contribution frees him to handle matters only he can address.”
She sets the cup down, precise, silent. “You’ve been well-received, Mable. The staff adores you. The dress shop incident—that was genuine goodwill, not calculation. People respond to authenticity.”
“Thank you.” I don’t know what else to say. The praise feels like a prelude. The hammer is about to drop.
“But.” She holds up one finger, and I brace myself. “I wonder if you understand what you’re committing to. Research in archives, staff affection, and favorable press—these are the pleasant parts. The parts that feel like success.”
“I know there’s more.” I think of the security motorcade, the gates, and the flags. “The protocols, the scrutiny—”
“Yes. All of that.” Eleanor leans forward slightly, and I see something unexpected in her face.
Not coldness. Concern. “But also the waiting. The uncertainty. The life where your schedule is never your own, where your body is discussed in newspapers, where your children—” She stops. Her jaw tightens.
“Your children?” I repeat, and my voice sounds strange in my own ears.
“I was not born into this.” She says it quietly, almost to herself.
“I met Caldwell’s father, and I loved him before I understood what he was.
What I would become. And then I was pregnant, and there was no time to reconsider.
I didn’t have space to even consider if I wanted this, if I wanted my children to have it too. ”
She meets my eyes, and I see the younger woman she described, uncertain and I’m sure overwhelmed.
The room feels too warm. I think of Truly, glowing with a wanted pregnancy.
If I am pregnant, it wouldn’t have been planned either, and I’m not sure how Wells would handle that.
I hate the idea of getting married because of it. That’s not how I’d want things to go.
“Are you warning me?” I ask.
Eleanor’s expression shifts, something almost like regret.
“No. I’m...” She pauses, choosing her words, always so careful of what she says.
“I’m telling you that I see you trying. And that I was wrong to make it so hard at the beginning.
” She sets her teacup down and meets my eyes.
“Caldwell is happier than I’ve seen him in years. That matters to me.”
I blink, surprised.
She stands, and I quickly stand with her, still processing what is happening here.
“Mable.” She pauses at the door, giving me a soft smile, not appearing like a queen but a mother. “If you ever want to talk... about any of it, I’m here.”
Then she’s gone, and I’m lingering with the warmth of unexpected kindness.
I check the time. James is probably waiting. I hurry back to the kitchen and grab the sourdough loaf I made yesterday evening while waiting for Wells to get home. I tuck it into a cloth bag.
The archives are waiting. And so am I.