Chapter 9 #2
What was she doing? Rule number one of the House of Blue: Political opinions are never discussed in the public square—which in this case was quickly gathering a larger crowd.
“Old-fashioned. Out of style,” Fickle declared. “We know now, thanks to America, what a constitutional republic looks like. We don’t need a ruling class to—”
“Come now, Hamish, don’t throw the baby out with the bath water,” said Lord Sanzenbacher, whose family had held a Senate seat since the sixteenth century. “The American government isn’t perfect, is it, Lady Royal?”
“Lord Sanzenbacher,” Fickle said with a grin. “We must toss out the baby. She’s all wrinkled. Been too long in the water.”
“Hasn’t the queen done a good job of leading Lauchtenland into the twenty-first century?” Scottie said as Michael shoved in next to her. “She’s not in the way of progress. She’s leading it.”
The group chuckled their assent, and Fickle turned to Michael. “Did you bring Lady Royal here to campaign for her mother’s causes, Cross?”
“No, he didn’t. He’s probably thinking I should keep my fat yap shut.” Scottie’s comment earned a laugh. “I’m just curious about your animosity toward such an ancient family. Believe me, America has its problems. No government is perfect.”
“Quite right,” Hamish said. “But we’d rather have a balance—preventing governments from confiscating property and money without a citizen’s say.”
“Come now, Fickle.” Sanzenbacher again, one hand on his wide girth, the other barely holding his flute of champagne. “We have laws to prevent any overreach.”
“Are you talking about the Midlands?” Scottie said. “With Reingard and Eloise?”
“Perhaps.” MP Fickle looked impressed. “What do you know about—”
“All right, ladies and gentlemen,” Michael interjected, sweeping his left arm wide to make a path. “We’re at a party. A celebration. Have you been to the savories tent? I can smell the aroma of roasting meat from here.”
Gently, he moved Scottie toward the savories, giving himself ten seconds to calm down. He made it to eight before speaking. “Talking politics as a member of the House of Blue is madness. It will start a firestorm for days, if not weeks. You may have sunk your entire trip.”
“Calm down,” she said, pure American assuredness in her tone. “Hamish Fickle started it.”
“He baited you. Hook, line, and sinker. He’s craftier than the serpent in the garden who talked Eve into damning all humanity over a stinking apple. If you’re going to skewer all mankind, do it for a nice steak with potatoes and warm buttered bread. Add a nice merlot and sweet pudding.”
He grabbed a plate and linen napkin roll. “Beef and lamb, please,” he said to the man behind the rotisserie skewer.
“I was only asking questions.” Scottie took up a plate. “I’ll have the same. Michael, don’t let him scare you.”
“I will let him, because he has power. Because he can say what he wants to the press while the Family smiles and remains quiet. Just like they said nothing to contradict Mrs. Johansdotter. Scottie, if we’re going to survive the next six weeks, you must listen to me.
I know our countrymen, the House of Blue, and the political landscape because I’ve studied our culture and laws since I was a boy. I also know MP Hamish Fickle.”
“Fine, but you can’t just expect me to stand there and smile when he says crazy stuff like abolishing the monarchy.”
“Yes, I can, and you must. The Blues have perfected the art of silence when it comes to their detractors.”
“I find it curious no one in the Family knows why he hates them. I asked John about the anti-monarchist movement last Christmas, and he said he’d never spoken to Hamish Fickle about this bee in his bonnet or why he created the Renaissance Coalition.
It’s one thing to want a different government.
It’s another to denigrate a millennium of history and the Family carrying it on their backs. ”
“Hamish Fickle denigrates anyone in power not under his thumb. Here—” Michael motioned her forward. “—there’s a table over there.”
“I just think someone should talk to him.” Scottie sat across from him, her plate loaded with meat, vegetables, and buttery bread.
With a sigh, she took in her surroundings—the tents, the lights, the music, the crowning gold of the western sun.
“Sorry if I caused trouble.” When she looked at him, regret hung in her eyes.
“No, lass, you didn’t. It’s just…you’re in my charge. Should anything happen to you—”
“Nothing will happen. I’m not a threat. I’ll be gone before anyone can formulate a plan to take me out.” She grinned and sipped her champagne. “Now tell me, why is such a posh event being held outside?”
“It’s a Pratt family thing. Get gussied up, then have a picnic.
People love it.” Michael sat back, releasing the air of tension in his chest. “I understand your curiosity about Hamish.” Scottie challenged the norms, and he admired her for it.
“If there’s any aftermath from your conversation with him, we’ll face it together.
But just know, he will not come to your side.
Or the royal family’s. He’s anti-monarch.
” He speared the air with his knife. “However, tonight we are to have a jolly time while we celebrate my grandparents’ wedded bliss.
If I married tomorrow, I’d have to be a hundred and five to enjoy sixty-five years. ”
“Here’s to wedded bliss.” Scottie tapped her glass to his. “May it not pass us by.”
Michael caught her gaze and held it a moment, then tipped his flute. Indeed. May it not pass them by.
Little by little, old friends and family members came round, excited to see him, thrilled to meet Lady Royal, politely snapping selfies and moving on. He relaxed and embraced this grand family reunion.
He’d just returned to their table with two large slices of chocolate cake and a side of cream when the band under the music tent struck up a tune from his grandparents’ day. The dance floor instantly filled.
“Mick, you made it.” Piers slapped him on the back, then nodded at Scottie. “Lady Royal, lovely to meet you. I’m Mick’s old football mate, Piers Hollings.”
“Also known as Lord Atterbery,” Michael said.
Scottie shook his hand. “It’s good to know Mick has an old mate. He seems like a recluse to me.”
Piers laughed. “He’s been ignoring us ever since—” He sobered, stopping himself, then recovered. “Anyway, I’m trying to get him back on the pitch with me. He’s an amazing player and coach.”
“You know Mum’s angling to get him working for Pratt.” Evan came from among the guests and leaned in. “She’ll sponsor a youth club, Mick.”
“Yes, but I’ll be too busy working to take part.”
He let Scottie manage the conversation from there. She asked natural questions, speaking as if she belonged among this crowd—with him—filling the hollow crater he’d been carrying round the last year and a half.
A trumpeter blasted a note of celebration, and the caterer wheeled an exquisite, four-tiered anniversary cake with cream icing and chocolate flowers toward Granddad and Granny. The band singer launched into an old Lauchten love song:
Years may come and go
but your hand will always be in mine.
From the first moment I saw you,
my future unfurled and I knew…
You’d be my past and present too.
Michael rose to cheer and applaud, his attention glued to Granddad as he lovingly danced with Granny.
Purnell loved this song. They were to dance to it at their wedding. An ache, a longing for her, wrapped round him, and that’s when he remembered—by this time, they’d likely have been holding a child of their own.
The music faded and someone shouted, “Hip, hip, hooray!”
Granny raised the knife to cut the cake as Granddad’s friends shouted corny jokes. Then, tenderly, they shared a bite with one another.
Granddad took the microphone to thank everyone for coming.
“But the night is not over. We’ve plenty to eat, and the band will be here until carriages at midnight.
” More cheers. “Odessa and I want to thank our children, Jeanette, Jacqueline, and Harry Jr. You made us a family, and we love you and all the beautiful grandchildren and great-grandchildren. Odessa, I’m good for another sixty-five. ”
“I’m all yours, Harry. All yours.”
Under the applause and whistles, and the sight of his eighty-something grandparents loving each other, Michael saw the life he’d lost when Purnell died. An infection. Sepsis. How utterly unreal. Stupid and senseless.
“Excuse me,” he said, heading off, pausing by the burly, dark-suited man standing at attention by the tent pole to give a command. “Please, keep an eye on Lady Royal.”