“Eleanor, it’s gorgeous. I couldn’t possibly take it.”
“Nonsense. It matches your ring,” Eleanor said. “Besides, you brought a great deal of amusement to my mother’s life over the last few years.”
“That’s a diplomatic way to put it.”
Eleanor smiled. “You may remember that I am a master of diplomacy, Rebecca,” she said. “Wear it to the service. We’ll leak to the press that it was bequeathed to you, which will give you a boost with the public. That is a gift, too.”
“Thank you. I’m touched. Really,” I said, lifting the brooch out of its box. It glimmered in the light. “It turns out I am becoming a jewelry person after all.”
“Of course you are,” Eleanor said. “The only people who think they aren’t are the ones who’ve never worn really good jewels.”
We both turned and looked at the chair Marta had favored, all those days and nights by her daughter’s bedside. Her iPhone charger was still plugged into the wall.
“It has been quite a year,” Eleanor said, sounding resigned. “Perhaps the building will burn down next.”
Back in Westminster Abbey, I glanced down at the brooch, which I’d pinned to my lapel. I had awoken with my stomach in knots, and I was comforted by the sight of the gems twinkling back at me in the dim December light that wafted through the church windows. Freddie, Nick, and I took our seats in the second row, with me directly behind where Eleanor would end up, and right in front of King Hendrik-Alexander and Queen Lucretia and Daphne, the last of whom leaned forward to squeeze Freddie’s shoulder when we took our seats.
Custom held that Eleanor was meant to lead the family procession into the church, but she’d made an edit. Instead, she was the last to enter, walking up the aisle alone, ensuring that all 4,400 eyes in the church—and the millions watching the service from home—would be on her.
It was a masterful performance. Eleanor’s stride was appropriately slow, yet assured. Only those in the know would recognize her slightly clenched fists as a sign she was stilling herself, trying to ensure no one spotted the disproportionate weakness that remained in her right side. Her back was ramrod straight, her face under her black hat relaxed but serious. I couldn’t imagine the effort it took—the sheer amount of careful self-control. The curtsies and bows from the rest of the guests rolled from the back of the church to the front, following her like a slow-motion version of the wave. It must have looked spectacular from the overhead cameras.
Unexpectedly, Eleanor stopped right in front of me, putting a hand to her chest in a show of emotion and then dabbing at her eyes. I looked up to see her staring at me very hard, and saw in the tilt of her head a suggestion that I should stand and take her arm. Nick nudged me with his leg and I shot up out of my seat, feeling the heat of Richard’s glare on my face as I—the interloper, and not him—walked her the rest of the way to Marta’s casket.
Behind us, someone sneezed. The ensuing echo gave me a little cover.
“Are you okay?” I murmured, trying not to move my lips.
“Tired,” was all she said through a motionless mouth.
I said nothing more. While Eleanor’s grief was real, I realized it also gave her a convenient excuse to have a steady arm escorting her the rest of the way. And so I led her to Marta, where she placed her posy next to her mother’s crown and leaned toward the coffin.
“I’ll never forget,” she whispered. And then, so subtly that I almost missed it: “But I’ll never forgive, either.”
When she turned to me a second later, it was gone, her face the picture of dignified sadness once more. I took her back to her seat to commence the final farewell, but didn’t hear a word of the service over my own racing thoughts.
* * *
“It’s lovely to see you, but I’m sorry it’s under these sad circumstances,” Daphne said to me and Nick later, during the post-funeral reception. We were in the Blue Drawing Room at Buckingham Palace, and I was perched on the world’s most uncomfortable silk settee and thinking about whether or not I needed to throw up. My constant need to barf had tapered, but I hadn’t felt right since Eleanor’s salty final salute to her mother—something I wasn’t entirely sure she knew I’d overheard.