figuring it was an acceptable white lie. “But I have all these.” I took out the weathered leather journals and brought them back to the Queen, resting them on the gold-painted table to her right. Eleanor picked one up, flipping through it idly, her hands stopping to trace Georgina’s penmanship—exuberant and round. She riffled the pages with her thumb, stopping at random and beginning to read out loud:
Ellie turned twelve today. It was sad really. Grandmummy was an absolute beast. We hardly see her except when she’s angry about something, and today it was Ellie. All through dinner Grandmummy kept saying things like, “Well, it’s clear the throne has to pass to this one,” and, “Since we’ve no other options for succession…” and poor Auntie Inge got so upset that she pretended she had a headache so she could leave. I don’t blame her. It’s not her fault she couldn’t have babies! And it only got worse. After dinner, Grandmummy cleared everyone out except Ellie, but of course I peeked through the door and saw Grandmummy telling Ellie she didn’t hold her fork well, didn’t sit properly, didn’t listen prettily enough, didn’t chew gracefully. (!!) Ellie stared at the floor. “Don’t be weak, on top of it all,” Grandmummy said. “We must toughen you up.” And then she made Ellie put a book on her head and walk back and forth across the room for thirty whole minutes, and Ellie didn’t say a word, she just quietly did it over and over. Mummy wouldn’t do a thing to stop it. I was so cross. El was sobbing in bed later, her neck was so sore. I climbed in and started to rub it for her and she said, “I’m going to fail at this,” and I told her that she won’t because she’s the strongest person I know. I’ve never seen anyone stand there and endure Grandmummy so well. I’d have thrown a tea service at the old bat! Ellie might be the toughest one of all of us. She can do anything. In fact, I
Eleanor stopped and closed the book with a thump. Her left pointer finger tapped the top of her right hand. She said nothing.
“This must be hard for you,” I offered.
“Frederick’s interview is today,” she said, instead. “With the BBC.”
“I know,” I said. “He sequestered himself to get ready for it.”
“You should be there. Both of you,” Eleanor said.
“Is it open to us?”
“My grandmother would have said a true sign of character is when you can weather something completely alone.” She shook her head, standing up and trying to stretch her right side without appearing ungainly. “I’ve done that. He’ll be by himself in front of that camera, but he’ll remember who stood in that room because they were paid to, and who came because they wanted to be there for him.”
“Is this what brought you all the way over here?” I asked.
Eleanor clucked with irritation. “Most people would be thrilled that the Queen showed an interest in their personal health,” she said. “And now I’ve done it. My time is valuable. I shall see myself out. Good day, Rebecca.”
The thick clunk of her heels grew quieter as she descended the stairs. I glanced back at her chair. The journal had fallen onto the floor, as if its work here, too, was done.
* * *
Freddie’s interview was set for that afternoon at Clarence House. One camera, one interviewer, a small handful of questions, and the transaction would be complete: safety and silence in exchange for a scoop. The major British media outlets would all get the footage first, and everyone else would have to chase them.
We were already due at Clarence House for a more formal explication of Marta’s will, so Nick and I sneaking in to support Freddie would be fairly simple. I scooped my hair into a bun, curled a couple of tendrils in the front so it looked less severe, and picked jeans and a blazer—professional, but comfortable, a mix of off duty and on that suited the day’s strange agenda.
Calling our meeting spot at Richard’s residence a “conference room” was an undue compliment to all the hideous ones I’d seen at various workplaces over the years. Its massive mahogany table was surrounded by priceless, mismatched antique chairs with silk-covered seats. The famous unfinished portrait of Queen Eleanor had been rotated out and replaced with a landscape that looked as if it had been stitched together from the work of several different artists