A Royal Romance Page 3

  Beatrice graduated from university with top honours in public policy and management. She had offers from many organizations, but she had always raised money for hospices and those who needed them whilst growing up, and so she chose the relatively small charity Timmy’s and had made herself indispensable.

  “Bea, listen to me,” Danny said with a hard edge to his voice. “We are a small organization, and we are struggling to keep our network of hospices open and properly equipped. You’ve seen the projections—the Queen’s patronage will give us a very high profile nationally, and donations from both big business and people on the street will quadruple.”

  “Maybe organizations like ours and the health care system wouldn’t be struggling if the government didn’t spend millions upon millions supporting the monarchy.”

  “Listen, Bea, I’m only going to say this one more time. You are our regional manager and no one knows all the sites like you do. The Queen has asked to tour every one of our hospices. I’m told the goal of our charity means a lot to her personally. This patronage is like winning the lottery for us, so you will do it, and you will do it with a smile on your face.”

  “Fine, but I strongly disagree with this.” Bea stood and walked angrily towards the office door, the sound of her high heels clattering on the polished floor echoing around the room.

  Just as she had her hand on the door, Danny shouted, “Bea, the Queen will be visiting headquarters tomorrow for a briefing about the tour. Check your mail for a list of royal protocols the palace sent.”

  Bea didn’t look back as she stormed out and slammed the door.

  *

  Queen Georgina heard the crunching sound of boots on gravel and walked to her bedroom window. She saw Major Jock Macalpine of the Pipes and Drums, 1st Battalion, Scots Guards in position under her apartment, in his traditional Royal Stewart tartan kilt, sporran, and black tunic. At precisely nine o’clock, the whining drone of bagpipes began to play, signalling the official start to the monarch’s day, a tradition for two hundred years.

  As he marched up and down below her bedroom window, she saw the other daily morning sight of a palace page, in his red and black livery, walking her dogs. The exuberant black Labrador, Shadow, and Baxter, the boxer, were pulling the young man off his feet.

  Captain Skye Cameron joined her at the window and looked down on the scene.

  “Shadow and Baxter are taking my page for a walk, as usual, it seems,” George said, before returning to finish getting dressed by the bed.

  “Aye, as usual, Your Majesty.”

  George pulled on her black wool jumper over a crisp white shirt and dark blue jeans. She was as casual as she could ever be. “Cammy, I can see your disapproving looks from here.”

  Her personal aide and dresser walked over and started adjusting the collars and cuffs. “Are you sure I can’t interest you in one of your suits? You don’t look half dressed, man.”

  George appraised her look in the mirror and ran her hands through her dark collar-length hair. She was more comfortable in a suit or uniform but was trying to look less intimidating.

  “This is my dressed-down look. You know I’m going to the charity meeting today. It’s an unofficial event, and I want people to be relaxed around me. I’m always either in a suit or uniform, and I think it makes people uptight.”

  Cammy picked up some of George’s discarded clothes and replied, “There’s nothing wrong with being smart, George.”

  “I know, I just want to seem more approachable. I’m still wearing black for Papa’s mourning period. Don’t worry, I’ll be back to normal tomorrow. It’s all right for you, Captain, you get to wear your army uniform every day.”

  Captain Skye Cameron was never out of uniform when working in an official capacity. Her black dress uniform with red peaked cap was always impeccably smart.

  “Don’t you think I’d rather be in my military uniform?”

  Since the King’s death, George’s life had changed overnight. Two days later had come her ascension day. She stood before her privy council, read her ascension declaration, and signed the declaration documents using her new signature: Georgina Regina. Up and down the country, proclamations were read out at all the royal residences.

  Her advisors set the date of the coronation for fourteen months’ time, with the Duke of Norfolk in charge of the preparations. As well as seeing to these official matters, George also had her family to attend to.

  Her brother, Prince Theo, struggled with their father’s death; at twenty he had never been through the death of a close family member, and the day of the state funeral was extremely hard for him and his mother. George didn’t have the option of falling apart, although she had wanted to.

  Life had started to settle into a daily routine of visits, government documents, and state functions, which were all part of being a British constitutional monarch. The overriding feeling she had in her life was loneliness. Everyone deferred to her as Queen, and she had no one to share the burden with.

  Cammy gave her a smack on the arm. “I know you’d rather be aboard ship. How about you tell me what tune the pipes are playing?”

  George smiled. This was a game they played every morning as they listened to the official alarm call. It amused George that this tradition was originally meant to awaken the sovereigns of the past, whereas she herself had already gotten up, been to the gym, and had breakfast. Nevertheless George loved tradition.

  Cammy came back from putting discarded clothes away. “Well? What’s the tune?”

  George closed her eyes and listened carefully. She had been around pipe music all her life, and unlike most people her age, found the sound strangely comforting. “Hmm, has to be a tune from the country of your birth. Glasgow Police Pipers?”

  “Aye, it is that. A real foot tapper.”

  George smiled at her friend and comrade; she could always cheer her melancholy mood. Cammy was as close to a real friend as she could possibly get. She kept all of George’s secrets and did nothing but support her. When George had ascended the throne, she had given Cammy the option of returning to her post in the military police and continuing her career, but ever loyal, her personal aide had chosen to stay at her side.

  Captain Skye Cameron had a more unusual background than the average officer type. Born in Inverness, she was fostered out to a family in Glasgow at age ten. Luckily she was born with a determination to make her life better, and lucky that she placed with the same foster family for all of her high school years. Her foster mother was a teacher and saw in the young Skye Cameron an intelligent and highly motivated young woman.

  With encouragement, she was very successful with her studies and had many options open to her. She attended Sandhurst and passed out as an officer; from there she was assigned to the Royal Military Police regiment and undertook further training as a close protection officer. It was during this training that her superiors singled her out as a candidate for assignment to the then Princess of Wales.

  “So? Do I look ready to face my day?” George asked.

  Cammy raised an eyebrow and said, “You’ll do, George.”

  She gave Cammy a smile and went off to meet with her private secretary and start the business of the day.

  *

  Queen Georgina sat at her desk, ready to work through the red boxes containing the government papers that demanded her attention. This morning there were five of them, and there would be more this afternoon. In a world where almost everyone had moved away from paper, by tradition all her government papers from Number Ten were always printed on paper and locked in the famous government red boxes. Only she and her private secretary had a key to the boxes.

  Having a few minutes before her private secretary arrived, George thought she would have a look at the newspapers. She had already watched the morning news over breakfast, but she still had the papers to read. Her late father had taught George that it was part of her job to read every mainstream daily newspaper, to keep in touch with ordinary people’s co
ncerns and views of the news events of the day. It normally took her all day, grabbing five minutes here and there to read, but she did finish by evening.

  She activated the small computer on her desk and said, “Display Racing Post.” The image of a small newspaper appeared above the computer and she began to flip through. This was her favourite read, as it was about one of her well-loved country pursuits, horses. George owned three stud farms and stables, and she had enlisted the help of her aunt, the Princess Royal, and her daughter Lady Victoria to help her run them.

  There was a knock at the door. “Come.”

  Sir Michael Bradbury entered carrying his tablet, which ran a great deal of George’s life. He had been delighted to stay on and serve her as he had done for her father. The Queen felt it important to have someone as experienced in palace and government matters to help her get used to the job, though George had appointed her own people below Sir Michael, as deputy private secretary and ladies-in-waiting.

  “Good morning, Sir Michael.” She greeted him and minimized the Racing Post.

  “Good morning, Your Majesty. I trust you slept well?”

  “Yes, thank you, Sir Michael,” she lied. The truth was that she had not slept properly since her father’s death. George felt the intense pressure of staying strong for her family and not grieving, not to mention the pressure of being constantly reminded by her advisors and the media, that she was special, she was the first monarch of her kind. George could feel every ounce of expectation lying on her shoulders. Gay groups were championing her, women’s groups and the young; all felt Queen Georgina was their figurehead. And this kept her staring into the darkness most nights.

  “So what’s on the agenda this morning?”

  “Well, Ma’am, as well as your usual government papers and your mail, there is a proposal document from the Duke of Norfolk and the government regarding the coronation celebrations. It has been suggested that given the historic nature of your ascension, the royal family would take part in a river pageant, down the Thames, as some of your ancestors have done at significant points in their reign.”

  George thought about it for a minute and said, “Yes, that sounds like a very nice idea. I will look further into the proposal, but you can indicate to the Duke of Norfolk that I would require community groups and members of the public to have equal share, if not more of the places in the pageant, as the dignitaries. Perhaps each community could nominate some deserving people?”

  “I will intimate that to the duke, Ma’am.” Sir Michael put his tablet in front of the Queen and asked, “Could I ask that you sign these two letters before you attend to your mail and government business? One is your response to the Archbishop of Canterbury, and the other is to the Muslim Council of Britain.”

  George scanned over the first letter and second letter and quickly signed her e-signature.

  “How many letters today?”

  “Your ladies-in-waiting have forwarded one hundred and fifty letters they feel need your immediate attention, Ma’am.”

  Good God, George thought. “The volume seems to increase every day.”

  Hundreds and hundreds of e-mails were sent into Buckingham Palace every day. If the Queen’s ladies-in-waiting could reply on the Queen’s behalf, they would do that, or if the correspondence was about a particular problem, they would refer it on to the Queen’s private secretary’s office, who would then contact the relevant government or local government body who could help the writer. A selection of all the mail was sent to the Queen herself, to give her a flavour of the issues people were facing or if the ladies-in-waiting thought that a certain mail would interest her.

  “Indeed, Ma’am. There seems to be a growing excitement over Your Majesty’s reign.”

  Don’t I know it. I feel every bit of everyone’s expectation. “So it seems. Is there anything else?”

  Sir Michael took back his tablet and checked through the upcoming business. “Oh yes, just to remind you, Ma’am, it’s very likely that the general election result will be clear quite early Wednesday morning, so I would expect Your Majesty would be required to invite the winner to the palace just after lunchtime. Everything is arranged for court to decamp to Buckingham Palace tomorrow.”

  “Very good.” Normally the family would stay in residence at Sandringham until early February, but the previous government had called a snap election, and the winner would need to be received at Buckingham Palace on Wednesday.

  George had decided the whole family would cut their stay short and travel back to London, instead of travelling herself. She felt the family would benefit from having some distance from where her father passed away.

  She sat back in her chair and smiled. “Tell me, Sir Michael. Who is the bookies’ favourite to be meeting with me? The charismatic Labour leader, Boadicea Dixon, or the very sensible, but dull, Conservative leader, Andrew Smith?”

  Sir Michael smiled at the Queen’s betting analogy. “I’m told that, going by the polls, Ms. Bodicea Dixon is the odds-on favourite, Ma’am.”

  Two women at the top of government. Interesting.

  “Well, thank you, Sir Michael, I’ll get on with this mountain of work then.”

  Sir Michael bowed and exited the room. George looked at the pictures of her family sitting on the desk, until her eyes settled on the one of her father wearing Royal Navy dress.

  “Papa? I hope you’re not too disappointed with me so far.” Her eyes went to the large stack of red boxes waiting for her. Real old fashioned paperwork first or mail? George instructed her mail to open. “Open mail folder. Password: Poseidon.”

  An image of a screen appeared. She scanned down the titles of the messages quickly and stopped when she saw one that her ladies-in-waiting had titled Child’s Picture.

  “Open child’s picture.” The child’s drawing then filled the screen; it depicted a rough drawing of herself and the late King in crowns and robes. At the bottom it said, To the Queen. I’m sorry about your daddy. Love, Jessica. Age 8.

  George felt the tears coming to her eyes and a lump to her throat. As usual, though, she gulped the feeling down.

  “Mail off.” The screen disappeared immediately. George used her key on the top red box and pulled out a folder of papers from the Ministry of Defence. Some dry, boring paperwork will be better to start the day with, I think.

  She began working her way through it carefully, signing and approving items as she went. A persistent beep coming from her computer told her she had an incoming call. “Answer. Hello?”

  “George? Have I caught you at a bad moment?” her mother asked.

  “It’s fine, Mama. I’m going through my boxes, but I always have time for you. I wish you would use face call.” George carried on working her way through her papers.

  “Good Lord, no. Who knows who might be with you, and I might not be presentable.”

  George grinned at that thought. She had never known her mother not to be presentable. She was an elegant, beautiful woman and never appeared outside her bedroom without make-up.

  “Mama, you know you’re always beautiful. So how can I be of service this morning?”

  “I wanted to check that you had no engagements this evening. Granny and I thought we should have a private meal together tonight, before we head back to London. Just you, Theo, Granny, and I.” Sofia’s voice cracked with emotion. “I think your Papa would have liked that.”

  George sighed. The extended family had all gone home after the funeral, leaving them to their grief. “Of course I will be there, Mama. I only have a charity meeting this afternoon. I’m taking the helicopter, so I won’t be long. I know a part of you thinks we are abandoning Papa, but I think we’re doing the right thing.”

  “Of course you made the right decision, my darling. Papa always said, after Uncle George died, that keeping busy and getting on with things was the best medicine for grief. You know I’ll always support you and follow your lead. Could you have a word with your brother? He is reluctant to return to art co
llege and public engagements.”

  “Of course I will, Mama. I’ll handle him.”

  “Thank you, my darling. Have a pleasant afternoon.”

  “Goodbye, Mama.”

  George sat back in her chair and looked at her father’s picture. Everything was a blur after the late King died. Duty and performing those duties kicked in straight away, without any time for grieving or taking stock. She thought back to her ascension day.

  George had met with her privy counsellors and read and signed the declaration, before watching as it was read to the gathering public outside.

  Whereas it has pleased Almighty God to call to his mercy our late Sovereign Lord King Edward XI, of blessed and glorious memory, by whose decease the Crown is solely and rightfully come to the high and mighty Princess Georgina Mary Edwina Louise.

  We, therefore, the Lords Spiritual and Temporal of the Realm, being assisted with these His late Majesty’s Privy Council, with representatives of other members of the Commonwealth, with other principal gentlemen of quality, with the Lord Mayor, Aldermen, and Citizens of London, do now hereby with one voice and consent of tongue and heart publish and proclaim, that the high and mighty Princess Georgina Mary Edwina Louise is now, by the death of our late Sovereign of happy memory, become Queen Georgina by the grace of God, Queen of the realm, and her other realms and territories, Head of the Commonwealth, Defender of Faiths, to whom her lieges do acknowledge all faith, and constant obedience with hearty and humble affection, beseeching God by whom Kings and Queens do reign, to bless the Royal Princess, Georgina, with long and happy years to reign over us.

  God save the Queen.

  As the proclamation was read, George could have sworn she heard the gilded cage door shut and locked.