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He can't undo our marriage. He won't tear down the farm. But…he could be a real asshole to her.
We step into the room, and I look around trying to imagine how it looks to Abigail.
It looks like a typical office to me, but I know that isn't true.
There’s nothing corporate about it. It’s actually warm and comfortable. Despite the various uncomfortable conversations I’ve had in here.
The ceilings are high, the room is enormous, and the artwork on the walls is worth millions of dollars. But the colors are warm, the golden light from the lamps is soft, the furniture is welcoming, and the man behind the desk does actually look like a grandfather.
He has white hair peppered with a little gray. He has a short beard. He's wearing a button-down shirt and trousers like mine. His tie has been discarded, his suit jacket is hung over the back of his chair, and his shirtsleeves are rolled up.
He doesn't look his age. He could easily pass for ten years younger, but when he looks up, he looks tired.
"Grandfather," I say simply.
He sits back in his chair and motions us forward. I escort Abigail to one of the chairs and wait for her to take a seat. I pull the other chair closer to hers, then I sit, taking her hand.
"Grandfather, this is Abigail. Abigail, this is my grandfather, Diarmuid O'Grady."
"It's nice to meet you, Your Majesty." Abigail looks between him and me with a questioning look.
"You only have to address him by his title when we’re in public. Behind closed doors, we’re family. You can call him Diarmuid." I look at my grandfather for backup. That's always how it's been for all of us.
When we were young children, we called him grandfather. Even in public. It was actually endearing to the people. As we got older, we called him King Diarmuid or Your Majesty when we were in front of other dignitaries. But even with family, friends, and even more professional acquaintances in casual settings, we would call him Grandfather.
He gives a short nod. "That's fine, of course, Abigail."
"Most people call me Abi," she says easily.
"And are you pregnant?”
I whip my head to look at him. "Excuse me?"
Abigail squeezes my hand. "That's actually a fair question. I mean we got married, rather suddenly as far as he's concerned. The first time he meets me, we’ve already had a wedding."
My grandfather has clasped his hands together and is resting them on his flat stomach. He's just watching her.
She faces him. "I'm not."
I actually squeeze her hand harder without meaning to. Children. That’s not something we’ve discussed. Of course not. Abigail only intends to stay for a year.
"Well,” Diarmuid says. “I want to assure you that I'm very fond of Saoirse, Fiona's daughter. So no pressure on you."
My brows slam together. "What the hell?"
Abigail puts a hand on my thigh and squeezes. "Actually, that's very nice to know," she tells my grandfather. “I've met Saoirse several times. She's delightful. I can see why you're fond of her.”
I study Abigail’s face. She seems perfectly calm and composed. The subject of who will sit on the throne after me doesn’t seem to ruffle her.
Of course not. That’s well past the terms of your agreement.
I ignore that voice and work on looking as relaxed as she does.
“But I guess it's good to know we have what…six years?” Abigail asks. “We can wait until Saoirse is eighteen and makes the decision for herself? Then if she’s in, we can decide if we’re really into the parenthood thing or not?”
I look at her quickly. And I can immediately tell that Abigail is being completely sarcastic. But I wonder if my grandfather can tell. And if so, what he thinks of that.
Diarmuid is studying her closely. "Good thing you’re only twenty-three.”
