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I really could stay with him forever, Ben thought.
But could he stay in this palace forever? In this regimented, artificial life? That, Ben still didn't know. The very idea made him restless and unhappy; things were better for him in public life, but better wasn't the same as good.
Then he remembered everything James had said today about the regency's end and his inability to survive a likely challenge by the Church. Before, Ben had been too stunned by the news and too angered by the homophobia to even get to his own feelings about James leaving the succession, the palace, all of it, forever.
As he lay there considering it, James dozing next to him, Ben felt the first flickers of what could only be called hope.
***
James knew his best hope of avoiding a challenge from the Church lay in extending the regency. The longer he held power, the more accustomed people would be to his sexuality, and the more dramatic a step it would be for the Archbishop of Canterbury to ask him to stand down. The Church of England, being very English, tended to avoid drama. It was scary to have to rely on discretion more than virtue, but there you had it.
But the call came only two days later, on Thursday morning.
James brought Kimberley and Ben along to Buckingham Palace for support: tactical in Kimberley's case, moral in Ben's. However, as the king was "unfit for company," as Richard put it, Ben was forced to remain downstairs. The rudeness of that set James even more on edge, but he held his tongue while Ben gave him a look that clearly meant save your ammunition.
So four of them took the ancient, creaking elevator to the third floor in deeply awkward silence: James, Kimberley, Richard, and the king's personal physician. Mostly James pitied poor Dr. Okenedo, who clearly wanted to say something but had no idea what. Kimberley remained at James's side, as slim and sharp as a folded switchblade. He tried to call upon fond memories of the king, the memories in which he was truly a grandfather, but there were so few of these. His father's deviations from tradition had estranged Prince Edmund from the king before James was even born. Only his earliest childhood recollections were free of tension and strain, and those probably only because he'd been too young to pick up on anything unspoken.
Finally they entered the king's study. This was a typically grand and cavernous space, complete with 18th century gilding and cherubs on the high ceiling. An enormous, ornate desk piled high with papers (but no computer) sat in pride of place, but the king instead sat on a chaise longue nearer the door. He wore a bathrobe over striped pajamas and held a large-print copy of some magazine or other in his shaking hands. It seemed to James that he'd physically shrunk since they'd last met; there was nothing left of the terrifyingly cold figure he'd always known before. This was just an old man, small and weak, for whom it was impossible to feel anything but compassion.
"Grandfather," James said softly. He squatted by the king's side, the better to take his hand. "It's good to see you."
The king's milky eyes slowly focused on James. He stared for a long second, then said, "They tell me you're a poofter."
So much for sentimentality. James rose, only barely managing not to roll his eyes. "Back to your old self, I see."
"Some men turn out that way, it's true," the king said to the room, oblivious to James's reaction. "I blame public schools. Yes, it's the public schools that do it. They're churning out sodomites. Now, where's my tea? Wasn't someone supposed to get me my tea?" The king grabbed his cane and thumped it on the floor.
Dr. Okenedo busied himself calming the king while James turned to go. Kimberley fell in step beside him--but so did Richard, who said, "Obviously, he's himself again."
"Yes, that rapier mind has again been unsheathed," James replied. "I suppose you'll be setting up a meeting with the appropriate officials?"
Richard's glow of self-satisfaction was hot enough to sear. "It's already set. They'll be here in about"--he made a show of checking his watch--"forty-five minutes."
Richard throwing James's old joke back at him felt like a slap in the face, one that truly stung, because it was the only one of these humiliations that he deserved.
Kimberley stepped in, smooth as ever. "When can we expect an announcement?"
"They'll make the decision tomorrow, but said it would be unseemly to rush it through before the weekend," Richard sniffed. Obviously he'd tried to move faster. "The announcement will be Monday morning, the transfer of power in the afternoon."
"Very well," James said, working to match Kimberley's businesslike example. "I assume the king will not be taking on anything like a regular schedule of appearances. Of course I'm happy to continue to do my part, but they may wish to distribute some events differently. If his team needs to meet with mine to work that out, we are of course at their disposal."
Far be it from Richard to allow a simple retreat with good grace. He stepped closer. "You will of course need to make time next week for another meeting. I've already alerted the Archbishop of Canterbury. He thinks we should all speak as soon as possible. Tuesday would be best."
You couldn't let it rest one goddamned day, could you, Richard? But James held on to his temper. "Ms. Tseng will be in touch to set something up."
Although Richard was clearly disappointed not to have gotten a rise out of James, he seemed to realize he had to let it go. He smiled thinly and said, "Enjoy your weekend."
Your last as heir to the throne didn't even need to be said.
***
After James and Kimberley went upstairs, Ben was shown into a sitting room and offered tea. He didn't particularly want any, but drinking a cup would be something to do, so he said yes. Then he was alone in the vast cold, ornate room, staring up at various oil portraits of long-dead ancestors, none of whom would have had the slightest idea what to do with him.
This forbidding environment was one James had been expected to submit to since he was a small child. No wonder James had controlled himself so harshly. No wonder he still found it difficult to express emotions he thought others might disapprove of.
An enormous side door swung open, and Ben turned, expecting a servant with his tea. Instead, in walked the queen of England.
"Your Majesty," he said, rising to his feet.
"Mr. Dahan. I understand my son ordered you left behind here. He has never understood that propriety should not supersede courtesy. Please be seated."
Had this been a show of friendliness, Ben would have been astonished, but the queen remained as frosty as ever. She simply felt that things had not been done properly, he realized, and she wished to amend that. He sat, trying to think of something absolutely safe to say. "It's good to know your husband has recovered, ma'am."
She gave him a look that would have turned the Sahara to snow. "Do you refer to the king?"
Personal terms were forbidden, of course; Kimberley had briefed him on all this, but there were so many stupid rules to remember. What the fuck, he decided. "Unless you have another husband hidden upstairs, ma'am."
The queen didn't find his comment amusing--but it didn't anger her, either. She seemed to appreciate a bit of pushback, and Ben figured almost no one else ever provided it. "I can't imagine you're pleased about the latest developments. James will no longer be Prince Regent."
"I understand this is how these things work, ma'am." And if I could actually get him out of this mess you call a family, you have no idea how happy I'd be.
"As long as we're speaking, perhaps you could settle a question I've been thinking about for a while." She took her own seat across from him, upright in an ornately carved chair, dressed in her usual severe dark colors. Ben remembered a drag queen he'd seen doing his Queen Louisa routine--far more accurately than he'd realized at the time--and had to fight not to laugh. She continued, "Why have you been so little seen until recently?"
This wasn't her being supportive; her gaze remained utterly cool. Ben ventured, "I realized that life with James meant life in the public eye. I would avoid that if I could, but I can't, so I've adjusted a
ccordingly. Ma'am."
"But if you wished to avoid publicity, why take up with James in the first place?"
The "first place" had mostly been about James's red mouth, which was not a subject Ben intended to raise in Buckingham Palace. "Your Majesty, I love James despite his position, not because of it."
"Love." The queen pronounced it like it was some fad she was sick of. "Why is love supposed to steer the course of the entire royal family? Why is so much weight put on individual whims? I cannot understand."
If she'd said it meanly, cruelly, Ben would have written her off as an icy old bitch not worth worrying about. But instead she said it with such complete consternation that made him realize she truly didn't get it.
His eyes widened as he remembered the research he'd done back at Global Media, the book he'd read that had led to his most-circulated story since that first one about James.
The one about sociopaths.
They weren't invariably evil, the book had explained. Pop culture made them out to be serial killers, one and all, but the average sociopath never became violent. They were simply people who felt little emotion and rarely empathized with others. They acted for their own benefit, sometimes ruthlessly, and didn't understand why others didn't do the same.
If Ben was any judge, he was looking at one now.
Stop talking to her about emotion. Stick to facts, rules, strategies. Anything that can be put in objective terms. Think in black and white.
"Consider it tactically, Your Majesty," he began. "It's to James's benefit, and to the royal family's benefit, that I love him as much as I do. If I didn't--if I were only in this for publicity, as you might have thought--then I'd have an agenda of my own, ma'am. But I do love James. Therefore, I have no agenda other than his well-being, and by extension, that of the monarchy."
He could see her almost visibly relax as she considered this. Instead of appealing to emotion, he had appealed to her reason, the only kind of argument that made sense to her. For Queen Louisa, he realized, the emotional needs her children and grandchildren expressed would have been only annoying nonsense.
She said, "You must have realized by now that James's interests and those of the monarchy do not precisely intersect."
"They may yet, ma'am." Though I hope not. "At any rate, I know James would never wish to work against the monarchy. I will support him whether he succeeds to the throne or not."
"You don't intend to cause trouble, then?" The queen arched an eyebrow.
"No more than I already have, Your Majesty, and that I couldn't help."
"Those swimsuit photos!" The queen laughed, a sound so extraordinary that Ben almost gaped. "From the looks of things, you have more than enough trouble to go around."
Ben laughed too. She actually had a sense of humor under there--as long as you didn't press her for it. "Your Majesty, I do what I can with what God gave me."
"Ha! And I suppose you couldn't have known to be discreet back then, could you? I would have preferred greater discretion about James's love life, certainly, but it's not as though we'd never heard of homosexuality. We've always had gay servants, of course, and never minded that. It's so very middle-class, to mind it," she confided as a servant finally appeared, tea tray in hands. Ben could see the man's eyes flicking back and forth between the two of them, obviously just as amazed as Ben was that these two were getting along. "Male servants mostly, though it's easier to tell with men, as a general rule. Not that I knew about James, and you're hardly the wispy sort, are you?"
That rankled, but Ben knew better than to let her see his irritation. "We come in all sorts, ma'am."
"So it seems, so it seems."
This was when James and Kimberley reappeared. James looked utterly wrung out, but he managed a smile for his grandmother. "The king seems to be doing very well. You must be delighted."
Again, the queen frowned. She didn't like being talked to about emotions, Ben realized; for her, it was like people insisting on speaking to her in a language she didn't know. "The formalities have been observed. May we leave it at that?"
"We were going to leave," James said, "unless we'd be interrupting the two of you." The look he gave Ben made it clear that he felt they both needed rescuing.
Queen Louisa waved them off, but said, "I'm sure Mr. Dahan and I will speak again soon."
"I look forward to it, Your Majesty." Ben actually meant this. He didn't like her--it wasn't exactly possible to like an ice sculpture--but he thought it would be fascinating to try to understand her.
Normally James would have picked up on this unusual exchange, but he was tense, working his lips in a way that meant he was extremely agitated but fighting to control it. He simply went with them out to the car.
But as they walked, Ben's gaze went from James to Kimberley, who was looking back at him. She gave the smallest shake of her head, and Ben knew the impossible was happening.
James was not only losing the regency, but also the throne.
***
They ate dinner that night in relative silence. James was upset, but not yet able to give voice to it; that felt like a betrayal of the discipline he'd been taught for a lifetime. By now, though, he was past the point of being able to lie about it to himself or to Ben. As he could think of nothing else but not speak what was really on his mind, he mostly stuck to his food. Ben let him do it, giving him the space.
Only when they were getting ready for bed did something crack. As James removed his tie, Ben said, "You're angry."
"I'm upset. Not angry."
"I think you tell yourself that a lot, James. Doesn't make it true. It's me, remember? Go ahead. Let it out. Just say it, for once in your life. You're angry."
"I . . . I guess I am." James felt as though a match had been struck, one that sparked instantly into flame. "I'm angry every friend I had at school had to call me 'sir.' I'm angry that I didn't get to go to graduate school. I'm angry that I own more tuxedoes than pairs of blue jeans. I'm angry that I can count every man I've kissed on one hand." His voice became louder with every word, rising nearly to a shout. "I'm angry that my love for you has cost you so much. But more than anything else, I'm angry that it was all for nothing. Everything my mother gave up for me, everything you gave up for me, everything resembling a normal life that I didn't get to have--it was for the throne. For this role I never got to choose, but dedicated myself to anyway. For Indigo's sake, so I could at least protect her. Now I don't even have that."
Instead of speaking, Ben simply held out his hand. James took it, sinking onto the bed by Ben's side. They sat there with their hands clasped, while James fought to steady his breathing.
Finally he said, "I must sound like a child being forced to give up a favorite toy."
"Not at all. You have a lot, but you've also given up a lot. And you weren't given any choice in the matter."
"I always told myself I didn't resent it. But to have done it all for nothing--"
"It's unfair," Ben said. "I hate the message it sends. Still . . . is it really the worst thing?"
"Richard wins? Homophobia wins? It's bad enough."
Ben shook his head. "I'm talking about after, James. Have you ever considered that from now on your life can go in any direction you want? I've been thinking about this. Yes, you've lost the crown, but maybe you've also lost the chains."
James tried to wrap his mind around it, this wholly unfamiliar idea of after.
Their bedroom door swung open.
Ben startled--he wore nothing but his boxer shorts--and James felt similarly exposed, even though he only had his shirt untucked and open. As the butler walked in, James stood and said, "This is highly irregular, Glover."
"Excuse me, Your Royal Highness." Glover looked genuinely stricken. "I received a call from one of the staff at Kensington Palace with most distressing news and thought you should be informed immediately."
James felt the first stirring of fear. "What is it?"
"Mr. Hartley, the princess's butler, suffered a
heart attack whilst in the course of his duties," Glover said. "I'm sorry to report that he died instantly."
***
They were dressed and in the car to Kensington Palace within five minutes. James tried calling Indigo repeatedly at her latest mobile number--to hell with the phone hackers, if he could reach her now. But she didn't answer.
"Oh God oh God oh God," he kept repeating.
Ben ran his hand up and down James's arm, strokes meant to soothe. "We'll be right there."
"You don't understand. Hartley's one of the three people she counts on most in the world, and the only one who's with her day to day. This is like--like a bomb going off. Destroying the foundation." Not that Indigo's foundation had ever been the strongest.
It took them only moments to get to Kensington Palace. Ben, who had never been there before, was slightly thrown off by the fact that it was in fact a series of royal apartments, each fundamentally separate from the other, but James led him to Indigo's. For one moment he wondered whether Indigo would react poorly to Ben's presence in her private space; she liked Ben but wasn't yet that close to him.
To hell with it, James thought as he bounded up the steps. It's not as if Ben can make things worse. They can't get any worse. She needs me here, and I need Ben.
"Your Royal Highness!" It was Woodley, one of Indigo's maids. Her pale, freckled face was flushed with distress. "Forgive us for not being ready to receive you, sir."
The servants were trying to collect themselves in his presence, though most of them were near tears. On the floor of the foyer was a shattered tea service, tray leaning against one wall, and Hartley's torn necktie. A few strips of plastic lay about--left over from medical equipment, James realized, hurriedly unwrapped.
Woodley said, "He just fell over. Princess Amelia was upstairs, so she didn't see, sir, but she heard the commotion. She ran down to his side. She performed CPR the entire time, Your Royal Highness, brave as anything, but when the ambulance men got here they said there was nothing to be done. His hands--sir, Mr. Hartley's hands were already cold. Her Royal Highness held together best she could until they took him away, but then she ran upstairs and locked her suite and we don't know what to do."
