“Give it time,” Tru reassures me. “By the time I get to come, you’ll be a princess.”
“Oh my God, I am not a princess.” That’s ridiculous, but is it? I haven’t really thought about it that way.
“Yet.”
We talk for a few more minutes before we hang up. It’s a lot to unpack, because now I’m wondering if I could be pregnant, why Wells has never talked about the possibility of marriage, and then there’s the whole princess thing. Why is that only now hitting me?
I stare at my phone long after Truly hangs up, the screen dark. Pregnant. She’s pregnant. And I’m... I count backward in my head again. I’m not sure why because I know since I met Wells, I haven’t had a period. We make love every day, and that would have come up by this point. Shit.
“Miss?”
I jump. Mrs. Halloway stands in the doorway, her expression carefully neutral. “Her Majesty is here to see you. In the sunroom.” What? Why? Wells is working.
“Eleanor?” I double-check. But Mrs. Halloway only nods.
“She asked specifically to speak to you. Would you like me to tell her you’re occupied?”
“You’d do that for me?” I give her a smile. She only shrugs, and I know she would without a doubt. “No. No, I’ll come.” I don’t want anyone getting Eleanor’s wrath because of me. I smooth my apron, realizing I’m still wearing it, and pull it over my head. “Just let me wash my hands.” I don’t think there is time to change. It feels wrong to meet a “Majesty” in jeans, but it is what it is. I didn’t know she was coming, and I have plans with a dusty archive room.
I head toward the sunroom. I call it a conservatory. It’s big enough to be one.
Eleanor sits at one of the tables, her posture perfect, holding a teacup.
“Mable.” She motions to the chair across from her. “Please. Sit.”
“Mrs. Halloway said you wanted to see me.” I feel nervous, like a kid that’s been called to the principal’s office, which has never ever happened to me in my life, but I’m guessing this inner panic is on par.
“You’ve been helping with the land issue.” It’s not a question, but still I nod. “You’ve been spending a considerable amount of time in the archives. Mrs. Pembroke tells me you’ve made significant progress organizing the uncatalogued materials.”
“I mean, I’m happy to help. It’s interesting work.” Only people who love to research understand the passion. I have always had this need to absorb all information.
“Yes.” Eleanor sips her tea. “The land dispute has consumed my son’s attention for weeks. Your contribution frees him to handle matters only he can address.”
She sets the cup down, precise, silent. “You’ve been well-received, Mable. The staff adores you. The dress shop incident—that was genuine goodwill, not calculation. People respond to authenticity.”
“Thank you.” I don’t know what else to say. The praise feels like a prelude. The hammer is about to drop.
“But.” She holds up one finger, and I brace myself. “I wonder if you understand what you’re committing to. Research in archives, staff affection, and favorable press—these are the pleasant parts. The parts that feel like success.”
“I know there’s more.” I think of the security motorcade, the gates, and the flags. “The protocols, the scrutiny?—”
“Yes. All of that.” Eleanor leans forward slightly, and I see something unexpected in her face. Not coldness. Concern. “But also the waiting. The uncertainty. The life where your schedule is never your own, where your body is discussed in newspapers, where your children—” She stops. Her jaw tightens.
“Your children?” I repeat, and my voice sounds strange in my own ears.
“I was not born into this.” She says it quietly, almost to herself. “I met Caldwell’s father, and I loved him before I understood what he was. What I would become. And then I was pregnant, and there was no time to reconsider. I didn’t have space to even consider if I wanted this, if I wanted my children to have it too.”
She meets my eyes, and I see the younger woman she described, uncertain and I’m sure overwhelmed. The room feels too warm. I think of Truly, glowing with a wanted pregnancy. If I am pregnant, it wouldn’t have been planned either, and I’m not sure how Wells would handle that. I hate the idea of getting married because of it. That’s not how I’d want things to go.
“Are you warning me?” I ask.
Eleanor’s expression shifts, something almost like regret. “No. I’m...” She pauses, choosing her words, always so careful of what she says. “I’m telling you that I see you trying. And that I was wrong to make it so hard at the beginning.” She sets herteacup down and meets my eyes. “Caldwell is happier than I’ve seen him in years. That matters to me.”
I blink, surprised.
She stands, and I quickly stand with her, still processing what is happening here.
“Mable.” She pauses at the door, giving me a soft smile, not appearing like a queen but a mother. “If you ever want to talk... about any of it, I’m here.”
