Romancing the Throne Read online

  Why wouldn’t you want in on that?

  “So, do you really think India means to set you two up?” Mum asks. “Surely she was joking.”

  “I don’t know.” I shrug, trying to play it cool. I’m trying to keep my hopes in check, since boys like Edward tend to only date girls like India—the upper-class kids like to swim in the same pond, recycling the same few options over and over. “I guess we’ll find out.”

  “It’s incredibly exciting,” Libby says magnanimously, reaching over to squeeze my hand.

  I poke Libby in the ribs playfully before picking up my phone again. “Right? It’s huge. He’s very private. Not just anybody gets to hang out with him.”

  “Nana’s going to lose her mind. Have you told her, Mum?”

  “I may have mentioned in passing that you were going to a house party he would be at . . .”

  “Ha! I bet the two of you had a forty-five-minute conversation all about it,” Libby says. “Where she immediately decided they would become a couple, started daydreaming about a spring wedding, and plotted out exactly what she’d say to the King and Queen when she met them.”

  “Ugh,” I say. “No pressure or anything.”

  Mum laughs. “Guilty.” The wineglass rapidly empties. “Nana kept repeating the importance of her rules.”

  “Oh, God, Nana’s Rules for Dating,” I groan. “How many times did you have to hear that when you were growing up?”

  “You’re better off not knowing.”

  “Rule Number One,” repeats Libby. “Never let a boy know you like him.”

  “Rule Number Two,” I say. “Always play hard to get.”

  “Rule Number Three. Let him see you surrounded by other gentlemen,” she counters.

  “Rule Number Four. Don’t give away the milk for free,” I laugh.

  “Because women are cows, and barnyard metaphors are so progressive,” Libby says, shaking her head. “She’s so special.”

  “She’s truly from a different time,” Mum says. “Can you imagine what a nightmare it was trying to date with all that rubbish in my head?”

  “As long as Lotte doesn’t compromise her goals,” says Libby, suddenly serious. She looks at me. “This is a big year for you. You need to keep your marks up and focus on hockey, too. You’re so great at it—you could get a scholarship! Don’t get distracted by boys.”

  “Oh ye of little faith. Like I can’t juggle boys and books?”

  “Yeah, but he’s not a normal boy—he’s a prince.”

  “Whatever. Tom-ay-to, tom-ah-to.”

  She rolls her eyes, smiling at me. “Well, then, promise me one thing: Treat him like any other guy, okay?”

  “Relax,” I say. “I’m a big girl. I can handle myself just fine.”

  “I know you can.” She’s silent for a second, and then breaks out into a grin. “And if you can’t, your big sister will be your attack dog.”

  “Atta girl!”

  We each kiss our index finger twice, holding them out until they touch.

  “Are you two still doing that?” Mum asks, looking amused. “I haven’t seen you do that in years.”

  When Libby and I were little, our absolute favorite movie was E.T. We’d re-create the scene where Elliott and E.T. bike through town, with Libby wearing one of Dad’s red zip-up sweatshirts and me sitting in a milk crate on the floor of our cramped living room or our shared bedroom. We loved the scene when E.T. touched Elliott with his glowing finger, and over the years, it morphed into our own private thing. Whenever we do it, it’s an instant code reminding us that we always have each other’s backs.

  “Sisters forever,” we say together.

  Mum beams with pride. “My little girls. You’ve grown up so fast.”

  two

  “I’m so chuffed you’re here, Lotte,” India says, hugging me as I get off the train in Gloucestershire. She holds me at arm’s length, looking me up and down. “You look wonderful. You’ve clearly been in the sun.”

  India is tall and willowy, with the sort of quiet confidence I can only dream of. I’ve tried to mimic her graceful, glacial movements, and I end up feeling like a stiff robot. But somehow, on India, all the poise and maturity totally works. She has the bearing of an old-world empress trapped in an English teenager’s body.

  “Here, let me help with that.” India reaches out and grabs my mum’s Louis Vuitton duffel bag, carrying it to her dusty VW Golf. “We’re going to have the best time tonight. Flossie, Alice, and Tarquin are already here, and there’s another group driving in from Tetbury before dinner. Mummy and Daddy are in Honkers, and my grandparents have promised to make themselves disappear. We’ll have the place to ourselves.” Her low voice is always scratchy, husky—as if she’s smoked an entire pack of cigarettes.

  “Honkers?”

  After three years at Sussex Park, surrounded by kids from the wealthiest families in the world, there are times when I still feel like a stranger in a strange land. The sharpening of my observation skills while at boarding school would put any private investigator to shame.

  “Hong Kong, darls. You should come next time we go. You’ll love it.” India swishes her waist-length blond hair as she tosses my luggage into the boot of her car. I wince as Mum’s new Louis Vuitton duffel brushes up against a dirty pair of riding boots and a mud-caked saddle.

  This is something I’ve noticed with India’s set. Unlike what you’d expect, new and gleaming is bad. The older, dirtier, and more worn-in something is, the fonder they are of it. It’s not like India’s running around in rags, of course. She favors J Brand skinny jeans, skintight tank tops in every color of the rainbow (which she buys in bulk during London shopping trips to Harrods and Harvey Nichols), and has an arm crowded with trendy bangles, charms, rubber bands, strings, and candy-colored concert wristbands. But during winter, I’ve caught her more than once wearing a cashmere jumper with tiny holes in the elbows or on the collar. My mother would worry about people thinking she was common—when it comes to clothing, the newer and more expensive, the better. India and her friends seem to wear their grandmothers’ ancient hand-me-downs as a badge of pride.

  They’re a paradox, those old-money aristocrats.

  At Sussex Park, money is everywhere—although nobody talks about it for fear of being branded tacky—but only a handful of students are true aristocracy. Boundaries and barriers are almost impossible to cross in the draconian English class system, which fascinates me. India’s set have a certain air about them: a worldly knowingness. They’re courteous and friendly, and they might not call you out for your protocol mistakes—but believe me, they notice.

  After all, only people who know the rules in the first place are allowed to break them.

  Even I think the prospect of Edward dating a regular, non-titled girl like me is very unlikely. Like clings to like—everybody in his crowd is the earl of this or the viscount of that.

  Luckily, India doesn’t seem to care about all that. But still, I have to try harder to fit in—a lot harder.

  “Hong Kong sounds awesome. Although I don’t know how keen my parents will be.”

  “Parents are a damn nuisance,” India says, waving her hands in contempt as she starts the car and sets off toward Huntshire.

  “You’re lucky,” I say. “Your parents never bother you—they’re not a nuisance at all. Mine are always up in my business.” India’s parents rarely come to campus, and when they do, they’re aloof and uninterested. They seem happy to let her run the show.

  “The less involved parents are, the better. They don’t understand us. You have to train them. It’s like boys, really.”

  I laugh. “Speaking of boys . . . who’s coming tonight?”

  She raises an eyebrow at me and smiles. “Plotting your conquests already? Tarquin’s here—although everything out of his mouth is bound to be a complete disaster, as always. Oliver’s on his way as we speak. There’s a group of Eton boys arriving after dinner. And, of course, Edward.”

  “Oh, y
eah? Nice.”

  “You’re as transparent as a plastic bag,” she laughs. “Don’t try to play it cool.”

  I blush. “Fine, you caught me.”

  The first time I ever saw Prince Edward, it was three days into my first year at Sussex Park, when I literally bumped smack into him on the quad while texting Libby.

  “Oh! Are you all right?” he asked.

  I looked up, ready to start offering my apologies. Then I realized the tall boy whose bony chest my forehead had just made contact with was Prince Edward. The Prince Edward.

  Sussex Park had its fair share of royalty and nobility, but most of the princes and princesses were from faraway countries you’d never heard of and couldn’t pronounce—like Djibouti or Tuvalu. Going to school with the future king of England (and Scotland, Northern Ireland, Wales, and the Commonwealth), though, was a very big deal. Edward sightings were still rare on campus. It was rumored that he mostly stayed in his dormitory, only coming out to eat and attend classes.

  “Oh my God!” I said. “It’s you!” The second the words tumbled out of my mouth, I wanted to take them back.

  “Last time I checked,” he said, looking down at his forearm and pulling on the sleeve of his rugby shirt. He was wearing a rucksack and faded trainers. “Yep. Still me.” He smiled at me before continuing on. “Have a great day—see you around!”

  As soon as he’d passed through the stone arches at the south end of the quad, I whipped my phone back out and called Libby. “Oh. My. God. You are not going to believe what just happened.”

  Students tended to stick with classmates in their own year, and like India, Edward was a year older than I was, so our paths rarely crossed. Sometimes he’d smile at me, but I wasn’t convinced he didn’t smile at everybody.

  Of course, now that I’m about to encounter him again today, I can’t help but get excited. It’s three years later, I’m about to turn seventeen, and I’ve got my flirting down to a fine art.

  There will only be a handful of us here tonight—so he has to notice me.

  “Edward will be here in time for dinner. He’s driving in from Cedar Hall.”

  I nod, recognizing the name of his family home from my mum’s issues of Hello! “What’s for dinner tonight?”

  “Nothing special. My grandmother Pidge arranged pizza for us in the garden. Her chefs are off for the night.”

  As we zoom down the narrow A433, I think how, to an untrained eye, these country roads might look similar to the roads near our house in West Sussex. But there’s more of a hush here; the leafy trees shading the road seem greener somehow. It’s as if the scenery knows that the people who live in this part of England expect a higher level of privacy.

  We drive though unspoiled medieval towns, with stone houses dating back hundreds of years. We cross over a shallow river, which trickles through an impossibly quaint village surrounded by thatched cottages. India points out the oldest tree in England, a two-thousand-year-old oak nestled in the grounds of a small church.

  After miles of winding country lanes, we turn off onto a narrow cobbled path where I notice a brown sign. There’s a small house-shaped icon, and the word “Huntshire” painted on it in white letters. We pull up to a back gate. Recognition dawns on a security guard’s face as he waves India through.

  It’s a magnificent place. A narrow brook curves around a muddy building made out of wood. The smooth grass runs alongside a circular lake, where a mirror of still water is lined by a copse of trees.

  We pass the stables and make a sharp right, turning onto a paved driveway leading to the largest house I’ve ever seen.

  I see three sprawling levels of gray stone tethered to the earth in front of us as we pull right up to the front entrance.

  I try to remember all the rules I’ve learned as I’ve slowly made my way into India’s circle.

  I think of Nana: Don’t look too impressed.

  Screw that.

  This is by far the most majestic house I’ve ever seen. The word house doesn’t begin to do it justice.

  “Nice,” I say casually.

  “Yeah.” She shrugs. “It’s home. Well, it’s home until Grandfather dies and Uncle John inherits it and kicks us out.”

  Ah, the peculiarities of the English class system.

  The huge portico on the north front of the house resembles the entrance to a pantheon rather than a family home. I’m expecting an army of butlers and housekeepers to come outside and take our bags, like on Downton Abbey, but India pops the boot open, and the two of us sling our bags over our arms. She walks up to the front door and saunters in like she owns the place.

  “It’s never locked,” she says. “If you make it past the gate, you’re meant to be here.”

  The wide, cavernous entrance hall is decorated with gold paneling everywhere, featuring black-and-white checkered marble floors and several thrusting marble pillars flanking each side. The ceiling is breathtaking, with water lilies carved into the plaster and gold skirting the edges. To the left of the entrance hall is a huge, dusty fireplace. There are a dozen or so lavish-looking hall chairs and a substantial number of ancient-looking artifacts. While the house looks like a hotel on the inside, it’s empty and quiet: No servants bustling around. No reception desk. No one but India and me.

  There’s an imposing oak staircase leading up to the first-floor picture gallery. Tapestries of various sizes depicting medieval kings and queens line the walls, and Romanesque busts on marble columns stand next to each window.

  India trudges up the sweeping staircase and turns left, where large portraits hang proudly. The faded gilt on the frames has the telltale patina of centuries of age—unlike the faux-aged frames my mother is fond of buying. “My ancestors,” she says by way of explanation, gesturing toward canvases as we pass down the hallway. “An assortment of silly Frasers through the years. The first duke, who fought alongside Henry the Fifth in the Battle of Agincourt . . . the fourth duke, who fled to France during the Restoration by posing as a woman under cover of night . . . the ninth duke, who tried to convince the king that American independence would be a fad . . . my great-grandfather, the eleventh duke, who died on the Lusitania a year after inheriting . . . my grandfather, the current duke, who was born in India and still calls Mumbai Bombay.” She makes a frustrated noise. “I don’t know what my family was thinking naming me. Talk about cultural appropriation.”

  “Have you ever thought about changing it?”

  She rolls her eyes. “It’s not worth the grief they’ll give me. My parents are old school, to say the least. I’m still surprised my dad took the lesbian thing on the chin.” India came out to them this summer, texting me furious updates for weeks. “But, you know, they roll with the punches. Keep calm and all that.”

  “Speaking of, where’s your dad’s portrait?”

  “Dad’s the younger son: he doesn’t matter. Uncle John’s portrait will go up after he inherits. He’s panicking over it—claims he doesn’t want the bloody thing and all the pressure that goes with it.”

  “Why doesn’t he just give it up?”

  “He’d need to go to court, it would be a whole thing. Nobody wants that, not even him. Well, maybe my dad, but he’s the only one.”

  “You don’t want your dad to inherit?”

  India squints, looking thoughtful. “Then he’d be on the hook for the whole bloody estate. The pressure of financial upkeep, the stress of letting down generations if you fail—it’s a nightmare. It’s much more trouble than it’s worth.”

  We walk down another passageway wide enough to drive a truck through, where the floor is covered in an ancient-looking maroon, blue, and gold weave. Dusty gilt-edged mirrors and battered wooden console tables are placed against the sides. The hallway has the musty smell of an old-age home.

  As we turn right into yet another endless hallway, I can’t help myself. “Bloody hell, this place is massive.”

  India laughs. “There are a hundred and fifty-six rooms. My grandfather rents pa
rt of it out for weddings most summer weekends. Brings in good income to keep the place going.” She starts pointing at door after door. “Those are guest quarters . . . more guest quarters . . . that’s a room that hasn’t been used since the 1700s . . . that’s just a loo . . . that’s a staff staircase leading back downstairs.”

  We make another right turn and encounter a parallel hallway in the back of the house. “I used to ride my bike down these hallways. Drove my nanny bonkers,” India says. “That’s a drawing room . . . that’s a staff door leading up to the third floor. This staircase goes down to the kitchen, another one mainly for the staff . . . I don’t know what that room is used for, I think it used to be a ballroom . . . my bedroom is just around that corner.”

  “What about all the rooms on the other side of the house?” I ask.

  “More living quarters. Staff quarters on the third floor of the west wing, some larger guest rooms and a study where my grandfather keeps all his maps and war memorabilia, drawing rooms with pianos, stuff like that. And, of course, their private living quarters back in the east wing.” She points to another door. “That’s Pummy’s room.”