Chapter 19

May 1st - The Forces Gather In one sense tomorrow was never to come. Later that day, I was to wonder if we’d ever be the same lovers who’d last said goodnight outside the Parsonage’s door.

In the middle of the night, I awoke from troubled dreams and sat up in bed, raking a hand through my hair. Yawning, I switched on the bedside lamp. Mellow light filled the room, but monsters still hid in the dark recesses of the red velvet canopy. In the dream, I was in the King’s office preparing for my speech—not the one I’d written for the ship christening but for the renunciation of my right of succession. I flipped to the other side of the bed, closing my eyes and covering my head with a pillow. Last night’s conversation with my sister replayed in my sleep-muddled thoughts.

No point trying to sleep. As I climbed from bed, the rococo clock struck three times. I wandered across the chill wooden floor to the hearth. A servant had laid a fire. I struck a long match and soon the scent of Applewood was alive with dancing flames.

“Damn,” I struck the mantel. “I won’t do it.”

I wouldn’t forsake, could not justify abandoning, a throne for which I’d been trained all my life. Royalty was my birthright and my profession. Yet it might come to that if it meant leaving Ginny at the altar. In effect, she lied to me. My heart shrank at the thought, the feeling worse than pain. There was only one reason she would have lied. She was afraid I’d leave her.

The opposition had raised religious, legal, political, and moral objections.

With my thoughts circling like birds of prey, I flopped onto a chair in front of the fire and stared into the flames. My choices weren’t between bad and worse. I had no choice. As I stared blankly into the flames, I felt nothing but an abiding exhaustion. This must be how Edward VIII of England had felt on the eve of his Abdication Speech on December 11, 1936.

I rose, dragged my feet across the floor, and sat down at my desk to write my Renunciation Notices.

***

Later that Day Though the morning headlines had dramatized our love affair, it was a personal attack that brought home how hopelessly romantic I’d been to think I could wed Ginny under my own terms.

At ten, she phoned, but I was in conference with the King. Our love had tossed Desjardins onto a stormy sea. The receptionist took a message from Ginny, but I had an interview with a new kid on the block, a young prince from Saudi Arabia, and didn’t have time to ring her. During our meeting, the prince peered at me from behind his judgmental black eyes. No doubt he, like the rest of the world, had read this morning’s damning headlines. “Is Princess Ginny a Baby Killer?” seemed mild in comparison.

Moment to moment, I grew angrier and was having difficulty concentrating. All I could think of was Ginny—not as a headline on the front of a newspaper but the first time I’d seen her at the accident. She was just as much a victim now. People were making her into a monster. Even though she’d lied to me by omission, I believed in her. But why had she failed to tell me? That hurt more deeply than anything else.

Finally, at noon, I was alone and could return her call. Which presented yet another problem. I needed to discuss this heartbreak with her in person. The intercom buzzed interrupting my dark thoughts. I cursed under my breath when I saw my mother’s extension spool across the screen.

I blew out a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding. “Good afternoon, maman. How is Monday treating you?” Yes, I sounded cheerful. I was now in the running for an Academy Award as this year’s best actor.

“Son, if you’re free, I’d like to see you for a few minutes.” I’d rather have had a root canal, but I must let her have her say—not that I would necessarily act upon her suggestions.

The next time Ginny rang, I was closeted with my mother who told me pointedly that Ginny was unfit to be queen because while she was seeing me, she was also involved with no less than the All-American Boy I’d noticed in earlier photographs of the ambassador and Ginny. At the time, I’d learned he was a law student friend of Chrissy’s, also summering in Desjardins, occasionally doing a little legwork for John. He’d returned to America two weeks ago. Case dismissed.

Though this is how I summarized it in the journal I’d decided to keep, the meeting with my mother was nowhere near easy on the emotions. During all this time, I tried not to be angry and hurt at Ginny, but it was a blow to the heart as well as humiliating that I, her husband-to-be, didn’t know she’d had an abortion. Each time I wondered why she’d lied to me, a little more resentment mingled with the damage.

***

In a dark mood, I returned to my office. Yesterday, my assistant had asked me if I’d hold an audience with the Minister of Government, and I’d reluctantly agreed. In retrospect, the impending visit was probably to blame for the dreams and restlessness.

At eleven, Johanna announced, “The Minister of Government.”

Jean-Claude Bonache was a tall skeleton from one’s worst nightmares. He smiled and shook hands. “I appreciate your agreeing to see me, your Royal Highness, on such short notice.”

“Of course, Minister of Government. Please sit.” I gestured at the antique sideboard behind my desk. “May I offer you a drink? As Jimmy Buffett says, ‘it’s five o’clock somewhere.’”

“Indeed, it is. Yes, please. Yesterday, in fact, I learned that brandy is a distilled spirit produced from fruit juice. Therefore, I thought, it could be served with breakfast.” Neither the congeniality nor his smile lasted more than a minute. His long face went longer. “Your Royal Highness, I imagine you know why I’ve come.”

When I handed him the brandy snifter, he murmured, “Thank you,” and I walked calmly behind my desk. I sat, indicating that he should do the same. “You’re correct, Mr. Minister of Government. I do know why you’ve come. Today’s headlines told me and the rest of the world something I very much doubt.”

Ill-at-ease, he twisted his hat in his hands. At the best of times, Bonache had never particularly approved of me, even when I was being a good little prince. He’d have preferred a monk in my position. Now, at the worst of times—my heart cramped—he was the hunter and I the prey.

“Shall we begin?” I sipped my drink, watching him, concentrating on not looking like the hunted. “I’m meeting Ginny at one at the Young Business Women’s luncheon.”

“You’re taking her to the luncheon?” He very nearly but not quite contained a gasp.

“Since our engagement has been splashed all over the morning news, I don’t understand why she shouldn’t join me.” I shouldered back in my chair, crossing my arms. “The women will like meeting my fiancée.”

“Sir, to that point.” He looked down, and the hat twisting intensified. “I’ve come to persuade you to give Ms. MacDonald up. Not—not,” he stammered. “Completely, of course. But this idea of marrying her.”

Anger spun to black fury. I leaned forward but managed to stop short of glaring at him. “If that is your purpose, then you have wasted your time and mine.”

He stiffened, raking a hand through his mousy hair. Sliding to the edge of his seat, he warned, “Your personal life affects your duties when this proposal violates the law. Ms. MacDonald is unfit to be queen of Desjardins, as you well know. She was previously married. Not only that, and more to the point, she aborted a child.””

“I shall not defend Miss MacDonald’s past. I fail to understand how you’ve come by privileged information, including presumably her medical records. Americans take such invasions of privacy very seriously, Minister of Government. I hope the American embassy doesn’t decide to pull out of Desjardins because you’ve maligned the name of one of its citizens.” If they did, it would be my fault. Hell no, I didn’t feel like a scapegoat today.

Opposition to our marriage came from more than the abortion. I’d upset the aristocracy by sometimes treating their traditions with disdain. They didn’t like Eugenie, needless to say.

“Your Highness, the majority of the People would be opposed to this union. If you marry Ms. MacDonald, you’ll cause your entire government to resign en masse. We are prepared to compromise. You and Ms. MacDonald marry, but she will not be queen.” He gestured. “Instead she’ll receive a courtesy title—”

“You’re suggesting a morganatic marriage.” I controlled a gasp and sipped a drink I didn’t want. Sometimes called a left-handed marriage, the morganatic marriage was between two people of unequal rank. I considered Ginny my equal in all things, but apparently, the world at large, or at least the way Jean-Claude Bonache painted it, failed to agree.

Non-plussed, the Minister of Government nodded. “Or you renounce your rights to the throne.”

“I won’t be threatened, Mr. Bonache.” I rose, signaling the meeting at an end. “Thank you, sir, but I have correspondence to attend.”

“If you press this issue, you could cause a constitutional crisis.” He stood, still holding his much-abused hat. “The King’s Royal Council join your government in this request. I’m trying to make you aware of the facts…” He raised his free hand in a futile gesture. “The people may support you. You’re a great favorite, but you’ve sworn to uphold their laws…Marrying a divorced woman—”

“This is the twenty-first century not the nineteenth—”

“A constitutional crisis, your Royal Highness.” The man’s ears were far too big for his head. He backed them like an angry horse.

“The King has the final say. I’ve already pled my case to him. I won’t reiterate it here. Now if you’ll excuse me…”

I strode around my desk and approached him. Obviously, I’d invaded his comfort zone. He backed up a step, his calves colliding with the chair.

“Thank you for the audience, sir.” He straightened to his full willowy height, looking like a sapling in a hurricane. “I’m sure we shall meet again in the next few days.”

“I always look forward to seeing you, Minister of Government.”

As the door closed behind yet another adversary, I picked up my mobile to call Ginny. She was the only one who knew the truth in this matter. I didn’t trust social media or the newspapers, be they reputable or mere sensationalism.

“Hey, Siri,” I trailed off. Siri prompted me, but I ignored her.

At the end of the day, what would I tell Ginny? That she could not be queen but would be given some random royal title, our children would never succeed to the throne, or I could renounce my rights of succession, in effect, an abdication. The more I thought, the more our tragedy sounded like that of Edward VIII and Wallis Simpson, almost a century later. Reluctance vibrated in my very bones. What could she tell me? A lot that she hadn’t…

Ginny didn’t love me for a throne. She wanted me as a man. I wouldn’t leave her for a crown. “Call Ginny MacDonald,” I said, but Siri had timed out. “Wise move, Siri. I simply cannot address this on the phone.”

***

May 2nd - Limbo Moving Fast No one involved in the fiasco wasted any time.

I did something I’d never done. I buried myself in the Twitter feed on Ginny’s supposed abortion. The media continued their attack, the Desjardins press having joined in when the royal moratorium on the engagement was lifted. I prepared a renouncement speech. The Minister of Government and the Council, presenting a united front, went to my father. The King accepted the matter under advisement until he could talk with me at length. In that initial meeting, I reassured him Ginny was innocent and that shortly I’d have proof.

“I haven’t been able to speak with her since I learned of this. She’s either unavailable or I am,” I said.

He looked doubtful. Did he doubt me, or did he think Ginny was avoiding me? “The Council and the Minister of Government are very concerned, Lex. As is the church.”

“Wait to make your decision until we have Ginny’s medical records.” I sat across from my father in his office in the royal palace. “You’ll notice no one has produced them to prove their case. That’s because they can’t get them. The U.S. government tends to frown on such things. They’re protected by HIPAA, but don’t ask me what that stands for.”

“The Americans were the first to break the news,” he said.

I forced myself not to grip the chair arms. “Their media is as bad, if not worse, than the rest. I don’t know how poor Ginny will ever be able to walk down a street anywhere without people judging her. She’s the victim here, but no one has time for that. It’s not frontpage news. I haven’t even had the opportunity to speak with her about the…issue.”

“Lex, I appeal to you as my son, as the future King of Desjardins, don’t follow this path. It only leads to heartache for everyone. Your mother is distraught. When once we couldn’t get her to come home, your sister won’t return to Paris. She says you need her, and she’ll stick by you to the bitter end. I’m afraid it will be a bitter end. Please don’t consider the government’s gift of a morganatic marriage.”

“I have not, and will not, change my mind, sir.”

“If I appeal to her, she might be more reasonable.” The King shuffled a stack of papers.

“It’s not like you to employ scare tactics, Father.” I smiled as if it were a joke, but it was no joke. “Father,” I decided to appeal to him to allow me to broadcast to the public, but I couldn’t call him Papa until this ended, one way or the other. “With your permission, I’d like to present my case to the people.”

He lifted a hand before I could go on. “That I will take under advisement as well, Son. I’m not sure whether, more less, putting this to the popular vote is the right thing for either you or the people. You’ll be known as the king who had to beg for his throne.”

“I think I’m that already.”

“No, Lex. Win or lose, you’ll be remembered as brave.”

I had my doubts. Few of the textbooks painted Edward VIII as brave.

As I left my father, I glanced back. Behind his large rosewood desk, he sat, his head buried in his hands. The King of Desjardins looked as helpless as I felt at that moment.

***

May 1st - A Short, Sad Reprieve Ginny had asked if we could meet at the Young Business Women’s luncheon to avoid a scene at the Parsonage. She hoped to avoid waking a sleeping dragon. Chrissy had been silent, withdrawn, and sullen. Her childish behavior was preferable to temper tantrums, but I feared a hurricane was brewing out to sea, and it would hit Ginny at a Cat. 5.

With the press, there were bound to be crowds wanting the “truth” from their “favorite prince”, as the King had called me that morning. He’d insisted that I be chaperoned to the luncheon. With four dark-clad—just like in the movies—bodyguards, I waited in the manager’s tumultuous office for mon amour to arrive. A vase of sweet-smelling roses sat in the organized clutter.

I was thinking I should have brought flowers for Ginny when she touched my elbow. One of my companions had been stationed at the rear entrance to whisk her into the restaurant. In her tailored blue suit, she looked breathtaking. Her red tresses had been captured beneath a perfect hat. This unfit queen would have made any royal family proud, and pride flooded me. Here was the woman my country—or at least its leaders—was trying to persuade me to abandon. Gazing into her eyes, I renewed my vow. They wouldn’t succeed.

“Good afternoon,” she almost managed to sound cheerful. “How was your morning?”

I rolled my eyes, “Don’t ask.”

“That good, huh?” She smiled, mouthing I love you.

“I love you more,” I said aloud, dotting a kiss to her smile, or I’d intended for it to be on the lips, but she moved slightly, and it missed, landing at the corner of her mouth. “My aim is horribly off today.”

“I can see that.” She laughed, deepening the enchantment.

My ring was still on the third finger of her left hand. I forced myself not to blurt the question I dreaded to ask. Would yet another bomb explode in my face before I had a chance to ask her for the truth?

“Prince, Miss MacDonald,” a woman, presumably the owner of the office, beckoned from the door, showing us down a short hallway. When we stopped, we could see the restaurant’s foyer. A floor to ceiling stone fireplace completed the Old-World flavor. Of course, this spring day, the ashes were cold and dead.

A clock somewhere chimed once. We watched the women being ushered into their seats. How many of these young leaders of tomorrow would judge Ginny unfit to be their queen? Not many, I’d wager. I glanced at her, tossing a reassuring smile. A waiter uniformed in black-and-white showed us to the podium. She and I sat behind and to the right of the microphone. If the subject of our engagement arose, I’d fend off their questions with the truth, omitting the government’s folly, though God knew I was tempted to allow the people to decide.

After the hustle and noise of settling subsided, the president of the club introduced me to rousing, enthusiastic applause. I stood and strode to took center stage, the place that has claimed a great deal of my life. During a talk, I loved meeting a gaze here and there in my audience. I didn’t meet one judgmental look. That brief, intangible contact was important to me, and I hoped, to them. I wanted to know the people. One day, I was to be their king. At the end of the speech, during which I did not mention Ginny, I waited for the applause to die away.

“Are there any questions?” I believed my private life had little to do with my public life. Of course, it had recently been proved to me that wasn’t the case. I tensed, knowing the personal direction the questions would take.

Of course, the first was about my engagement. Inwardly, I cringed for Ginny’s sake. I should have anticipated that the appearance might be too personal and awkward for her.

“I’m proud to answer yes. I‘m engaged to Miss Virginia MacDonald from Charleston, South Carolina.” I refrained from glancing over my shoulder.

“Is it true—” a woman began, and I winced, calling myself all manner of fools.

The woman beside her elbowed her, and smoothly interrupted, asking very nicely, “When do we get to meet the future princess?”

The morning had worn me thin. I resented the question, and something snapped. “Perhaps, you’d like to meet her now.” The woman who has rocked a kingdom.

Ginny rose, shot me a wary glance, and stepped to my side—her rightful place.

“Ladies and you, sir…” Smiling, I nodded at the only other male in the room. “It is my pleasure to I introduce my fiancée, Ginny.”

Though she looked as if she’d prefer the beaches of Hell to being on this stage, she charmed her audience with an open, friendly, and totally disarming smile. “Hello, my name is Ginny. I came to Desjardins with the American ambassadorship for the summer. It would appear I’ll be staying in this beautiful country a lot longer than three months.”

From a group I’d expected to support me, the loud and enthusiastic applause was surprising. Could I influence the turn of events with popular support? I’d certainly give it the old Oxford try. Tomorrow, I’d approach the King about broadcasting my plea on national TV. Depending on one answer from her. Did you have an abortion? I needed to know to silence the terrible headlines.

Ginny had met me at the luncheon, but I’d persuaded her to let me return her to the embassy. The working girl had taken a long lunch break to meet me at the function. The chance I’d anticipated all day came when we were safe in the limo, and relatively alone. I never discounted drivers. They, too, had ears.

She rested her head on my shoulder. “What was wrong with your morning, handsome?”

I gaped at her, my expression and my mind blank for a split-second. “You don’t know?” I studied her closely. “You don’t know.”

Ginny sat up and shrugged, tilting her head and giving me the look that turned me inside out. “I guess I don’t.” She paled. “What don’t I know? Lex, you’re looking at me like you don’t know who I am.”

“Haven’t you seen the morning papers? Or the telly?”

She shook her head, but she’d folded her hands primly in her lap. “I couldn’t sleep last night and slept late this morning. I had to rush to get here. I don’t like watching the news. It’s always bad, and the newspapers sensationalize everything almost as bad as the tabloids.”

“The morning news featured the news of our engagement—”

“I’m glad I told my parents last night. Phew. Missed one bullet at least.” She didn’t know not to interrupt a royal prince, but I was happy to be interrupted.

“Is there anything you want to tell me, mon bebe?” I wanted to bite my tongue for such an infantile beginning. My only excuse? I was in pain.

Slowly, her face changed from ivory to white, her expression going from confused to fearful. “Lex, you’re acting very strangely. Is there something wrong?” She hesitated, searching my eyes. “Or should I say what’s wrong?”

The question burning my heart burst from my lips. “Ginny, why didn’t you tell me about the abortion? When the Minister of Government blindsided me with it this morning, I had no defense. Why didn’t you tell me? Don’t you trust me?”

“What abortion?” She frowned, acting confused.

My heart shrank to a dark kernel. She’d had the chance and met my question with a vague question. A notable politician’s trick.

She went rigid, so that her spine must surely ache. “I’ve never had an abortion.” Her gaze dropped to the floor. “When I was married…” Her confession trailed away on a long, heavy sigh. She gazed at the hands folded, white knuckled, in her lap.

Tears jeweled her lashes, and another crack formed in my heart. “Ginny, you should have told me. It wouldn’t have made any difference to the way I feel about you.” I tried to put an arm around her shoulders, but she shrugged away.

“You think I lied.” Eyes and voice tear-stained, she fell back in her seat.

“No, I simply don’t understand.”

“A few days after I filed for a divorce, I discovered I was pregnant.” She gave a weak shrug. Another tear followed the first. “I’d planned to have the child but…” she met my searching gaze. “I miscarried. It was bad, Lex. But there was no abortion. Is that what they’re saying? Is that what you believe?”

My heart ached for her more, perhaps, than it ached for us.

“Ginny. I believe you.” I stroked the back of my hand down her damp cheek, but when I tried to put my arm around her, she shrugged away.

“Not at first.” She shook her head slowly but wouldn’t look at me. “I can prove it’s not true. My medical records will show that I miscarried. Are you sure you believe me? Not them.”

“I’m sure. I was just hurt that you hadn’t told me.” I captured her chin, lifting her face, forcing her to meet my gaze. “And that you didn’t trust me enough to tell me. I do believe you. Only at first—when he asked if I knew you’d had an abortion…”

“You didn’t.” Ginny met my gaze squarely. She was probably the strongest woman I’d ever met. “This is going to be hell for you. Are you sure you want to continue? I understand if you don’t want to fight your own people.” She still looked at me as if she didn’t believe me.”

Betrayal stared back at me in dark shades of green.

“The people aren’t the problem. The government is.” I brushed my lips to hers. “I want you to be prepared. They have the upper hand. The burden of proof is on us. We’ll be at the eye of the storm. I won’t back down.”

“You might have to do so,” she whispered.

“There’s always a way.” I cupped her face in both hands, willing her to believe in us. “Don’t let this dirty outcry sway you. We have to be strong, but we shall be together. Duke Alexander and Duchess Virginia sounds as good to me as King Alexander and Queen Virginia.” Step by step, word by word, I was becoming resolved to even Mr. and Mrs. Alexander Leandres. At least the latter could build a privacy fence.

She sucked in a quick breath. “You wouldn’t abdicate for me. I won’t let you. You’d create a crisis in your country. Eugenie can’t succeed because of primogeniture. The people would be divided. Your supporters would outnumber theirs, but if politics here are anything like at home, the popular vote isn’t the final word. The electoral college is. Lex, I’ll go away before I see you renounce your right to be King. You were born to be King.”

“Technically, since I’m not the ruling monarch, I can’t abdicate.” I pressed a long kiss to her parted lips. “I can renounce my place as Heir Apparent, thereby my ascension to the throne.” A shiver of dread played down my spine. “And our children’s right to succeed.”

“No, Lex, I can’t ask that of you. I’m far too weak to bear this cross.” She cupped my face between her hands. “If you won’t think of yourself, please consider me.”

“I do think of you, mon amour. Too much most times.”

The driver announced our destination.

Ginny glanced at the Parsonage and groaned. “I dread this.”

“Can’t be any worse than the morning headlines.”

“You know exactly how to cheer me up.” She pecked a kiss to my cheek, slid across the leather seat, and stood.

“We need those medical records.” I leaned down and blew her a kiss. “I love you.”