Chapter Two: A Queen’s Lessons

Matilda knew when her daughter had been unhappy with the king. Aurora returned from such conversations with her shoulders arranged too carefully, as though she had been assembled by someone who had only a passing acquaintance with the human body. She smiled at the correct moments. She addressed the servants by name. She became so courteous that anyone unfamiliar with her might mistake it for contentment.

At luncheon, she thanked the footman twice for pouring her water. Matilda set down her spoon.

“Your father tells me you spoke this morning.”

Belle looked up from her plate.

“He did most of the speaking,” Aurora said.

“Then I hope you listened.”

“I could hardly avoid it.”

Matilda glanced towards the servants. Aurora noticed and lowered her eyes. It was a small mercy. Her eldest daughter could be persuaded to spare an audience, even when she could not be persuaded to spare an argument.

“Prince Flynn arrives tomorrow,” Belle said. “Lady Penrose says he is an exceptional horseman.”

“Lady Penrose has never seen him ride,” Aurora replied.

“She may have been told.”

“Then he is an exceptionally well advertised horseman.”

Belle laughed. Matilda allowed herself a moment before lifting her cup.

“A royal household employs many people whose work depends upon anticipating our needs. You should not mock them for doing it.”

“I was mocking the prince.”

“Then you should wait until you have met him.”

Aurora looked up. For an instant, the corner of her mouth moved. Matilda drank her tea before her daughters could see that she was pleased.

After luncheon, she dismissed Lady Penrose and asked the girls to remain.

Belle immediately glanced towards the windows. The day was fine, and a new mare had arrived in the stables that morning. Matilda knew because her younger daughter had mentioned it four times.

“We will not be long,” she said.

Belle’s expression brightened.

“Provided we are not interrupted.”

The brightness diminished. Matilda moved to the writing table, where three small arrangements of flowers stood in silver cups. White roses, blue delphiniums, and a cluster of late pinks.

“The seating plans for the ball have changed.”

Aurora stopped beside the table.

“Again?”

“Prince Philip’s ambassador objects to being placed below Lord Eastmere.”

“Lord Eastmere objects to everything.”

“Which makes satisfying him useful practice.”

Belle bent to smell the roses.

“Could you not seat them both somewhere dreadful?”

“Then we should have two offended men instead of one.”

“We already have two offended men,” Aurora said.

Matilda handed her the plan.

“Yes. Now persuade one of them not to be.”

Aurora examined the little cards. Her brow furrowed, and Matilda watched the resistance in her face give way to interest. It was always easier to teach her eldest when she could be made to forget she was being taught.

“Lord Eastmere’s wife is related to the admiral,” Aurora said after a moment.

“By marriage.”

“Put them together. She will insist upon it once someone suggests the admiral has news of her nephew.”

“And the ambassador?”

“Moves up two places without appearing to displace anyone.”

Belle leaned over her sister’s shoulder.

“I should simply put him beside someone beautiful.”

“Beauty,” Matilda said, “is not a universal remedy.”

“It works surprisingly often.”

Aurora rearranged the cards. Matilda resisted the impulse to straighten one that sat crooked.

“And if the ambassador asks why he was not seated correctly in the first place?”

Aurora’s mouth tightened.

“I apologise for the oversight.”

“You thank him for his patience.”

“That is not an apology.”

“No. There has not been an error. There has been a negotiation.”

Her daughter looked at her then, properly. Matilda folded her hands.

“A hostess should not surrender authority merely because a guest has mistaken his preference for a right.”

For a few moments, neither girl spoke. Then Belle selected a rose from the nearest cup and held it against her bodice.

“Would these suit me better than the pink?”

Matilda let the lesson end.

“Yes,” she said. “But put it back. The thorns have not been removed.”

When the girls had gone, she sat without calling for anyone. The ache low in her back had persisted since morning. It was familiar enough not to frighten her, though familiarity had ceased to be much comfort.

She pressed her fingers against the place and waited. On the table, Aurora had left the seating cards neatly aligned. Matilda looked at them until the pain eased.

At eighteen, she had arrived at this palace with six trunks, a mother’s instructions, and a husband who had smiled as though choosing her had pleased him. She had thought that smile would be enough to build a life upon.

Perhaps it had been. There were two daughters. There had been happy summers, journeys and evenings when Henry abandoned his papers to sit beside her fire. He still remembered that she disliked sugared violets. Last winter, he had sent three counties searching for a particular pear she had mentioned missing. He could be thoughtful. She wished thoughtfulness had made other things unnecessary.

A knock sounded.

“Come.”

Lady Penrose entered carrying a folded note.

“The physician asks whether Your Majesty still requires him this afternoon.”

Matilda took the paper without opening it.

“Yes.”

“Shall I send for the king?”

“No.”

The answer came too quickly. Matilda recovered quickly. “There is no cause to disturb him.”

Lady Penrose bowed. She had served long enough to know when to follow her Queens instructions.

Doctor Ellery arrived through the private passage. He had attended Matilda through Belle’s birth and every disappointed hope that followed. His hair had been dark when she first knew him. Now only his eyebrows retained much colour.

“Have you been sleeping?”

“Well enough.”

He waited.

“Not especially.”

“And the dizziness?”

“Occasional.”

“Your appetite?”

“Must we begin with every indignity?”

“If Your Majesty prefers, we may begin with the pulse.”

She extended her wrist. He counted in silence. Matilda studied a loose thread at the edge of her sleeve.

“Have your courses returned?”

“Yes.”

His fingers paused almost imperceptibly.

“When?”

“Four days ago.”

“And the bleeding?”

“Ordinary.”

This, at least, was true. He released her hand.

“I am sorry.”

“There was nothing to be sorry for.”

They had not known. There had been no reason to know. A few late days, a little nausea and hope behaving foolishly in the dark. Ellery drew his chair closer.

“Your Majesty, we have spoken before about allowing your body time to recover.”

“It has had time.”

“Not as much as I would wish.”

“You are difficult to satisfy.”

He did not smile. Neither did she. From the corridor came the faint sound of laughter. A young woman’s voice, then footsteps hurrying away. Matilda turned towards the door.

“Would another pregnancy be possible?”

“Possible, yes.”

“Safe?”

“No pregnancy is without risk.”

“That was not my question.”

The physician rested his hands on his knees.

“Your recent history concerns me more than your age alone. Another loss could be dangerous. So could a pregnancy carried to term.”

She had expected the answer. Hearing it still made her feel unreasonably accused.

“I have given birth twice.”

“You have.”

“Without dying.”

His expression gentled.

“I should very much like to keep it that way.”

Matilda looked down at her wrist, where his fingers had left a pale impression.

“Thank you, Doctor.”

He understood the dismissal. At the door, he stopped.

“The king should know what I have advised.”

“I will speak to my husband.”

It was not precisely a promise, but he accepted it.

Henry was in the small council chamber when she found him. Through the partly open door, she heard Lord Harcourt’s voice.

“Not a change to the succession, sire. Merely a provision against uncertainty.”

Matilda stopped. A servant waiting beside the door bowed and reached for the handle. She lifted one finger. Inside, papers shifted.

“The succession is not uncertain,” Henry said.

“No, Your Majesty. But Princess Aurora has expressed reluctance.”

“She is twenty.”

“And will soon be twenty one.”

Matilda could hear Harcourt smiling. He had a courteous voice that never seemed to belong to the words beneath it.

“The boy’s existence need not become public merely because contingency papers are prepared.”

For a moment, she could feel nothing below her ribs. Then Henry spoke.

“There will be no papers.”

“Sire.”

“My daughter will marry. The matter is settled.”

Matilda lowered her hand. The servant opened the door. Both men rose.

“My dear,” Henry said.

She looked at him rather than at Harcourt.

“I hope I am not interrupting.”

“Not at all.”

Harcourt bowed over her hand with such gravity that anyone might have believed he had been discussing her virtues. Matilda let him leave before she spoke.

“The arrangements for the princes are complete.”

Henry moved towards her.

“You need not have troubled yourself.”

“It is my household.”

“Yes, of course.”

He touched her elbow, guiding her towards a chair she did not need.

“Will you sit?”

“No, thank you.”

His hand fell. She had known about Arabella for three years. Not at first. At first there had been absences explained by hunting, a jewel charged through the wrong account, or a familiar perfume on a cloak. Knowledge had arrived in pieces, none large enough to justify speaking until together they had become too large to overlook. The child had made the matter permanent.

“Has Aurora displeased you?” she asked.

Henry sighed.

“She is frightened.”

“Then she needs reassurance.”

“She needs to understand her responsibilities.”

“She understands them well enough to be frightened.”

He studied her. Matilda rarely contradicted him twice in one conversation.

“She asked whether she might refuse the throne,” he said.

There it was, spoken at last. Matilda turned towards the window. Below, two gardeners were carrying a young tree between them. One walked backwards, trusting the other to guide him.

“What did you tell her?”

“That she was born to it.”

“Yes,” Matilda said. “She was.”

Henry came to stand beside her.

“She will come to see the advantages.”

“Perhaps.”

“You think me severe.”

“I think she has not yet been given much reason to want what is expected of her.”

For a while, he said nothing. Then he reached for her hand.

“You look tired.”

She almost laughed. Instead, she allowed him to turn her palm upward and kiss it.

“Only the preparations.”

“Rest this afternoon.”

“I shall.”

He kept hold of her hand.

“Have you seen Ellery?”

She felt the question in her throat before she answered.

“Yes.”

“And?”

“Nothing has changed.”

Disappointment crossed his face before he could conceal it. He squeezed her fingers.

“We have time.”

Matilda looked at the grey beginning in his hair.

“Yes,” she said.

She found Aurora in the west gallery before supper. Her daughter stood beneath a portrait of Henry’s grandmother, studying a book small enough to hide in one hand.

“An improving text?” Matilda asked.

Aurora closed it.

“Not especially.”

“Then it may be worth reading.”

The surprise on her daughter’s face was almost painful. Matilda stopped beside her. Beyond the windows, the gardens had begun to darken.

“Tomorrow, you need only meet him.”

“Prince Flynn.”

“Yes.”

“And the next day?”

“Will come whether you worry about it tonight or not.”

Aurora ran her thumb along the book’s worn spine.

“Were you afraid?”

Matilda knew what she meant.

“Yes.”

“Did anyone tell you that you need only meet him?”

“My mother told me not to contradict him.”

Aurora looked at her.

“And did you?”

“Not at our first meeting.”

A smile appeared, unwilling but real. Matilda reached up and smoothed a loose strand of light brown hair behind her daughter’s ear.

There were things she ought to say. Practical things about flattering a man without encouraging him, about watching how he treated those who could offer him nothing. Things she had learned too slowly.

“Courtesy is not agreement,” she said instead. “Remember that tomorrow.”

Aurora’s smile faded into attention.

“And if I dislike all three?”

“Then we will know more than we do now.”

It was not permission. Matilda could not give what she did not possess. But Aurora leaned, briefly, against her hand.

Later, alone in her rooms, Matilda took out the physician’s note and read it twice. Then she folded it beneath the seating plan, rang for her maid, and asked which gown the king preferred for supper.