The service seemed to wash over Beatrice in a quiet hum, her entire focus centered on Teddy.
When it came time for her vows, the archbishop turned to her. “Do you, Beatrice, take Theodore to be your husband? Do you promise to be faithful to him in good times and in bad, in sickness and in health, to love him and to honor him, for all the days of your life?”
In good times and in bad, in sickness and in health: she and Teddy had already been through those highs and lows. She had lost her memory and still they had found their way back to each other.
For all the days of her life. It was a monumental promise, yet it was one that Beatrice, of all people, felt comfortable making. After all, she had sworn her life before this—to her country and to the Crown.
She was grateful that the archbishop had agreed to use her first name. As she spoke her vows, Beatrice didn’t want to be Her Majesty Beatrice Regina, the very first Queen of America.
Their wedding might be offered up for public consumption, photographed and broadcast throughout the world, replayed over and over for years to come, but Beatrice wasn’t thinking of any of that as she looked into Teddy’s eyes. It felt like it was just the two of them, like this moment belonged to her and Teddy alone.
Right now she was just Beatrice, and right now, that was enough.
“I do,” she promised.
* * *
“We’re married!” Teddy exclaimed, once they had processed back up the aisle and reemerged into the hallway.
Beatrice flung her arms around him and pulled him close, relishing one last moment of privacy, and calm. “We’re married,” she repeated.
Laughter bubbled up around them as their families came forward, their faces bright with joy and a healthy dose of shock. Beatrice’s mom was crying; Teddy’s mom wrapped her arms around her; Teddy’s younger sister, Charlotte, was recording everything on her phone; and Beatrice saw Sam whispering something to Teddy’s two younger brothers—probably some stunt she wanted to pull at the reception, Beatrice thought fondly. She realized that this was how it would be from now on, their two families blending into a rowdy and chaotic whole, and felt so happy she almost hurt from it.
Anju edged forward, a bit hesitantly. “I’m sorry, Your Majesty, but it’s almost time for you to leave.”
Beatrice and Teddy were supposed to depart on a parade, more technically known as the Carriage Procession of Her Majesty and Her Bridegroom with a Sovereign’s Escort of the Household Cavalry. They would wind through the cordoned-off streets, past all the crowds who had been waiting for hours in the freezing cold, before finally returning to the palace, where they would appear on the balcony for a photo op and kiss.
Instead Beatrice asked, “Should I speak to the press first?”
Anju began to stammer excuses. “You don’t need to—you just got married, Your Majesty! No one expects you to hold a press conference!”
Except that the world had erupted into feverish speculation about today’s events. This was the sort of personal news that should come directly from the royal family, and for better or worse, Beatrice was now the head of that family.
She hesitated on the threshold of the Media Briefing Hall. The last time she’d been in here was for that awful press conference, the one she wished she could forget.
But Beatrice was stronger now. As she looked at the people around her, she knew that she would never feel alone in this role again. She had her family, and Teddy, and the new family that she and Teddy would build together.
As Beatrice walked inside, a sea of flashbulbs immediately lit up. She was still wearing her bridal gown—the optics of her addressing the press as a newly married woman were too irresistible, because who would dare argue with a bride?—but the great length of the train had been bustled and fastened with tiny silk buttons.
She stepped up to the podium as a roar of questions erupted around her: Why did you decide to hide the wedding news, Your Majesty? How many people were in on the secret? Will Daphne and Jeff get married soon, for real this time?
Beatrice lifted a hand, the way she’d seen her father do on countless occasions, and the noise died out.
“First of all, I want to thank everyone for the support and love that you have shown my family, throughout my life and especially over the past year. I am so grateful, and touched.” She leaned closer to the viper’s nest of microphones before her. “Of course, I owe a massive thank-you to my brother and Daphne Deighton, for allowing me and my husband”—the word felt thrillingly unfamiliar on her tongue—“the freedom to plan this wedding in privacy and in secret. After the upheavals of the past year, it was a real gift to have something that belonged just to us.
“I will now take questions one at a time,” she concluded, and every hand in the room flew into the air.
“Mr. Kellerman.” Beatrice nodded to one of the reporters, who stood.
“Why the secrecy, Your Majesty?”
“If you had known it was me getting married, would you have given me any breathing room in the past months?” She tried to smile conspiratorially, the way Daphne would, and waited for the reporter to shake his head. “Exactly,” she agreed. “You would have suffocated the wedding in questions and speculation. While my subterfuge might seem excessive, it was also effective. I was able to plan this wedding in peace.”
For once, Beatrice didn’t feel any compunction about telling a public fib. She was doing this to protect Daphne and Jeff, especially Daphne, from the outraged criticisms the press would have piled on them if they knew the truth.
That was what you did for family—you protected them.
Beatrice nodded at another reporter, who cleared her throat. “Now that you and His Lordship are married, what title will he use?”
It was a fair question. There had never been a king consort before, at least not in America. In England, the man married to a queen was styled as a Royal Highness—like Prince Albert had been—but Beatrice and Teddy were carving out new territory. And the question still remained of what he would actually do.
“These are all questions that Teddy and I will decide together,” she said calmly. “As a married unit, and as a team.”
Everyone in the room kept trying to catch her gaze, but Beatrice’s eyes had drifted to Helen Crosby, the reporter who’d asked her that question about the League of Kings months ago—the question she’d flubbed.
“Miss Crosby,” she said, and the reporter nodded.
“Your Majesty, you may be aware that there is a bill in Congress that calls for your removal. Among other things, it claims that you suffered severe psychological and neurological damage from your accident and aren’t capable of reigning. Do you have a response to those who would say you’re unfit to rule?”