“Don’t. You know what a tenuous throne we sit upon. We’re a lasting royal family despite our detractors and enemies. In 1986, the monarchy was stronger than ever. I was part of that and had a duty to fulfill.”
“After we were married? Why not share with me?”
“I don’t know.” Catherine set the baby book on the end table. “I selfishly wanted you to see me as I was before she was born.”
“Oh, Kate—”
“Room for me?” Gus hesitated then entered, joining his father on the couch. “I want Daffy to come to the ball, but she won’t because she feels she betrayed you.”
Catherine focused on her younger son. “She’s a smart girl.”
“No, Mum, she’s brave. She kept your secret for eighteen years. It’d still be a secret if her sister hadn’t found the diary and given it to Leslie Ann. Let’s put the blame where it belongs. On—”
“Me,” Catherine said. “I know. I should’ve been honest with you all.” She passed the book of photos to her youngest. “Your sister’s baby picture. You have the same chin. While Ms. Parker handled her discovery poorly, I am the one who hid the truth from my husband, my sons, my country.”
“So why does Daffy have to bear the shame alone? The guilt?” Gus lingered over Scottie’s picture. “She looks sweet.”
“Should we invite Scottie to the wedding?” Edric said. “Meet her?”
Catherine shook her head. “Let’s not stir the waters. We can call Trent later, see how things stand with the American side of things.” She tossed off her lap blanket. “But for now, you chaps must excuse me. I’ve an errand to run.”
* * *
Daffy
Her flat smelled of paint mingled with the fresh dewy air of spring. The weakening rain released the city, allowing a streak of sunlight to break in.
Daffy raised another bedroom window and scooted her bed into place, careful of the newly painted wall. The apartment literally rocked yesterday with music, laughter, and Mum’s baking.
Her puff recipe came out like chewing gum this time.
“Morwena.” Dad tossed the entire lot into the trash bin. “Just follow the recipe. Don’t change it.”
“Where’s the fun in that?”
Ella came up with the Daffy 3.0 slogan. “New career, new you. Maybe a new country.”
Sunday evening they had ordered pizza and watchedThe Rest of the Story. It was all Daffy could do to sit still and not shout at the telly every time Leslie Ann opened her mouth.
As they thought, the ambitious presenter unleashed the hounds. She actually began the piece holding up Daffy’s diary,My Life with the Prince, and credited her with exposing this royal scandal.
With all the drama of someone who believed she was a legend in the making, she dragged out the story for twenty minutes, interviewing former royal reporter Sinclair Posey, who knew the queen as a princess more than anyone else in the media.
Her trip to Tennessee was just for show. Trent O’Shay refused to be on camera, and she never contacted Scottie, who was out of the country. Standing in the middle of Hearts Bend’s main street, Leslie Ann recited unnamed sources, each who suspected, wondered, or once heard Scottie was the daughter of a princess, but no one knew for sure.
She’d produced Scottie’s birth certificate, which proved nothing other than her mother’s name, Belinda O’Shay. LA claimed the woman never existed. If she did, she found no evidence.
Nevertheless, social media blew up. The hashtag #queenssecretbaby nearly broke social media.
Now the hunt was on to get a face-to-face with Trent and to find Scottie. Leslie Ann created a firestorm.
“For what it’s worth, Daffy,”—Mum clicked off the telly as the family sat in silence—“you’re right not to go to the ball. You’ll only keep the story alive and the attention off Prince John and Lady Holland. They deserve their day. I admire your wisdom and courage. The effects of what Leslie Ann revealed are just beginning.”
“Do you think it has succession ramifications, Morwena?” Dad began collecting the used plates and empty pizza box.
“I doubt it, but I suppose someone could make a case for it.”
Ella arched her brow. “Like an American girl named Scottie?”
