* * *
Scottie
Afternoon tea with the queen had quickly become a routine Scottie enjoyed.It was a calming, thoughtful experience, often peppered with long moments of silence, save for the clatter of cup against saucer or Kate expressing her pleasure in the tea cakes and crustless ham salad sandwiches.
Scottie never took a breather like this in the afternoon at home.No, she began and ended her days eyeball-deep in designs, marketing strategy, and production schedules.During certain times of the year, she threw in prep for a fashion show or coordinated details for a press junket.
By four o’clock, the queen’s teatime, she’d be on her third or fourth cup of coffee, picking at the remains of an interrupted lunch, nine hours into a twelve-hour day.She’d be annoyed by the long angles of gorgeous sunlight whitewashing her computer screen or blinding a staffer at the wrong end of her conference table.
Now afternoon tea with Kate made her wonder why she never took a break and walked outside.Hearts Bend was beautiful and fragrant in every season.
On this relaxed Friday afternoon with Kate, Scottie waited for the right moment to bring up Saturday with Michael.They’d chatted at the portico until the dewy chill stiffened them both, trading stories about education and culture, one American and the other Lauchten.They bonded over childhood experiences, especially being raised by single dads.
Michael’s beef with his mother seemed straightforward.“She left,” he’d said.“Abandoned us.”The gritty details, however many or few, he’d scooched around on his proverbial plate without much elaboration, almost cautious of what he confessed aloud.Which Scottie admired.
She glanced across the table set for two, where Kate sipped her tea, staring toward the window.
“I’m weary of this illness,” she said softly.“Yet I can’t escape my grandfather’s words: ‘Chin up, lass, you’re a Blue.’”She narrowed her gaze as if looking at some long-ago image.“Are you adjusting well to the way of things here?Very different from your American routine, I’d think.”
“You could say that.I’ve asked the maids to let me get all the way out of bed before they start making it.”
Kate laughed.“They are efficient.That’s my mother’s doing.She was a Mary Poppins, spit-spot sort of woman who demanded excellence.I can’t say I envied the staff working for her.She wasn’t cruel, and she gave the most extravagant gifts every year, remembering birthdays and family names.She even brought back the old-fashioned Servants’ Ball.But she expected extravagance in return.”
“We have the same vibe at O’Shay Shirts.People are loyal because we demand excellence, but we reward it too.Everyone gets their birthday off, along with a gift card to a local restaurant of their choice.The time isn’t charged against their PTO.We close down at Thanksgiving and Christmas.Shug started throwing elaborate Christmas parties when Fritz was in command.The board complains about the cost but lose their minds if we hint at downsizing or skipping a year.”
“Every worker, great or small, should take pride in their work, as well as in their employer.Employers should take pride in whom they hire.Mum never let a grumbler stay long.One warning, and after that, out on his ear should he not change.Or her.”
“What was she like besides demanding excellence?”Scottie asked.
She’d studied the portrait of her maternal grandmother, Queen Rosemunde, where it hung next to her grandfather, King Rein the Fourth in Perrigwynn Palace’s Queen’s Corridor.Rosemunde was composed of elegant features and a noble aura.Whether the artist saw it in her or added it for effect, there was a sparkle in her blue eyes, almost a laugh, as if someone told a joke right before the brush met canvas.
“Mum was full of life but a strict traditionalist.She was a girl during the Second World War and saw the ravages of it.The world was changing.Her father was of Danish royal blood, the Duke of Gotland, a title John now holds.Her mother, my grandmother, was Princess Elsinore from the Saxe-Coburg and Gotha line.Granddad and Grandmum witnessed the fall of Europe’s royal houses after the First World War.They instilled in my mother the honor and rights of one born to such ranks.She swam in that thought like a duck in water.”
“Did she try to instill that into you and Arabella?”Scottie knew the answer before she asked.
“With every fiber of her being.”Kate refreshed her tea, but her hand shook, so Scottie reached over to help.“She feared the end of the Blues’ thousand-year reign.She tried desperately for more children, but two daughters were her lot.So she went above and beyond to prove our worth.Taking on more charities, bolstering traditions, getting out among the people.Dad wanted to shut down the summer season at Hadsby and the three-hundred-year-old Rose Ball, but Mum refused.”
“Then one day her firstborn,” Scottie said, more to herself than Kate, “her pride and joy, came home pregnant by an American dude.”
Kate snapped a glance at her.“I’ve known two great disappointments in my life—telling my mother I was pregnant and leaving you in your father’s arms, never to see you again.I was an’80s girl.Thought I knew the ways of the world with my big Farrah Fawcett hair, too much makeup, long belted shirts over leggings, and high-top trainers.I had more freedom at Haxton University than I’d ever had in my life.Even more at Yale.And it cost me.I broke your father’s heart, my parents’, yours—though you weren’t really aware of the magnitude—and my own.Only by the mercies of God do I sit here with you today.”
“Shug used to tell me my mother died because God needed her in heaven.It was a simple story for a little kid wondering what happened to her mother.Then in fourth grade, our teacher invited parents and grandparents to hear us read aloud our writing assignments.I stood in front of the class and read ‘Why I Hate God’ by Scottie O’Shay.”She grinned at the memory.“The collective gasp fueled my fire.Mrs.Watkins tried to snatch it away, but I jerked back.From the back of the room, Shug said in her commanding but calm voice, ‘Let her read it.God can handle it.’”
“Goodness.And what was the moral of your piece?”
“I don’t know.The moral of a nine-year-old who thought God landed a cheap blow by taking her mother.I needed her more.Lots of kids in school didn’t have dads, but everyone had a mother.I felt like an outcast.”
“Quite right.I suppose I’d feel the same way.Did you earn a high mark?”
“An A—but only after Mrs.Watkins called Dad in for a conference.He insisted God could handle a young girl working out her grief.He also told me a bit of truth.God didn’t take Mom because He needed her, but sometimes people die, and we carry on, asking God for help.”
“I’m not sure my mum ever forgave me for what I put the family through,” Kate said.“It was all hush-hush, save for the Prime Minister and a small bevy of advisors.I think she feared if she spoke of it, she’d break, perhaps mention the grandchild she’d never met.Things were never the same between us.On her deathbed, we shared a moment of tenderness.She squeezed my hand with tears in her eyes.Her way of saying ‘I’m sorry.’We never spoke of you.None of us.It was our way of moving on.Then the news broke, shocking the world and well, you know the rest of the story.I’m glad you meet her before she passed.She once murmured during a family dinner, not long after your first visit, that you were ‘a Blue through and through.Cut from the center of the cloth.’”
“That sounds like quite a compliment.”
“Of the highest order,” Kate said.“You remind me of Mum, Scottie.Determined.Chin up even when you’re unsure.I saw the way people gathered round you at the Garden Party.That, my love, is the Queen Rosemunde Blue in you.”
They were silent for a moment as Scottie took in the conversation and Kate tried to finish her tea, gripping the cup with both hands.
