History is written by the survivors. And I am surely that - Catherine De' Medici
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I settled onto the antique chaise in my favourite parlor, the one overlooking the garden and the sea beyond, and scooped up the remote control on the cushion next to me, pointing and clicking at the large flatscreen that was mounted above the mantel. The familiar morning news show lit up the screen as a light knock on the door sounded. The door opened slowly, unobtrusively, and my personal butler Marco appeared bearing my breakfast tray.
"Good morning, Your Grace," he greeted with his recent cheerfulness, "it's a beautiful day out today. I heard we're in for some mild Fall weather." Marco walked across the parlor to deliver the silver tray with the covered plates onto the small tray table set in front of me.
I kept from rolling my eyes at his insistent formalness. I had been a duchess for six months, but I still couldn't get used to being addressed with such a title. I had always been Lady Drusilla, and while I told all of the household staff at Timberhall Castle to just call me Drusilla, most, along with all of the senior staff members, resisted against my plea for casualness. It seemed everyone preferred the old, traditional formalness.
"Thank you, Marco. Perhaps I'll take a walk down to the beach later," I remarked, folding my legs underneath me. I hadn't bothered changing out of my mint green silk pajamas upon waking before I had traipsed through the castle to the parlor with just my Fendi robe covering the flattering nightwear.
"Chef made you Eggs Benedict and fruit with fresh cream," he announced with pleasure.
I smiled at him. Marco had been with me from the first moment I went from Lady Drusilla Volkirk to Drusilla Tempest, Duchess of Timberhall. From newlywed to widow, in the blink of an eye. The paunch-bellied, silver-haired butler had been an unlikely steadfast rock for me over the course of the last several months. From the nerves and high expectations of an all-but-arranged marriage, to the pressures of being a duchess in the Dresnian Royal Family, and then to the shock and sadness of becoming a dowager widow, he had been there with me through it all.
"You are quite chipper this morning," I commented, raising a brow questioningly, though my lips twitched ruefully.
Marco shrugged innocuously, clasping his hands behind his back as was his habit. "I think it's the good weather, Your Grace. The entire household seems to be in a lighter mood."
"Well, that's nice."
"Is there anything else?" he asked, inclining his head to my covered tray.
"No, thank you, Marco. I'll eat this and then go for that walk."
"Superb." Marco gave an efficient but deep bow, and left the room.
I lifted the silver covers off the plates, letting the steam curl from the aromatic food. It looked mouthwatering, and I quickly dug in with my sterling silver knife and fork, turning my attention to the news.
It was a segment about the orphaned children in Dresnia, in the capital city of Keridge in particular. The news anchor, Tirza Vonx, was a veteran and had been hosting The Dresnia Morning News for fifteen years. This morning she was sitting at her desk on the bright green and powder blue set of her show, her royal blue blazer and matching skirt a stark contrast to the background colours. Her hands were folded on the desk and she wore a somber expression. The screen split in two, with a video box on the left side of Tirza. The recording that began to play was clearly taken from a random citizen in the city on their cellphone. They were recording a few homeless children in a street alley, dirty and tattered, nervously pacing about the unknown cameraman. There were tears streaming down each of their hard little faces.
"Tell me why you are on the streets, little ones," the cameraman coaxed, not unkindly. "Tell everyone what you are doing."
"We are stealing. We are picking pockets because we have nothing to eat. We are so hungry and nobody helps us," one of the boys cried, his watery brown eyes breaking my heart. His face was dirty and his soiled soccer jersey was nothing but a rag about his frail bony shoulders.
"Why does nobody help you?" the cameraman asked.
"Because we are orphans. We have no parents. Nobody to take care of us. They beat us in the orphanages. They do not feed us, so we run away. We live on the streets," the boy said with venom.
The cameraman continued recording as the kids turned and started to run down the alley, away from him. "This is the real Dresnia. This is supposed to be a first-world country and there are small children that are six or seven years old starving and living out on the cold streets. Shame on the government. Shame on the monarchy. They are doing nothing for this country," he declared before the video stopped.
Tirza looked contemplative as she considered the video. "A shocking video has gone viral after a citizen in Keridge caught that group of children trying to pick his pocket. People are outraged at the horrid claims in this video. The man in the video is right. There is no excuse for children to be homeless without safety, protection, shelter, food or water in this country. The government is not doing enough for the vulnerable population. There needs to be immediate action and an investigation into the claims of abuse and neglect in Dresnia's orphanages."
A painful leaden weight settled low in my belly, making me drop my utensils on my plate, my appetite gone. Tears pricked my eyes. I imagined the fear and sadness, the anger , those children must have. How could that be happening? Were the orphanages really not being regulated? How was that possible?
I shook my head, annoyed at my own naivety. Despite being Earl Volkirk's daughter and growing up as a member of one of the few ancient Dresnian aristocratic families, I had been spoiled but not stupid. One look at me with my golden tan, long Barbie-like blonde hair and blue eyes, I was instantly pegged an airhead almost always, right from the start. It used to irritate me, but attending and graduating the University of Cambridge with a degree in Human, Social and Political Sciences in the UK had given me a sort of confidence that was permanently unshakeable. Ever since, I had had fun proving I was an intelligent, keen girl at most people's expense. A part of that intelligence was not being so blinded in my noble bubble that I didn't recognize the flaws in my country, beloved though it was.
Dresnia was a rocky island in the North Sea, not far from the Orkney Islands. It was half the size of the UK, but had a very similar topography, with lush farmlands and plentiful forests inland to craggy, rocky bluffs and cliffs near the coastlines by the windswept sea. Dresnia had a long, ancient history, one of violence, riches, ancestry to the Vikings, and hardship, as with any nation. Dresnia wasn't on the international stage, being a quieter European country. Our colourful, baroque-style buildings and houses made up the cities, towns and villages. Though it was a small nation, my country had enough wealth to be impressive, relying on tourism and our international exporting of world class seafood, shellfish in particular.
The Dresnian aristocracy went back to the time of the Vikings, and the Royal Family had been around for hundreds of years, with bloodties that traced back to the royals from Sweden and Denmark. Our government was much the same as Britain's, with a Prime Minister and council, as well as the ruling monarch, who happened to be my uncle-in-law King Magnus II. As the Head of State, the monarch undertook constitutional and representational duties only.
That didn't seem to be on Tirza Vonx's mind as she continued speaking on the TV about the heartbreaking video by criticizing the government. And the monarchy by association.
"Surely someone from the Royal Family can draw attention to this increasing crisis, if no one else," Tirza said reproachfully, "especially considering the Dresnian Fall Pageant is approaching in a few mere weeks, with preparations already underway." I froze, recognizing her subtle segway into too-familiar waters. "The king and queen will be front and centre as always, along with Prince Bertil and his wife, Princess Edith, but many are wondering if the Duke of Tavers and the Duchess of Timberhall will be a no-show at the pageant." Tirza paused, her mouth in a serious line. "As we all know, six months ago, Cartwright Tempest, the Duke of Timberhall, died of a sudden brain aneurysm in March at 56 years old, just two weeks after marrying 31 year old Lady Drusilla Volkirk of the esteemed Volkirk family. The 77 year old Duke of Tavers is said to have had a hard time coping with the death of his only son and has been quietly carrying out royal duties. It's no secret the Dresnian Fall Pageant costs a fortune, with last year's spectacle costing a whopping 20 million drus, just so the Royal Family could parade around with security. Why can that not feed an orphanage? Several orphanages?"
I tuned out as Tirza went on, feeling numb but nauseated. It always elevated my heart rate and made my body grow hot whenever I heard my name in any media. Having been cooped up safe in Timberhall Castle and away from everyone since the tragedy, I thought I had gotten past the anxiety and shame that was tied to me and what was molding out to be my life's tale but it was still just as awful and daunting as before.
Before I had agreed to marry Cartwright, my face had never appeared in a tabloid or news story anywhere. Sure, I was nobility, I was considered a "blue blood", and grew up among the elite and the royal, but I enjoyed anonymity if I chose and was able to live a normal life. The Volkirk family was one of the oldest noble families in Dresnia, with my direct ancestors having been warriors, knights, and martyrs. Our ties to the land were so old and deeply rooted, we were distant relations to the Royal Family, the Tempests.
I had been enjoying my life, living in England, shopping in Paris and partying when my mother, Runa Volkirk, called me shortly after my 30th birthday and insisted I come stay with her for awhile back home in Dresnia. Of course, knowing my rigid mother, arguing was pointless, so I had no choice but to oblige. It shouldn't have surprised me it was all a ploy at matchmaking. The Duke of Timberhall was on the market and looking to settle down at the behest of his father and his uncle, King Magnus.
Though The Tempests were mostly beloved, many believed The Royal Family was cursed. Out of six generations of Tempest kings, only King Magnus, his son Prince Bertil, Magnus's younger brother Alaric, The Duke of Tavers, and his son, Cartwright, The Duke of Timberhall were left in the family tree. All of their predecessors' wives before them had died early, through illness, childbirth, or an accident, as did their small children, so the families never had an opportunity or longevity to grow before each forebearer passed on.
And now, Cartwright was dead. With no heirs. The reason we had gotten married. The reason my mother had thrown a supper party the instant I had returned home and was exuberantly introduced to The Duke of Timberhall. Apparently, Queen Concordia had reached out to my mother and subsequently told her that King Magnus was interested in a possible marriage between Cartwright and me, if I was still available that is. Cartwright had been older and married before, but his first wife had left him for an American tennis player and then died in a car crash several years ago, their marriage childless. He had become a fiend and a playboy after his divorce, clubbing throughout Europe until his father ordered him home to fulfill royal duties as he and his brother the king grew older.
With King Magnus being 80 and Alaric being 77, they had each only produced one son, though I knew they had tried with gusto for more all through their marriages. Alaric's wife died of sepsis, leaving him with only Cartwright as heir. Queen Concordia was still a healthy force to be reckoned with, but between her and King Magnus, they had only had Bertil, who some said was "too much of a bitch to be the next king."
They had chosen me for Cartwright because of my impeccable lineage, childbearing age, and pedigree. I knew instantly what their intention was whenever my mother forced us to sit together at a dinner that was practically a banquet at Volkirk House. Unfortunately, Cartwright wasn't a George Clooney. He had slightly puffy jowls, age-spotted skin and thinning grey hair, with a distinctive small pot belly that stuck out through his dress shirts and coats, though his facial features were pleasing and suited him. He would've been handsome at a younger age, I had been sure.
I was flattered that the king had considered me an ideal wife and therefore member of his royal family. I remembered my mother's sharp, satisfied gleam in her eye as she saw us get on at the party, the title of 'Duchess' practically written in shining stars above her head. Truthfully, as soon as he had been interested in me, I knew I had to marry Cartwright. I felt too much pressure to do anything else. I couldn't go against the king's wishes and disappoint him, I couldn't feel the wrath of my unfeeling, calculated mother by trying to deny her a long ladder that swept over the heads of half of society with such a role in the hierarchy. And I couldn't let down my country or those within the Royal Family who were counting on me to cooperate. It was bigger than just me. It was archaic and old-fashioned, but that was what the aristocracy and monarchy was. You did your duty and put your feelings aside for the betterment of your country and the continuity of the Crown. Even if that meant marrying for the sake of strong family ties and bearing heirs.
Cartwright asked to court me after the dinner party and I forcibly said yes. My mother watched me like a hawk and I was still frightened enough of her that I didn't dare try to run or turn him off. It wasn't shortly after that, that he proposed and I again said yes. Up until that point I had been a free spirit, a normal woman who went for jogs in Hyde Park in the mornings and drank pints at the pub with my friends. I wanted to travel and have adventures. I wasn't thinking about marriage or any serious relationship. I was enjoying my freedom. I had never stopped to think if I even wanted to get married. From being an upfront audience member of my parents' volatile marriage, I was okay never experiencing that. Everyone had been overjoyed and ecstatic when Cartwright and me got engaged, and it was enough reassurance that I was able to get through the betrothal and then the actual wedding ceremony, which was televised on Dresnian national TV, as well as royal channels all over platforms like YouTube and TikTok.
We had been staying in a villa in Lake Como, Italy, on our honeymoon when Cartwright had his aneurysm. Having only known each other less than a year, he had been more than sensitive and kind in allowing me to take my time to warm up to the idea of him as my husband. There was no pressure to do my wifely duties so soon, and so we stayed in separate bedrooms. I had gone for an early morning run one day and returned when I saw the Italian paramedics at the villa and was told about Cartwright's situation. Of course, even international news outlets and TV shows got wind of the tragedy, spinning it like I was a gold digging black widow who killed him on the honeymoon after securing the ring and bank accounts, which was utter nonsense. My family had plenty of money, more than my mother and me could hope to spend within our lives, in assets and stocks. It was utterly demoralizing and misogynistic, and with the king's permission, I disappeared to the Timberhall duchy country estate, Timberhall Castle, with my tail between my legs right after the public funeral to mourn, as was the custom.
The speculation that followed made everything worse. There were ponderings if I was pregnant with Cartwright's child and used the outdated mourning tradition to disappear into some isolated confinement to have the baby privately, away from prying eyes. The rumours swirled so fiercely that the king reached out to ask me himself, his tone hopeful. I felt like a failure when I had to disappoint him by telling him the marriage hadn't been consummated.
With no heir from Cartwright, the future of the monarchy rested on Bertil and Edith. It was an unspoken state of emergency within the palace walls, that much I knew. The dwindling Royal Family had only a few considerably aging members left, and lawmakers and palace aides were in a tizzy trying to figure out the next course of action if the bloodline died out. Would the monarchy simply be abolished? Would one of the noble families take over and become the new Royal Family? How would everyone determine which family it would be? It was a very real and bewildering concern.
I tuned out Tirza's report as she moved onto a news story about an exceptional horse. I was no longer hungry and I stared down at my half-eaten breakfast glumly. It had been a bad idea to turn on the news. I should've known better. It seemed like such a promising day before the news anchor brought up The Royal Family.
My eyes swept over the lovely parlor, trying to focus on something that would give me a bit of joy. That was a new tactic I'd learned whenever I felt miserable. Find something beautiful to appreciate and be grateful for it. Gratitude was the key, I told myself. I searched the spacious pale blue room, taking in the sprawling beautiful Persian rug done in blue, green, and red, to the curved ironwork and ornate console tables with modern art sitting on top of them. Crown molding and cornices lined a trompe l'oeil ceiling where a decadent crystal chandelier hung, and gilded accessories added elegance to the comfortable sitting room. The cushy, soft-coloured upholstery toned everything down and kept it cozy instead of formal and stuffy. The creamy curtains were tied back at the curved round bay window, showcasing the garden shrubbery that underlined the dazzling expanse of the sparkling blue North Sea beyond.
I took a deep breath, the calmness settling over me like a comforting blanket. The view. It was the view I was grateful for. I didn't feel at home in Timberhall Castle, it was far too grand and opulent for my tastes. Though I grew up in Volkirk House, with my mother's expensive and exorbitant style, I found the castle to be far too large to feel at home there. I was lonely and felt like I was in a gilded prison quite frankly, wandering the wide, echoing halls and corridors for something to do the last six months while trying to remain inconspicuous. Usually I went exploring, until I had familiarized myself to the building's countless rooms, stairwells and everything in between.
Timberhall Castle was a great country house that sat on a flattened foothill on a bluff, allowing a bird's eye view of the sea to the north or the rolling hills of the valley to the south. It was a great example of Victorian architecture in the muscular Jacobean style, and was built of bright red brick and wood. Two towers dominated the ends of the strong, grand facades of the castle, the great staircase tower standing solid and uncompromising on the east side, looking down the avenue of tall, thick evergreen trees, and the water tower to the right of the terrace on the west. A profusion of balconies, bay windows, grouped windows, and decorative spindlework covered both front and rear facades of the estate, all the way around. The house was entered through the pillars of the porte-cochere and visitors were greeted by the intricate detail of the oak hall. The central room of the mansion was the Picture Gallery with a grand staircase, full of paintings of Cartwright's ancestors, and almost every room had a massive stone fireplace.
While I could appreciate the work and labour that was put into the estate, I still keenly missed my London flat near Notting Hill, but the view of the sea considerably cheered me over the course of the spring and summer.
Looking at the sheet of blue that extended to the horizon, I decided a walk down to the beach was just what I needed to uplift my suddenly low spirits. Some fresh Fall air could only do me good, after all. Setting my tray table aside, I plucked the remote off the chaise and clicked the TV off with more force than necessary before heading for my apartment of suites on the second level of the house to change out of my pajamas. Leaving the parlor, I strode purposefully through the halls, passing a housekeeper who was sweeping but promptly dipped a curtsy as I stepped by her. There were only nine household staff members in total at the country estate, and I'd gotten to know each one of them since I'd taken residence there.
A few minutes later I swept into my royal apartments through the carved double doors, passing through my sitting room, reception room, and into my main bedroom. Going over to the walk-in closet and adjoining dressing room, I already knew exactly what I was going to wear, searching out a simple pair of black yoga pants and a plain pink fitness t-shirt. I tugged on some pink Skechers and then walked into the dressing room, seeking out my hairbrush that was on the ornate grand vanity. My hair was tousled with bedhead and practically freed from the bun I'd put it in the night before, so I quickly brushed through the whole thing and tied it up in a ponytail. Grabbing a light black sweater to shove on, I walked back through my bedroom, plucking my iPhone off my antique night table on the way out.
"Telf," I said as I passed the groundskeeper once I'd reached the northern entrance to the castle, "if anyone's looking for me, please tell me them I went for a walk on the beach."
Telf was coming into the house from the garden, but smiled and bowed on the wide stone steps as I passed him. "Certainly, Your Grace. A great day for a walk."
"Yes, it is."
The gravel pathway crunched underneath my shoes as I walked along the perimeter of the Northern Garden, its flowerbeds still bursting with a good array of colourful petunias, violas, marigolds and roses. The briny sea breeze that blew in my face was salty and pleasant, and the sun's rays were keeping me warm. It had been a mild Fall so far, preserving the land a little longer before the barren, cold winter hit. I breathed in a sharp, healthy lungful of the air again, the smells of fresh greenness and pine from the valley mixed in with the brine of the sea. Skirting the rest of the wide garden, I reached the worn, tiny trail that led through a small copse of wind-stunted and gnarled trees down the foothill to a tiny cove with a large enough strip of sand at the bottom to be a small private beach.
I'd walked along the trail countless times at that point, with the beach being a sort of spiritual sanctuary for me during the tribulating months after my short-lived marriage. I had spent hours lounging on the gray, soft sand near the hill, tanning and napping while listening to the lapping waves, or scouring for sea glass where the beach turned rocky with pebbles closer to the surf. I'd spent just as much time in the sea, swimming in the cold, strong currents offshore for exercise until I was exhausted and refreshed.
I dug my heels into the hard-packed dirt of the trail, using the rocks and roots jutting out of the earth as footholds as I made my way smoothly down the sloped path, finally reaching the treeline that opened onto the flat, level beach. The waves were lapping calmly onshore in a steady rhythm and I could see white caps amongst the sapphire blue water further out to sea. The distant cry of a gull was shrill and comforting.
I walked along the sand for a moment when my phone started buzzing with a call. Lifting it to look at the screen, my heart stopped in my throat when I saw who it was. 'King Magnus' was the contact, and was indeed the personal cell number of my deceased husband's uncle.
I answered it, a little breathlessly. "Hello?"
"Drusilla?" King Magnus's deep, warm voice came from the other end.
"Hello, Your Majesty." I could hear the confusion in my tone.
"Are you alone at the moment?"
"Yes..."
"Good. I need you to come to Yalford Palace right away for an emergency meeting. I'll explain once we meet. It's of the utmost importance. Come at once."
My heart seemed to come back to life again as it started beating fast with fear. What on earth was this about? What could possibly warrant an emergency meeting with the king with me? And so much so that he would personally call me himself rather than have his chief secretary do it? It didn't matter that I had a dozen questions and answers to none of them. The king gave a clear order and I needed to obey.
"Yes, Your Majesty. I'll pack some things and leave right away. I'll be at Yalford Palace by this afternoon."
"Good. I'll see you then." He hung up without another word, his delivery too matter-of-fact to decipher.
I stared unseeingly out at the water with the phone still pressed against my ear, wondering what could have possibly happened to cause such an unlikely summons to the capital. Whatever it was couldn't have been good. The king was a work horse with a packed schedule. He didn't personally make phone calls to invite members of The Royal Family for a positive meeting on a whim. Whatever it was, was important enough that the king summoned me himself rather than have an aide do it for him.
Lowering my phone and shoving it in my pocket, I broke into a jog as I headed back up the incline of the trail toward Timberhall Castle.