To Save a King, page 27
Drawing a deep breath, she tapped one of the hashtag to find hundreds of clips of her single performance. The one she’d spent twelve hours shooting, devoid of her soul, grateful for the merciful fall from the stage that broke her hip and miraculously ended the show’s chance of ever being seen.
News outlets, blogs, royal watchers, and fans, everyone was posting some version of the video. Thank goodness she fell before the final, um, reveal.
She’d never forgive herself for letting Matt and Sandy talk her into that stupid show.
Gemma looked up as a splatter of rain hit her window. Go! She had to…go. Now. Get out of here. She ran to the door before realizing she was not dressed. Nor did she have any of her things. She snatched her suitcase from the dressing room, tossed in her pajamas, and the rest of her clothes, then swooped up everything from the bathroom. Meanwhile, the shower continued to run.
Wrapping her hair in a topknot—she’d have to live with the lacquer—she stepped into the large tile-and-porcelain stall, did a five-second wash, dried, dressed, and loaded up her travel backpack.
The suite doorbell chimed when she paused for one final sweep of the room. Quiet. Don’t move. Whoever you are, don’t come in, please don’t come in.
A muffled voice called her name. Gemma held her breath, waiting.
Just let me go without being seen. Please.
No doubt the Family, the footmen, and the butlers had watched the video by now. John had seen the video. This was worse than just telling him. Now he was seeing. Even more hideous, if that’s possible, by the time she landed in Nashville, everyone in Hearts Bend would know her shame.
She was going to be sick. But there was no time.
Waiting, listening, perspiration stinging down her back, the bell ringer must’ve gone. Gemma exited the bedroom just as the suite door clicked. She was caught. Found out. The intruder was a pretty, dark-haired maid.
“Begging your pardon, miss, I thought you’d gone.”
“On my way.” She hitched her travel pack over her shoulder and dragged her suitcase over the carpet. “Is the hall clear?”
She nodded and Gemma scooted past her without a word, gathering all her steel and courage.
Instead of going down the main stairs and past the footman, she headed toward the south corner of the palace—she’d discovered the hidden stairs while on tour with the palace historian—then toward the gate she’d exited with the prince and Otis.
She cleared the door without seeing anyone else and ran, dodging raindrops as she hurried down the walkway, barely able to control her legs.
But the gate was locked with a keypad. Of course, it was locked. Gemma jerked on the wrought iron with a rush of tears. “Please, let me out!”
A buzz sounded and the lock released. Gemma pushed free with a glance over her shoulder to see a footman watching her go.
Making her way to the taxi stand, the rain picking up a bit, she dialed Matt. She didn’t care what time it was in L.A.
“You liar,” she said when he picked up. “I asked for one truthful thing, but no. One night was all I wanted. One beautiful night. Why did you do it? Release a video.”
“Let me guess, is this Gemma?”
“Like you didn’t expect this call. You told me you didn’t have the videos. Promised me.”
“I don’t. What is going on?”
“One of the Vegas show is online. I think it’s the one where I fell from the stage.”
“What do you mean, online?”
She gave him the hashtags to search, and after a moment he let out a long, weighty sigh.
“Gemma, I’m sorry, but I didn’t do this. Hold on.”
She arrived at the taxi stand, thankful to find a car waiting. “Airport, please.”
The driver helped her with her luggage, looking closely at her. Had he seen it too? When she crawled into the backseat, she sank down to hide her face.
Then she lost her battle with her tears. This was par for the course. Her life. Journey of a thousand bad decisions.
“You there?” Matt said.
“Yeah.” Gemma kept her voice low, close to the phone.
“The videos were uploaded by a kid named Clowney. His bio says he’s a movie buff, wannabe producer-director, works in the hotel industry. Am I still blocked? Can I send you a pic?”
“Send it.” When Matt’s text pinged in, she recognized the man at once. “Arnez.”
“You know him?”
“He was a porter at the Delafield Hotel. He said he’d seen me somewhere before, but I thought he was making it up. Flirting or something.”
“He must have found my site when I put the video online after the network lost interest.”
She wanted to hate Matt but at the moment, he was the only one who really understood. To her chagrin, he also sounded sorry and sympathetic.
“Why did I let you talk me into that stupid show? Why?” She fell over onto the seat. “I knew this day would come. Gemma Stone, this is your life.”
“If it’s any comfort, I didn’t want that show in the light of day either. I’m working with Jeremiah Gonda on a project and he is very selective. He’d never have hired me if he knew I was a part of something like that.”
“Showgirls, you said. We were supposed to be about showgirls.”
“I know but Sandy took it in a different direction and we went along.”
She hated the pronoun we. But he was right. She and the other nine girls in the show agreed to the modified premise.
“I knew this would haunt me sooner or later.”
“Again, I’m sorry. But I was trying to make something happen for us. What do you want from me? I can’t undo it.”
Her tears pooled on the worn leather seat. “I want my dignity, Matt. Give me back my dignity.”
“Yeah, that’d be great if I took it. Truth is, Gemma, you gave it away. We all gave away our dignity. If you want it back, go get it.”
“Too late for that, isn’t it?”
“As a matter of fact, no. Let this be my final advice to you. Don’t let this get you down. Beat it, Gemma. Don’t let it beat you.”
She sat up and dried her eyes. “Thanks, Matt. I mean it.”
At the airport, she sat in a corner and searched for a flight back to Nashville. When nothing popped up, she got in the long line up to the ticket counter. From her travel pack, her phone pinged and dinged, but she refused to answer.
The ticket agent informed her she could not exchange her Sunday morning first-class ticket for another flight. Even more joyous, there were no seats on a Nashville flight until tomorrow. But if she wanted, she could purchase the only remaining seat on a flight to New York.
Last row. Middle seat.
Gemma slapped down her credit card. “I also need the first flight to Nashville.” The ticket agent typed and frowned, sighed, then typed and frowned again.
Maybe she was paranoid, but she kept feeling the heat of second glances. Heard the mumbling of “on the internet.”
After an eternity, the agent announced Gemma was booked through to Nashville. For two-thousand-fifty-one dollars and sixty-three cents.
Gemma breathed a sigh of relief. Best two grand she’d ever spend.
She arrived at her gate hungry and on the verge of tears. No, not tears. Meltdown. The reality of it all began to anchor in. A familiar panic stirred but she was too weary, too angry, too sad to give in to it.
Grabbing a sandwich and chips, she returned to her gate and waited to board. Once she was in the air, she’d have eight hours to work on her explanation, find some sense of the girl she was yesterday, before the video shocked the world. And tell herself over and over she was not the girl in that dark video anymore.
She was the girl from the Heart of God. The girl full of light.
Chapter Twenty-six
John
August twenty-first. How things had changed since he buried his wife a year ago. John stood alone on the lush, green plot of ground of the Royal Memorial Garden where his wife would be remembered forever.
The granite headstone had been polished to a sheen, and when a slice of evening sun broke through the summer clouds, John walked on a lighted path.
Placing the final bronze wreath on the hook of an iron pole, he said a few words in private. The roto surrounded him, their cameras whirring and flashing. Boom handlers stretched their microphones to catch one word, any word, of his memorial sentiments.
His parents waited behind him in dark attire and solemn expressions. Holland’s parents, Lord and Lady Cunningham, were unavailable.
Cletus was out on bail, now campaigning he’d been framed. John anticipated he’d implicated Holland, his own daughter, to maintain his innocence.
A quartet of trumpeters began playing Lauchtenland’s national anthem, and John knelt down to place his hand over her name.
Her Royal Highness, Princess Holland Caroline, House of Blue
“I wish you were here to tell me what happened. Why did you lie to me about the diamond? I wish you were here because that was our plan.”
The trumpeters moved from the anthem to an old Lauchtenland hymn. John stood. Time to begin again.
Holland was gone. Gemma also. At least now he understood why she refused to talk about her Hollywood career. Why she said they would never be more than friends.
Still the images of her swaying through the orbs and beams in the Heart of God would forever live in his mind. The light loved her. He loved her.
He retreated and bowed to his parents, who moved forward to pay their respects, Mum leaning on Dad.
John stood with Gus and Daffy. Since the day his brother had shown him the video, they’d not spoken of it.
Gemma slipped away five days ago without a word. A footman confirmed she left out the southern gate. Were all the women in his life to harbor some dark secret? Holland. Gemma. Even Mum, who concealed Scottie for thirty-five years.
He’d been tempted to text Gemma. But what could he say?
“Is this what you didn’t want to tell me?”
Maybe their friendship wasn’t as deep as he believed. Perhaps his feelings were all one-sided.
John smiled as Mum approached, leaning more on her cane than Dad. She faced a long recovery, even with treatment. Still Guillain-Barré had never gone to war with Queen Catherine before.
Dad proclaimed Scottie’s visit as Mum’s number one tonic. She’d returned home yesterday but she and Mum seemed to have a constant text running.
When the last song was played, John returned to his car and waved to the roto—which was made up of familiar faces. Men and women he knew well. They’d be kind today, speaking of Holland’s accomplishments and avoiding the latest news.
He paused for a few questions, Gunner and another protection officer by his side. The questions were soft and friendly. Until John said he must move on.
“Was Holland involved with the Reingard scandal? Did she ever say anything to you?” Once Perry Copperfield breached the barrier, everyone started talking, firing off questions about Lord Cunningham, Holland’s involvement, the reality of conviction.
“Let’s wait to see what the lawyers have to say, shall we?”
“What about the woman in the videos? Gemma Stone. Are you romantically involved? Is she a fit future queen?”
“Prince John, did you know about her Vegas career?”
He answered with a wave and ducked into the car with the flapping royal standards. As they cleared the garden gate and moved into Port Fressa traffic, Gunner tapped something into his phone, then tucked it away. John gazed over at him.
“Do you have something to say?”
“It wouldn’t be proper.”
“Say it if it’s worthy.”
Gunner fixed his attention beyond the window to the passing buildings and shops on the western side, the oldest side, of the city.
“Don’t give up on her.” He gave John a look. “I watched her in Hearts Bend and again when she was here. She’s the real deal, sir. I know you see it because I observed you with her. I know the recent findings put her in a bad light, but whatever made her perform in that video is not who she is now. We all make mistakes.”
“I’m not judging her for it, Gunner. By the vacant look in her eyes, she didn’t want to be there. But will the Family, the country, accept her? Does she want this little bit of information following her the rest of her life? We’re talking the House of Blue and the monarchy. We may live in a world where morals are wide and varied, but there are some lines that cannot be crossed.”
“If Princess Holland were alive and you learned the truth about her misconduct, would you toss her aside?” Gunner was finding many worthy things to say. “She’d have broken some moral code. Corruption, insider trading, malfeasance.”
“If we were already married, no. Besides, Gunner, Gemma has made the decision for me. She doesn’t want to marry me. Now I know why.”
“She left to protect you,” Gunner said. “That makes her a hero in my book.”
“No one is asking for your book.”
“If she’s your friend, if you care about her at all, you must reach out. She’ll think the videos have disgraced her in your eyes. Or that you’re turning your back on her. Show her you love her and forgive her.”
“You sound like the reverend at the Christmas Eve service. And what’s for me to forgive? What she did in her life before me is not my concern. She didn’t cheat on me or lie to me.” No, lying was all Holland.
“Do you love her?” Gunner fearlessly crossed the boundaries between royal and staff.
“You know as well as I do if we married the video will haunt her the rest of her life. Do you want to subject her to scrutiny and ridicule for the next fifty years? Even beyond her natural life, in the history books.” John held up his palm as if reading from some book. “‘Before becoming a princess and queen of Lauchtenland, Gemma Stone was an ambitious actress. She eventually took a role as a stripper, which came to light when King John invited her to attend the stupid NSINS Ball with him.’”
“Henry the VIII was a lusty man,” Gunner said. “Murdered his wives in order to move on to his next conquest. Our Prince Louis V only settled down after his father forced him. But everyone knew he was on a first-name basis with the women at Madam Le Crux’s.”
The motor turned in to the palace and round to the main entrance. A footman hurried to open John’s door. “Good night, Gunner.”
“One more thing, sir. If I may?”
“Why stop now? What is it?”
“I spend a lot of time observing people. I can read faces. Gemma loved you from the moment she clapped eyes on you. If I were you, and I’m not, I’d not let someone like Gemma go without hearing the whole story. Love is a precious gift, sir. Don’t waste hers for you on technicalities like what the press will say or history will write. In fifty years, no one will remember anything but your good works, the strength of your reign, and your love for your wife.”
* * *
Catherine
Edric entered as she turned off the news.
“Dinner’s almost ready,” he said. “I feel like a rebel eating in the living room on telly trays. Mum never allowed it growing up. I only experienced it at friends’ houses.”
He lowered to the chair next to the couch where Catherine reclined under a blanket, her e-reader on the coffee table, her phone cradled in her lap.
“I know that look,” he said. “What are you thinking?”
“I was reading the briefs on the Reingard case. It’s clear Cletus Cunningham was involved.”
“And Holland?”
“Yes, but I’m not sure how much.”
“Anything pointing back to John?”
“No, thank goodness.”
“Then there’s the Gemma Stone video.” Edric helped Catherine sit up as the footmen carried in their dinner.
“Mason tells me it’s all over social media.” Catherine stared at her plate. She was too sedentary to have much of an appetite.
“Have you spoken to him?”
“I’m giving us space. I’m not ready for a tense row with my son. Just thinking about it wears me out.”
“Why does it have to be a row? He’s as shocked as we are.”
“But you know what I have to say and he’ll push back.” Catherine’s phone pinged. Scottie. Her daughter. “Scottie is sending me pictures of her home. Her design taste is excellent.”
Edric leaned over to see the photo. “Don’t you feel silly you sent John to meet her instead of going yourself?”
“Hush. Don’t question your queen.”
“I suppose it worked out. You’d have been ill in America, and John created a nice bridge between Scottie and us.”
“That’s what Scottie said about Gemma. She was the bridge between her and John. That’s why she invited her to come as a companion.”
“Do you think John loves her?” Edric said.
“I don’t know. We’ll have to ask him. He’s only known her a couple of months. What about Scottie? Do you like her? Tell me honestly.”
“I like her very much.” He cut a bit of chicken. “She’s very keen and sharp. I’ll do my bit as the doting stepfather.”
Catherine smiled and cut a piece of chicken. “We talked of a family gathering at Christmas.”
“Really? Just us or the O’Shays as well.”
“Just us. Then later the O’Shays perhaps.”
“What if he loves her?”
“Who?” Once she started eating the chicken, she found she was hungry.
“Gemma, who else? I think John’s very keen on her.”
“Edric, you know what would await her if she joined the Family. Gossip, ridicule, scrutiny. The video will never die. Do you really think John loves her? He’s disappointed in Holland, I know, but I think he’s still in love with her.”
“He’s told you this?”
“Are you going to challenge everything I say? Pour me some water, please.”
“Not to change the subject.” Edric filled Catherine’s glass, then his own. “I’ve been thinking about Hamish Fickle’s little anti-monarchy campaign. Why not invite him for an audience with you? Get him on our side.”
