Eleanor blew out a breath through her nose. “Why is everyone being so recalcitrant with me today?” she said. “Are you pregnant or not?”

“Gran!” Nick said. I could tell he was trying not to laugh.

“What?” she said, a look of studied innocence on her face. “I’ve a vested interest in this, especially now that you’ve taken my suggestion regarding Frederick.”

“He has the biggest mouth. I can’t believe he told you that!” I said, dropping my fork with a clatter.

“He didn’t,” Eleanor said, dabbing at her lips with a cloth napkin. “But you just did. Goodness, you’re a bad secret keeper, Rebecca.”

“I don’t know about that,” I said, “considering I kept almost my whole first trimester from you.”

Eleanor pointed her fork at me. “Don’t you dare toy with me, Rebecca. I am an elderly woman.”

“And strong as oak,” I said. “But you can exhale. It’s true.”

Eleanor set down her fork and beamed at us. “Congratulations, my darling,” she said, the picture of sincere delight, relief, and self-satisfaction. “I knew we could do it.”

“And how,” I said. “We got a real bargain. Two for the price of one.”

She froze. “Twins?”

“Surprise.” I could barely contain my glee. “Didn’t expect that, did you?”

Eleanor blinked very, very slowly, and then picked up her glass of Chardonnay and tilted it toward me. “Bex,” she said to me, my nickname sounding so right and wrong all at once on her lips. It was the first time I’d ever heard her say it. “You, my dear, have been nothing but surprises.”

CHAPTER FOUR

The first thing I saw at the construction site was a giant sign that read CONGRATS ON YOUR NEW PROJECT next to a photo of two people in construction gear onto which they’d pasted Nick’s and my faces. It was hilariously homemade, and heartfelt, and my own heart skipped a beat. It had been a long time since anyone had made such an enthusiastic hand-drawn sign for me in London; maybe since the day of the wedding.

“Are you crying?” Eleanor asked, next to me. She was wearing a hat that looked like a purple octopus, and her expression was alarmed.

“No,” I said. “Ish. I’m not in control here. You must remember how pregnancy hormones are.”

Eleanor eyed me coolly. “I can assure you, Rebecca,” she said, “I was always in control.”

Rather than breaking out the bullhorn at the more standard twelve weeks, Nick and I let things cook a little longer—partly out of paranoia, partly to let Freddie’s news breathe—before announcing that we were expecting twins. The world welcomed this news with wild enthusiasm (and a heavy amount of betting on both gender and names; the current front-runners were Albert and Arthur). Even the online haters had to admit that, no matter how derelict a mother I was destined to be, it was nice when people had babies. We were riding a tidal wave of public warmth, and with Freddie haring off to Europe, Richard and Eleanor doubled down on putting me on display to reassure the United Kingdom that it still had royals putting down roots here. I had wanted more work, and I’d gotten it.