The car door opened and Eleanor slowly disembarked, raising a hand to the assembled masses as a cheer went up. I scooted out behind her as quickly as I could, given that I was four months along and yet already felt like I had a beach ball filled with sand stuffed up under my dress. We walked to a neat construction site ringed with workers in orange jumpsuits, their white hard hats respectfully in hand, the merry sign—onto which someone had also added a baby in a hard hat—waving around behind them.

“Your Majesty. Welcome to the beginning of the Eleanor Line,” boomed the mayor of London, an imposing, bloviating sort with hair that looked like it had been cut with a chain saw. He fumbled through the protocols with Eleanor and then shook my hand. He had a surprisingly limp grip. “And, Your Highness, you look just like your portrait,” he said. “Spitting image.”

I smiled. “Yes, aren’t I fortunate?”

“Er, not that I’ve properly seen it,” he admitted. “Popped by the gallery, but it was out for cleaning.”

“How thoughtful of them,” Eleanor said sweetly, resolutely not looking in my direction. I’d shown her the postcard, listened as she shrieked, watched as she tore it in two.

“Yes, well, you’ll want it in tip-top shape for those lovely babies to see someday, eh?” the mayor said. “Oh, that reminds me,” he added, summoning a worker, who stepped forward tentatively with two onesies. They bore the unmistakable Tube logo with CLARENCE written where the stop name would be.

“How marvelous!” I said, taking them and holding both over my stomach as best I could. Click, click. A perfect sidebar photo for tomorrow’s Daily Mail. “Thank you!”

“Twice blessed,” the mayor said.

“Indeed,” Eleanor said. “We are thrilled. Now, tell me more about the Eleanor Line. Will it be the best of them, do you think?”

I bit back a grin and tucked the onesies under my arm. Eleanor never did like to be upstaged, not even by the heirs she’d been so aggro about me providing. But I was outpacing her in gifts, for once in our lives. Since we’d announced my pregnancy, every event I’d done—and I’d done a lot—had come with a trinket, in duplicate, for the forthcoming princes or princesses. Tiny socks, little T-shirts, loads of bibs and blankets and knit caps, almost all of which we would covertly donate to charity, unless they were personalized, in which case we’d tuck them away for posterity (officially—there was no way I wasn’t getting photos of the kids in Paint Britain hats, especially now that Richard had brought me back into the fold there and let me be its primary patron).

“These are unreal,” I said to Nick, marveling at the canopy and large wheels and brass handle of the matching baby carriages parked in our foyer—a gift from the entire board of the Clarence Foundation. “This feels like something Mary Poppins would’ve used.”

“The Banks children were far too old by the time she got there,” Nick said, bouncing one of them up and down as if a real crying baby were inside to soothe.