Chapter 18: A crown's eclipse

The Hastings estate was a hive of activity that morning, the gardens brimming with roses and the drawing room filled with vibrant bolts of fabric. Servants bustled about, finalizing every detail for the most anticipated wedding of the season. Inside, Emma sat with Eleanor and Alfred, reviewing the arrangements for the ceremony.

Thomas, her younger brother, lounged in a nearby armchair, his grin as mischievous as ever. He twirled a quill in his fingers, his green eyes twinkling with mirth.

"So, Emma," he began, "ready to be Mrs. Ashbourne? Or should I call you Lady Chocolate Thief?"

Emma glanced at him, rolling her eyes but unable to suppress a small smile. "I'm fairly certain I can keep my chocolates safe, thank you."

Thomas leaned back with a dramatic sigh. "You say that now, but wait until Harrison starts hoarding biscuits too. You'll rue the day, sister!"

"Enough, Thomas," Alfred said, though his tone was indulgent. "Let your sister focus."

"But it's my solemn duty to remind her of the perils of married life," Thomas replied, tossing the quill into the air and catching it with ease.

Emma threw a pillow at him, laughing despite herself. "You're insufferable!"

"Only because I care," Thomas said, grinning from ear to ear.

The family's laughter filled the room, a moment of lighthearted joy before the storm.

Their laughter was interrupted by a firm knock at the door. A footman entered, his expression grave, carrying a sealed letter on a silver tray. He handed it to Alfred with a small bow.

Alfred broke the seal, his face darkening as he read the contents. By the time he set the letter down, the atmosphere in the room had shifted completely.

"What is it, Papa?" Emma asked, her voice trembling slightly.

Alfred's voice was low, heavy with sorrow. "The king has been assassinated."

Eleanor gasped, her hand flying to her chest. "No… not King George."

"Assassinated?" Emma repeated, her face pale. "How? When?"

"At Windsor, last night," Alfred said. "The royal family has released little information. They've confirmed his death but kept the details private."

Thomas's usual teasing demeanor vanished. "But… who would do such a thing?"

Eleanor shook her head, her voice breaking. "This is a terrible loss—for the kingdom and the royal family. I can't imagine the grief they must feel."

Emma's thoughts spun. She thought of the grand celebrations they had planned, of the joy that had filled the house only moments before. "Does this mean… the wedding?"

Alfred nodded solemnly. "It will be postponed. Out of respect for the mourning period, no celebrations will be permitted."

Later that afternoon, Emma sought the peace of the gardens. She wandered along the stone path, the vibrant blooms offering little solace. She paused beneath the oak tree, her mind heavy with disappointment and confusion.

The sound of approaching footsteps made her turn. Harrison appeared, his expression equally somber.

"You heard?" he asked softly.

Emma nodded, her arms crossed tightly against the chill she suddenly felt. "I still can't believe it. One moment, we're planning our wedding, and the next…"

Harrison stepped closer, his voice steady but low. "The king's death has changed everything. A mourning period will be declared. The wedding will have to wait."

Emma looked down, her voice barely audible. "I know it's selfish, but… I feel heartbroken. We've waited so long."

Harrison reached for her hand, his touch warm and grounding. "You're not selfish, Emma. You're allowed to feel this way. But this is only a delay. Nothing will stop us from being together."

She managed a faint smile, though her eyes remained clouded with worry. "Do you think… do you think they're hiding something? About the assassination?"

Harrison hesitated, his gaze distant. "Maybe. But it's not for us to question. Whatever the truth is, it will come out in time."

Emma nodded, though unease lingered in her chest.

By evening, the Hastings family gathered in the drawing room. The heavy mood had lifted slightly, thanks in large part to Thomas's relentless teasing.

"So, Emma," he began, reclining on the chaise with his trademark smirk, "do you think Harrison is relieved? More time to rehearse his vows, perhaps?"

Emma, seated beside Eleanor, shot him a glare. "Don't start, Thomas."

"But I must," Thomas said, sitting up dramatically. "This is a tragedy—for the wedding cake. Imagine all that frosting, wasted!"

Eleanor tried to hide her laughter behind her hand. "Thomas, really…"

"And poor Harrison," Thomas continued, ignoring his mother. "He's probably pacing his estate, wondering how to survive another week without seeing you."

Emma couldn't help but laugh, throwing a cushion at him. "You're insufferable!"

"Perhaps," Thomas said, catching the cushion with ease. "But admit it, you'd miss me if I wasn't."

Emma shook her head, a reluctant smile tugging at her lips.

The next day, the kingdom awoke to a heavy pall of grief. Black drapery adorned buildings across London, and the bells of St. Paul's Cathedral tolled mournfully throughout the day.

At Windsor, the palace gates were closed, and the royal standard flew at half-mast. Crowds gathered outside the gates, their voices hushed as they speculated about the assassination.

Emma watched from her bedroom window as the streets of Mayfair grew quieter. The bustling energy of the season had vanished, replaced by an eerie stillness.

Eleanor joined her, resting a comforting hand on her shoulder. "It feels as though the world has stopped," she murmured.

Emma nodded. "And yet, the sun still rises."

"Grief has its way of moving through us," Eleanor said. "It's slow, but eventually, life begins again."

Emma turned to her mother, her voice soft. "Do you think we'll ever know the truth about what happened?"

Eleanor hesitated. "Perhaps. But for now, we must focus on what we can control—our family, our home, and each other."

Emma nodded, drawing strength from her mother's calm.

The days that followed King George's assassination were steeped in unease, the air thick with the weight of mourning. Across the kingdom, people wore black, their somber faces reflecting the shared sorrow of a nation. For Emma and her family, the postponement of the wedding felt like an aftershock, a reminder of how fragile joy could be in the face of uncertainty.

In the morning, Emma found herself in the study, absently flipping through an embroidery pattern. The soft light of dawn spilled through the tall windows, casting a golden glow over the room. Thomas entered, his boots echoing against the polished floorboards, and leaned casually against the doorframe.

"You look like you've just been sentenced to a year without chocolates," he said, breaking the silence.

Emma glanced up at him, her lips curving into a small smile. "I'm just thinking."

"About the wedding, or the king's death?" Thomas asked, stepping closer.

"Both, I suppose," she admitted, setting the pattern aside. "It feels selfish to think about the wedding when the entire kingdom is mourning. But it's hard not to."

Thomas perched on the edge of the desk, his boyish grin softening into something more thoughtful. "It's not selfish to be disappointed, Emma. You've been looking forward to this for months—years, even. It's natural to feel… off balance."

Emma sighed. "Do you think it's strange that we're not more curious about what really happened? About who could have done such a thing?"

Thomas shook his head. "Not strange, just wise. This isn't a mystery for us to solve. The palace will handle it—or bury it, depending on how damning the truth is."

She raised an eyebrow at him. "That's a rather cynical view."

"Not cynical," he corrected, "realistic. Power plays like this aren't for people like us to meddle in. We'd only get burned."

Emma nodded, though the unease in her chest remained. "I suppose you're right."

Thomas grinned suddenly, the mischief returning to his eyes. "Of course, I'm right. And speaking of meddling, I overheard Harrison discussing the menu for the reception the other day. He was very insistent about the lemon tarts. Should I be worried he's trying to outshine my reputation as the family gourmand?"

Emma laughed despite herself, grateful for her brother's humor. "I think your reputation is safe—for now."

"Good," Thomas said, standing and offering her a mock bow. "I'll leave you to your brooding, dear sister. But don't forget—postponed isn't canceled. You'll still have your day."

That afternoon, Emma joined Eleanor in the drawing room. Her mother sat by the window, her sewing basket at her feet, as she carefully stitched a delicate hem. Emma took the seat beside her, hesitating for a moment before speaking.

"Mother," she began, "do you think it's wrong to feel this way? To feel… disappointed about the wedding?"

Eleanor paused her sewing, her gentle eyes lifting to meet Emma's. "Oh, my dear, of course not. Disappointment is a natural response to change, especially when it's something so dear to your heart."

"But with everything happening…" Emma trailed off, looking down at her hands.

Eleanor reached out, covering Emma's hand with her own. "Grief and joy often walk hand in hand. It doesn't make you selfish to feel both. You've been planning your future, and now that future has been delayed. That's not an easy thing to accept."

Emma nodded, her throat tightening. "I just wish I knew what happens next."

Eleanor smiled softly. "None of us knows what lies ahead, Emma. But what I do know is that your love for Harrison is strong enough to weather any storm. And when the time comes, your wedding will be even more beautiful for the patience it required."

Emma blinked back tears, squeezing her mother's hand. "Thank you, Mama."

Eleanor kissed her daughter's forehead. "Now, let's not dwell on what we can't change. Why don't you help me with this hem? It's far too tedious a task for one person."

Emma smiled through her tears, grateful for her mother's steady presence.

That evening, Harrison arrived at the Hastings estate. He found Emma in the gardens, where the fading light of sunset painted the sky in shades of gold and lavender.

She turned at the sound of his footsteps, her expression softening as he approached.

"Harrison," she said, her voice a mixture of surprise and relief.

"I couldn't stay away," he admitted, his tone warm but serious. "I needed to see you."

Emma smiled faintly, though her eyes betrayed her lingering worry. "It feels like everything is falling apart."

He stepped closer, taking her hands in his. "Nothing is falling apart, Emma. It's only been delayed. Our wedding will happen, and when it does, it will be everything we've dreamed of."

She looked up at him, her eyes searching his. "Do you really believe that?"

"With all my heart," he said firmly. "Nothing—not even the death of a king—can keep us apart."

Emma felt a wave of calm wash over her, the certainty in his voice grounding her. "Thank you, Harrison. I needed to hear that."

He cupped her cheek, his thumb brushing gently against her skin. "We'll get through this, Emma. Together."

She nodded, a small smile breaking through the sadness. "Together."

As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting the gardens in twilight, they stood there in silence, drawing strength from each other and the promise of a future they would not let slip away.

The days turned into weeks, and although the court remained in mourning, the undercurrent of tension grew stronger. Rumors began to ripple through society, whispers of conspiracy and betrayal. Though the royal family had remained tight-lipped about King George's assassination, speculation was inevitable.

One evening, Emma found herself in the study with Alfred. He was seated at his desk, reviewing correspondence, while Emma sat nearby with a book she had no intention of reading.

"Father," she began tentatively, breaking the quiet, "do you think the king's death will change much? For the court, I mean."

Alfred set down his quill and looked at her thoughtfully. "Change is inevitable, Emma. The death of a monarch always leaves a vacuum, and how that vacuum is filled often determines the course of a nation."

Emma frowned. "But what if there's more to his death than we've been told? What if it wasn't just… random violence?"

Alfred leaned back in his chair, his expression grave. "You're perceptive, my dear. There's much we don't know—and likely never will. The palace guards its secrets closely, especially now."

Emma hesitated. "Do you think it's dangerous?"

"Dangerous to ask too many questions, yes," Alfred said, his voice firm but kind. "This is a time for caution, Emma. For us, and for everyone connected to the crown."

She nodded, understanding the unspoken warning in his words.

The next morning, Thomas burst into the drawing room where Emma and Eleanor were discussing flowers for the wedding. Though the date had yet to be set, Eleanor insisted they continue the preparations.

"Emma," Thomas declared dramatically, "I've just had the most brilliant idea for your wedding. Fireworks. Magnificent, sky-filling fireworks!"

Emma looked up, her lips twitching with amusement. "Fireworks, Thomas? At a wedding?"

"Why not?" he said, flopping into a chair with his usual irreverent energy. "It's not every day my sister marries a viscount. If that doesn't deserve fireworks, I don't know what does."

Eleanor raised an eyebrow. "Perhaps something a bit more traditional, Thomas. This isn't a carnival."

Thomas grinned. "You wound me, Mother. My ideas are always ahead of their time."

Emma laughed, grateful for her brother's ability to lighten the mood. "I'll consider it, Thomas. Though I think Harrison might prefer something less… explosive."

"Speaking of Harrison," Thomas said, leaning forward, "when are we going to talk about his utterly ridiculous habit of always being so proper? Honestly, Emma, you'll have to loosen him up a bit. Teach him how to enjoy life."

Emma shook her head, though she couldn't suppress her smile. "Harrison is perfectly fine as he is. Besides, he's already learned to put up with you, hasn't he?"

Thomas gasped in mock offense, placing a hand over his heart. "I am a delight, Emma. A gift to this family. And I'll have you know, Harrison enjoys my company immensely."

Eleanor chuckled softly. "I believe that's enough teasing for one day, Thomas. Go and make yourself useful elsewhere."

He stood with a flourish, bowing theatrically. "As you wish, dear mother. But don't say I didn't warn you, Emma—fireworks are the future."

With that, he swept out of the room, leaving Emma and Eleanor shaking their heads in fond exasperation.

Later that evening, a footman arrived with a letter bearing the royal seal. Alfred gathered the family in the drawing room to read it aloud.

"The palace has set the date for the late king's funeral," Alfred announced, his voice steady but solemn. "It will be held in three weeks' time. All members of the peerage are expected to attend."

Emma felt a pang of unease. Though she had attended many grand events in her life, a royal funeral carried a weight unlike any other.

"There's more," Alfred continued. "Prince Adrian will deliver a speech honoring his father's legacy. It seems the prince is stepping into his new role more quickly than expected."

Eleanor nodded approvingly. "He'll need to. The crown cannot afford hesitation, not now."

Emma exchanged a glance with her mother. Though Eleanor's words were practical, Emma could sense the concern beneath them. The prince's ascension was inevitable, but it came at a time of profound instability.

As the family dispersed for the evening, Emma lingered by the window, gazing out at the darkened gardens. The stars above seemed distant, their light muted by the heaviness of the moment.

Harrison found her there, his presence a quiet comfort.

"Are you all right?" he asked, his voice low.

She turned to him, her expression thoughtful. "I'm not sure. It feels as though we're standing on the edge of something vast and uncertain."

He took her hand, his touch steady and reassuring. "Whatever lies ahead, we'll face it together."

Emma nodded, holding onto his words like a lifeline. "Together."