𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐑𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐄𝐎𝐔𝐒 𝐇𝐄𝐈𝐑

𝔉𝔦𝔫𝔞𝔩 ℭ𝔥𝔞𝔭𝔱𝔢𝔯 | 𝑬𝑷𝑰𝑳𝑶𝑮𝑼𝑬

-Alexandre became the prince consort of Great Britian.

-You've proven that you are the best pilot in the entire world (Racing Champion).

Five years later

"Papa, there's a swan after me!" Three-year-old Mary, the princess royal, runs screaming over the lawn in the gardens of Buckingham Palace, pursued by the waterfowl in question.

Alexandre, resplendent in a dove-gray morning suit, catches her up in his arms, legging it away from the swan. "What did I say, pet, about antagonizing the birds? You mustn't bother them while they're nesting. They want to defend their babies."

Mary looks at him, considering. She's dark haired like both her parents, but it's fair to say there's a certain Bonaparte willfulness there.

"Why don't you join Monsieur St. Elme and have another cake?" Alexandre says, palming Mary off neatly upon you. Not that you mind. She's like your own niece, and Victoria has reached the stage of late pregnancy in which it's difficult to get up from the table. Taking tea in the garden is rather daring in her state. Like everyone else, you wonder if the child will be a boy this time, a tiny Prince of Wales who unites two worlds. Or perhaps another princess. There's time.

You distract Mary from the swans with a toy aeropilé, a reminder of the next week's airship race. Alexandre's position as prince consort has forced him to retire from racing, and you take pride in captaining the Britannia for England. Your victories have added spectacular trophies to the shelves in the smoking room. Your aid to Victoria and your impeccable reputation make you respected on and off the racing field, and when Victoria speaks of one day creating an order of knighthood to be awarded for personal service to the Crown, she makes it clear that your name will be high on her list. Julien writes to you from France, letters full of humor and passion, and sometimes you steal sweet moments together in London or Calais. You're not sure he'll ever leave France for England, but you're endeavoring to persuade him. After all, England has newspapers, too. Alexandre is a loving husband to Victoria by all outward measures, and perhaps in private as well. You don't ask what they say to each other in their private moments, preferring to cherish the time that you and Alexandre can share. Victoria herself affects not to understand that there are any further intimacies between you and Alexandre than those of any childhood friends, and directs her scorn at anyone who dares to think ill of your affection. You and Alexandre have evenings at the theater and stolen moments together in your rooms, whispering and muffling your laughter against his shirt. If your bed is sometimes cold when he returns to Victoria's room, that's the price you've chosen to pay. Alexandre glances at you, Mary's tangled curls between you. "What is it, M/N?"

"I was just thinking," you say. "About matters in France."

He frowns. "There's no good there, my friend."

"I know," you say. "Sometimes I wish we could have gotten my grandmother out."

Alexandre's voice is gentle. "She wouldn't come, M/N. You know she wouldn't. She died doing what she believed in, and it's like Marshal Ney said. She wouldn't have appreciated an eleventh-hour rescue."

"And now he's gone, too, killed in battle." For a moment your voice chokes. "And France is just one more Hapsburg kingdom. The French Empire is under Austrian rule and always will be."

"Perhaps not always," Alexandre says seriously. "France needs a good king, and if Franz isn't one, his son may be. He'll be raised in France, with some of the greatest men of the age to guide him. That's not nothing." "You're right, Alexandre," you say, and stand with Mary in your arms in the summer sunshine.