Instead of assuaging her fears, her dad only nodded. “You will. Countless times.”

“But …”

“You think your predecessors never made mistakes?” he asked, then swiftly answered his own question. “Of course they did. Our nation’s history is woven from their errors in judgment, their wrong decisions, as much as it is from their achievements.”

Beatrice followed her father’s gaze to the portrait of King George I that hung above the fireplace. She knew precisely what her dad was talking about, because it was something they had discussed before—the horror of slavery.

George I had known that slavery was wrong; he had freed all his own slaves upon his death. Perhaps if he’d listened to his conscience instead of to the Southern Congressmen, he would have abolished the institution altogether. Instead that hadn’t happened for another two generations.

“I wish I could tell you that becoming the monarch will give you infallible judgment. If it did, maybe America would have a history I felt unequivocally proud to represent.” Her father gave a disappointed breath. “But unfortunately, this is the history we’ve got.”

Beatrice had never quite thought of that part of the job. That as the living symbol of America, she would be the inheritor of the nation’s legacy, the bad as well as the good.

“I wish we could erase all those—those atrocities,” she stammered, and was surprised by her father’s reply.

“Never say that,” he insisted. “Say you want to make things right, to build a better future. But erasing the past—or worse, trying to rewrite it—is the tool of despots. Only by engaging with the past can we avoid repeating it.”

Beatrice remembered something her history tutor used to say: a good queen learns from her mistakes, but a great one learns from the mistakes of others.

She reached for the photo album, which had slid off her lap onto the carpet. It had fallen open to a photo from an old balcony appearance. Beatrice’s eyes quickly moved past her waving parents to focus instead on the roiling sea of people beneath. The sight of them, the sheer number of them, suddenly felt overwhelming.

“How do you do it?” she whispered. “How do you represent tens of millions of people who all want such different things? Especially when …”

She didn’t finish the sentence, but her dad had always been able to guess the direction of her thoughts. “Especially when some of them would rather have Jefferson than you?”

“Yes, exactly!”

“You do it with grace,” he said gently. “You listen to those people with respect, and try to address their concerns, even when they refuse to grant you the same courtesy. Because you will be their queen. Whether they like it or not.”

Beatrice flipped to another page in the photo album. She knew her dad was right. But sometimes—when newspapers accused her of “getting emotional,” whatever that meant, or when the media spent more time critiquing her outfits than her policies—she wished she could act with a little less grace and a little more aggression. That she could be a little more like Samantha.

She blinked, surprised by that last thought.

“Beatrice,” her father went on, sounding hesitant, “there is one thing I was hoping to ask you.”

“Of course,” she said automatically.

“You are the future queen, and the people have known you, have loved you, since you were born. But as you pointed out, there are still so many Americans who aren’t ready to have a woman in charge.” He sighed. “I hate to say it, but not everyone will like the idea of you ascending the throne as a young woman, alone. The transition would be so much easier on you if you had a king consort by your side.”

No. Surely he wasn’t asking this of her.

“I—I don’t understand,” she stammered. “You just told me that our duty is to learn from our forefathers’ mistakes. To be better than they were.”

Her dad inclined his head in agreement. “It is.”

“But suggesting I get married … You’re saying I can’t do the job on my own.”

“No one can do this job on their own,” the king clarified, and attempted a smile. “Beatrice, this is the hardest role in the world, and it never lets up or slows down or offers you any kind of reprieve. I love you far too much to let you take on this burden without someone to share it.”

Beatrice opened her mouth in protest, but no words came out. Her dad didn’t seem to notice.

“I wouldn’t suggest it if I didn’t think you were ready, but I watched you and Teddy at the New Year’s Eve party. You seemed so at ease with each other, so well matched. And more than that, you couldn’t stop smiling to yourself. You looked so happy.” Her dad’s voice was urgent and earnest.

Beatrice blanched. If she’d looked like that on New Year’s, it was because of the secret glances she’d been exchanging with Connor. It had nothing at all to do with Teddy.

“I just—I haven’t known Teddy very long,” she stammered. “It’s barely been a month.”

“Your mother and I had only been on eleven dates before we got married, and look how it turned out for us.” Her dad’s expression softened, the way it always did at the mention of her mom. “I know that other people sometimes wait years before they commit to decisions like this, but we aren’t like other people. And your instincts about Teddy are sound. I got to spend some more time with him in Telluride, and I liked what I saw. He has strength, integrity, and humility, and most of all, a warm heart.”