Total pages in book: 23
Estimated words: 22425 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 112(@200wpm)___ 90(@250wpm)___ 75(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 22425 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 112(@200wpm)___ 90(@250wpm)___ 75(@300wpm)
With a nod, Henry jogs over to retrieve his dark-haired brother where he stands beside his wife, and they return, taking a seat on either side of me.
Resting his elbows on his knees, Henry asks, “What would you like to discuss, Granny?”
I take a deep breath and get right to the point, because blunt is always better. And at my age, there’s no time for beating around the bush.
“I’m dying, my boys.”
They’re silent for a moment—staring at me with slightly differing shades of shocked green eyes. My strong-willed grandsons are so rarely speechless, it’s almost funny.
Then Nicholas chokes out, “You . . . you can’t die.”
Oh, my darling. He’s so very much like me—he always has been. A façade of steely stoicism to cover a beating, bleeding heart.
This is going to be hard on him.
“I’m pleased to know you believe I’m indomitable,” I chuckle. Then I reach over and place one hand over each of theirs. “But dying is a part of living . . . and for me, that part is almost here.”
I pat their hands.
“I’m not ill or in pain; I want you to know that. And I’m not afraid.” I look out over the stone garden path I’ve walked more times than I can count. “But I am weary. I’ve lived through more than my share of joys and tragedies, and I have earned my rest.”
“If you’re not ill,” Henry wonders, “then how do you know you’re . . .”
“Dying?” I supply when he doesn’t seem to be able to say the word.
“Yes. That. How do you know?”
My gaze is pulled back to the path.
“Because I see him all the time now.”
The boys glance at each other hesitantly. I can’t say I really blame them.
“Him?” Nicholas asks. “Do you mean Grandfather?”
“Yes. He used to just come to me in my office.” My tone goes admonishing. “And all these years you boys thought I was speaking to a painting—shame on you.”
“Right.” Nicholas nods, eyebrows raised. “Because talking with your deceased husband is . . . so much better.”
Henry glances at the path, his eyes searching. Then he turns back to me.
“Do you see him now, Granny?”
“I do.” And there’s a smile in my voice. Because Edward is so very dashing. “He’s there, pacing the path and checking his pocket watch. He used to do that if I was late returning to him at the end of the day. He would worry about what was keeping me.”
Nicholas swallows.
“Perhaps we should speak with the doctor. Tell him that you—”
“No,” I cut him off, my tone clipped. “I have no need of the doctor.”
“But—”
“There are, however, things I need to do. Items I want you to have. It’s important to me.”
Nicholas’s and Henry’s eyes meet again in unspoken communication—and then they nod.
“All right,” Henry says.
From my pocket, I retrieve the oval locket made of gold and about the size of a half dollar. I open it, revealing the tiny hand-painted portrait of a woman with long, dark, wavy hair framing her face and sparkling, jubilant gray eyes.
I show it to Nicholas and he smiles softly.
“Is this you, Grandmother?”
“It is. From my wedding day. Your grandfather had it made.”
“You were bonny,” my grandson chuckles.
“I was quite, wasn’t I?”
I close the locket and press it in Nicholas’s hand.
“Keep this as a reminder of who you are and where you come from. Pass that knowledge on to your children—they will need that foundation to navigate this life.”
Nicholas nods and meets my eyes.
“I’ll cherish it.”
Then I turn to Henry and give him a pair of thick, square, black-rimmed glasses.
“These were your great-uncle Thomas’s. He was very dear and very wise and the very best person I have ever known. When you are King, there will be times when grave dilemmas are before you and you may not know how to solve them. If you hold these glasses or even put them on, perhaps they will help give you a different perspective and the answer will come to you.”
Henry’s smile is gentle, and filled with emotion.
“Thank you, Granny.”
I nod. Then I look out to the children.
“And Jane, where is Jane?”
Henry calls his firstborn over, and the tiny, dignified nine-year-old comes to stand before me.
“I have something for you, Jane.” And out of my pocket, I take a golden chain with a ring on the end. A perfect pearl surrounded by small glittering diamonds on a gold band that until this morning had been on my finger for the past seventy-five years.
“Great-Granny!” Jane exclaims when I hold it up. “Is that your pearl ring?”
“No, dearest . . . it’s your ring now.”
And I place the chain over her dark head and around her neck.
“Granny,” Henry worries, “she’s too young. She may lose it.”
But I smile down at my little shadow—the girl who will one day be Queen.
“No, Jane is special, aren’t you? We don’t lose things that are precious to us.”