Cherreads

Chapter 4 - Chapter 2

The Princess, who has only recently returned from her studies abroad and is expected to begin preparations for her ascension to the throne, made her first appearance at the opening ball of the season. 

Indeed, she is as strikingly beautiful as many have claimed her to be.

She was seen amidst the glittering crowd at the ball—an event the Queen herself attends solely to select the diamond of the season.

Whether the Princess appeared to reintroduce herself to society or to participate as a debutante remains uncertain.

This author, however, fully intends to uncover the truth…

Lady Whittleby's Society Papers, 23 February 1812

Helena sighed, her eyes drifting over the infamous gossip sheet that her mother so often grumbled about. Secretly, she loved reading them. They offered a window into a world beyond the palace walls—a world full of whispers, innuendo, and the occasional truth.

"I expect you to be ready," came her mother's voice, crisp and commanding, as Queen Eleanor stepped into the room.

"I was just reading this," Helena replied, holding up the paper before setting it down. She moved to sit in front of her mirror where Nara, her loyal maid, was still adjusting the final touches of her hair.

Her mother raised an eyebrow but did not scold. "At least Lady Whittleby didn't say anything unflattering—this time. But never mind that. Are you feeling nervous?"

"There's nothing to be nervous about," Helena muttered, watching her reflection. "It's just a council meeting with men who despise me. Honestly, I have a feeling I'll despise them just as much."

Nara finished with a satisfied nod and stepped back. Queen Eleanor offered a soft smile, then sat beside her daughter and took her hand.

"It's your first council meeting, darling. To be frank, most of them are fools in velvet robes, but I know you'll handle them just fine." With that, she pressed a kiss to Helena's temple and quietly exited.

Well… here goes nothing, Helena thought as the towering doors of the council chambers creaked open. The guards stiffened, and a page stepped forward.

"Her Royal Highness, Princess Helena Amira Matilda Xanthippe."

A silence swept through the chamber like a chill wind. Helena stepped in, her back straight, chin lifted with practiced poise. She crossed the stone floor and took her seat in the grand, carved oak throne at the head of the table. The seat itself felt heavy—not just in size but in responsibility.

The room smelled of ink, wax, and old power—none of which belonged to her. Not yet. As she scanned the table lined with noblemen—some grey-haired and somber, others young and keen-eyed—she read their expressions clearly. Doubt. Dismissal. And, in some cases, open disdain.

"My lady," said the Earl of Mayhem, standing with a bow just low enough to feign respect. "Before we proceed, may I ask if Your Highness is… prepared to lead?"

A murmur rippled through the chamber.

Helena smiled, lips curling with quiet confidence. "I was born prepared," she replied—though deep down, she knew that wasn't entirely true. But they didn't need to know that.

A voice rose from the far end of the table—arrogant and cool. "With all due respect, Your Highness, birthright and readiness are rarely the same."

The heads in the room turned as one toward the speaker: Lord Wembley. Arrogant, proud, and utterly insufferable. Her mother had warned her about him.

Helena didn't blink. "Yes, I understand that. But in this case, I am confident I possess both."

The smirk that had curled at Wembley's lips faltered.

Lord Greystoke, older and more severe, rapped his fingers twice against the table. "We must address the pressing matter at hand."

Helena tensed. She had a feeling she knew what was coming.

"The marriage," he said plainly.

A flicker of discomfort passed through the chamber. Helena's stomach tightened.

Marriage? Already? She had barely returned. She wasn't even Queen yet.

"To be frank, Your Highness," Greystoke continued, "you are of age. You have completed your education, and the rites of succession are approaching. The people will be looking for stability—a husband at your side. Preferably of noble blood and English lineage."

"Yes," Lord Wembley added, seizing the moment. "It is tradition. For a monarch in your position, a union strengthens the throne, quiets dissent, and—"

"—convinces the public you are more than a symbol," the Earl of Mayhem finished. "You will be seen as a Queen. A wife. A mother to the nation."

Helena's hands tightened on the armrests of the throne.

"Isn't it rather early to be discussing marriage before the succession has even occurred?" Lord Amir, the lone dissenting voice, asked.

"It is vital to ensure no rumors arise," Greystoke said tersely. "The people need to see a united front."

"There are many eligible candidates," Mayhem said more gently. "Sons of dukes, viscounts—men with proven loyalty. We can present you with a list."

"I'm sure you can," Helena said sharply. "But forgive me if I find the idea of marrying for political convenience… medieval."

"It's not about convenience, Your Highness. It's about duty," Caspian, the Earl of Mayhem, pressed. "Your father—"

"Do not use my father to leverage your point," Helena snapped. "He never once forced my mother's hand in anything. And I will not become some pawn to be traded for alliances."

The air in the chamber turned brittle.

They want her to fail. She could feel it in the way they watched her—calculating, waiting. She was not what they wanted. Too young. Too independent. Too foreign. Too female.

But she was not going to break.

"If you will excuse me," Helena said, rising. "This meeting is over."

"But—Your Highness—"

"I said, it's over."

Without waiting for their protests, Helena turned and swept from the chamber, her footsteps echoing through the marble corridors.

She did not knock when she reached her mother's drawing room. She never did.

Queen Eleanor sat by the window, a book open in her lap though she hadn't turned a page. Her eyes lifted immediately.

"Helena?"

Helena didn't speak. She crossed the room and sank into her mother's arms, the strong front she'd worn all morning finally beginning to crack.

"They want me to marry," she whispered, voice trembling.

Eleanor's arms wrapped around her. "I suspected they might."

"You knew? And you didn't say anything?"

"I had my suspicions when they insisted you attend the ball. But I didn't want to worry you unless I was certain."

Helena stood again, unable to sit still. "I'm not even ruling yet, and they're already trying to strip me of power. They look at me and see someone they can control. A girl with a foreign name, with no king beside her. Every time I speak, I feel like they're just waiting to correct me."

Her mother listened patiently.

"I'm trying," Helena whispered, tears brimming in her eyes. "But I don't want to be a placeholder until someone more palatable comes along."

Eleanor rose and crossed to her daughter, lifting her chin gently.

"You are not a placeholder," she said. "You are my daughter. Your father's legacy. And whether they like it or not, you are the future Queen of England. You will wear that crown in your own way. You will learn to command respect. And when they try to cut you down, you will bleed with grace and stand taller still."

Helena's tears finally slipped free.

"I don't want to marry for duty," she murmured.

"Then don't," Eleanor whispered, pulling her into a tender embrace. "Not until it's your choice. Let them push. Let them prod. But never let them move you."

Helena clung to her mother, her voice soft and scared. "I don't know if I can be everythi

ng they expect of me."

Eleanor smiled, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear.

"Then be what they don't expect. Be better."

More Chapters