***
As dusk surrendered to darkness, King William and Queen Beatrice braced themselves for their nightly routine, the arduous and onerous task of convincing their daughter to go to bed at a decent hour.
From the time Rose was a little girl, old enough to realize there was a designated bedtime to adhere to, she would do everything in her powers to forestall this event. If she had it her way, she’d be awake well into the night doing whatever she pleased. In many ways, it had become a ritual for the King and Queen to demand, cajole, beg and threaten Rose to go to bed on time.
Unfortunately for the Queen, she did most of the verbal jousting with her insolent daughter while her husband merely backed her up with the occasional, obligatory: ‘listen to your mother, Rose’.
It was not because William disagreed with his wife. In fact, he wholeheartedly agreed with the Queen. It was the backlash of dealing with his daughter that he truly dreaded. In many ways, it was easier to allow Rose to have her way than to deal with the terrible bouts of whining and pouting when she was in a foul mood, not to mention the furious temper tantrums they, and the domestic staff, had come to fear when Rose felt she had been wrongfully disciplined.
The Queen’s efforts to instill some sense of order into Rose’s privileged life was usually undermined by her husband’s complacency. His reluctance to make his daughter comply with their wishes and to dole out punishment for her unruly behaviour was also driven by his lack of desire to be viewed as the bad guy in the family dynamics. He much preferred the role of the doting father.
Sharing an after-dinner cordial in the palace library, King William used this time to review the latest tax levees to fund local road repairs while Queen Beatrice passed the time with some needlepoint, working on an elaborate tapestry that would one day grace the main wall in the grand throne room.
“It is unusually quiet this eve,” noted Beatrice, carefully measuring a golden strand to thread onto her needle.
“Thank God for that,” responded William, not even glancing up from the sheets of parchment he was perusing.
“I am serious, William. I cannot help but sense Rose is up to something.”
“You, my dear, are much too suspicious where our daughter is concerned.”
It was obvious to Beatrice her husband chose to cling to his memories of Rose as the innocent, little daddy’s girl than to acknowledge her descent into the willful, manipulative teenager she had now become.
“I love her dearly and it is not my intention to discredit Rose’s character, but you know as well as I do her actions and attitude of late leaves much to be desired,” reminded the Queen. “At this evening’s dinner table, she barely fussed and complained about her meal as she usually does. And when she was done, she did not even wait to be excused, she simply dashed off.”
“I admit Rose was not as vocal as she normally is, but perhaps, everything was to her liking?” responded William.
“Since when has anything been to her liking? I swear, Rose complains for the sake of complaining, just to hear her own voice. And why was she in such a rush to leave the dinner table?”
“So she was in a hurry?”
“That is just it,” said Beatrice, pondering this mystery. “Why the hurry?”
“You worry all for naught, my dear. It could be absolutely nothing,” dismissed the King, topping up his glass with the sweet, carmine liquid.
“We can only hope,” prayed Beatrice.
“Why hope, when we can ask?” William placed his glass on the table as the sounds of rushed footsteps passing the library caught his attention. “Rose, my dear, please grace us with your presence.”
“What is it, father?” asked Rose, peering into the room.
“You are in a hurry, my dear,” commented her father. “Where are you off to?”
“To bed, of course,” answered Rose, looking quite innocent.
“To bed?” responded her mother, her brows arching up in surprise. Where was the fuss? The fighting? Now she knew for sure her daughter was up to no good. “Are you not feeling well, Rose?”
“I feel fine, mother. I just think it prudent that I go to bed early tonight. Not that I need any beauty sleep, but I do want to look my very best for my upcoming birthday gala.”
“Well then, off you go! Sweet dreams, my dear,” bade her father, turning his cheek to receive a good night kiss.
Giving her mother and father a quick peck on the cheek, Rose headed directly to her bedchamber as she wished them both a good night.
“See, my dear, there was nothing to be concerned about,” said William, with a reassuring smile as he picked up the stack of parchment to resume reading. “I do believe Rose is beginning to mature with age.”
“I pray you are correct, William. As sincere as her words seemed, I still have a niggling feeling deep down inside our daughter is up to no good.”
“Is it merely a suspicious mind?”
“No… More like a mother’s intuition,” replied Beatrice, as she listened to the sounds of Rose scurrying off.