A Seat at the Table

Cromwell Palace, Henfordshire

The late morning sun spilled across the polished stone floors of Cromwell Palace, casting golden light on tapestries older than the kingdom’s constitution. Outside, the manicured grounds shimmered with dew, and in the east courtyard, laughter echoed—bright, unfiltered, and unmistakably youthful.

King Maximilian Cromwell, nearly sixty and still spry, stood beneath an ivy-laced archway with his arms outstretched. His grandson, the toddling Maximilian Hendrik—youngest grandbaby to the Crown and named in his honor by Princess Victoria and Duke Hendrik of Zeehaven—wobbled forward with determined delight. The King scooped him up with practiced ease, lifting the boy high into the air as the child squealed with joy.

“Ah, my namesake,” the King chuckled, pressing a kiss to the boy’s soft cheek. “You’ve already mastered diplomacy. That giggle could win over Parliament.”

Nearby, Princess Victoria watched with quiet pride, her daughter Amelia Grace nestled in her lap. Duke Hendrik stood beside her, one hand resting gently on her shoulder. The family had arrived the evening prior for a weeklong visit—joining the ever-present rhythm of Cromwell Palace, where Crown Prince William and Princess Wilhelmina reside year-round with their children, Josephine and James. William and Victoria had been inseparable since they were toddlers, and still were to this day.

The west wing, long considered the heart of the royal household, hummed with daily life: tutors arriving at dawn, music drifting from the conservatory, and the scent of Queen Aria-Grace’s rose garden curling through open windows. Staff flitted past in quiet choreography—footmen with polished trays, gardeners brushing soil from their cuffs, and nannies moving like clockwork through the corridors with satchels of wipes and whispered reassurances.

Inside, the grand hall had been transformed into a playroom of sorts. Toy horses lined the baseboards, and a miniature version of Bold Pleasure—the King’s beloved stallion—stood proudly in the corner, carved from polished wood and painted with care.

Crown Prince William, ever the composed heir, watched his father with a rare softness in his eyes. “He’s so good with them,” he murmured to Wilhelmina, who nodded.

“He always has been. I believe with the grandchildren… it’s different. It’s joy without duty.”

The King lowered young Maximilian to the ground and took his hand, leading him toward the main door. “Come, little one. Let’s visit Boldy. He’s been asking after you. I took your sister and cousins yesterday, but you were napping.”

And so they went—grandfather and grandson, legacy and future—across the stone bridge and into the heart of Henfordshire’s traditions. The palace, once a symbol of power, now stood as a living remnant of centuries gone by, pulsing with laughter and love. And in that moment, King Maximilian was not just a monarch. He was a man fulfilled. Father, grandfather, a man with a legacy to look proudly upon.

The stables lay downhill—pleasant enough on the way there, but a trek on the return, which is why golf carts awaited members of the royal household, discreetly parked behind hedges and trellises. Vivienne and Liam knew the route well, having made the climb often from their modest staff apartment nestled above the royal stables. Cromwell Palace loomed above like a storybook castle, but their life was lived in saddle leather and equine training sessions.

That morning, the palace buzzed with arrivals.

First came Veronica and Elias, fresh from Nordhaven, their coats still dusted with sea salt and airport fatigue. Crown Prince William greeted them with big hugs, a grin, and a raised brow.

“What?! No babies yet?” William exclaimed, poking his little sister’s midsection with exaggerated scandal. “What is this—don’t you know your royal duties, sis?”

Veronica swatted his hands away with a sharp laugh. “Will! Stop it. You sound just like Elias’ parents.”

William grinned, clearly enjoying himself. “Exactly. I’m channeling the elders. Consider me the voice of tradition.”

Then he turned to Elias with mock solemnity, eyes narrowing in theatrical judgment.

“And you, Your Majesty,” he said, tapping Elias’ stomach with exaggerated concern, “is this the belly of a reigning king, or a man who’s been skipping the gym?”

Elias shoved him back like only family can. “Hey, respect the crown. I outrank you now, remember?”

“And I’m older than you. And you’re in my kingdom. My father is currently not present, which makes me second in command. That makes me your equal in all aspects.”

Veronica rolled her eyes. “Second in command, ha! Everyone knows that would be Mama.”

“Mama is absolute first, even before Papa. Everyone knows that, too, sweet sis.”

Elias chuckled, brushing off the jab. “We’re pacing ourselves in regards to babies and enjoying my little niece for now. Quality over quantity for House Gyllenborg. Unlike the Cromwells, who breed horses and humans with equal enthusiasm.”

“Hey,” William said, mock-offended. “We’re efficient. And I only have two children. Look at the von Ahrensbergs—I heard baby number four is in the works. Is it true? I assume you’d be the man to ask, Elias, seeing how your little brother just married Queen Helena’s sister.”

He gestured toward Wilhelmina, standing beside him. “I tried to get intel from my own wife—who, I remind you, is the King of Windenburg’s sister—but she’s tighter-lipped than the royal press office.”

Wilhelmina raised an eyebrow, cool and amused. “I said I would tell you, mein Schatz, once there is something to share. Unlike some families, we don’t leak state secrets over dinner.”

Veronica snorted. “She’s not wrong. Mina could be sitting next to a scandal and still look like she’s reading poetry. I don’t think you could torture anything out of her.”

Elias smirked. “If I knew anything I could talk about before there’s been an official press release, I would most certainly not tell you, William. Not after calling me chubby.”

William grinned. “I didn’t say chubby. I said you don’t seem to have time for the gym. Because you’re so busy being king. It’s a royal compliment.”

Elias rolled his eyes. “Yes, I’m sure it was. I hope the weather holds—we brought swimwear. Then you can admire my steel body with jealousy.”

William snorted. “Steel body? Please. We need to get you some proper mirrors, not the vanity ones you seem to prefer. And if we’re comparing physiques, I’ll have you know I still beat you in the palace pool last summer.”

Elias glanced toward the entrance, where a small commotion had begun. “Speaking of physiques—look who finally made it up the hill.”

Vivienne, Liam, and RJ had just arrived—the toddler already sticky with juice and suspiciously muddy. They were, predictably, late.

William clapped his hands. “Ah, the Hawthorne contingent. Late as always. Have you guys ever been on time for anything? Ever?”

Vivienne hoisted the boy higher on her hip. “Unlikely, but definitely not since we had this baby. He found a puddle. And declared war.”

Liam shrugged. “We lost. Toddlers can be deceivingly quick on those short little legs.”

Before anyone could reply, a uniformed nanny swept in from the corridor with the precision of a royal parade. She carried a discreet satchel of wipes, tissues, and emergency snacks—her expression calm, her heels silent on the marble.

“Master RJ,” she said gently, already dabbing at his cheeks, “you appear to have won the battle but lost the war.”

RJ blinked up at her, juice-stained and triumphant.

“Sticky fingers,” she murmured, handing Vivienne a fresh cloth. “And I believe there’s a leaf in his hair.”

William leaned toward Elias. “See? Efficiency. This is how it goes when Cromwell excellency unifies with von Ahrensberg precision. My children will not only rule this kingdom, but the world.”

Elias snorted. “If you accuse me of vanity mirrors, I shall accuse you of being in desperate need of a reality check, dear brother-in-law.”

Foundations

For dinner, the family was directed into the Grand Dining Hall—a rare departure from their usual meals in the intimate breakfast room, which, despite its name, served as the default for informal gatherings. Tonight, however, the long table gleamed with polished silver and fresh linens, the royal crest shimmering above the fireplace. It was a room reserved for proclamations, not puddings.

“Why are we eating in the big hall?” Veronica asked, linking her arm through William’s opposite side from his wife, Wilhelmina.

“I was wondering the same,” Wilhelmina leaned forward. “Max runs everything by Will these days—preparing him to be king one day—but he won’t say a word.”

“Why would I?” William shrugged. “Papa asked me not to, and you all can pace yourselves a little longer. We’re almost there. Impatient lot.”

“Is he announcing his abdication?” Veronica teased. “Are you going to be king? Ha! I never thought I’d be queen before you were king, Will. Not with our age difference and two siblings between us.”

William rolled his eyes. “No, that much I can tell you. He and Mama did speak about it, but Mina and I asked him to keep the crown a while longer. We’re not ready for that yet. Once you and Eli have kids, you’ll understand why.”

“Speaking of,” Veronica turned to her older brother, “when are you having another?”

“Excuse me?” Wilhelmina blinked, her voice cutting in from around him.

“Well, aren’t royals supposed to have three kids minimum? That’s what Eli and I want. Three. Close in age. Like you and Victoria, Will—but three. Viv and I were always so jealous—you two were like twins and instant besties, while she and I were just the little siblings. I thought it was great then, and still now in your early thirties you still are so close. That’s what I want for my children. Not siblings’ rivalry, but harmony.”

“Well, let me dissuade you of that notion right away. We have two toddlers just over a year apart, but harmony isn’t exactly on the menu, Vero. That’s not how it works. Besides, Will and I are perfectly happy with the two we have,” Wilhelmina replied, her tone measured but firm. “Between all his siblings, the succession is more than secure, thank you very much. And as Will says—once you’ve had your first child, we’ll talk again.”

She sighed, then continued. “Having children isn’t simple. Not physically, not emotionally. Especially if you aspire to be more than a decorative consort, which I most certainly do. Will and I are deeply involved in palace affairs, and unless you plan to let staff handle the lion’s share, children add a great deal to your daily load.”

Her gaze sharpened slightly. “And even if you delegate the inconvenient parts—nannies, tutors, all of it—you still have to carry the child. You still have to give birth. And I’ll tell you, Vero, that experience isn’t quite what you seem to imagine. Both my pregnancies were difficult. I’m not eager for a third.”

They had just found their seats when a quiet stir rippled through the room. Roland Hawthorne, retired stablemaster and now Royal Foalwarden, entered hesitantly through the side door. He wore his best jacket—slightly wrinkled—and looked deeply uncomfortable.

Liam stood immediately. “Dad?”

Roland nodded, cheeks already pink. “Weren’t told I was invited—least not ‘til you and Viv were off already. Got fetched by some guards, I did. Thought maybe somethin’ was wrong, Your Majesties?”

He began to bow, but winced mid-motion, hand to his lower back.

“Oh no no, nothing is the matter, and there’s no need for all that, dear Roland.”

Queen Aria-Grace crossed the room and gently linked her arm through his. “None of that, Roland. You’ve earned your place at this table a hundred times over. You just usually won’t show up, so tonight we… insisted. Please, relax and enjoy good food and company.”

Roland’s face turned crimson, his smile lopsided and boyish. “Much obliged, Your Majesty. Real kind of you.”

The siblings grinned.

“Wait—does your dad fancy our mum? Like, actually fancy her?” Veronica whispered, eyes wide with mischief.

“Please don’t make me picture that,” Liam muttered. “My family’s had more than its fair share of run-ins with aristocracy already.”

“Too late,” William smirked. “I think he does. Mum’s still got it—and Papa’s still hopelessly besotted. You lot don’t live here anymore, so you miss the daily dose of ‘Oh, queen of my heart…’ and other syrupy declarations. I’m practically drowning in parental affection.”

“I find it rather romantic,” Wilhelmina interjected with a soft smile. “You must be like that when we are their age, William. I shall hold you to those standards.”

William turned to her with a grin and a wink. “A Windenburgian with impossibly high standards? Shocking—truly.”

Mina smiled, slow and charming. “Well, I married you, didn’t I?”

William beamed, leaned in, and kissed her temple with theatrical devotion. “See? My beautiful Burgish flower. I can’t help being attentive and loving—it’s practically genetic.”

Veronica groaned, rolling her eyes. “And he’s the one complaining about Mama and Papa?”

Liam shook his head. “They deserve each other. We deserve earplugs. And maybe a sick bag.”

Roland was guided to a seat beside Liam, still blinking in awe at the grandeur of the room.

Then King Maximilian rose from his seat at the head of the table, his presence commanding but warm.

“It brings me great joy,” he began, “to have the entire family gathered again. I love having my children and their families home. Seeing all of you so happy does a father proud. And knowing that coming here still feels like returning home—not a chore—means the world to your mother and me. And thank you, Roland, for joining us tonight—albeit not entirely of your own volition—but I thank you nonetheless.
I would also like to acknowledge the absence of Jack and Izzy Kershaw, as well as their son, Cody. They were invited, of course, but are currently in Chestnut Ridge visiting Jackson and Beau at the family ranch. Jack sends his love—and, I assure you, he’s well aware of what I’m about to say. He preferred not to be the center of attention, but I know he’s proud. In his own quiet way.”

He paused, then added, “But before we indulge in a delectable meal on this auspicious evening, there is a matter I wish to declare.”

Vivienne, noticing RJ’s increasingly sticky hands and the faint scent of pee, began to rise as the boy started fussing and whining. “Sorry, Papa, I’ll just take him—”

“Vivienne,” the King said gently, with a touch of steel beneath the softness, “do remain seated. I ask you to listen.”

“I have him,” Liam offered, already reaching for the boy.

But the King raised a hand—an elegant, practiced gesture—and a servant stepped forward at once.

“This concerns you both,” he said, his voice calm but commanding. “Please, Liam, be seated. A nanny, if you would, to attend to young RJ. I daresay he will have little to contribute to what I am about to say—though it pertains to him nonetheless.”

Liam froze, then lowered himself back down. “That sounds ominous.”

“Liam, just be quiet and listen, boy,” Roland hissed beside him.

William leaned in, stage-whispering, “You’re being fired. And evicted. Both of you—Liam and Viv.”

Vivienne shot her older brother a glare. “You wish.”

King Maximilian chuckled. “Will isn’t entirely wrong. Although I prefer to think of this as a pleasant announcement—nothing so harrowing, thank you very much, my son.”

The room quieted. The King turned to his advisor, who stepped forward and handed him a tablet.

“Sir Reginald,” he muttered, squinting, “I thought this was to be printed.”

Reginald, ever composed, replied, “Your Majesty, we hadn’t time to prepare parchment after the latest revisions. And as you are rarely parted from your tablet, I judged this would suffice.”

Maximilian sighed, murmuring something about modern times, then retrieved his glasses from his breast pocket and slid them on—an old habit, though he rarely needed them to read until recently.

A whisper rippled down the table.

“Papa’s wearing his glasses,” Victoria leaned toward Will.

“Papa always had glasses. Mama showed us photos of him at university—he was wearing glasses then,” Will whispered back.

“But not to read. He’s near-sighted, Will,” she whispered.

“I know that! He’s also turning sixty soon,” Will replied. “Mama keeps him young, but not forever. He needs glasses to read now too.”

“Is our Papa old now?” Veronica asked, eyes wide.

“Does this mean he’s abdicating?” Vivienne wondered aloud. “Is that what the announcement is about? Isn’t he too young for that?”

The King cleared his throat. “My eyes may not be what they once were, but my ears remain perfectly serviceable. So, if you’ve all finished speculating, I shall enlighten you.”

He tapped the screen, then read with the solemnity of a coronation.

“By royal decree, and in recognition of loyalty, humility, and exceptional service to the Crown, I hereby name Liam Hawthorne as Baron Hawthorne of Cavendell Chase, founder of the noble House of Cavendell. May your name be spoken with pride, your horses run swift, and your legacy endure.”

Liam blinked. “Wait, what?”

Vivienne gasped.

Roland’s eyes looked ready to pop from their sockets. The crimson flush from earlier drained from his face, leaving him pale as parchment. He gripped the edge of the table, as if the weight of the moment had knocked the breath from his lungs.

“Princess Vivienne Grace Hawthorne, née Cromwell,” the King continued, “you shall remain Princess of the Realm and now also be known as Baroness of House Cavendell. May your name carry the grace of your mother, the fire of your father, and the love of your new home. And now with your very own titles and legacy to pass down and continue on.”

The King tapped the screen once more, then nodded to Sir Reginald, who stepped forward carrying a rolled parchment bound in green and gold silk.

“I had this prepared,” Maximilian said, “with the help of our royal heraldic designer—and, I must admit, a great deal of input from Crown Prince William.”

Reginald unfurled the parchment, revealing a crest in rich green and gold: a white horse rearing proudly beneath a canopy of oak leaves, framed by ornate scrollwork and the words Cavendell Chase.

“The horse,” Crown Prince William explained, rising slightly from his seat, “is of the Cromweller breed—our royal line has bred them for centuries. They’re known for their grace, loyalty, and strength. White is traditional, though other colors are permitted, so don’t feel we’ve tried to limit your options. It’s mostly symbolic—an emblem of the love of horses we all share.”

“And the oak leaves,” the King added, “are a nod to Windenburg, homeland of our beloved Wilhelmina. Her family’s crest bears the oak, and it felt fitting to honor that bond here.”

“And the green,” William continued, “represents Cavendell Chase itself—its fields, its promise, and the life Vivienne and Liam have built together. But it also carries the royal colors of Henfordshire—green and gold—marking this house not only as noble, but as forever tied to the Crown.”

Maximilian smiled. “This is your crest, Liam. The emblem of House Cavendell. May it stand for all you are, and all you will become.”

He paused, then gestured again to Sir Reginald, who stepped forward with a frame—this one larger, mounted on a board and covered in deep green velvet. With a practiced flourish, Reginald unveiled a traditional oil rendering of a stately manor nestled among rolling pastures and wooded hills.

The painting showed Cavendell Chase in full splendor: a white stone manor with slate roofs and twin turrets, ivy climbing its walls, and a sunlit balcony overlooking the grounds. A rider on a white Cromweller stallion trotted up the winding path toward the entrance, framed by mature trees and dappled light. To the right, stables and paddocks stretched toward the horizon, enclosed by white fencing and softened by the surrounding forest.

“Cavendell Chase,” the King announced. “Your new home. A gift from the Crown, fully renovated and furnished under the careful eyes of Queen Aria-Grace and Princess Wilhelmina. The estate includes stables, paddocks, and a training ring—everything you’ll need to continue your work with the Cromweller line, and raise your family with dignity and space.”

He turned to Liam and Vivienne. “Arrangements are already underway to move you from your apartment above the royal stables. You’ll find Cavendell Chase ready to welcome you—warm, noble, and yours.”

Liam remained seated, his expression unreadable. The room watched him—some with curiosity, others with quiet reverence. He had once worn nobility like borrowed armor, only to lay it down with grace. Now, the Crown offered him another.

William, sotto voce to Liam, as the items are placed back on stands, now unveiled and as reminders of the changes ahead “You turned down Earl Kensington, and now you’re Baron of Cavendell Chase. Seems the Crown doesn’t take no for an answer.”

Roland, beside Liam, reached out—not with words, but with a hand on his son’s shoulder. A pause. A father’s pause.

Liam looked at him, then at Vivienne—his wife, the princess, raised in these very halls. Her eyes shimmered with unshed tears, her hand resting gently on RJ’s back. The boy squirmed in the nanny’s arms, blissfully unaware of the weight in the air.

Liam remained seated, his expression unreadable. The room watched him—some with curiosity, others with quiet reverence. He had once worn nobility like borrowed armor, only to lay it down with grace. Now, the Crown offered him another.

He looked at his father, then at Vivienne—his wife, the princess, raised in these very halls. Her eyes shimmered with unshed tears, her hand resting gently on RJ’s back. The boy squirmed in the nanny’s arms, blissfully unaware of the weight in the air.

Liam’s gaze drifted to the King, who stood with quiet dignity, waiting—not commanding, not demanding, but offering.

And then something shifted.

Liam rose abruptly, the chair scraping softly behind him. He crossed the room in three long strides and, against every protocol etched into palace stone, wrapped his arms around King Maximilian.

The King stiffened for half a breath, then softened, resting a hand on Liam’s back.

“Thank you,” Liam whispered, voice thick. “To you, to the Queen, to all of you—for giving me something I’ve never truly had.”

He stepped back, eyes sweeping the table. “Belonging wasn’t something I worried about much. Not growing up. I worked harder, stayed busy, kept my head down. It was easier to outrun the question than answer it.”

He glanced at Roland, whose eyes were damp but steady.

“But when RJ was born, it changed. I started wondering what I was handing down. And one night, when things were quiet and heavy, my father said something I haven’t forgotten. He said, ‘You’ve got love for Viv, and horses, and you know both better than most. But you deserve more than memory and muscle. You deserve a place.’”

Liam paused, then added dryly, “He also said RJ would probably inherit my stubbornness and Roland’s appetite, so we’re doomed either way.”

A ripple of laughter broke the tension.

Then Liam turned back to the King, gaze firm now, holding Maximilian’s with quiet intensity.

“Thank you,” he said again, this time with clarity and conviction. “For the name. For the home. For the legacy. I’ll make it worthy.”

Maximilian nodded once, his smile soft and proud.

“I believe you will,” he said, turning back to the table. “And on a lighter note—yes, in a way, William was correct. You are being evicted. And fired. Both of you.”

Laughter rose again, fuller this time, and the weight in the room lifted—just enough to let joy in.

“But,” he continued, “I would argue it is for the most proper and pleasant reasons imaginable. You are being elevated, not dismissed. And your new duties—should you choose to accept them—will involve horses, heritage, and the raising of a young heir who already seems determined to leave sticky handprints on every royal surface.”

RJ squealed from the nanny’s lap, as if on cue.

Maximilian’s gaze shifted to Roland.

“And you, dear Roland. Your service to this family—spanning over fifty years—has been nothing short of extraordinary. But your health now requires rest, not responsibility. You deserve a retirement worthy of your legacy.”

Roland opened his mouth, but the King raised a hand again—gentle, but firm.

“You will not vanish. You will advise, mentor, and—most importantly—be a grandfather. That is not a suggestion. It is a royal decree.”

Roland blinked, then nodded, eyes glassy.
Maximilian looked around the table, his voice softening.

“Let this evening mark not just a transition, but a celebration. Of loyalty. Of love. Of legacy. May House Cavendell thrive, and may this family—every branch and root—continue to grow strong.”

He lifted his glass.

“To Cavendell.”

The family followed suit, glasses raised, hearts full.

And somewhere beneath the table, RJ dropped a spoon with a triumphant clang.

The end of this chapter … but also a new beginning.

The “real” Cavendell Chase.