A Name Unknown

by Roseanna M. White

  With politics comes power. And with power comes corruption. My father taught me that—a lesson he learned watching von Bismarck turn Germany into something it never should have been. I’ll have no part in it. All these years we have hoped that Germany would see where it was headed and make amends. All these years we preserved our ties there in that hope, so Peter might know a different Germany than we did. But all these years have only made the division more clear—and our part in it all too. Our part is to use our ties for the good of our adopted homeland. In service to God and King.

  She bumped her arm into his. “Is it such a bad secret to learn? That your family has been advising England’s monarchs for sixty years?”

  “No, but . . .” He shook his head. “No one will . . . will believe it.”

  “No one will believe you’re actually taking a meal in the pub either, until they see it with their own eyes. But here we are, en route to do just that.” Action, that was all they needed. It could work with the simple, and it could work with the complicated. “We’ll make them believe it, all of it. I’m telling you, put that typewriter to good—or more good—use. Write your family’s story up. Submit it to newspapers. It’ll make a smashing good tale.”

  Peter sent her a look. But then he smiled again, a bit. “I can’t. It’s not . . . not just my story. It’s George’s.”

  Stubborn man. “Ask him first, then. I bet he’d think it a fine idea.” As if she had any idea what kings thought fine or not.

  Maybe Willa was right. Maybe the good food had gone to her head.

  “Maybe.” For a moment, she thought perhaps he was agreeing with her thought. Then she realized he was still talking about talking to the king. “Or maybe—after we find those papers proving I’m English—maybe I just let . . . let it rest. I will prove I’m not German. But if . . . if people will h-hate me for my name anyway, then . . .” He shrugged. “Or I could ch—change it. Like George is . . . is considering.”

  “Change your name?” Women, she supposed, did it all the time—but it was different, somehow, to take another name when it was the name of a man whose history you were willing to weave your future into. Quite a different tale to just abandon one’s family legacy altogether. “Well, you can’t do that. And you obviously don’t really think you should, either, given that you stutter when you suggest it.”

  He rolled his eyes. “You sound like . . . Gryff.”

  “Take it back!” She bumped into him again, a little harder this time.

  He laughed. And then frowned. “Do you hear . . . something?”

  They were at the edge of the village now, the first few houses just beyond a copse of trees. And now that she listened, she could indeed. The rather frantic cries of a woman just barely reached her ears on the summer breeze.

  Peter, of course, was off at a lope before she’d even had a chance to process which direction the sound came from, tugging her along with him.

  She moved to let go of his arm when she saw that it was Mrs. Gladstone bellowing. Except that he must have read her mind—he grabbed hold of her fingers before she could pivot on her heel and leave the woman to whatever horror had befallen her. Probably a squeaky stair. Or an insect that had the gall to land on one of her pretty little flowers.

  “Mrs. G-Gladstone! What is it?”

  An itch on her back she couldn’t reach. A shoe pinching her toes.

  Mrs. Gladstone flew at them, tears streaming down her face and arms waving in the air. “Help me! Mr. Holstein, help, you must! Little Marcus is in there, and I’ve done it again! I’ve locked myself out!”

  Peter let go of Rosemary’s hand to catch Mrs. Gladstone as she landed on his chest, sobbing. He patted her back. “There now. We . . . we’ll fetch a spare k-key. Does your . . . your brother have one? Or your son?”

  “They’re both away, that’s why I’ve got Marcus. Oh, I’m a wretch! An absolute wretch.”

  Rosemary couldn’t entirely disagree with that. But as the woman quieted, a new wail painted the air. Rosemary’s brow wrinkled. She had assumed, she supposed, that this wasn’t really a crisis—that Marcus was probably ten and perfectly capable of unlocking the door himself.

  But that was the cry of a baby. Perhaps not a newborn, but a baby. And it wasn’t the halfhearted cry of a child just waking, it was full-fledged wailing.

  Rosemary vaulted onto the porch. “Have you a window open?” Surely she did, as hot as it was. They could simply climb inside.

  “No! He was napping. You can’t have fresh air on a baby when he sleeps, don’t you know anything?”

  Rosemary rolled her eyes at that rot and reached for a window, through which she saw the red-faced little boy, standing up in his crib and trying, it seemed, to climb out of it. “Unlocked, though, surely.”

  “Surely not. You never know what thieves and worse are lurking around.” Mrs. Gladstone pushed past Rosemary and set to banging on the door again. As if the baby would come and unlock it for her.

  Peter mounted the steps at a more reasonable pace. “We’ll . . . we’ll have to break a window.”

  The lady, naturally, went into a fit at that. But there was little help for it. Peter went off to look for a handy stone or brick or tool, and Rosemary debated whether it would be cruel to him to send the blubbering Mrs. Gladstone after him to help in the search.

  Then a crash sounded from within, and the cries inside redoubled. There was something in them now—not just panic, but pain. Rosemary slid back to the window.

  Mrs. Gladstone pushed her aside. “The crib!” Mrs. Gladstone, looking through the window, raised a fist to pound on it. “It’s broken!” She pounded again.

  Rosemary lunged at her, pulled her away. “Stop! You can’t just break a window with your fist, you’ll cut yourself to ribbons and spray glass on the babe besides. Just give me a moment.” Heart galloping, she flipped open her handbag and reached for the roll of muslin at the bottom. The slender metal tools she kept there.

  Her hands were steady as she pulled them out and moved back to the door. She was used to adrenaline pumping while she had these out, used to distracting noises and panic nipping. It didn’t slow her, didn’t make her fumble. She inserted the pick into the lock, gave herself a moment to gauge where the tumblers were, and within a few seconds heard that beautiful click.

  Mrs. Gladstone charged through the doorway the moment Rosemary turned the knob. She was crying as loudly as her grandson was, though a glance inside seemed to say the little one—probably about a year old—wasn’t badly injured. He had a scrape on his chubby leg, but he was quieting, now that his grandmother’s arms were about him.

  Rosemary shook her head and slid her pick back into her bag. Turned.

  And smacked directly into Peter’s gaze. He stood there with a pry bar in hand, and with questions rioting over his face.

  She couldn’t quite manage a masking smile. Just a feeble clearing of her throat. “Many siblings . . . few keys.”

  He didn’t believe her. His brows said as much when they lifted like that. But he didn’t go screaming for the constable either. He just set down the pry bar and held out a hand. “Hungry?”

  Why, to her ears, did it sound like Guilty?

  Twenty-Three

  She’d be leaving soon. Locryn could see it in the way she held her head. The way her shoulders were two blades again. The way she refused to meet his gaze. He rested a hand on the pistol that hung, as always, at his side.

  He ought to do something. Say something. Grab her arm and haul her in to the authorities. He ought to

  Mr. Holstein!” The beckon came simultaneously with a knock, which may not have fazed him had the knock not also accompanied the distinct whoosh of his door opening.

  Peter looked up, eyes wide, not quite believing Mrs. Teague actually stood in his doorway without waiting for permission to enter. “Is something else on . . . on fire?”

  He stood, ready to run out the door.

  But it wasn’t panic on her face. Not exactly, anyway.
She shook her head, and her hands fluttered, and she stepped two inches into the room and then back into the doorway. “It’s—you’ve a guest, Mr. Holstein.”

  “A guest.” He wasn’t sure if he should smile or frown. “An . . . an angel? A ghost?” He couldn’t think of what else would put that particular look on his pragmatic housekeeper’s face.

  Her hands fluttered again. “It’s . . .” She looked over her shoulder, out into the hall. Then back to him. “It’s the prince.”

  “Prince Edward?” Curious. But hardly cause for alarm. He pulled the sheet of paper from the typewriter, set it in the drawer, slid the drawer closed, and turned the key.

  Not, apparently, that keys mattered in the world, so long as people could just carry small pointed tools in their handbags and open any doors they pleased.

  He smiled at Mrs. Teague. “Is he in the . . . the drawing room?”

  “The gardens.” She sucked in a long breath and fanned herself with her hand. “He said they were beautiful. My Teague’s gardens, complimented by the prince himself!”

  Peter chuckled and slid the key into its usual place in his pocket. “They are. Have I not . . . said so often enough?”

  “Oh, you.” Apparently regaining herself a bit, she stepped into the hall with a smile. “Forgive me for barging in, Mr. Holstein. But I couldn’t very well let you keep the prince waiting, could I?”

  “Of course not. It’s . . . it’s quite all right.” He paused for a moment in the hall and looked toward the library door. Rosemary sat hunched over her table, not even looking up. She had carried a few boxes down from the attic this morning that seemed to have Father’s legal papers in them. One could well have the deed. The naturalization records. And if so, then . . .

  Then she’d leave.

  He drew in a breath and took the quickest path toward the gardens, stepping out into the sunlight and having to shade his eyes to see where amid Teague’s cultivated wilds the prince might be lurking.

  It wasn’t hard to spot him. He was pacing back and forth, his Grenadier Guard uniform a stark contrast against the flowers. He had his hat under his arm, leaving his fair hair to gleam in the sunlight.

  Blast it, but he looked young. All the younger in a military uniform. Which made Peter feel disturbingly old. “Your Highness.”

  The prince spun, eyes alight, and hurried toward him. “There you are. You’ve got to talk sense to them, Peter. You must.”

  His lips twitched. “And this ‘them’ is . . . ?”

  “Father. And Kitchener.” The young man motioned northeast, toward London more or less. “They won’t listen to me. But they’ll listen to you. Tell them that I’m not going to sit back and watch it all happen. I won’t.”

  Kitchener? Peter felt cooler than he should have, out here in the July sun. “Slow . . . slow down, David.”

  Hearing his preferred nickname—the last of his many middle names, as it were—brought a measure of calm to the young man. He drew up, drew in a long breath, let it out.

  Peter nodded. “Now. Kitchener?” He wasn’t sure he wanted to know why Prince Edward would be in debates with the military commander.

  The prince’s nostrils flared. “Father said I might tell you—news just reached us last night. Austria has issued an ultimatum to Serbia and given them two days to comply.”

  Peter reached behind him to the stone bench. “What k-kind of . . . of ultimatum?”

  “According to Churchill, the kind no country could actually agree to.” The prince spun back to the path, pacing a few steps before pivoting. “They did it with Germany’s approval. Everyone—the cabinet, Father, the prime minister—they all think Austria and Germany mean to make a quick strike. Take over Serbia, then back out before anyone else can be drawn into it. But Russia won’t let that happen. They’ve already pledged their support of Serbia. War will be declared within a few days, Peter, and I must be in it. What kind of leader will I be if everyone in England knows I was safely behind the lines through the whole blasted thing? It would make a mockery of this uniform.”

  Dominoes. The dominoes were falling—he could hear them clicking together in his ear. He shook his head. “David, you’re . . . you’re the heir to the throne. You cannot . . . you cannot serve on the f-front lines.”

  “Of course I can—if they’ll only agree.” He stopped again and lifted a hand to his face. “You surely understand, you always understand everything. I want to help. I want to make a difference. I want . . . I want to be who I am.”

  Peter sighed. “I understand . . . perfectly. But your desires cannot . . . change facts. You are the heir. To the crown of Britain. If you were killed—”

  “Then my brother will inherit. It isn’t as though Father is without another heir. But if I live . . .” His blue eyes went brighter still, bright as the summer sky above them. “If I live, Peter, and I have fought, then I’ll be the kind of king the people will rally around. And more, I’ll . . . I’ll be a man worth knowing. A hero, perhaps.”

  Had he sounded so idealistic at twenty? Peter stood again and motioned for his young friend to walk with him. “But what if . . . what if you’re captured?”

  Prince Edward gusted out a breath. “That’s what they said. ‘Think of the immense harm that would occur, Your Royal Highness,’” he said in a voice made deep and gruff, presumably in imitation of Kitchener, “‘should you, the very heir to the throne of Britain, fall into the hands of the enemy.’”

  Peter smiled. “They have a . . . a point.”

  The prince didn’t look inclined to grant it. He set his jaw in the very way King George did when he’d had enough of whatever poppycock someone was trying to feed him. “As have I. But they’ll never grant it.” And his eyes, when he shot a glance at Peter, were flinty. “But they cannot keep me under their thumb entirely. Perhaps they can order my regiment behind the front lines, but I’ll find a way to get to them. I will.”

  He would. Of that Peter had no doubt. “Then I shall . . . I shall pray God’s protection ever . . . around you.”

  They walked a few more steps in silence. Out of the garden proper and toward the back of the house.

  Once past the kitchen—and the noses within it pressed to the glass—Prince Edward sighed. “Sometimes I just wish I could be David. That I could sign up like any other man. Serve like any other man.”

  As he wished he could just be Peter. He nodded. “We cannot . . . we cannot change who we are though. Even if we go by a diff . . . a different name.”

  Even if the world knew him as Hollow, he would still be Holstein. He would always be Holstein. And any who would forget it weren’t the ones who would cause him trouble for it anyway.

  “No. But the opposite is true too, isn’t it? No matter our name, our title—we cannot be but who we are. Underneath.”

  Peter smiled. “You have a . . . a point.”

  “Good. Tell my father so, will you?”

  His chuckle was picked up by the wind, echoed by the leaves. Died down again. “I will . . . write to him. Advise him that you must . . . you must stretch your wings. But, David—you must respect him too. His concerns. His wishes.”

  The prince sighed and flipped his hat around. “You’re always so blasted measured. It can be annoying, you know.”

  They crossed the back path but kept heading around the rear of the house. “Yet you came . . . here.”

  “Because measured seems to work for you. And Father listens to you. Everyone listens to you.”

  Not everyone. If everyone listened, then he wouldn’t be looking for a man in a bowler every time he stepped outside. Wondering which neighbors had turned so thoroughly against him. But perhaps Rosemary was right—perhaps enough would listen to him, if he spoke up. Or wrote something, as the case may be. “Do you listen?”

  The young man grinned and positioned his hat back on his head. “We’ll see, I suppose. I’ll try, but really, Peter—no one can live like you do. It isn’t possible.”

  “No?” Looking around
at his world—the cliffs, the woods, the home, the friends—he didn’t know why not. “I rather . . . like it.”

  “You’ve a beautiful home. I grant you that, most readily.” He made a show of looking around him as they rounded the far corner. And then he came to a halt, a boyish—yet not—smile on his lips. “I was about to say you were missing one rather vital piece of a happy life—a woman. But it seems you have one after all, you old dog.”

  “What?” But he had only to look forward to see Rosemary leaning out the window as she often did. Eyes closed, face tilted up for the sun’s warmth. Looking . . . beautiful. Utterly beautiful. “No. That’s . . . Rosemary. My librarian.”

  Prince Edward laughed. “I wish our librarians looked like that.”

  “David.” He couldn’t help the chiding, it just came out. Even though plenty of people would have been amazed—or horrified—that he dared to rebuke the heir apparent. Said heir’s father, however, would fully approve.

  Said heir just laughed again. “You mean to tell me you don’t appreciate that she’s a far sight prettier than Mr. Hall?”

  Peter’s lips twitched as he watched her roll a kink from her neck. “She is. Isn’t she?”

  “And you, good Mr. Holstein, can’t seem to take your eyes off her.” He slapped a hand to Peter’s shoulder—none too gently—and jogged forward. “Hello there!”

  Oh, blast. Rosemary would skin him alive for letting her meet the prince while hanging out a window. “David! Wait.”

  But the prince was already nearing the window, grinning up at Rosemary like Treeve always did. Saying, “Good day, lady fair. Had you a braid reaching down, I would think you Rapunzel.”

  Peter rolled his eyes as he neared. “That is a . . . a terrible line.”

  Rosemary, her hand currently being kissed by royal lips, looked over at Peter with a grin. But the kind that said, What a sweet little boy and not What a dashing man. Which, he had to admit, made it far more amusing. “Who’s your friend, Peter?”