A Name Unknown

by Roseanna M. White

  She wouldn’t know, of course—he was in a military uniform, not his regalia. And the prince wasn’t in the press all that much. Yet. Peter cleared his throat. “Your Highness, allow me to . . . to introduce to you Miss Rosemary . . . Gresham.”

  “Your what?” Pulling her hand back, Rosemary jerked away—and promptly smacked her head against the window frame above her.

  “Oh!” Prince Edward leaned forward. But his concern was a bit tarnished by his laugh. “I’m so sorry. Are you all right?”

  Rosemary had disappeared. But her voice floated to them. “Yes, quite. Of course. Your Highness. An honor to . . . to meet you.”

  Well. Now she was stammering. Peter smiled, stood on tiptoe, and leaned through the window. She was on the floor, but he suspected it was mortification that kept her there, not pain. He tapped her on the head, albeit lightly. “Rosie?”

  She peeked up at him. And mumbled, “If you won’t do the merciful thing and kill me, at least go away.”

  First he had to prod a bit. It was his duty as a friend. He hooked a thumb toward the outside. “Prince Edward.”

  Her glare ought by rights to have set him on fire, so hot was it. “I gathered.”

  He chuckled and leaned back into the outside.

  The prince was grinning at him. “I like her,” he declared as he took off for the front of the house. Loudly enough that she had to have heard. Then—more quietly, thankfully—he added, “Just your librarian, you say? Are you quite sure?”

  Peter sighed. “And . . . my friend.”

  Shaking his head, Prince Edward picked up his pace. “Sometimes, man, you baffle me. A pretty girl you obviously fancy, and she’s only your friend? And librarian?”

  “I’m not . . . you know I’m not . . . the type to . . . to . . .”

  The prince laughed again. “You can’t even talk about it without blushing. What of marriage, then? Aren’t you the type for that?”

  He slung his hands inside his pockets and focused his gaze on the new beams going up for the stable. “We’re from . . . different worlds.”

  “I wouldn’t let that stop me if I loved a woman.”

  At that, Peter had to send him a lifted brow.

  Prince Edward grinned. “Or I like to think I wouldn’t. I suppose it’s possible I would cave in to the pressure of my parents. But you haven’t that worry, have you? You’ve no one to answer to but yourself. Why shouldn’t you marry whomever you please?”

  He wasn’t about to have this conversation with the twenty-year-old prince. Largely because he wasn’t sure what his own position was—or what his heart wanted. He’d never been in love. He could write about it—hopefully well enough to be convincing—but he’d never experienced it, but for watching others.

  And the last thing he needed was Prince Edward returning to the king and telling him that Peter Holstein had said that a man ought to marry whomever he wished, regardless of station. Perhaps it was possible for him, a man of some means but no title to worry with. It was certainly not the case for the prince.

  They reached the drive, where an automobile gleamed black and silver and two armed guards stood beside it. Peter cleared his throat. “Stay for . . . for tea?”

  “Better not. I want to be home when we get news of Serbia’s answer. And then I’ll have to report back to my commander.”

  War. War was coming. Was only days away, most likely. And this young man before him was determined to have a piece of it. He shook his head. “Go with God . . . David.”

  Prince Edward stuck out a hand. “Don’t wait around for life to happen to you, Peter. Give it a good chase.”

  He shook his young friend’s hand, smiled. “Perhaps . . . perhaps I will.” As soon as he figured out what it was he wanted from it.

  “You’ve got to be joking.” Eseld stared at her with large, round eyes, her fork just hanging there in midair, forgotten. “The prince? Of England?”

  Rosemary grinned. And rolled her eyes for good measure. “No, Seld, the prince of Denmark came by to speak with Peter. Of course of England.”

  The fork wobbled, and the bite of mushy peas fell from it and landed with a plop on the table. “And you met him? I don’t believe it!”

  “Well, do. I still have the knot to prove it.” She touched her head where she’d struck the windowpane, giving an exaggerated wince. It didn’t hurt anymore—hadn’t for days—but if she were going to tell the tale, she might as well make it good.

  And it was too good not to tell, even at her own expense. Just think—she, Rosemary Gresham, had met the crown prince of England! She leaned forward, toward her stupefied friend. “And he kissed my hand.” Before she’d made an utter fool of herself, but that was entirely beside the point. She could hardly wait to get home to London and tell the family about it.

  Funny, though, the pang that resonated through her at that thought. She wanted to see them all. Missed them terribly.

  But she’d miss these people when she left. Eseld with her pretty curls, Jenny with her brilliant smile. Penrose with his abundant glowers. All right, not him quite as much. But little Elowyn, who still insisted on being called Wyn. Treeve and Kenver and Tamsyn.

  And Peter. Peter.

  “Let me see it.” Eseld dropped the fork and reached over to take Rosemary’s right hand, lifting it and holding it to her cheek.

  Rosemary laughed.

  Eseld closed her eyes and rubbed Rosemary’s hand a bit against her face. “There. The closest I shall ever come to royal lips upon my flesh.”

  “You bet it is.” Moody Colin Thorn stood there at their table, glowering at his wife. With a twinkle in his eye. Rosemary hadn’t been able to spot that twinkle when she’d only looked at him from across the room, but once she’d actually bothered speaking to him, it had been apparent. Especially when he watched Eseld moving about with her tray.

  He still wasn’t quite as handsome as Treeve. Nor as basically good-natured, to her way of thinking. But hearts had their reasons, as someone or another had said.

  She’d ask Peter who’d said it. He would know.

  Eseld slanted a flirtatious look up at Colin and pressed her lips to Rosemary’s hand. He narrowed his eyes at her and planted his hand on his hip. “Can’t let you out of my sight for a minute, can I, my ’ansum?”

  She wiggled her brows. “’Ere, love—Rosemary actually met Prince Edward. He came to visit Mr. Holstein.”

  “Aye, I saw the car going by with its flags and guards and nonsense. Don’t know what all the hullabaloo’s about.” He used the cloth tucked into his belt to wipe up the peas. And grinned. “Now when the princess comes, let me know.”

  Eseld smacked him, sending him off with a booming laugh.

  Rosemary grinned and cradled her mug of tea, now that she had her hand back. Then froze. Movement in the corner caught her eye, though she didn’t know why it should. Sure, the form looked familiar—but everyone in the village did, these days. The stranger in the bowler—Mr. Jasper’s man from London—seemed to have vanished. So why should one particular shift catch her eye? Was the man back?

  The slant of evening light through the window caught on silver-and-gold hair. The tea she’d just drunk turned to sludge in her stomach.

  “Did I hear you say something about the prince?” Betty slid into the booth beside Rosemary, her eyes also wide, though guileless.

  Rosemary let Eseld do the telling this time. She added a word here or there for clarification, but mostly she focused on keeping her glances to the corner discreet.

  It was a full two minutes before the man moved enough that she caught sight of his profile.

  Blast it to London and back—it was Mr. V.

  Betty gave a happy sigh and stood again. “I can hardly believe I was within a mile of the prince. I’ll have to tell Tim about it when I visit him tomorrow.”

  Rosemary dredged up a smile. “You’re looking better, Betty. How have you been feeling?”

  Betty nodded by way of answer and gave her a sweet litt
le smile. “You want more tea, Rosie?”

  It wouldn’t settle, not now. So she shook her head and scooted to the end of the bench. “Actually, I’d better be going.”

  “Oh, not so soon!” Eseld had only just picked up her fork again but now put it back down. “I hate to eat alone, you know I do.”

  “You’ll survive it somehow. I’ve faith in you.” With a grin, Rosemary reached for her handbag.

  She’d half-expected Mrs. Gladstone to have gone about town shouting about what she kept in her bag, warning everyone not to speak to her. More than half-expected, honestly. But the woman had, in an unprecedented display of self-restraint, remained mum about her little rescue.

  No doubt because it would have made the matron look irresponsible with her grandson.

  She could hear Peter in her head, telling her not to be uncharitable. Then she could see him in her mind’s eye, looking at her again as he’d done that day.

  In self-defense, she’d decided to avoid him after that, using the excuse of needing to find his family’s documents. Which mostly worked. Except for the dozens of times she had to ask him to help with the translation of his father’s bizarre writing as she sifted through the stash of his things she’d found in the attic. And those instances when he was suddenly there in the library when she looked up, holding another journal she might want to look at or to read her the latest article in the papers about the ultimatum. And perhaps, too, aside from those times when she wandered into the dining room for a cup of tea or coffee and ended up sharing a meal with him through no fault of her own.

  But she was a realist. She knew those moments didn’t mean he’d forgotten his suspicion—Peter wasn’t the type to forget such a thing.

  And it absolutely didn’t mean she was in love with him. Which she would tell Willa again when she got home.

  Which should be soon. Could, honestly, be any day. She’d found them that afternoon—the papers he so desperately needed. The deed and the naturalization documents for both Wilhelm and Aksel. Proving that, by default, Peter was English as well. Yes, they had done everything necessary to assure him dual citizenship during his childhood—he had been born in Germany, in fact, and they had spent the requisite number of months there with him throughout the years. All that was carefully documented as well.

  But born to an English father. That made him an English subject. And when he gained his majority, he’d had to decide which citizenship he would keep. A choice he hadn’t, she knew, really had to debate. Germany had not become again what Wilhelm had prayed it would. It had rather continued down the path that had sent him away from it to begin with.

  She’d found the proof. And rather than rush in to show him, she’d stowed the papers behind that false-back to the shelf where the journals had been. Because finding them meant, in his eyes, that her work was done. She’d have to leave.

  But she still had to figure out what to tell Mr. V. And apparently she’d better figure it out quickly.

  Eseld gusted out a sigh. “Fine then, abandon me. Force me to go and eat with my surly ol’ husband who’s over there bemoaning that it wasn’t pretty Princess Mary who came to the village.”

  Rosemary chuckled and forced herself not to look at that corner booth again. “Trying for you, I know. See you later. Good night, Betty. Tell Tim I said hello.” And I’m sorry.

  Betty smiled and moved off to take someone’s empty plate.

  Rosemary headed for the door. She didn’t make it out, of course, without parrying three shouted greetings, including one that turned into recounting yet again the prince’s visit to Kensey. She left out the reasons for it—everyone knew by now about the ultimatum, of course, but they didn’t need to know that the prince had told Peter the news before any of the papers had gotten wind of it. And no one seemed to question the why. They were too awed by the that.

  At last, she made it outside. A glance at her watch told her Mr. Trenholm would still be at Kensey for another hour at least. Usually she stayed in the village until she figured he was gone. The long summer evenings made it no great thing, with the light lasting so long, to walk back even at eight o’clock. But tonight she’d start in that direction. If Mr. V didn’t find her, then she’d just slip into the cottage. Or, since it could well be her last Monday here, perhaps . . . perhaps she’d go in and say hello. Trenholm wasn’t a bad sort.

  She’d made it half a mile toward home before the car puttered up behind her and slowed. The passenger door opened.

  With a sigh, Rosemary slid in. “Willa said you’d be coming.”

  Mr. V drove as he did everything else—as if it required no effort, as if he were merely sitting there reading a book. He didn’t so much as glance at her. “And she told me you were having some difficulties.”

  She had the sudden urge to give Willa a good shaking. “No. I’ve found the answers for you—they’re just not what I was expecting, is all. Peter Holstein isn’t a traitor. He’s as loyal to England as a man can be.”

  His hum didn’t sound disbelieving. It sounded amused. “Is he.”

  Why did the man never ask questions? He just stated things, as if he’d known them all the time. But he couldn’t have, not this time, or why would he have sent her here? She turned a bit on the seat to face him. “Look. You sent me here for answers, and I’ve found them. Peter Holstein has no great love for Germany. His family left because they hated the politics of von Bismarck, of which they advised the royal family for generations. He’s trustworthy. He’s loyal.”

  “What else is he?”

  A question, but it still didn’t sound like one. Didn’t feel like one. Rosemary felt her spine go stiff. “What do you mean, what else is he? What does it matter? He’s a loyal English subject. A good man.”

  Mr. V’s chuckle sounded far less amused than his hum had. “You’ve found nothing, really, have you? What does he do all day, Miss Gresham?”

  She dug her fingers into her handbag. “He reads, much of it. Have you seen his library?”

  “Miss Gresham.”

  Blast it, he had no right to know when she lied. Was the man even human? “He types.”

  “Types. What?”

  She could feel the pick on the bottom of her bag. Evidence of who she was. What she was. “I don’t know. Nothing bad. All he ever speaks of is his faith—it’s probably a treatise on it.”

  He took the big bend between the village and Kensey without even slowing down. “I don’t deal in ‘probably,’ Miss Gresham. What of the mountains of correspondence?”

  “It’s nothing. He writes letters to everyone—authors, artists. Just letters. Friendly. Talking, again, of faith.”

  Mr. V lifted his brows. “He has whole boxes of it delivered, you know. Through his lawyer. What are those? I daresay not more of the same.”

  How? How could he know so much? Rosemary shook her head. “I’ve found nothing but those normal letters. And I’ve been all through the attic where he stores them.” Mostly. Perhaps. She may have missed a box or two, somewhere or another.

  “Then you’re missing something.” His hands didn’t go tight on the wheel. The muscles didn’t go tight at his jaw. But he was angry. She knew it in the same way that she knew when to duck, when to hide to avoid a bobby. “I need to know what he’s writing all day.”

  “I’ve tried to find that out, but he’s in there almost all the time. And he keeps everything locked up. Every time I’ve attempted to get in, I’ve been stopped.”

  Now he let up on the gas. And he looked at her. And she wished, as those icy blue eyes drilled into her, that he hadn’t. “Miss Gresham, why do you think I employed a thief for this task? The girl who could gain entrance into the British Museum in thirty seconds flat in order to steal a rare German manuscript ought to have no problem opening a German’s study—nor his desk drawers.”

  Her mouth went dry. And she gripped her handbag as if it could save her.

  Maybe it could. But she wasn’t so sure she’d still be able to live with herself after
it did. “How do you—?”

  “It is my business to know things. And to tell them only when needed. Thus far, I have had no great need to tell anyone about your exploits, as I knew they could someday serve me. But fail in this, Miss Gresham . . .”

  And she’d go to prison, for that job she’d learned German for to begin with. He’d have evidence, no doubt. Scads of it. A man as careful as him, who knew as much as he did, knew to have carefully constructed evidence before he made a threat.

  She would go to prison. She deserved to go to prison.

  She didn’t want to go to prison. What would her family do? And what would Mr. V do to them, if she didn’t deliver what he wanted now? When she blinked, she saw little Olivia, her leg in a cast, held up by one of those odd contraptions to keep it raised. She saw Willa and Retta, Lucy and Elinor out on the streets, trying to steal enough to get by. She saw Barclay . . . in prison with her. Because they’d worked that museum job together, and if Mr. V had dirt on her for it, he had dirt on him.

  The family would fall apart without Barclay.

  The car slowed. Mr. V was still looking at her. “Get me evidence, Miss Gresham. Solid evidence of what he does all day. I need typed pages. Proof. Do you understand?”

  She could only nod.

  The car halted, and Mr. V leaned across her to open the door. He smelled of peppermint. Which was a deceptively friendly smell given the words he’d just spoken.

  She turned to slide out, but then stopped. She couldn’t just give up without a fight—it wasn’t in her. “Are you working for Mr. Jasper? Or are you him?”

  His eyes narrowed, though it was the only movement in his face. “What is that name to you?”

  Her throat went tight, but it was more with anger than apprehension. “I know that he’s trying to prove Mr. Holstein isn’t an English subject. Trying to cast suspicion of espionage his way. I’ll not have a part in it—you need to know that now. Whatever it is he does all day, he’s a good man, and I’ll not be party to him being imprisoned or worse.”

  Mr. V lifted a brow. “I’m not paying you to make judgments, Miss Gresham. Just to deliver to me the information I requested. Now, if you’ve quite finished . . .”