She raised her drink to him as if in a toast as he stepped through the doorway and into the room. “Come to say goodbye, have ye, love?”
Startled, he hesitated. This presented him with a dilemma.
Until this moment, he had said nothing to Meg or anyone else about his plans. How she’d discovered he was leaving he had no idea. Gregory suddenly felt the need for caution. If the wrong person discovered his true mission, his future—if not his very life—would be in jeopardy. The role Willy had assigned to him—seducer of a royal princess—flirted with treason. Aside from that, the emperor-to-be would be furious with him for leaking their plot. He’d seen the consequences of the prince’s temper. He didn’t at all relish being the object of that Hessian rage.
“What are you talking about, woman? Who’s been filling your head with gossip?”
“None of your concern, now is it? I have me own friends. I have ways of knowin’, Greggy. If you intend to leave me I’ll not be taken by surprise.”
“Who says I’m leavin’ you?” He intentionally gentled his voice and reached to pull her up out of her seat, into his arms.
She struggled away and stood behind the ladder back of the chair, eyes flashing at him. “I want the truth, you little turd,” she snarled. “I heard from one of the maids at the big house—you’ve booked one-way train passage to London. She saw the ticket. Least you can do is be honest with me. We were to marry, or so you said. After your da passed. You said he would never allow it but you promised we’d marry when the old man was gone. So now, what do you say about that?”
He tried to move around the table toward her, but every quarter turn of the circle he made, she matched, keeping furniture between them.
“And I will marry you, lass. ‘course I will. Just a trip to London, that’s all it is. Nothing permanent.”
She squinted at him, hands propped on her hips. “And the return ticket?”
“Don’t know how long my business there will take, now do I? How can I buy the ticket home until I know when it’s for?”
“Business,” she said, casting him a witchy eye, albeit a pretty one.
“Aye. All business, nothing more. Legal matters. I’m doing this for us, Meggie. If everything works out I’ll have my fortune made in no time. Then we will marry.” It came as a blessed relief to him that her reaction suggested she knew nothing of his ambition to gain the virgin princess’s bed.
Now he needed to keep her in the dark about his real purpose. And, if he succeeded in his mission and won both Beatrice’s heart and the old queen’s trust, what then? Meg would be furious if he went off and married another woman, no matter who she was. She’d make trouble for him. He’d probably have to pay her off to keep her from spreading details of their past.
The good news was—he was pretty sure she could be bought. Her family had always lived the hard-scrabble life of tenant farmers. They’d none of them be above accepting a bribe when all they had to do was keep silent. And he’d happily pay, out of his wife’s royal coffers, to keep Meggie’s pretty lips sealed.
“Darlin’, be reasonable. What sort of fortune can I make for us here?” He swept a hand around him as if to indicate all of Scotland.
She winced and cast her eyes down at the dusty floorboards, looking less sure of herself. “I don’t know, Greg. You wouldn’t be lyin’ to me, would you? You wouldn’t do that to me.”
“‘course not, my darlin’ girl. How long we been together? Two years? Three?”
“Since before you went off to school in Germany, I’ll remind you.” She scowled at him.
He laughed. “I was just teasing you. Come on now. I’m here to tell you about my journey. And I’ll be back sooner than you think. Now, what’s the use of a trip to London if I can’t bring my girl back a present?”
Her eyes brightened at that. “A bit of Honiton lace would be wonderful. Enough to make an elegant collar for church.”
“Easy enough done,” he said cheerfully. “I thought you were going to ask me for jewelry. But if it’s lace you want—”
“No. Oh, no!” she squealed. “A ring? Oh Greg, a pretty love ring. I saw one once, in a shop window in Edinburgh. Three circlets—one of white gold, one of yellow gold, and one of rose gold—intertwined like woven flower stems. The shop woman said they was all the rage in London. You’d do that for me?” Her green eyes sparkled. She danced around the table’s edge and flung herself into his arms. “It would make a fine engagement ring.”
He regretted having put ideas in her head. “Now, how would that look? You waltzing around the village with a gold ring on your finger. And all the county asking, ‘Who’s the lucky man? When’s the wedding day?’ We can’t have that, now can we? Not while my father’s still breathing.”
She sighed and turned away from him, flinging her long red curls over her shoulder. They shimmered in the candlelight and, as always, he felt compelled to reach out and knot his fingers through their enchanting tangles. He brought his face down into their soft nest and breathed in the scent of her—all woman, all his for as long as he wanted her. In her impoverished circumstance, she’d find no better than the third son of a minor noble. But if he wasn’t here to satisfy her lust…
He brushed his hands up her bare arms. “Oh, Meggie, my beauty, my love. I’ll be the happiest man on earth the day I’m free to marry you.” His hands wandered down from her shoulders, along the swell of her breasts to her waist, smoothing over her hips, gathering her skirt in greedy handfuls. He slipped his fingers beneath the layers of petticoats and felt her fine, strong thighs.
She looped her arms around his neck and threw back her head in invitation. “Oh, you,” she cooed, exposing her throat to his kisses. “I never can say no to you, Greggy.”
“I know,” he said.
14
Beatrice sat at her escritoire, pen poised above the ivory sheet of vellum. Responses to Henry’s proposal had tumbled through her mind like colored glass shapes in a kaleidoscope, all night long. By morning’s first light, she had slept not a wink but, oddly enough, didn’t feel tired. In fact she felt invigorated, more alive than ever before.
A future—she had a future now! And it wasn’t the bleak one irrevocably attached to her mother. Marriage to Henry Battenberg was personal, precious, all hers.
She’d never viewed the world, at least not since she was a tiny girl and before her father died, as a place of joy. Life for her had always been a grim, gray place of weeping and sad remembrance. Neither the present nor the future could ever live up to the joy the royal family had shared while Prince Albert had been alive—that was her mother’s sad mantra. They were trapped in a limbo of deep and inescapable loss.
It wasn’t until this very moment that Beatrice was struck by the realization that this unending cycle of grief might have become her mother’s preferred existence. Victoria actually seemed to enjoy the complexity and variety of funereal ethics and trappings—the black bombazine gowns, the mourning pin clipped to her bosom encasing a lock of Albert’s hair, the high collars and severe hair dressings. Even the wearing of a black veil when going out in public seemed to please her sensibilities and had became part of her usual costume.
She supposed her mother found all of this comforting, in a strange way. But the rest of the family was forced to choose between suffering along with her, or retreating into their own lives and putting themselves at sufficient geographical distance from the queen and her Court. As her sisters had done.
What would happen to her mother if she married Henry?
Beatrice stared down at the half page she’d already written. Victoria would have no one close to her. Of course there were her ladies in waiting and the rest of the Court. Never was there a shortage of bodies rushing about the palace. A staff of hundreds was required to feed, clothe, entertain and comfort the queen, as well as run the government. But that wasn’t the same as family. Would her mother fade away to nothing after her last daughter deserted her?
Overcome by a wave of guilt, Beatrice crumpled the note and pushed it aside. She cradled her aching head in her hands. A traitor, that’s what she was. How could she accept Henry’s proposal without first telling her mother of their intentions? It was the least she could do. It was what she should do.
And yet, the very thought of presenting her mother with news of her engagement terrified her.
“Marie. Are you there?” She’d heard her lady step discreetly through the door and into the bedchamber moments earlier. But the young woman had said nothing, as if seeing her busy at writing and not wanting to disturb her.
“Your Highness.” The French girl stood and stepped away from the princess’s dressing table, where she’d been sitting with needlework in her lap. She observed Beatrice’s face with concern. “You did not sleep well last night?”
“No.” Beatrice smiled and only when she saw the puzzled look her lady gave her did she realize her happiness at a sleepless night couldn’t possibly make sense to her. “I have good reason though. I was thinking of Henry Battenberg. It’s fortunate he isn’t here to see me now, or he’d never— Well, never mind.”
“Your gentleman admirer from Germany, is he? The one who writes you letters.”
“Yes.” A bubble of laughter escaped from her lips. Happiness was such a rare thing for her. To think: She actually had an admirer. More than that, a suitor. This would take some getting used to.
A thrill rushed through her as all sorts of wonderful possibilities sprang to mind, chasing away her momentary gloom. Travel. A lover who was devoted to her alone. Children. A home of her very own without her mother always lurking and ready to snatch every decision away from her—from choosing her clothing to declaring how Marie must dress her hair for her. From determining when she must wake in the morning and go to bed each night, to whom she would allow her daughter to socialize with.
Freedom. That’s what she must grasp for herself and why she couldn’t let this last chance pass her by.
“Marie?”
“Oui, Your Highness.”
“Has my mother been asking for me this morning?”
“Pas encore. It is a little early even for her.”
“Yes, I suppose it is.” Beatrice traced a fingertip around the leather-framed blotter on her desk. “But I suspect she will be at breakfast soon.”
“Do you plan to join her as usual?” Marie asked.
“Yes. Would you be a dear and run off to Cook. Ask if there is something a little special to accompany my mother’s favorite Scottish oatmeal. Perhaps fresh fruit or a sweet of some kind?”
“Certainement, Your Highness.”
As soon as her lady left, Beatrice drew a deep breath and tried to calm her whirring thoughts. She must present her case to her mother in the best possible light, when the queen was in a rare, sunny mood. Maybe during a carriage ride?
She turned toward her bed to see that Marie had lain out a simple dark navy-blue dress—a favorite of Beatrice’s because it allowed her a hint of color without irritating her mother’s sensibilities. In most lights the fabric looked nearly black. But even this subtle nod to the living she dared not risk today. She must at all costs gain her mother’s blessing. Although she’d come to hate its dreariness, she would wear black today.
Because her future with Henry was at stake.
The staff had drawn open the heavy velvet draperies along the west wall of the breakfast room. Through the windows streamed a pure, white light that only seemed to favor London in the spring, and then only after a good rain washed the coal ash out of the air. Beatrice was so involved in her own thoughts she hadn’t even realized it rained during the night.
She entered the room to find the queen already seated. “Good morning, Mama.” She kissed her mother’s wrinkled cheek, cool and dry as parchment.
“It is morning, that’s true. Whether or not it is good remains to be seen. The pressures I struggle under…if my people only knew.” Victoria sighed deeply.
“What pressures are these today, Mama?”
“The Prime Minister is most annoyingly persistent. He nags me to make an appearance before Parliament.”
“I see.”
“Not satisfied with that, Mr. Gladstone would also have me out among the people to celebrate the opening of a new mill. I have no idea why the man is so insistent. He claims I am not popular with the working people, and this hurts the government. Have you ever heard anything quite so ridiculous?”
“Perhaps he is just looking out for the Crown’s best interests. Popular opinion these days seems to matter.” Beatrice didn’t want to come right out and remind her mother that lack of popular support had caused more than one European monarchy to fall in recent years. Frightening her mother certainly wouldn’t serve her purpose on this particular morning.
“You too then? I’m supposed to perform for the entertainment of commoners? To put on a show as if I were a trained monkey? Ludicrous.”
Beatrice gave up. She had more important fish to fry this morning than taking up Gladstone’s cause. “How were the pastries? I see you’ve already tried one. They look especially fine and a nice addition to your oats. Apple and fig, are they?”
Victoria broke off a piece of flaky dough and popped it into her mouth. “They are good. Quite. I don’t know what inspired Cook to include something I hadn’t requested, but I’ll have to let her know it was most appreciated.” The queen sipped her coffee. “Such a busy schedule today. I just pray I have the strength. I’ll need you, of course, for the full day, Baby. We shall both be drained, I’m sure, by the evening.”
Beatrice took a deep breath to steady her nerves. “Before we get too busy there is one thing I would like to talk to you about.”
“Really? And what is that, my dear?”
“You do remember, when we were at dear little Vicky’s wedding, visiting with the Battenberg brothers?”
“Of course I remember them.” Victoria chuckled her eyes crinkling at the corners. “And I expect every other woman attending will remember them as well. Such a striking clan they are. I don’t suppose you are aware, since you were so very young at the time, but their papa was quite the dashing fellow in his youth. He would have had my hand if he’d had his way.” The queen simpered girlishly behind fluttering fingertips. “But then your father came along and swept me off my feet, and I’d have no other. The poor duke, I suspect I left him with a broken heart. Still, he did marry well and produced that marvelous family. I do hope little Vicky is happy with her husband.”
“Oh I’m sure she is. She and Louis seem very much in love.”
“Love.” Victoria released an onerous groan. “I sometimes wonder if it is all worth it.”
Beatrice tensed. She couldn’t afford to let her mother slip into a maudlin cloud of self-pity at just the moment when she needed her to be thinking positively and feeling her strongest.
“Mama, speaking of the Battenberg boys, I received a letter from Henry. He’s the third eldest.”
“Yes, of course, I know Henry. He was sweet to spare a dance or two for you, wasn’t he?”
Beatrice bit down on her lower lip to stop herself from saying something she’d regret. She concentrated on keeping her tone level, absolutely devoid of emotion, despite her quivering heart. “Yes, very sweet he was. He is. Actually, we have been in communication since the wedding.”
Suddenly, it was as if Beatrice could see the inner workings of her mother’s mind. Like complex, whirring clockwork. Gears spinning, gyrating, clicking into place. Churning out implications even before Beatrice could state her mind.
“Of what sorts of communications are you speaking, dear?”
“Letters.” She swallowed once, then again. “Henry and I have kept up a friendly written correspondence. I like him very much, Mama. He is such a gentle and intelligent man. And it appears his affections lean toward… me.” She held her breath and waited for the not-so-subtle hints to sink in.
Her mother’s tiny, glittering eyes flitted about the room. She put down the uneaten half of a brioche, straightened in her chair, and lifted her head to look directly into Beatrice’s eyes.
“What sorts of affections are we discussing, Baby?”
There was nothing for it now but to come straight out and boldly state her intent. If she stammered vague suggestions that she was seeking her mother’s approval for Henry to visit, without coming to the real point, the queen would surely cut her off cold.
Be strong, Beatrice. Be firm. Louise’s encouraging words.
Beatrice cleared her throat, focused on her mother’s stern face, and burst into a breathless rush of words. “I speak of the affection between a man and a woman—an intimate attachment only possible and proper within marriage.” There she’d said it. But now she felt the compulsion to quickly add qualifiers and avoid giving her mother any chance at all to speak before hearing all she, Beatrice, had to say. “I think Henry a fine man. As fine as I’ve ever met. And although we have spent only a little time together, at the wedding, I knew immediately he was different. I sensed that he cared for me in a special way.” She felt sick to her stomach, short of breath, but carried on. “Mama, I want to marry Henry Battenberg.”
Beatrice looked up from her clenched hands to her mother’s face, watching for the first telltale signs of a reaction. She was prepared for anything—good or bad. When she saw the corners from mother’s lips tip upward in the beginnings of a smile Beatrice felt an immediate, glorious wave of relief. Could it possibly be this easy? Had she assumed the worst for no reason?
But the smile immediately stiffened. Victoria let out a dry laugh.
“My child, you are so very innocent. A few compliments from a man, a smile and a dance. They mean nothing. Henry’s father has brought him up well. He is a charming young man and was simply being kind to you, knowing you had no escort and few chances to dance.”
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