Beatrice wrote to Henry the very next day after he was officially banned from English soil. His long letter in return assured her of his devotion and faith in their ability to overcome all obstacles to their marriage. Four days later, a second letter came, apologizing for the time that had passed, hinting that Henry had been working on a plan to win over her mother all the more speedily. Then she waited for days that turned to weeks for another letter. But although she wrote to him every single day, excited to hear more about his plans, no more letters came.
“Men are such terrible letter writers,” Helena said on her next visit. “They are like children, too easily distracted by whatever is in their line of sight.”
What if the thing within Henry’s line of sight is another woman?
Beatrice began to worry.
“He loves you,” Louise assured her sometime later when she was passing through London on her way to Brussels, where several pieces of her sculpture were to be exhibited. “He’s probably just busy and will write you a long, newsy note when he has a chance.”
But after still more weeks passed, when no letter had come, a malicious suspicion wedged its way into Beatrice’s mind. She and the queen were still not speaking. Had her mother found another way to punish her?
At breakfast the next morning, Beatrice laid the generous damask napkin across her lap, sipped her coffee from the egg-shell delicate Limoges cup, then set it down to confront her mother. “Mama, are you interfering with my personal correspondence?”
Victoria started at the sound of her voice and stared at her, lips clamped shut so tightly they turned white. She drew closer the pad of paper and pencil she kept always with her for communicating with the daughter-to-whom-she-refused-to-speak. She wrote on the pad then slid it across the tablecloth toward Beatrice.
One word:
Why?
Beatrice huffed with impatience. “Because Henry has not written to me, and we’d promised to stay in touch…as friends.”
Her mother pointed toward her paper pad. With a groan and roll of her eyes, Beatrice shoved the tablet back across the table. Her mother wrote. Beatrice reached out and retrieved the pad as soon as Victoria put down her pencil.
The message:
I would never do such a thing. And, no, I did not instruct any of my people to keep letters from you.
Beatrice closed her eyes and swallowed. She had actually hoped it was her mother’s doing. But among the many things the queen was capable of, lying was not one of them. She might ignore or refuse to acknowledge issues that were important to people around her. Or she might use subterfuge or creative trickery to get what she wanted. But she wouldn’t lie to a person’s face. If accused, she would simply admit her guilt and proclaim her actions justified.
Therefore, if her mother, or one of her agents, hadn’t intercepted Henry’s letters, then he must have simply stopped writing. For one reason or another, Henry Battenberg, the only man she’d ever loved, no longer wished to communicate with her.
She didn’t understand men. Not at all.
But it seemed to her that, if his love for her was as strong as hers was for him, he would have wanted to answer her letters and share his days with her. She left the breakfast table, having eaten nothing, aware of her mother’s gaze following her from the room. She didn’t want to turn to see her mother’s face. If Victoria’s expression showed relief or, worse yet, joy—that would only add pain to her already broken heart.
Hours later, Marie met Beatrice in the princess’s bedchamber with an envelope. Beatrice’s heart leapt. “For me? From Germany?”
“
Oui
, Princess, for you but—”
“Let me have it.” Beatrice laughed, and the sound reminded her of happiness. Of wind chimes and spring blooms and summer’s warmth. “I’ve been so looking forward to—”
As she turned the envelope over she saw no wax seal with the imprimatur of the Battenberg crest.
“But this isn’t—”
“No, Your Highness. I tried to tell you, it’s not from Germany. I think it’s a message from within the palace.”
But it wasn’t her mother’s writing. This was the spiky, forceful hand of a man. Curious, she untucked the neat folds that kept the page from opening flat. She glanced down at the signature.
Gregory MacAlister
She frowned. Why was a stable groom writing to her? This was highly irregular.
She looked at Marie, but the girl looked quickly away. So she knew who this had come from. Perhaps Gregory had given it directly to her to deliver. How else would he have managed to get a letter to one of the royal family but by intercepting one of the staff?
Marie busied herself in the room with unusual industry. Beatrice went to her dressing table and sat to read the young man’s message.
Your Highness:
I hope you do not think me too forward, but I am concerned for your well being. You were very quiet when we rode together last week and looking very sad. And this week you have not ridden out at all. I hope I have done nothing to upset you. Please tell me I am not the cause of your staying away from the mews and your Lady Jane.
I am ever your loyal and admiring servant,
Gregory MacAlister.
“How sweet,” she murmured.
“Your Highness?” Marie’s pale reflection hovered behind her when Beatrice looked up into her dressing table mirror.
“That new groom from Scotland. He is concerned for me.”
Marie gave a half shrug of one shoulder and averted her eyes. “
Mais oui
, but we all are concerned for you, Princess.”
“But he—” It was hard to explain. “—he didn’t need to do this, to show it in this way. He’s not part of the family or even the Court.”
“No.”
Beatrice observed Marie’s pinched face. “You don’t like him, do you?”
“It is not for me to like or dislike members of the queen’s staff—”
“You don’t though, do you? Why? Has he given you cause to distrust him or to even hate him?”
Marie hesitated for a breath. “No.” She looked away again. “I can’t say there is.”
Beatrice shook her head. The jealousies and intrigues within the palace were endless. She had thought Marie, so level-headed ordinarily, would be above the gossip and maneuvering for favor. Perhaps she felt threatened by Beatrice’s glowing reports of her rides with Gregory. She had found him a pleasant companion who made her feel safe when outside of the palace grounds.
Maybe the girl had a crush on him. He was, after all, terribly good-looking and virile in his kilt. It seemed odd that the stable master allowed him to exchange the traditional royal livery for his clan’s tartans, as he sometimes did. Very possibly the queen had countermanded Mr. Jackson—feeling as fond as she did about everything Scotch. She’d literally draped Balmoral castle in Highland relics, fabrics, furnishings, and tableware.
“Help me change,” Beatrice said. “I’ve decided to ride today.”
Marie looked indecisively toward the tall wardrobe on the far side of the room.
“Did you hear me, Marie?”
“
Pardon moi.
I will get your things for you.”
Beatrice wondered if the young woman’s distraction was due to something as simple as homesickness. Or an ill relative she wished to be with but was afraid to ask permission to travel home for a visit. Or maybe she was herself ill. Beatrice felt a twinge of guilt for not being more sensitive to people around her. In the two years since Marie’s arrival at Buckingham Palace, she had been an ideal companion and helpmate. Beatrice would ask her again what troubled her later.
Although she’d fully intended to take her usual ride through the park, by the time she reached the stables she had changed her mind. She felt restless, eager for adventure, but mostly annoyed with Henry. How could he promise to write, swear that she’d always be in his mind and heart when he’d been true to his word for so short a time? Two sweet letters then he’d fizzled out. Was she that easy to forget? To dismiss from his life?
The stable master was waiting with Lady Jane. “No,” she said, waving him off, “my plans have changed.” She felt daring, dangerous, alive. Anger pricked her toward action. What kind of action didn’t seem to matter. She was overdue for an adventure. She was tired of being Beatrice-the-Meek. Beatrice, life-long companion to the queen.
Baby.
The littlest princess had been the obedient shadow to the queen for far too long.
“I want a carriage, Mr. Jackson.”
“A carriage, Your Highness?”
“Yes, you know, one of those things with four big wheels,” she snapped. “I want to go into the city. To
shop
!” She thought of Louise, who often went out among commoners and visited commercial establishments of all sorts throughout London. Her mother thought Louise unseemly. Beatrice yearned for a taste of her sister’s wildness.
“I want to…to
buy
…things.” Everything she wore or owned had been brought to her at one or another of the family homes—Osborne House, Balmoral, Buckingham Palace, Windsor. But ordinary people were free to leave their homes whenever they felt like it, to procure whatever items they felt like having—food, tools, clothing, gifts. Why shouldn’t she?
“It will take some time, Your Highness,” he said cautiously. “Bringing round the carriage, hitching up the horses, fetching a driver and footmen and—”
“Just, please, do it,” she said through clenched teeth. Why should how long it took make the least difference to her? What else did she have to do but wait for her mother’s next idiotic note with a new list of chores? As if she were one of the queen’s staff or, worse yet, a common servant.
She paced the dusty yard, muttering to herself. Whether or not she heard from Henry ever again, as of this moment she was taking her life into her own hands. “Chasing off Henry isn’t going work, Mama.”
“What’s that, ma’am?”
She spun around, horrified to realize she’d spoken out loud. “Oh, Gregory. Nothing. Just thinking to myself…loudly.” She let out a choked laugh. When she reached up with her gloved hand to massage her forehead, the tips of her fingers ran into the brim of her riding hat and veil. She tugged both off in frustration. She was stupidly dressed for going into shops. She ought to be wearing a town dress and pretty flowered hat, not riding gear. What an idiot she was.
“Is something wrong?” the groom asked.
“No. Yes. I don’t know.” She let out an involuntary whimper. “I had thought to go riding and, of course, ask you to escort me. But then I changed my mind in favor of visiting shops in the city. Now I’ll have to go all the way back to my room to change. People will think I’ve gone mad if I walk into a dress shop in riding boots, jacket and—” She swept her hands down the sportswoman’s skirt.
Hopeless
.
Gregory stepped back and gave her outfit a long, studious inspection. “More like they’ll decide you’re a trendsetter and want to copy you. Next week every lady of any worth will be shopping in foxhunting regalia.”
She laughed. “Not really.”
“Certainly, Princess. Don’t you know that’s what London ladies do? They see you, or one of your sisters, in a gown and rush off to their seamstresses, saying, ‘Do me up a copy, Duckie.’”
His pretend Cockney accent was atrocious, but she laughed anyway. She felt her mood lighten. “Honestly?”
“Word of honor.” But he couldn’t keep a straight face. He broke into a wide grin. “So you’ll go into some shops and to bloody hell with what society thinks. Do you know which ones you’ll visit?”
She shook her head dolefully. She was familiar with the bookstore where she and her sisters always browsed. When a member of the royal family visited, the owner closed the shop to give them privacy. But she didn’t know many other commercial establishments, other than the few her mother rarely frequented and referred to.
“Maybe this is a foolish plan.” She sighed.
“Not foolish at all. You just need a guide. I’ll be happy to escort you, whether on horseback or in carriage.”
She tipped her head and really looked at him this time. He seemed serious. It was more than brazen of him to suggest an outing together. Then again, it made sense for her to take along a man she could trust, who already had proven a brave protector. Besides, others of the staff would be with them—a driver and one or two footmen. Although they were no doubt reliable, she felt relaxed with Gregory in ways she didn’t feel with them.
“Yes, please, if you don’t mind coming with me. But I warn you, I’ll be going into ladies’ shops. Places stuffed full with dresses, petticoats, plumy hats, lace gloves, and such.” He’d undoubtedly feel embarrassed, poor man.
“Delightful,” he said, his eyes twinkling at her. “And we’ll make the first stop a dress shop where I know they have rack dresses. You can buy a change of clothes there, latest style, and no waiting on a seamstress.”
“Really—that’s possible?” He nodded. “But aren’t ready-made dresses very…common?” The word was out of her mouth before she could stop it. “I’m sorry, that sounds so rude.”
“Well, common can be plain but well-made. If you’re still concerned about going out into public and not attracting a lot of attention—”
“Oh yes.” She clapped her hands, suddenly understanding what a perfect plan it was. “Of course you’re right. A more casual outfit would be perfect for going out in the streets unrecognized, wouldn’t it?” Didn’t the queen herself sometimes travel incognito? This day truly was turning into an adventure. She couldn’t be more thrilled.
As soon as the carriage was ready, they took off. Gregory suggested a little shop on Marylebone Street. The owner immediately called his wife out of the backroom. She showed Beatrice her stock and made suggestions then helped her try on several outfits, while Greg talked politics with her husband, who had turned over the open sign while his royal customer made her selections.
Back in the carriage, now crowded with boxes holding her discarded riding outfit and several new garments, they set out again. Greg—he’d asked her to call him Greg—suggested they stop for tea in a café, and she was surprised by the delicacy of the cakes and the quality of the Indian tea served with little cubes of Demerara sugar. Then on to two more shops for a hat and gloves and adorable ankle boots—also, miraculously, ready-made—with dainty heels and lace inserts.