“Unless,” Byrne prompted.
“Unless,” Henry said, his voice dropping to a hoarse whisper, “Bea was with child.”
“Exactly.”
Henry’s mind raced ahead. “If Beatrice refuses the lout, as I believe she most certainly would, he might—” He cast Louise an apologetic look, unable to go on in her presence.
Byrne was less discreet. “Seduce her. And, if necessary, he might even use force to get the deed done.”
Louise let out a whimper. “I should have warned Bea by being more direct in my letter. Poor kitten.”
“You told me she’d not have believed you,” Byrne reminded her then looked at Henry. “It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have pressed Louise to wait the two days before we left London.”
“You had no choice,” she groaned, “your mission, Stephen. It is I who should have come directly, without waiting for you.”
Henry dropped his head into his hands. “Stop it, both of you. It’s water under the bridge now. We’re here within reach of her but trapped by the storm. All we can do is wait it out and hope she is doing the same, in the safety of Osborne House.”
Louise sighed. “If only she hadn’t suddenly developed a mind of her own. That’s all your fault, Henry.” She gave him a weak smile. “You’ve given her a life to look forward to, a reason for fighting for her independence.” Her tone sounded controlled, strong, but when she reached for her tea cup, Henry noticed her hand was shaking.
“We’ll just hope that by tomorrow the worst of the storm will have passed. Then we’ll commandeer the first ship willing to venture out.”
Byrne nodded. “Right you are, Henry.” He took the cup out of Louise’s unsteady hands and pulled her close. She turned toward him and buried her face in his shirt front.
Henry looked away again, feeling utterly helpless. He’d never forgive himself if anything happened to his Beatrice.
Beatrice felt agitated nearly to the point of madness, her nerves prickly-raw and head achy. She paced the length of her bed chamber, incapable of sitting still. Maybe it was just the storm, she reasoned. Hour after hour, all evening long, the winds had blasted and battered the house, rattling windows, cracking two of them on the ocean side, despite their being shuttered. Branches scraped against the outer stone walls, sounding like claws trying to get inside. At her.
It seemed as though they were under siege.
And that, of course, made her think of Khartoum and the terrible suffering and loss there. Which immediately reminded her of Henry. The man she’d loved,
still loved
though to no avail.
He’d evidently moved on with his life, throwing himself into manly adventures, mounting a rescue force to travel to Egypt. A mission that, everyone now knew, never had a chance of succeeding because there simply wasn’t enough time. The sad news had come by way of courier less than twenty-four hours ago. Gordon was dead.
Even though Henry no longer loved her, she’d been terrified for him, agonized over the risk he was taking. At least now he was safe.
God forgive me,
she thought,
for being glad it’s over. Those poor people.
Outside, the storm seemed to gather ever more strength, and she jumped at the sound of slate tiles clattering off the roof. Beatrice snatched up a piece of needlework as she rushed out of the room. Anything to keep her hands and mind busy while she sat with her mother. The queen would be expecting her in the smallest parlor on the first floor.
Beatrice flew down the stairs, her mind turning to another concern.
Still no Marie. If Marie had wanted to leave her duties for any reason—boredom, romance, homesickness—why hadn’t she felt able to confide in her? What if the queen asked why the woman wasn’t attending her? Beatrice didn’t want to cause the girl unnecessary trouble by complaining about her neglected duties. And yet, sooner or later, she’d have to inform the queen.
As if the storm and disappearance of her lady weren’t enough, Beatrice admitted that she also felt troubled by Gregory MacAlister’s compliments and increasingly ardent attentions. What was she supposed to do with the man? What would Louise do in a case like this? Run off with the handsome Scottish lord’s son to make Henry jealous? Ignore Greg and boldly dash off to Prussia to confront Henry in person? Forget both of them and take Marie with her to tour the Continent on a ladies’ holiday? If she could locate the girl, that is.
How had her life come to be such a complicated mess?
In the parlor her mother sat exactly in the middle of the room, midway between the blazing fireplace and the shuttered, creaking windows, as if seeking the one spot in the room that provided the ideal temperature and lack of drafts. Beatrice chose the settee closest to the crackling logs and rested her feet on a stool to point them toward the fire. Her body welcomed the heat. It felt as if she were transforming from solid to liquid. She closed her eyes and pictured the French
cote d’azure
, sunny Naples, Spanish beaches with their pretty striped cabanas. Heavenly.
“I must say I’m impressed,” her mother said.
Beatrice cracked open her eyes and picked up the untouched needlework from her lap. “By what, Mama?”
“By
whom
,” the queen corrected. “The Duke of Battenberg’s son—Henry.”
Beatrice’s heart leapt. Not four months earlier Victoria had tossed Henry out of London, forbade him from returning to Buckingham or the city. Beatrice tried to sound casual when she asked, “Why is that?”
“He, at least, tried to save those poor people. Parliament never lifted a finger, but young Henry—he did make the brave attempt. His intentions were laudable.”
Beatrice widened her eyes. “I suppose,” she began tentatively, “the more we learn about a person, the easier it is for us to like them.” Her mother always took a long time to feel comfortable with new people. Nonetheless, this long overdue, positive attitude toward Henry came as a shock to her.
“To like, or to detest them,” her mother corrected. “But I’ll admit, the boy surprised me. I didn’t think he had it in him. I believe I shall reward him, even though he wasn’t successful. It wasn’t his fault, after all.” Beatrice put down her stitchery. “How reward Henry? A medal? A title or special honor?”
My hand in marriage?
Her mother’s tight-lipped expression revealed nothing, but her eyes sparkled darkly with mischief. “I shall consider my options in the upcoming weeks.”
Beatrice gave up trying to interpret her mother’s mood. She closed her eyes for a moment on a wave of bitter-sweet emotion. It was too late now for her to stand at Henry’s side as anything but a friend, if he let her do even that. But she could feel happy for him. Whatever honor her mother might have in mind for him, it would bring him respect in society and help build beneficial contacts.
“Oh, Mr. MacAlister, good!” her mother’s high-pitched squeal of delight startled Beatrice out of her melancholy. “I hope my summons didn’t take you from your duties.”
Gregory MacAlister hesitated in the doorway but stepped inside the room at the beckoning wave of the queen.
“Not at all, Your Majesty. I’ve just come from the kitchen. Cook gave me hot tea and a fire to sit in front of while I dried out.”
“Ah yes, you were out checking on the safety of my horses. The animals are well?”
“They are, ma’am.” His head bowed, he shot a sideways glance at Beatrice.
She gave him a weak smile.
“Do you expect the weather to pass soon?” the queen asked.
“No, ma’am, I’d say it’ll get worse before better. Least that’s what the local boys are saying.”
“Oh, dear.” The queen breathed deeply, her button eyes fixed on the window that would have overlooked the stables if it hadn’t been shuttered fast. “I worry that my dears will be frightened or the roof fall in on them. It’s quite old, you know. Albert would have had it replaced years ago if…” Her voice dropped away.
“If it will make you feel better, I’ll bed down with the ponies for the night,” Gregory said.
“You’d do that?” Her plump cheeks fairly glowed.
“If it would comfort Your Majesty.”
Beatrice tilted her head and studied him. Such a physically powerful man, yet so gentle and thoughtful. Always eager to assuage her mother’s anxiety. And yet… Why should she doubt his sincerity? Any member of the staff would do as much, wouldn’t they? But she couldn’t help wondering at the depth of his rich brogue and his always just happening to be close by whenever they needed him.
She’d liked that he took a personal interest in her own safety, until the moment when he’d told her of his attraction to her. That was both flattering and exciting, yes—but she’d also felt uncomfortable with the idea. Didn’t she trust him? She supposed she should. But when she heard him speaking to her mother, so intent on pleasing her, he reminded her more of a jackal than a trustworthy hound.
Beatrice shook her head, wishing away dark thoughts. Perhaps she was just in one of her moods, thinking ill of everyone when she should be much kinder. Or maybe it was the effects of the storm. Or because Marie was still missing, and she was growing more and more frightened by her absence with every passing minute.
She bit down on her lip, thinking for a moment before she spoke. “Gregory, there is another problem for which we might need your help before we all settle in for the night.”
Her mother snapped her head back from the window and lifted a brow in question but said nothing.
“It’s probably nothing at all, just some confusion about my lady-in-waiting’s whereabouts.” The queen scowled at her, silently demanding explanation, but Beatrice directed all of her attention toward the groom. “I haven’t been able to find Lady Marie Devereaux, though I’ve looked for her since late this afternoon.”
“Impossible,” the queen bit off. “The girl can’t just have disappeared.”
“Yes, Mama, but—”
“And now the weather is so fierce she can be nowhere but sheltered here in Osborne House.”
“But she isn’t, or seems not to be.” Beatrice blew out a breath in irritation. She imagined her mother preparing an accusation, though how she could blame
her
personally for losing her lady was beyond her. “I’ve looked everywhere. From the kitchen to the ballroom and both of our bedchambers. It’s possible she might have gone off to one of the nearby villages on the island and got trapped there by the storm, but she’s never left me without permission. She’s nowhere to be found, and no one has seen her since before the storm broke.”
“You must let that young woman go when you find her,” Victoria said. “This is inexcusable behavior.”
Beatrice shook her head. “It’s not like Marie to neglect her duties. I worry that she might have had an accident and be lying unconscious somewhere in the house. Maybe in a wing or room that’s not in regular use. Or somewhere outside on the property. What if she did go into one of the villages and was trying to get back before the storm…and something happened along the way? An accident of some sort.”
“Beg pardon, ma’am,” Gregory said, looking solemnly at the queen, “but I think the princess is right to be alarmed. We should alert the staff, search both the mansion and the grounds.” He turned to Beatrice. “I believe I saw her out walking not long before the storm struck. She seemed in a hurry, as if late to meet someone.”
“Did she now?” The queen sent a piercing glare toward Beatrice. “Do you know of any assignations between your Marie and—”
“Of course not. She’d have told me.” But then she recalled the French girl’s odd behavior in recent weeks, how unpredictable her moods had become—sometimes distracted, other times sulking or just sad. “I’ll alert the house staff. Gregory, perhaps you can instruct the grooms and the gardener’s men to keep an eye out for her. We can’t have them out searching for her in this gale, but as soon as it lets up—”
“I will, Your Highness. Right away.”
“A good lad he is, that Greg,” her mother commented, as soon as he’d left the room. “Just hearing his bonnie brogue comforts me in my loss of John.”
“It’s not John Brown we should be thinking of now. It’s Marie.” Had she actually said that? Scolded her mother.
But Victoria seemed not to have heard her. She was gazing at the photograph of herself on her favorite horse, with Brown standing steadfastly beside her, one big hand on the bridle. Her mother’s Highland protector. To be sure, after Beatrice’s close call with the horsenappers, they’d both viewed Gregory as her protector. Yet something about the intimacy of his speech and manner, and the way he looked at Beatrice, felt terribly out of place.
After alerting the butler and housekeeper so that they too could inform their people of the missing Marie, Beatrice rushed back upstairs to her lady’s chamber, head throbbing worse than before. Massaging her temples, she rapidly scanned the room. Nothing had changed. No piece of furniture or article within the four buttercup-yellow walls had been moved. She crossed to the nightstand and took the letter from the Bible.
Propriety be damned—this time she read it all, top to bottom:
Cher Marie,
Charlotte is well. Cheerful little soul as ever. Quite the good girl.
The nuns say she is an angel. Do you suppose they know of her paternity? As to Father Pierre, you would think he doesn’t realize the child is his. He turns a blind eye when she passes by with her classmates, not even a blush for his shame.
She learns well, is clever enough to write letters to you on her own soon. I will send one with my own as soon as she perfects her letters. She wishes to be perfect for you. Soon we will travel to Lyon to visit my brother’s family. There she will have playmates; his children are close to her age.
The money you have left for us, and continue to send, provides well enough. There is no need to worry. A longer letter with more news next time.
Yours fondly,
Adele
Beatrice wasn’t so much shocked as she was puzzled. So, her lady-in-waiting had a child. It must still have been a baby, left in the care of this woman, when Marie first came to Court. The queen had selected her as her youngest daughter’s companion. Thinking of it now, Beatrice felt embarrassed.
She
should have been the one to choose the woman who would play such an intimate role in her own life. But then her mother always had made the important decisions for the family.
Beatrice gritted her teeth. Something had to change. She couldn’t live like this any longer. She must take a stand. But first, there was the missing Marie.
The girl had been utterly loyal to her until this day. Now she, in her royal capacity, must be loyal to Marie and assume nothing evil of her. Having read the full letter, Beatrice now understood why Marie had kept her child a secret. Victoria would have dismissed her immediately, had she known. One of “her girls” giving birth to a babe out of wedlock was bad enough. That it had been a priest’s child was ten times worse.
Beatrice stood very still, looking around the room, her heart rate ratcheting up, notch by notch. She’d already discovered one secret hidden here. There likely were others.
She focused on the mahogany chest of drawers across the room then rushed to it. In a frenzy, she began pulling everything out, drawer by drawer, onto the floor.