The Ring and the Crown

by Melissa de la Cruz

  Marie started. Her mother had never spoken to her like this before. She felt a wave of tenderness for her. If only Eleanor showed her true face to her more often…if only she allowed her daughter into her intimate conversations, into her plans with the Merlin. But it was almost too late.

  She bowed and said good night, and the queen dismissed her. Finally, she was alone in the corridor with Gill, who was to walk her back to her rooms.

  “Thank God that’s done,” she said, stomping down the hallway. She shook her hair out of its tight braids as if she were shaking Leo out of her life. “If he tells me again how my eyes look like starlight, I swear I am going to have him hexed,” she muttered.

  “He could be sincere, you know,” Gill said, giving her a sidelong glance. “You’re far too hard on the chap. Don’t give him an inch. You’re much nicer to his brother.”

  “Wolf is my friend. Leo’s a fraud, and you know it,” she said. “I’m not a fool, Gill. I know love when I see it.”

  There was a strange silence. She noticed he did not say anything, but instead blushed to the roots of his fair hair. She felt her heart ache painfully at that moment. But no. Gill had always treated her as a friend, nothing more…had never given her any hope that he returned her feelings. He couldn’t even hold her properly when they had practiced the Lovers’ Waltz the other day.

  They arrived at her apartments. He held the door open for her.

  “Don’t you want to come in, for a change?” she asked. “And have tea, and read stories, as usual? I miss you, you know. You told me we would always be friends.…” She tried not to sound whiny, and failed.

  His open face crumpled. “I would like nothing more, Princess. Especially since…” He shook his head.

  She was alarmed by the morose tone in his voice. “Especially since what?”

  “After the ball, when you are formally engaged to the prince…I have been told I will no longer be needed at your service.”

  “No longer needed? Why?” she asked.

  “You will be the responsibility of the Prussian court, and their soldiers will be in charge of your protection.”

  “What on earth? Are they insane? You’re part of the Queen’s Guard! Does Mama know?”

  “Yes. I gather she and the Merlin don’t like it too much, but the Prussians will be offended if they are rebuffed in this matter. They are quite insistent upon it.”

  “But this is still my home—and the Queen’s Guard is our tradition—they cannot do this!”

  “My captain tells me that it is a sign of faith. Of peace between the two nations.”

  “Gill—”

  “Don’t fear. I don’t think the queen would agree to it unless she and the Merlin knew your safety was secure.”

  “So after next week, I shall never see you again?”

  “Surely not?” He smiled. “I will visit the palace sometimes, and you can wave to me from the royal carriage.”

  How could he be so casual about their coming separation? Why were they taking him away from her? Then she realized. It was because they knew how she felt about him. They had noticed that she had been gloomy for weeks. Hardly acting like a girl in love, she was the only girl in the kingdom who did not find Prince Leopold the most fetching prince of all time.

  Leopold had said something very pointed the day of his arrival. You seem very attached to your guard. The Prussians were worried about scandal, the same scandal that had haunted their very own queen—a royal queen and her loyal guard, fanning the subsequent rumors about a bastard son. They had determined the secret recesses of her heart, even if she herself had never told the boy who held it what she felt for him.

  It was Gill’s turn to bow. “Good night, Marie. See you around, eh?”

  But Marie would not let him go so easily. She had to say something she had kept from him for so long. She had to be brave: she had to speak her mind and her heart. “Gill, listen, they know how I feel about you,” she said. “And so they want to take you away.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know how I feel about you—don’t you?” she asked quietly, so quietly that she was afraid he could hear how loud her heart was pounding in her chest.

  Gill looked around nervously, even if there was no one in the corridor. “What are you saying?” He looked so pale and troubled that she thought she would lose the nerve to tell him how she truly felt. But she had no time. They were taking him away soon. If she did not speak now, she might never have the chance to tell him…and she had to tell him, it was killing her. She had to tell him—before it was too late.

  She looked into his eyes and took his hands—they were so large and rough compared to her small ones. “I can’t imagine life without you.”

  Gill looked askance. She felt her heart drop into her stomach. “Don’t talk like that, Marie. It’s not safe,” he said. “Whatever you feel about me—it’s just friendship, nothing more.”

  She blinked her eyes. “I knew you would say that. I know you didn’t feel the same way…you can’t even dance with me without cringing, but I had to say it, I wanted you to know before…before. It’s all right. I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she said, trying not to sob. She wiped her eyes angrily. Of course he did not feel the same way about her. Who could love her? She was so plain and dull and sickly, and he was so wonderful, and there were many girls—so many prettier, more deserving girls—that he could want. That he did want, she was sure.

  “Wait!” he said, holding her hands tightly. “Why are you crying?”

  “It’s nothing—”

  “You cannot think—you cannot mean—is it because you think I don’t feel the same way? Is that it?”

  She nodded, unable to look at him. Her heart was so open and vulnerable at that moment, and she wanted to take it back so badly, wanted to wrap it up and put it back in the locked trunk where it belonged. She should have never said anything to him; it was stupid of her to think, to hope, that he would feel for her what she felt for him. “You are right—we are only friends…of course…of course you don’t feel the same.…”

  Still holding her hands in his, he pressed his head against hers, forced her to look him in the eye. “Stop telling me what I feel. Stop it. You have no idea what I feel. All I do is feel. I feel so much for you, it’s destroying me. It’s why I had to leave, I had to go away and I couldn’t answer your letters,” he said fiercely. He was angry now, his eyes wild, and she was a little frightened of him. But all the same, she felt a sudden, sharp happiness rise in her heart. “You have everything wrong. I don’t think of you as a friend,” he said.

  “You don’t?”

  “No—Marie—I don’t think of you as a friend at all—” And his face was so intense, almost red, and he was staring at her so intently, and his face was so close to hers, and she closed her eyes, and then—and then he kissed her. And he kissed her again, and it was sweeter than she could have hoped, could have dreamed—and he was kissing her, and it was like her dreams were coming true all in one moment. And she kissed him back and forgot to worry, forgot who or where she was, and it only mattered that he had his lips on hers.

  “Gill,” she breathed, and he began to kiss her neck and press her against his body.

  “Marie, my Marie,” he said, his voice strangled, wretched. “How could you believe that I didn’t feel the same for you, when all I do is think of you? It’s why I had to get away—because being with you, but not being able to be with you…I couldn’t take it anymore.”

  “Oh, Gill…” she breathed, and her voice was a woman’s voice, full of promise and seduction.

  “But it doesn’t matter what we feel for each other. We can’t do this. I’m a soldier, your servant…and you are the princess.”

  “But I don’t want to be.” She held tightly to him. Her hands were around his neck and his back, his entwined in her hair, the two of them so close to each other she could feel his heart beating in time with hers.

  “Don’t say that. You don’t mean it.
You can’t. You’re making this harder than it has to be,” he said, and his voice was full of raw despair. “It was wrong of me to kiss you.”

  “Listen to me,” she said.

  He shook his head. “No. I won’t let you do this. I won’t let you throw your future away.”

  “Then you will let me marry him, then? And live a life where I will never know love?” she said bitterly.

  He crumbled at that. “Marie,” he said. “Hush.” His hand was on her lips, and princess or no, he kissed her again, and she felt alight with love, and she knew that there was no turning back now.

  He kissed and kissed her, and he pushed the door open so that they tumbled into the room, alone, and he kicked the door closed, and they fell on the floor, and still they kissed as if they could not stop. She smiled, feeling warm and beautiful and protected in his strong arms. “You were right and I was wrong.”

  “I never knew you felt the same,” he said as he leaned over her, his face full of love.

  She arched an eyebrow, feeling coquettish all of a sudden. “Truly?”

  He blushed and kissed her softly again. “I hoped. I hoped with all of my heart. But I did not want to take advantage of my position.”

  “What position?”

  “I saved your life; I am with you every day, you are my dearest friend. Maybe you only think you love me because you are grateful to me,” he admitted.

  “Who says I love you?” she teased.

  He turned scarlet. She put him out of his misery, pulling him down to her by the soldier’s chain he wore around his neck.

  “Maybe we should have done this earlier,” he murmured.

  “Mmm.” She nodded. “If we had, we would have had so much more time.” She liked the heaviness of his body on hers, but also the way he didn’t rest all of his weight on her—as if she were delicate, and made of porcelain, a china doll he was afraid of crushing or hurting. He was so strong and yet so gentle. “I don’t want to let go.”

  “Neither do I,” he murmured.

  “Then let’s not. Let’s not let go.” She kissed him again.

  He stared at her.

  “You are everything I want,” she told him. “The only thing.”

  “I have never wanted anything else,” he said.

  “Then we shall have what we want,” Marie said decisively, propping herself up on her elbows, her forehead scrunched in concentration. She was thinking of options, obstacles, a way out, a way forward. “We don’t have much time.”

  “No, we don’t,” he agreed in a mournful tone. “We don’t have a lot of time together.…”

  She shook her head. “No, that’s not what I meant.”

  “Time for what, then?”

  Her eyes were blazing. An onlooker would have been surprised to see the princess in such a state, sprawled on the floor: her hair a mess, her eyes bright, cheeks flushed. She looked like Eleanor in one of her many portraits, the painting where her mother looked like a warrior on the eve of battle, ready for blood. “Time to change the future.”

  Hotel Claridge figured highly in Ronan’s imagination of London high society, and it did not disappoint. While pollution had turned the once-red bricks of London’s best buildings gray, Claridge’s façade sparkled in the sun. There was no wind on the street and the air was still, but the flags above the entry billowed slowly, their folds animated and graceful. Ivy graced a cast-iron awning, milk-white flowers dotting the foliage. Their white petals winked open and shut as she approached. Magic, Ronan thought. How wonderful, and how utterly luxurious it was to use such a power to make things look nice.

  The hotel had been highly recommended by Lady Grosvernor, and Ronan thought she recognized a few titled and noble patrons in the hushed room. However, knowing what had happened to their grand staterooms on the ship, she was fully prepared to be booked into the maids’ rooms when they checked in. Sure enough, the rooms were as small as could be, with a view of the wall next door.

  Still, it was wonderful to finally be in London. Ronan spent an invigorating week taking in the sights and visiting museums. She had left her card with Lady Grosvernor, but the grand doyenne had still not returned her call. Ronan tried not to be put out, but without her patron, she had no entrance to any of the fancy parties and dinners that were swirling around her. She hoped the lady would call on her soon.

  The next afternoon, Ronan was sitting in the lobby when she noticed Sigrid Van Owen stomping down the staircase, haranguing the army of footmen who strove to keep up with her while carrying all of her luggage. Whitney was hurrying after her mother, looking abashed and apologetic. She saw Ronan and gave her a hapless shrug.

  Ronan walked over to her friend. “What happened?” she asked. “Are you leaving?” She watched as the great Mrs. Van Owen swept out of the lobby and into a hansom cab.

  Whitney crinkled her nose. “We can’t stay. We just got a letter from the duchess. Apparently she lied about everything, just to get more money from Papa. There was no invitation for the queen’s luncheon at all, and the ball is completely out of the question, since it’s a special year with the princess announcing her engagement. Mother is furious and mortified—says she won’t stay the season if we can’t go to anything except a few little teas and dances at minor houses. We’re to leave for Italy immediately. She says she’ll take an Italian count if she can’t get me an empire peerage.”

  “Oh Whitney, I’m so sorry!”

  Whitney laughed. “Me too—all my nice things, wasted!”

  “Can’t you wear them in Italy?”

  “Not a one. We’re going to be doing a Grand Tour, so all I’ll be wearing are practical clothes and walking shoes.”

  “Pity,” Ronan sighed.

  Her friend agreed. “It’s such a waste of a wardrobe. And I was so looking forward to it, especially—well, you know!” She looked at Ronan. “Speaking of, what are you wearing to the ball? It must be fabulous!”

  “Oh, me—” Ronan said. “You saw what I wore to dinner the last night on the ship? That one.” It was a serviceable dress, a nice plum color trimmed with lace—not made in the latest style, of course, and no glimmer on it at all to enhance its beauty. But it was the nicest thing she had; the Paris knockoffs were stiff to the touch, and didn’t fit well. She tried to put a positive spin on things. “Mother wore it when she was presented at court, so it’s a family tradition. It’s a sentimental choice.”

  Whitney looked disappointed. “Oh, of course. I understand. But still, it’s a bit out of date, isn’t it?”

  Ronan turned red and tried to protest—but Whitney suddenly brightened. “Listen, take my wardrobe for the season! I don’t need it!”

  “Excuse me? I couldn’t possibly—!”

  But Whitney wasn’t finished. “And you might as well use our rooms, too. I’m sure your rooms are nice, but Mother booked the royal suite—best room in the house—and it’s paid for already. Can’t let the whole thing go to waste. It’s booked for the whole season. Mother won’t care. She’s ready to buy the whole stinking town, but our money’s not worth anything here, apparently. Hopefully we’ll have better luck on the Continent.”

  “You’re giving me your dress?”

  “Not just the dress, everything! Didn’t you hear me? The whole caboodle! I’ll have the bellman bring it up to the rooms. It’s all wrong for Italy, I’ll have to get a whole new set,” Whitney said, perking up at the thought of new purchases. “I mean, wear your mom’s clothes if you want, of course, but just in case you change your mind, someone should wear this wardrobe.”

  But Ronan shook her head. “Whitney—you’re being much too kind. There is no need. I can wear my old dress, and I brought my own clothes.”

  “No I’m not, I’m not being kind, just angry they’re such snobs. Thinking we Americans aren’t good enough. But you’ll show them, won’t you, Ronan? Show them we’re just as good as any of them. Make a splash, will you?” she said, as the footman came scurrying back to tell her that her mother was waiting imp
atiently. “Oi!” she called to the scandalized hotel clerk. “This is my friend Ronan Astor—she’s to stay at our rooms. And bring my trunks back up, while you’re at it!”

  “Whitney! Stop! I can’t possibly accept all this.”

  “Yes you can! You can treat next time we’re in Paris—ooh, it’ll be your turn!” she said merrily. “It will give us an excuse to get together again—you’re so much fun! We’ll stay at the Ritz! Okay?”

  “I…” Ronan felt faint, not knowing how to tell Whitney she could not possibly return the favor.

  “It’s done!” Whitney said. “Paris in the spring is lovely!”

  Ronan stopped fighting. Why was she arguing in the first place? Pride? But what was pride, compared to a fabulous wardrobe and the best room in the hotel? “Well, all right, as long as you insist.”

  “I insist.” Whitney kissed her on both cheeks in a breathless rush. “Knock ’em dead. I’ll send postcards from Florence. Hopefully the Tintorettos are worth it.”

  The royal suite was aptly named, sprawling over the entire top floor. Its walls were covered with sumptuous velvet, while delicate silk curtains kept out the worst of the afternoon sun. Whitney’s trunks were stacked neatly in rows, ready to be opened; ready for the staff to do their work. Ronan’s heels made a sharp click as she entered the room. The floor was mahogany, shipped from West Africa, dark amber swirls with lighter areas in the heartwood. She kicked off her shoes and removed her hat while Vera gushed at the expanse of luxury. The smell of rosemary and lilac pervaded the air; clusters of flowers were arranged on every table. Through the archway was the bedroom, where the enormous bed was set with three mattresses, so high that it required a small stair for access. She wondered what would happen if she woke up during the night, or if she needed to exit the bed quickly. Would she fall?

  There was a roaring fireplace across from the bed, and a pair of armoires flanked the hearth. In the room’s center, below a candle-lit pendant, arranged upon a brightly woven rug (most likely Tibetan) was a table chess set. On either side of it was a silk upholstered chair. She sat on one of the chairs and picked up a chess piece at random. Turning it over in her hand, she saw it was the queen. She smiled.