A Royal Christmas Quandary

by Samantha Hastings

  * * *

  If she looked for George in the Crimson Drawing Room that afternoon, it was only to ascertain whether he was in the room so that she could avoid him.

  He wasn’t there.

  The room was aptly named. The carpet, walls, and curtains and all the furniture was crimson. Gold trim framed and accentuated the red walls and furnishings. Even the ceiling had liberal amounts of gilded designs and an enormous golden chandelier. It was truly a regal room.

  She looked around for someone to speak to. Neither her mother nor father was present. But Princess Alice was talking to Prince Louis, standing next to a painting of a soldier … also dressed in a crimson uniform. Drina walked toward them, carefully avoiding Lord Weatherby and his sister, Lady Clara, who were speaking to their particular friend, Lady Hyacinth Fotheringham.

  “There you are, Drina,” Alice said, taking her hand. “I missed you during the dancing last night.”

  “I retired to bed early,” she lied.

  Prince Louis of Hesse turned and smiled at Drina, greeting her in German. Prince Louis was truly one of the handsomest men she’d ever seen. His brown hair swept back from a broad forehead and curled by his ears. His eyes were dark and he had a clipped mustache that made him look dashingly foreign. He was a little taller than Drina, but nearly a head taller than Alice. His eyes constantly darted back to Alice; it was clear that he admired her.

  Drina returned his greeting in German. “I hope you kept Alice entertained in my absence last night.”

  He laughed and said in German, “It is she who keeps me entertained with her wit and vivacity.”

  Alice colored a little and said in English, “Where is your cousin? I was hoping to meet him last night.”

  It was Drina’s turn to blush. “George seems to have lost my cousin.”

  “Rather a large object to lose. Where did he see him last?”

  Drina shook her head. Both Prince Louis and Princess Alice looked at her questioningly. Prince Louis, because he didn’t understand their exchange, and Alice, because she was too clever by half.

  “George has never actually seen him,” she admitted in an undertone in English. “He never arrived at Windsor Castle.”

  “You don’t think something awful has happened to him, do you?” Alice asked.

  “That thought had crossed my mind,” Drina admitted. “But there has been no sign of any trouble in town. Nor a letter of ransom.”

  Drina had assumed her cousin was sleeping off his excesses somewhere in town, with or without female company. But by the light of morning, all the worst possible scenarios seemed likelier by the minute. What if Friedrich was grievously injured? What if he was dead? What if someone had kidnapped the Crown Prince of Hoburg? His presence at Windsor was no secret—his state visit to Queen Victoria had been announced in all the major newspapers. Her mother had read each of them to her, tsking and complaining that the English never got anything right about the German principality of Hoburg.

  “You’ve gone white as a sheet,” Alice said, touching her hand again. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to alarm you. I’m sure it is just as the valet said. Your cousin perhaps enjoyed a little too much English beer and was unable to make it to the castle last night. I’m confident that you will see him tonight at dinner.”

  “I’m sure you’re right,” Drina said politely. Although she wasn’t sure at all. She pulled her hand from her friend’s. “I’ll go find my mother and see if she has seen Friedrich. He was always a favorite of hers.”

  “Oh, look who just walked in,” Alice said with a knowing smirk.

  Drina glanced over her shoulder to see George and Edward entering the Crimson Drawing Room.

  “Farewell, Alice. Auf Wiedersehen, Prinz Louis,” she said, and walked quickly to the door. George stopped and smiled at her. He might have even spoken something, but Drina didn’t hear it. She was too busy walking past him.

  Chapter 7

  Drina walked around George as if he were an armchair inconveniently placed in the center of the room, with not so much as a how do you do.

  “Why did she snub me?” George asked aloud, not speaking to any person in particular.

  “That’s easy enough,” his brother said as he elbowed George in the chest “You’ve made a fool of her.”

  “I didn’t mean to get us thrown in jail,” he protested in a low voice. “If she hadn’t insisted on bringing that bloody necklace with us, we wouldn’t have been arrested.”

  “I don’t think that’s it,” Edward said. He took out his quizzing glass and twirled it around his finger. “Drina has always had a keen sense of humor and a taste for adventure. No, George, I believe she’s mad at you because you made a fool of her during the London season.”

  “I did not.”

  “Did so,” he countered obstinately. “You monopolized her at every social event, danced with her at every party, and you never popped the question. Nearly every gentlemen’s club in London was offering odds on whether or not you would propose. I lost twenty-five guineas myself at White’s.”

  “You thought I was in love with Drina?” George asked.

  Edward shook his head. “I didn’t know about you, but my wife said Drina has fancied you for years. And Emily, as you know, is rarely wrong about affairs of the heart.”

  “Emily believes Drina is in love with me?!”

  “Do you know, it’s the first time she’s ever been wrong on a match?” Edward remarked in a bored tone. “Certainly it was the first time I’ve ever lost money betting on Emily’s romantic opinion. I’ve made nearly five-hundred guineas betting on matches. The Watey chit and Mr. Harris. The—”

  “Thank you, Edward,” he said hastily, eager for the conversation to end. “I appreciate your insight, but I must get back to finding that dashed Hoburg prince. Father will have an apoplexy if he learns I’ve lost him.”

  George made a hasty retreat from the Crimson Drawing Room through the Lantern Lobby. It was a circular room with stunning flying buttresses, pointed arch windows, and a second-floor gallery. The Lantern Lobby looked and felt medieval, probably because of the suits of armor on display. George was profoundly glad no one expected him to wear a metal suit and gallivant around on a horse while poking enemies with a long wooden stick.

  “There you are, George,” came his father’s low, raspy voice from the second-floor gallery. George looked up to see him leaning over the railing. “I need a word.”

  That phrase from his father always made George feel rather queasy, like he’d swallowed a chunk of spoiled meat.

  “Yes, Father?”

  “Not here, boy!” he scolded. “Anyone could hear us.”

  “Very well, sir,” George said resignedly. “Should I come up or would you like to come down?”

  “I’ll be down directly.”

  And he was—his father, for all of his sixty years of age, was amazingly spry. He took George by the shoulder and led him from the Lantern Lobby into St. George’s Hall. George had attended banquets in the hall, but for now, the long narrow room was quite empty. Nothing but crimson carpet on the floors and portraits of dead monarchs on the walls. They were alone, but it still wasn’t what George would call private. His father steered him in front of a painting of William IV, Queen Victoria’s uncle. It was a flattering portrait of the dead king wearing a large green velvet cloak and looking quite regal.

  “Do you know who this is, son?”

  “King William IV, sir.”

  “I had the privilege of serving under him,” his father said. He pointed to the portrait adjacent to it, that of another brother from the House of Hanover. “And who is that?”

  “George IV, better known as the Prince Regent,” he said obediently. Although he pointedly failed to mention that this particular George was best known for his flock of mistresses and wearing a Cumberland Corset to contain his corpulence. The stories his mother told about the Prince Regent weren’t flattering.

  “I served under him and I named you after hi
m,” his father said at last. “A man should be loyal to his king.”

  “Right, sir.”

  “And him?”

  George recognized the white-wigged man wearing an alarming amount of yellow-and-black fur to be the Mad King George, but he prudently called him “George III.”

  “I also briefly served under him,” his father said in his raspy voice. “And now I serve her.”

  His father didn’t need to say Queen Victoria’s name. Nor point to her life-sized portrait in which she was dripping with jewels.

  “I could have you name the portrait of every monarch in this hall,” his father said.

  George sincerely hoped he wouldn’t.

  “But the point is, George,” he said, clapping his large hand on George’s shoulder, “our family has always served the monarchy. I, in the Foreign Office, and your mother, in the Queen’s household.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “We have given our youth, our health, our very lives in this sacred duty,” his father continued. “And I hope to see you devote your life to this same noble cause.”

  George remained silent as a dozen inappropriate responses, mostly curses, flittered through his mind. But they all amounted to the same answer.

  No.

  Simply, no.

  He had no interest in monarchs and even less in foreign monarchs. He found no joy in the political chess game of saying one thing but meaning another. And he still resented the years of his childhood that he barely saw either his mother or his father, knowing that they considered their second son less important than their own political goals.

  “I noticed that the Crown Prince of Hoburg wasn’t at dinner last night,” his father said abruptly.

  George gulped. “His Royal Highness requested his meal be sent to his room.”

  His father scoffed, but surprised George by giving him a small smile. “The vagaries of royal princes. You’ll get used to them. Well, I don’t blame you for not dragging the Crown Prince down to dinner last night. I’ll make his excuses to Her Royal Highness. But see that it doesn’t happen tonight. I’m entrusting you with something important, George. Our country’s relationship with Hoburg depends heavily on this visit. You must ensure all goes well.”

  He knew he should tell his father the truth, but instead George replied as he always did to his father: “Yes, sir.”

  The Duke of Doverly gave him a hearty clap on the back and strode off, probably to find another victim on whom to inflict a lecture.

  George needed to find Drina, and fast. He desperately needed her help if he was to ever locate the missing prince.

  He’d seen her leave the Crimson Drawing Room but he hadn’t seen her in the Lantern Lobby, nor St. George’s Hall. Opening the door to the China Corridor, he peered in but she wasn’t there. Then he went to the Waterloo Chamber—which he immediately left to avoid Emily, who looked at him with raised eyebrows. George didn’t want to know what Edward had told her about last night.

  The next room he checked was the Grand Vestibule, but Drina wasn’t there, either. He looked in the Queen’s Guard Chamber and opened the door to the Queen’s Presence Chamber. Drina was standing all alone in the middle of the carpeted room, her back to him.

  He walked quickly to her and gently touched her arm. She startled and stepped back.

  “There you are, Drina,” he said. “Been looking for you everywhere.” He pointed his finger at her. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

  “You need to leave,” she said quickly.

  “We need to talk—”

  “I have an audience with the Queen,” she said anxiously. “Right here, right now,”

  “Here,” he said, pointing at the floor. “Right now?”

  “Yes!”

  “Blimey,” he said, feeling stupid. He turned around to leave, but paused when he heard the sound of footsteps approaching from the opposite room.

  “You’ll never make it to the door in time. Quick, hide!” she hissed.

  George’s eyes scanned the room. There were a few tables and chairs, but nothing that would cover him properly. He looked back at Drina … and her enormous skirt.

  Lifting up her crinoline cage, he dove underneath her skirt, grabbing her knees for support as he crouched beneath the metal cage. Drina squeaked with indignation, but suddenly froze as the echoing sound of three sets of footsteps approached.

  Drina bent her knees in a small curtsy. George felt a metal strip press sharply against his cheek—it hurt like the devil.

  “Your Royal Highness,” he heard Drina say.

  “Alexandrina,” Queen Victoria replied in her stately voice. “We are glad you could join our family for Christmas.”

  Speak, George willed his friend. But Drina just stood there shaking.

  “Cousin Drina was hoping to ask for your assistance, Mama,” another voice said. George was pretty sure it was Princess Alice. “As you know, she is the only child of the Marquis of Rothfield, and she was hoping that you could give a royal dispensation that would allow her to inherit her father’s title and estate.”

  George pressed his ear against the side of her skirt, but he heard nothing. Silence filled the room, and he felt Drina’s knees shake harder. He wondered if she would still be standing at all if he weren’t holding on to her.

  The Queen finally spoke. “Do not let your feelings—even very natural and usual ones—of momentary irritation and discomfort be seen by others, Alexandrina. And don’t let every little feeling be read in your face and seen in your manner.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Drina managed to squeak.

  “Being married gives one a position like nothing else can,” Queen Victoria said. “If you want a title, I suggest you marry one.”

  George didn’t know if Drina was blushing, but he certainly felt hot.

  “We poor female creatures are born for man’s pleasure and amusement, and destined to go through endless sufferings and trials,” continued Queen Victoria in a high, sugary-sweet voice.

  George tried not to focus on Drina’s nicely curved shins or her even lovelier thighs. He closed his eyes and tried to count in German. He got as far as the number twelve.

  “My mother certainly endured much suffering from her first husband,” Drina blurted.

  George winced for her.

  More uncomfortable silence.

  Drina’s legs jiggled like a Christmas pudding.

  He heard Queen Victoria clear her throat. “I am every day more convinced that we women, if we are to be good women—feminine and amiable and domestic—are not fitted to reign.”

  “Surely you don’t think you are unfit to be Queen?” Drina asked in a tone of disbelief.

  George heard Princess Alice cough delicately and add, in a placating tone, “Your subjects love you, Mama.”

  “The important thing is not what they think of me,” Queen Victoria stated. She paused before adding, “but what I think of them.”

  He heard a tsk. He recognized that tsk. It could only be Drina’s mother, the Princess Rothfield. She hadn’t said a word thus far, which was quite unlike her. She’d given George a piece of her mind more times than he could count.

  “Very true, Mama,” Princess Alice said quickly, in a higher voice than usual.

  “Then you don’t believe a woman can do anything a man can do?” Drina asked.

  George cringed waiting for the Queen’s reply. He didn’t have to wait long.

  “That’s what I call twaddle!” the Queen barked. “Were women to ‘unsex’ themselves by claiming equality with men, they would become the most hateful, heathen, and disgusting of beings and would surely perish without male protection.”

  “My daughter didn’t mean any offense, Cousin Victoria,” Princess Rothfield said in her clipped German accent. “She is overwrought to discover that she won’t inherit her father’s estate because she is a woman, and you English have a law you call primogeniture … or was it a tail, entail?”

  “The Rothfield marquisate and estate is entaile
d, Mama,” Princess Alice explained. “But there are no other heirs. So Drina is the natural choice to inherit both the estate and the title.”

  More silence.

  The only sound he could hear was the knocking of Drina’s knees. This interview was a complete disaster.

  “I know of no precedent in British history for a female to inherit her father’s title in the peerage,” Queen Victoria said at last. “And the Queen of England is supposed to uphold the laws, not break them.”

  “Surely you could make an exception this one time, Mama?” Princess Alice asked. “Drina is family, after all.”

  “Bring me a cup of tea and The Times,” the Queen ordered, as if she hadn’t heard her daughter. George heard her heavy tread retreating the same way she had come.

  Lighter treads followed, but George didn’t dare move a muscle until he heard the sound of the door closing firmly. He counted to twelve in German again before he crawled out and looked up at Drina sheepishly. She covered her mouth with both of her gloved hands.

  Saints preserve him, she was going to cry.

  But she didn’t.

  Drina laughed.

  She laughed so hard that tears streamed down her cheeks.

  George pulled his handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to her. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know you were meeting with the Queen. I wouldn’t have hurt your chances for anything.”

  Drina accepted his handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes. “If I don’t laugh, I’m afraid I’ll sob. I can’t imagine a more disastrous interview.”

  He nodded sympathetically and stretched his arms, stiff from crouching beneath her skirts for so long.

  “It’s not just that,” she whispered, leaning forward conspiratorially. “The Queen’s always frightened me. Once she yelled at Alice and me for playing in the mud and ruining our dresses. Vicky told on us and I thought Cousin Victoria was going to lock us in the Tower of London as punishment.”

  “Sounds like Princess Vicky,” George said, nodding. “She always was a sanctimonious tattle.”

  “I’d hoped that Cousin Victoria would be sympathetic to my plight,” Drina said, dabbing at her eyes with the handkerchief again. “That I’ll be disinherited simply because I am a woman. It seems unfair that she isn’t disinherited from a kingdom because of her sex, and yet I’m barred from a much smaller marquisate for the same reason.”