She found Friedrich standing in front of her with his gloved hand outstretched. She placed her own gloved hand inside it and allowed him to escort her out to the middle of the floor. The musicians were playing her favorite waltz—Mozart’s Hoburg Homily.
Friedrich placed his left hand on her waist and raised his right hand over his head. He wanted to waltz like they did in Hoburg, not England. Drina timidly placed her hand on his waist and clasped his other hand over her head. She hadn’t danced a Hoburg-style waltz in years. With the lightest of touches, Friedrich led her through turns and spins, past other couples. He was an excellent lead and she a perfect follower. It was exhilarating to dance with someone who matched her steps and style so well. The music ended and Friedrich gave her a formal court bow. Drina responded with a full ballerina curtsy, her pointy nose nearly touching the floor.
Friedrich clapped. “Well done, Alix—I mean, Drina.”
“Yes, well done,” Bertie said, joining them. He offered her his gloved hand. “There is no better dancer in the room and I’ve come to claim the dances you promised.”
She smiled as Bertie squired her around the dance floor, making her laugh more than once. But her attention was behind him; she watched George leave the room without dancing even one dance. He was a dreadful dancer, but he was also the only man she truly wanted to dance with.
Chapter 21
George knew he was being foolish when he left the ballroom. Drina wasn’t doing anything wrong by waltzing with her cousin. They were merely dancing—although that horrible Hoburg prince danced as well as Drina. Then blasted Bertie came to steal her for several songs, making her laugh.
Princes!
George was all too aware of his own lack of rhythm. He walked down the long corridor, lit only by gas lamps, and pulled open the door to the outside. It was freezing, sleet like rain coming down in sheets. He pulled his jacket collar up and folded his arms. Sighing, he wished things were as simple as they had been when they were children. When Drina was his best friend and nothing could come between them—not her overbearing mother or his annoying elder brother.
But they had grown up and their relationship was no longer simple. His feelings for her had only deepened, but now he had to watch every smile, each word, fearing what society would construe of them. He knew he wasn’t the suitor Princess Rothfield wanted for her daughter. He was no prince. Not even a duke. He wouldn’t inherit a large estate or a fortune. He barely even had a profession.
How could George compete with the most eligible bachelor in all of England—in all of the world?
He’d wanted to tell Drina how he felt about her, but he had been so afraid of ruining their relationship. And now he had ruined it, by not telling her.
Am I too late?
* * *
The wind blew right through his coat. If he didn’t go inside soon, he’d catch a cold.
He opened the door and walked slowly to his rooms. A fire blazed in the hearth, but what caught his attention was the newspaper on his bedside table. He walked up to it and read the front: Underground Railroad to be Built from Paddington to Farringdon. He’d never heard of such a thing. The very thought was fascinating—a railroad underneath the ground.
George picked up the paper and read the full story and even turned to page six to finish it. The chief engineer was John Fowler, who was widely considered to be the greatest engineer in all of England. He was certainly the highest paid—the article also talked about his previous engineering achievements and his training under John Towlerton Leather.
George crushed the paper in one hand. Who better to train under than the foremost engineer in the country? This could be his chance to become a real engineer—an opportunity to create a career for himself. He would no longer be financially dependent on his father. It was everything he ever wanted when he had studied at Eton.
He could make a name for himself. His own name, not just the name of his esteemed ancestors. He would no longer need his empty title Lord Worthington.
He was the lord of nothing.
The second son of a duke.
The spare heir.
George carefully smoothed out the newspaper on the table and then folded it into quarters and placed it in his jacket pocket.
He could do this. Every dream required a leap of faith, and if he didn’t take this leap, he’d spend his whole life regretting it.
* * *
The next morning, George left Windsor Castle well before breakfast for the train station. He acknowledged the surly stationmaster with a nod before climbing into the first-class train car. Once seated, he pulled out his newspaper and read the article about the underground railroad again. He had plenty of time to reread it on the long ride to London.
At Paddington Station, George hailed a hansom cab and told the driver the address from the newspaper. After a few minutes, they arrived in front of an inauspicious brown brick building.
A middle-aged clerk with fair curly hair and a long white scar across his forehead was sitting at the front desk. George took off his hat and bowed. “I should like to speak to Mr. John Fowler.”
“Do you have an appointment, sir?”
He gulped, shaking his head. But he hadn’t come all the way from Windsor to be stopped now. He pulled out his gilt-edged calling card and handed it to the man. For once, his title worked in his favor. The clerk stood up immediately and bowed to George.
“One moment, Lord Worthington,” he said with another bow. “I’ll let him know that you’re here.”
George wasn’t kept waiting more than a few minutes when the curly-haired clerk returned and asked him to follow him down the hall. The clerk opened the door to a spacious office with a large table in the center. On the table were sketches and renderings of tunnels and bridges. Sitting in a chair at the head of the table was a man in his forties. He was bald on top with a circle of dark brown hair and sideburn whiskers that reached his chin. His dark eyes seemed to be evaluating George. The clerk bowed once more to both men before closing the door.
“How may I help you, Lord Worthington?” Mr. Fowler finally asked.
George took out his rumpled newspaper and pointed to the article about the underground railroad. “I was hoping to work for you—to train under you—to become a civil engineer.”
The older man pointed to the chair closest to his. “Please sit down, Lord Worthington.”
George placed his hat on the table and then sat, drumming his fingers on the table nervously.
“You’re very young, Lord Worthington.”
“Eighteen, sir.”
“What experience do you have?”
He gulped again. Not much. “Well, sir, I, uh … took first in mathematics at Eton college … and I, uh … designed a small bridge on my father’s estate and we built it this past June.”
“And what have you done since?” Mr. Fowler asked, intertwining his fingers.
“I’ve been working as a junior secretary in the Foreign Department.”
“Have you lost your position at the Foreign Department?”
George shook his head slowly. “No, sir. My father is the head of the department. It’s just that I don’t particularly enjoy the work. I’m not interested in politics. I want to be an engineer.”
“What do you know about cut and cover trenches?”
“Only a little,” he admitted, flushing with embarrassment. “Are you referring to the bottom-up method or the top-down method?”
“I will allow that I’m impressed you know the difference. But I’m afraid, Lord Worthington,” Mr. Fowler said, shaking his head, “the only thing you’re qualified to do is bring me my coffee.”
“Then I’ll do that, if you’ll hire me.”
“The son of a duke wants to bring my coffee?” he asked incredulously.
“If that’s where I have to start,” George said. “I’d rather bring you your coffee than pander to foreign princes.”
Mr. Fowler cocked his head to one side. “Why, Lord Worthin
gton?”
George cleared his throat. “I want to train under the best engineer in the country and learn your methods. And hopefully, one day design my own bridges and tunnels, sir.”
“The pay for a trainee won’t be what you’re used to,” he said, pointing at George’s expensive black suit. “And the work site will be quite different than the Foreign Office. Those fancy clothes would be ruined within an hour from all the dust and muck.”
“The money doesn’t matter; I’m here for the experience and I realize that these clothes are inappropriate for engineering work. I only wore them today out of respect for you and your position.”
Mr. Fowler barked a laugh. “Are you trying to flatter me, my lord?”
“Yes,” he admitted with a small shrug of his shoulders. “Is it working?”
The man didn’t smile, but his face still somehow looked pleased. “I won’t tolerate tardiness, nor insubordination.”
“Yes, sir,” George said, nodding and trying to hold in his smile. Hope filled his chest like a balloon.
“You will have no special privileges. You’ll be treated the same as any other member of my staff, Lord Worthington.”
“You don’t have to call me by my title,” he said, grinning. “You can just call me George.”
“Well, George,” Mr. Fowler said, smiling widely as he stood up and held out his hand. “I like your enthusiasm. I’m willing to give you a chance.”
“Thank you, sir,” George said, puffing out his chest and shaking his hand. “Thank you so much.”
Chapter 22
The arched windows bathed the library in light. Thousands of books lined the walls from floor to ceiling. Drina stood in front of the fireplace and warmed her hands, trying to come up with a plan or system. But the task was monumental and seemed hopeless.
How was she supposed to find a legal precedent regarding a woman inheriting a title and estate, if she didn’t even know where to start?
“I thought I’d find you here,” Alice called.
She turned to see Alice and all of her younger siblings, plus Bertie, walking toward her. Beatrice was holding Alice’s hand, but spying Drina, she dropped it and ran to her. Drina scooped her up and twirled her around before resting her on her hip.
“Are you here to help me, Baby?”
“Yes,” Beatrice said with an emphatic nod, her bright curls bobbing up and down.
“As you see, I’ve brought reinforcements,” Alice said, gesturing to her siblings.
“I’m afraid that I don’t even know where to begin,” Drina admitted, shrugging her shoulders.
“The legal section, I should think.”
“Alice, you’re a genius,” Drina said dryly.
“Well, my dear, I’m a polymath, so of course I’m a genius,” Alice said, with a wink and a smile. “Now, Bertie, go fetch us a ladder from the other side of the library. Alfred and Helena, you two take this shelf. Arthur and Leopold, you take this next shelf, and Louise and Drina, the one above it. Bertie and I will sort through the highest shelf once he returns with the ladder.”
Alice handed stacks of books to her siblings, and they took them over to a round table with chairs. Drina set down Beatrice so that she could carry her own stack of books. She brought them to another round table and set them down with a thud. Drina sat and Beatrice climbed onto her lap.
“I help you find it.”
“Thank you, Baby,” Drina said, patting her curls. “I should like that very much.”
Louise sat next to them and handed her a paper. “For you, Drina. Happy Christmas.”
Drina turned the paper over and saw Louise’s completed sketch of Windsor Castle. The center of the picture was the Round Tower, set on a hill. Trees and shrubs framed the castle and softened the hard lines of the stone. Louise had even drawn clouds in the sky.
“Thank you, Louise,” Drina said, squeezing the younger girl’s hand. “It is the best Christmas present I’ve ever received. When I get home, I’ll frame it and hang it in the parlor at Rothfield House.”
“It’s not that good,” Louise said, blushing and looking away.
“It is that good,” she assured the princess, “and I thank you for it and for helping me today.”
Louise smiled and began reading the book in front of her. Drina opened the first page of her own book when Bertie came and sat next to her, flipping through the crackly pages of a large tome. Dust particles circled around in the air like snowflakes.
“Why did you ask me for two dances?” she asked suspiciously in a voice barely above a whisper.
The Prince of Wales had the grace to color. He cleared his throat. “I’m trying to help you with my mother.”
“By making her angry?”
“That is a delightful bonus,” he said with his ever-charming smile. “But no, I have a plan to help you break the entail.”
Drina chewed her lip, unsure if she wanted any part in Bertie’s scheme. “A plan besides finding a legal precedent in these dusty books?”
“Yes,” he said. “I have learned in the military that it is always good to have more than one angle of attack.”
“Then what is your plan?”
Bertie shook his head. “You’ll see.”
She didn’t see at all, but she’d already wasted too much time talking. Turning open the book, she began to scan the phrases for important words like entail and inheritance.
Page after page.
Book after book.
Shelf after shelf.
But she saw no precedent of a woman inheriting a title from her father or any other male relative. Drina kept reading until Beatrice fell asleep on her lap, her curly little head resting on Drina’s forearm.
“I’m hungry,” Leopold complained. Drina heard his stomach grumble.
“And I’m tired,” Arthur said, yawning and stretching his arms.
“I suppose it’s past time for lunch,” Drina said, standing up with Beatrice in her arms.
“I can look longer,” Louise said, giving both of her younger brothers a dirty look very reminiscent of her mother’s scowl.
“There’s no need to,” Drina said, resignedly. “I don’t think we’re going to find anything to convince your mother to lift the entail. And I’m sure you’re supposed to be in lessons right now.”
“We are,” Helena said in her soft voice, “but you’re more important.”
“I can’t tell you all how much it means to me that you all tried,” Drina said, and sighed. “But I’m as hungry as Leopold. I think we ought to go have some lunch.”
The royal children closed their books and placed them back on the shelves. One by one they left the library until it was only Alice, Bertie, and Drina, who was still holding the sleeping Beatrice. Bertie took his sister from Drina’s arms.
“Thank you for your help, Bertie,” she said sadly. “It was a good plan, Alice.”
“Don’t give up yet,” Alice said, hugging her. “There are still so many books that we haven’t gone through.”
“I won’t,” Drina assured her, but she couldn’t help but feel disappointed. What if there wasn’t a legal precedent to be found? Would Drina have to marry to secure her financial and social position?
She shivered at the very thought.
* * *
George raked his fingers through his hair and took a deep breath before leaving his room at Windsor Castle. He wandered through the private apartments, searching for his father. He finally found him standing next to Lord Rothfield in the Crimson Saloon. They were looking out the window at the icy rain.
George walked up to them. Nervousness tunneled from his stomach to his throat like an underground train, but he’d gone too far to turn back now.
“Father,” George said in an undertone. “I need to speak with you. Privately.”
Lord Rothfield gave him a nod. “Good to see you, George.” He clapped George on the shoulder and then walked away.
“Privately?” his father rasped. “There is no privacy in
a palace, boy.”
“Then over in the corner,” George said, gesturing to a pair of chairs that were empty.
“Very well,” his father said, and walked over to a chair and sat down.
“I don’t want to be a foreign diplomat,” George said, still standing. For once, he was looking down at his father and not looking up. “I have no talent for it. I’m much too blunt and I can’t endure catering to somebody just because they happened to be born royal. Every minute spent in Prince Friedrich’s company has convinced me that this isn’t the life I want.”
The Duke of Doverly patted the seat next to him indulgently. “Sit down, George.”
He sat on the edge of the golden chair—too tense to scoot back.
“You didn’t let a few tosses from your horse stop you from learning how to ride, did you?” his father said. “Don’t let a few hiccups on your first diplomatic assignment get you down in the mouth, son. You’re sure to do better next time.”
George growled, but he wasn’t going to give in this time. He shook his head. “No, Father. You need to listen to me. This isn’t about my assignment. It’s about me. I don’t like diplomacy. I hate politics. I want to be a civil engineer.”
“A civil engineer?” his father whispered contemptuously. “A common profession, when you were born from the blood of kings?”
“Yes!” George cried. “I don’t care that our great-great-great grandfather or something was the illegitimate son of King Charles II. The world is changing. Technology is the future, not dead monarchs. I read in the newspaper that the Metropolitan Railway is building an underground railway from Paddington to Farringdon. I put my name forward just this afternoon as a trainee and Mr. John Fowler accepted me.”
“If you take this position,” his father said, “I will cut you off without a penny.”
“I’ll have a salary of my own.”
His father gave a scornful laugh. “A working man’s salary? Ha! You’ll hardly be able to live at the level of comfort that you’re used to. That you were born to.”
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