Seducing the Princess

by Hart Perry, Mary

  Her mother’s lady-in-waiting came to the steps of the carriage. “Princess, your mother has asked me to let you know that she needs you. Now.” The woman’s expression seemed sympathetic, but Beatrice knew if she made any attempt to leave with Henry, the woman would order the guards to stop her.

  “Safe travels, Henry. I’ll wait for your letters.” Beatrice kissed him on the lips. “They will be like breathing to me.”

  28

  Victoria blotted the ink, folded the note in half, and handed it to Ponsonby. “Please give this to one of the pages, for Beatrice.”

  Her secretary looked down his impressive hawk’s-beak nose at the single sheet of paper in his fingertips. “No seal, Your Majesty?”

  “Wax isn’t necessary. It’s just a list of tasks I wish her to attend to. I’ll give you the details later, so that you may instruct her.”

  “I see.” But he didn’t move yet. “Might I suggest that it would be simpler for all concerned if the princess stopped by your office, enabling you to speak with her directly?”

  “I’m not speaking to my daughter. She has behaved vilely toward me. Notes will do just fine for the time being. She doesn’t deserve my words, foolish girl. Such trouble she’s become. I never expected her to take the course of her sisters and attempt to desert me.”

  “I’m sure the princess would never—”

  “Ponsonby, you are an excellent secretary and your military record is impeccable. But you know nothing of young women’s temperaments and fantasies.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Baby must learn to be responsible. She best serves Britain and our family by doing her duty to the queen. Until she apologizes for her behavior and graciously accepts her duty to us, we shall not waste words on her.”

  Ponsonby bowed once, and retreated without further comment.

  Victoria stared after the man. He hadn’t exactly argued with her, but she’d felt his censure in those steel-gray eyes. Was she the only one who recognized the folly of Beatrice’s attachment to Henry Battenberg? And what about her blatant disloyalty to her mother? That alone deserved punishment. She hadn’t been surprised at Louise’s behavior during her twenties; the girl had been difficult from early childhood. So rebellious and headstrong, more trouble than any of her four brothers. But Beatrice had been a delight and dear Albert’s favorite. And after he was gone, the child had been a constant comfort to her.

  These sudden changes in the youngest princess were most disturbing. Not to be tolerated, and certainly not to be encouraged. She must remain firm with the girl until she outgrew this treacherous, wicked phase. The adolescent years had, perhaps, arrived a decade late for Beatrice.

  Victoria glanced down at the next document on her desk, a letter from the Prime Minister that needed a quick and carefully composed response. But she couldn’t think clearly she was so bothered by all that was going on in her life. If Beatrice left her, she would be alone. All of her family gone. She just couldn’t face such a bleak, unloved existence. Surrounded by Court and servants—that wasn’t the same as being with your family.

  When Victoria and Albert had first started having babies, the act of motherhood had seemed such a wretched nuisance to her. How could she function as the ruler of a nation if she was forever pregnant and popping out infants? But somehow she had managed, with the help of nurses, governesses and tutors. Albert himself had taken on managing the children’s education. But now that she wanted her family, needed them around her to support her later years, they were all too busy in their own lives to bother. Beatrice, she had believed, was different. Beatrice was clearly uncomfortable in society. She never seemed to do or say the right thing in pleasant company. Didn’t she understand she would humiliate herself if she married into a flamboyant family like the Battenbergs?

  With a sigh, Victoria finished the document for the PM, as best she could, and left it for Ponsonby to send off with a messenger.

  The queen repaired to her room to change into her riding habit and then sent off one of her ladies to inform the stable master she wished to ride. An hour later, accompanied by two attendants, she made her way down to the royal mews. Her ladies would ride with her, and they’d all be accompanied by a mounted pair of soldiers from the Queen’s Guard. She’d also requested the most recently hired groom join their party.

  The stable master was waiting in the yard with her guardsmen, the party’s mounts all tacked and ready for them. The air smelled of horse flesh, damp straw, and oncoming rain. She hoped it would hold off until they returned from their ride.

  Elton Jackson bowed and gave her a shallow smile, but as she talked to him, his gaze flitted here and there around the courtyard in a distracted way she found annoying. “Is there a problem, Mr. Jackson? You seem inattentive to your duties, sir.”

  Her remark seemed to shake Jackson out of his preoccupation. “Not at all, Your Majesty. Just keepin’ an eye on everything little thing, you know.” He chuckled, shrugging. “These young grooms—never know what they’ll be up to next, and the stable lads are forever into mischief and causing me worries.”

  “Much like any family, I suppose,” she said. At least here was someone who understood her dilemmas. “Where is your young groom? I hope he won’t keep us waiting long.”

  “About that, ma’am, wouldn’t you rather I send a more experienced gillie with your party?”

  “No. As I requested in my message, I’d like to get to know your new man. My daughter told me weeks ago how bravely he defended her. I haven’t had a chance to thank or even meet him. I think this would be the perfect opportunity. Don’t you?”

  “Of course, ma’am. I was only thinking of your—”

  At the sound of another horse approaching, Jackson broke off, the muscles of his weathered face bunching as if struggling to keep from frowning before he announced with pointed enthusiasm, “Ah, here he is now, Mr. MacAlister. All mounted up and ready for you.”

  Victoria noticed with mild surprise that the young man rode the notorious Beelzebub. Had Beatrice said something about that? She couldn’t recall. After John Brown purchased the animal as a colt, so close to his own death, she hadn’t at first been aware it had arrived in her stables. Only weeks later, when she was beginning to recover from the bitter loss of her cherished Scot did she notice the horse in one of the stalls. She took its presence as a mystical sign that her old friend was still watching over her. She was pleased that today she’d be riding alongside the magnificent animal.

  “Good. We’re all here now. Let us go.” She motioned to the young man on the black, beckoning him forward. “We’ll get to know each other a little as we ride.”

  One of her guards took the advance position and another followed behind her two ladies.

  “Do you enjoy an early morning ride,” Victoria asked her young escort.

  “Why, yes, Your Majesty, the earlier the better.” He bowed his head in deference as he matched his mount’s pace to hers.

  What a nice, deep Highland burr. His accent sounded so very pleasant to her ears. If she closed her eyes she could almost imagine John riding alongside her, making her feel safe. She could easily see why Beatrice had taken to him as her bodyguard. A strong, good-looking man servant—that’s all any woman really needed. The shackles of marriage, pain of childbirth, and bitter disappointment in grown children who deserted you in your declining years—who needed that?

  They rode in silence for a good ways. The morning dew still clung to the grass; few riders chose to be out on Rotten Row at this hour, giving the queen’s party the luxury of privacy they wouldn’t have had later in the day. Still, she would rather have been up north at Balmoral this time of year, walking her horse across the rolling meadows, never coming across another soul, feeling all of Scotland was hers and Albert’s. Then hers and John Brown’s. Or even, simply…just hers. But with Parliament in session she needed to be here in London, at least that’s what her ministers insisted upon.

 
; “Are you enjoying your work in the royal mews?” she asked the young man.

  “Aye, Your Majesty, I surely am.”

  “Gregory, is it?” She was good with names, even as she felt herself slowing down physically. A sharp mind, that’s what her doctors said about her.

  “Yes, ma’am, Gregory MacAlister.”

  “And you’re from the shire around Balmoral?”

  “I am, ma’am. Born and raised in bonnie Scotland, and proud I am of it.”

  Bonnie Scotland. Bonnie lass. John Brown had used phrases like that most often when he’d had too much to drink and broke into the ballads of his homeland. Some of his tunes were drinking songs, others love poems set to music. He’d melted her heart. She hummed to herself, remembering one he’d altered to suit her—

  I love a lassie, a bonnie Hielan’ lassie,

  If you saw her you would fancy her as well:

  I met her in September, popped the question in November,

  So I’ll soon be havin’ her a’ to ma-sel’.

  Her father has consented, so I’m feelin’ quite contented,

  ‘Cause I’ve been and sealed the bargain wi’ a kiss.

  I sit and weary weary, when I think aboot ma deary,

  An’ you’ll always hear me singing this…

  I love a lassie, a bonnie bonnie lassie,

  She’s as pure as a lily in the dell,

  She’s sweet as the heather, the bonnie bloomin’ heather,

  Victoria, my Scots bluebell.

  The melody seemed to linger on in her memory, like the last, fading notes of a church organ.

  “Are you musically inclined, Gregory?” she asked after they’d ridden on a while, turning her head just enough to keep him from seeing her touch the back of her gloved hand to still moist eyelashes.

  “Not at all, I’m afraid, ma’am.” “How disappointing.” She sighed. Nothing so moved her as a fine baritone.

  “O’ course, I now and again belt out a ditty or two with the boys in the barns. But that’s nothin’ but noise to royal ears that’s heard the likes of fine musicians.”

  “Sing me one of your ditties, Gregory,” she said. “Don’t be embarrassed.”

  He appeared resigned to pleasing her. “I’ll do my best, Your Majesty.”

  She waited patiently, the horses walking on while he searched his memory for a good tune. At last he shifted in his saddle, sat up straight and tall, and began in a clean, vibrant tenor:

  O these are not my country’s hills,

  Though they seem bright and fair;

  Though flow’rets deck their verdant sides,

  The heather blooms not there.

  Let me behold the mountain steep,

  And wild deer roaming free—

  The heathy glen, the ravine deep—

  O Scotland’s hills for me!

  The rose, through all this garden-land,

  May shed its rich perfume,

  But I would rather wander ‘mong

  My country’s bonnie broom.

  There sings the shepherd on the hill,

  The ploughman on the lea;

  There lives my blithesome mountain maid,

  O Scotland’s hills for me!

  The throstle and the nightingale

  May warble sweeter strains

  Than thrills at lovely gloaming hour

  O’er Scotland’s daisied plains;

  Give me the merle’s mellow note,

  The linnet’s liquid lay;

  The laverocks on the roseate cloud—

  O Scotland’s hills for me!

  And I would rather roam beneath

  Thy scowling winter skies,

  Than listlessly attune my lyre

  Where sun-bright flowers arise.

  The baron’s hall, the peasant’s cot

  Protect alike the free;

  The tyrant dies who breathes thine air;

  O Scotland’s hills for me!

  Victoria closed her eyes, soaking up the tune, and felt the comforting rhythm of the horse beneath her. She let the animal follow the path without direction from her hands on the reins. The young man’s voice wasn’t professionally trained, but it rang out clear and strong. The song brought her back so many years.

  A thought came to her: If I were younger…

  But no. She had no wish to fall in love again. To trust in a future with a man she loved, only to have it all stolen away by fickle fate—such a waste of emotion. Why didn’t anyone understand that this was what she wanted to save Beatrice from? How much wiser it was to never surrender one’s heart and body.

  “I can tell you have a tender soul,” she said. “Singing as you do with such sincerity. Do you miss your homeland?”

  “I do, ma’am. But I am honored to be in your service.”

  “When we next travel up to Balmoral, you will come with us. You can then visit with your family.”

  “That’s very good of you, ma’am. They will be most grateful, as will I.”

  She smiled. How pleasant it was to have a riding companion who didn’t argue with her and pout, like Beatrice.

  When they returned to the palace, Gregory was first off his horse and beat the captain of the Queen’s Guard to offer his assistance to the queen as she prepared to dismount. He held up a hand to her, and she realized the dear boy didn’t understand she would need more help than that.

  “I am still able to mount on my own, with the assistance of a step, but must be lifted to the ground.” She was mildly irritated that Jackson hadn’t adequately briefed the young man.

  “Have no fear, ma’am.” Gregory MacAlister reached up, his strong hands firmly but gently gripping her substantial waist. Her eyes widened, suddenly in fear of falling should she be too heavy for him. But he lifted her as lightly as if she were a fluff of goose down to the ground.

  “There you are, safe and sound. Shall I escort you inside, ma’am?”

  She beamed up at him. He made her feel a young girl again. “Yes, yes that would be appreciated.” She would let the stable master know how pleased she was with his selection and ask that Gregory MacAlister’s duties be arranged that he might accompany her in the future.

  29

  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.