Hours later, Marie met Beatrice in the princess’s bedchamber with an envelope. Beatrice’s heart leapt. “For me? From Germany?”
“Oui, Princess, for you but—”
“Let me have it.” Beatrice laughed, and the sound reminded her of happiness. Of wind chimes and spring blooms and summer’s warmth. “I’ve been so looking forward to—”
As she turned the envelope over she saw no wax seal with the imprimatur of the Battenberg crest.
“But this isn’t—”
“No, Your Highness. I tried to tell you, it’s not from Germany. I think it’s a message from within the palace.”
But it wasn’t her mother’s writing. This was the spiky, forceful hand of a man. Curious, she untucked the neat folds that kept the page from opening flat. She glanced down at the signature.
Gregory MacAlister
She frowned. Why was a stable groom writing to her? This was highly irregular.
She looked at Marie, but the girl looked quickly away. So she knew who this had come from. Perhaps Gregory had given it directly to her to deliver. How else would he have managed to get a letter to one of the royal family but by intercepting one of the staff?
Marie busied herself in the room with unusual industry. Beatrice went to her dressing table and sat to read the young man’s message.
Your Highness:
I hope you do not think me too forward, but I am concerned for your well being. You were very quiet when we rode together last week and looking very sad. And this week you have not ridden out at all. I hope I have done nothing to upset you. Please tell me I am not the cause of your staying away from the mews and your Lady Jane.
I am ever your loyal and admiring servant,
Gregory MacAlister.
“How sweet,” she murmured.
“Your Highness?” Marie’s pale reflection hovered behind her when Beatrice looked up into her dressing table mirror.
“That new groom from Scotland. He is concerned for me.”
Marie gave a half shrug of one shoulder and averted her eyes. “Mais oui, but we all are concerned for you, Princess.”
“But he—” It was hard to explain. “—he didn’t need to do this, to show it in this way. He’s not part of the family or even the Court.”
“No.”
Beatrice observed Marie’s pinched face. “You don’t like him, do you?”
“It is not for me to like or dislike members of the queen’s staff—”
“You don’t though, do you? Why? Has he given you cause to distrust him or to even hate him?”
Marie hesitated for a breath. “No.” She looked away again. “I can’t say there is.”
Beatrice shook her head. The jealousies and intrigues within the palace were endless. She had thought Marie, so level-headed ordinarily, would be above the gossip and maneuvering for favor. Perhaps she felt threatened by Beatrice’s glowing reports of her rides with Gregory. She had found him a pleasant companion who made her feel safe when outside of the palace grounds.
Maybe the girl had a crush on him. He was, after all, terribly good-looking and virile in his kilt. It seemed odd that the stable master allowed him to exchange the traditional royal livery for his clan’s tartans, as he sometimes did. Very possibly the queen had countermanded Mr. Jackson—feeling as fond as she did about everything Scotch. She’d literally draped Balmoral castle in Highland relics, fabrics, furnishings, and tableware.
“Help me change,” Beatrice said. “I’ve decided to ride today.”
Marie looked indecisively toward the tall wardrobe on the far side of the room.
“Did you hear me, Marie?”
“Pardon moi. I will get your things for you.”
Beatrice wondered if the young woman’s distraction was due to something as simple as homesickness. Or an ill relative she wished to be with but was afraid to ask permission to travel home for a visit. Or maybe she was herself ill. Beatrice felt a twinge of guilt for not being more sensitive to people around her. In the two years since Marie’s arrival at Buckingham Palace, she had been an ideal companion and helpmate. Beatrice would ask her again what troubled her later.
Although she’d fully intended to take her usual ride through the park, by the time she reached the stables she had changed her mind. She felt restless, eager for adventure, but mostly annoyed with Henry. How could he promise to write, swear that she’d always be in his mind and heart when he’d been true to his word for so short a time? Two sweet letters then he’d fizzled out. Was she that easy to forget? To dismiss from his life?
The stable master was waiting with Lady Jane. “No,” she said, waving him off, “my plans have changed.” She felt daring, dangerous, alive. Anger pricked her toward action. What kind of action didn’t seem to matter. She was overdue for an adventure. She was tired of being Beatrice-the-Meek. Beatrice, life-long companion to the queen. Baby.
The littlest princess had been the obedient shadow to the queen for far too long.
“I want a carriage, Mr. Jackson.”
“A carriage, Your Highness?”
“Yes, you know, one of those things with four big wheels,” she snapped. “I want to go into the city. To shop!” She thought of Louise, who often went out among commoners and visited commercial establishments of all sorts throughout London. Her mother thought Louise unseemly. Beatrice yearned for a taste of her sister’s wildness.
“I want to…to buy…things.” Everything she wore or owned had been brought to her at one or another of the family homes—Osborne House, Balmoral, Buckingham Palace, Windsor. But ordinary people were free to leave their homes whenever they felt like it, to procure whatever items they felt like having—food, tools, clothing, gifts. Why shouldn’t she?
“It will take some time, Your Highness,” he said cautiously. “Bringing round the carriage, hitching up the horses, fetching a driver and footmen and—”
“Just, please, do it,” she said through clenched teeth. Why should how long it took make the least difference to her? What else did she have to do but wait for her mother’s next idiotic note with a new list of chores? As if she were one of the queen’s staff or, worse yet, a common servant.
She paced the dusty yard, muttering to herself. Whether or not she heard from Henry ever again, as of this moment she was taking her life into her own hands. “Chasing off Henry isn’t going work, Mama.”
“What’s that, ma’am?”
She spun around, horrified to realize she’d spoken out loud. “Oh, Gregory. Nothing. Just thinking to myself…loudly.” She let out a choked laugh. When she reached up with her gloved hand to massage her forehead, the tips of her fingers ran into the brim of her riding hat and veil. She tugged both off in frustration. She was stupidly dressed for going into shops. She ought to be wearing a town dress and pretty flowered hat, not riding gear. What an idiot she was.
“Is something wrong?” the groom asked.
“No. Yes. I don’t know.” She let out an involuntary whimper. “I had thought to go riding and, of course, ask you to escort me. But then I changed my mind in favor of visiting shops in the city. Now I’ll have to go all the way back to my room to change. People will think I’ve gone mad if I walk into a dress shop in riding boots, jacket and—” She swept her hands down the sportswoman’s skirt. Hopeless.
Gregory stepped back and gave her outfit a long, studious inspection. “More like they’ll decide you’re a trendsetter and want to copy you. Next week every lady of any worth will be shopping in foxhunting regalia.”
She laughed. “Not really.”
“Certainly, Princess. Don’t you know that’s what London ladies do? They see you, or one of your sisters, in a gown and rush off to their seamstresses, saying, ‘Do me up a copy, Duckie.’”
His pretend Cockney accent was atrocious, but she laughed anyway. She felt her mood lighten. “Honestly?”
“Word of honor.” But he couldn’t keep a straight face.
He broke into a wide grin. “So you’ll go into some shops and to bloody hell with what society thinks. Do you know which ones you’ll visit?”
She shook her head dolefully. She was familiar with the bookstore where she and her sisters always browsed. When a member of the royal family visited, the owner closed the shop to give them privacy. But she didn’t know many other commercial establishments, other than the few her mother rarely frequented and referred to.
“Maybe this is a foolish plan.” She sighed.
“Not foolish at all. You just need a guide. I’ll be happy to escort you, whether on horseback or in carriage.”
She tipped her head and really looked at him this time. He seemed serious. It was more than brazen of him to suggest an outing together. Then again, it made sense for her to take along a man she could trust, who already had proven a brave protector. Besides, others of the staff would be with them—a driver and one or two footmen. Although they were no doubt reliable, she felt relaxed with Gregory in ways she didn’t feel with them.
“Yes, please, if you don’t mind coming with me. But I warn you, I’ll be going into ladies’ shops. Places stuffed full with dresses, petticoats, plumy hats, lace gloves, and such.” He’d undoubtedly feel embarrassed, poor man.
“Delightful,” he said, his eyes twinkling at her. “And we’ll make the first stop a dress shop where I know they have rack dresses. You can buy a change of clothes there, latest style, and no waiting on a seamstress.”
“Really—that’s possible?” He nodded. “But aren’t ready-made dresses very…common?” The word was out of her mouth before she could stop it. “I’m sorry, that sounds so rude.”
“Well, common can be plain but well-made. If you’re still concerned about going out into public and not attracting a lot of attention—”
“Oh yes.” She clapped her hands, suddenly understanding what a perfect plan it was. “Of course you’re right. A more casual outfit would be perfect for going out in the streets unrecognized, wouldn’t it?” Didn’t the queen herself sometimes travel incognito? This day truly was turning into an adventure. She couldn’t be more thrilled.
As soon as the carriage was ready, they took off. Gregory suggested a little shop on Marylebone Street. The owner immediately called his wife out of the backroom. She showed Beatrice her stock and made suggestions then helped her try on several outfits, while Greg talked politics with her husband, who had turned over the open sign while his royal customer made her selections.
Back in the carriage, now crowded with boxes holding her discarded riding outfit and several new garments, they set out again. Greg—he’d asked her to call him Greg—suggested they stop for tea in a café, and she was surprised by the delicacy of the cakes and the quality of the Indian tea served with little cubes of Demerara sugar. Then on to two more shops for a hat and gloves and adorable ankle boots—also, miraculously, ready-made—with dainty heels and lace inserts.
She was learning so much, and the young groom proved the most pleasant company. How freeing it was to venture out into the city on her own. She decided she must do this more often and continue learning about all of London and its people.
After they’d returned to Buckingham, and she’d arranged for all of her purchases to be brought to her room, she turned to see Greg moving off toward the stables. “Wait!” she cried.
He turned with a shy smile, still walking away from her but backward, hands tucked casually in his pockets. “Hope you had a good time, Princess.”
“I did. Thank you so very much. I’ve never really…you see—” She couldn’t seem to find the right words to express her gratitude. For the first time in weeks she hadn’t thought about Henry, hadn’t felt a pitiful sad lump of a girl.
“New experiences,” Greg said. “They’re always fun.”
“Not always. But this one was. I hope I can do it again sometime soon. Would you—I mean, if your duties allow—” “Be your escort again? Of course,” he said cheerfully. “I’m at your service. Good day to you, Princess.” He doffed his cap and walked off, whistling.
She watched him go. How she wished it had been Henry she’d just spent the afternoon with. How she wished and wished and wished. And yet, it seemed that might never be. She must be realistic. Her mother’s opposition had discouraged her suitor far more, it seemed, than it had her. Perhaps to the point of his giving up on their engagement entirely.
30
Henry paced the floor, flung open the balcony doors, strode outside into the cold then turned back into the gold-and-ivory salon of his family’s house.
“For God’s sake, son, will you stop this infernal pacing?” Prince Alexander of Hesse glared at him. “You’ll send us all to Bedlam.”
Although the asylum and London were a far stretch from Prussia, the phrase for driving a person mad had become just as popular on the Continent as it had in England.
Alexander turned to his other son, Louis, who, thankfully, was a good deal calmer than his younger brother. He felt that maturity must, in part, be due to his marriage to the queen’s granddaughter two months earlier. “What is wrong with him?”
“Little Liko’s in love.” Louis grinned.
“For all the bloody good it does,” Henry grumbled.
“With whom?” their father asked.
Henry didn’t answer, didn’t want to say her name when even thinking it brought heart ache.
Louis answered for him. “My wife’s aunt. Beatrice.”
The prince stared at Henry. “It can’t be. She’s a nice enough woman but—all this dramatic chest heaving over her? Bea is as plain as the day is long.”
“She isn’t plain, she’s just…refined, quiet. I like her. At least I did. Now that she refuses to answer my letters I’m not sure where her head is at, or mine for that matter.” Henry swung around to face his brother with a hopeful thought. “Maybe she’s ill. She can’t write because she’s taken to her bed.” But he wouldn’t have wanted her to be truly sick, seriously languishing. “If so, I must go to her immediately!”
“She’s not ill, Henry. And anyway, you know you can’t set foot in England, at least not as long as the queen feels about you as she does. Face it, you’ve been dumped. Beatrice did it to me years ago, now it’s your turn, dear brother. Time you moved on.”
Henry felt his face flush with heat. The mustache he’d recently grown, to make him look older, itched on his upper lip. He clenched his fists at his sides and lurched toward his brother. “You don’t know her. She isn’t like that at all. Take it back!”
Louis stiff armed him away. “I know her well enough to know she isn’t ill. Beatrice has twice written to my wife in the past month. Vicki read her letters to me…in bed.” He wriggled eyebrows at Henry, clearly gloating at the implication. “Believe me, Beatrice is hale and hearty. Been riding a good deal, I hear. Seems there’s a new groom in the Royal Mews who has become her regular escort—a Scot.”
Henry’s heart turned to stone. “No. She wouldn’t…she’s not like that.”
“What you see is what you get, dear boy. It’s her way, apparently. Tease and invite the attentions of a man, then back off as soon as he shows serious interest.”
Alexander harrumphed. “Have you ever thought, Henry, that Beatrice might be content in her spinsterhood? She’s been the queen’s constant companion since the age of four when Albert—”
“I know all of that.” Henry shook his head violently. “And, no, I don’t think she’s content. I think she is ready for marriage. And I want to be the one to marry the girl.”
Louis studied his younger brother, and it seemed to Henry it was with compassion, or else pity. “Henry. Think about this. HenIf the woman isn’t committed to you enough to write a few letters in her spare time, I can’t see that she’s ready to take on marriage or—”
“Or,” the prince broke in, “the breeding and raising of children. That particular young woman will always be distracted by her mother. The que
en is everything to her. I doubt she’d agree to live anywhere but wherever Victoria chooses to be. Fighting an uphill battle, Henry, that’s what you’d be doing if you became engaged to Baby.”
Henry cringed at the family pet name. The woman he’d ridden with at Darmstadt, who’d greeted him so passionately in London, she wasn’t childish or selfish. She’d lit up when he was around her. And when he’d kissed her, she’d responded tenderly, inviting more. He just didn’t understand what had gone wrong. Had more vicious rumors about him reached her? Rumors she’d been unable to ignore?
There was, of course, no truth to them, if any still floated around. He’d broken off all attachments to other women. He’d stayed away from the brothels too. Maybe she thought him not exciting enough.
Alexander was speaking as he poured himself a brandy. “The fact is, whether or not Beatrice is prepared for marriage, the queen isn’t. I seriously doubt she will ever change her mind where Bea is concerned. She wants to hold onto her last daughter, her last child. In a way, it’s natural and understandable.”
“It is not!” Henry shouted, causing his brother and father to exchanged shocked glances. “It is most definitely selfish. She is robbing Beatrice of a life of her own.”
His father’s voice turned gentle. “My dear boy, Beatrice has always lived in a pampered, astonishingly wealthy world. Maybe she has had second thoughts and doesn’t want to lose the prestige, glamour, and many benefits that a life in Court entails.”
He hadn’t thought about it like that, and now his father’s words made him sad. It was true, he could never offer Beatrice all that her mother could, in terms of wealth and social connections. Their marriage would be a step up the social ladder for him. Did she consider it a step down for her? Was she holding out for marriage to a king or crown prince? She had every right to do so. But if she wanted to be loved and have a family of her own, as he’d believed she did, he could happily give her those things.
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