“S’il vous plait, non!” she screamed. “Please. You can’t mean to kill me.”
“What’s to stop me?” He used his body to block her escape, to shove her still closer to the edge. Chips of stone fell from beneath her slippers and sprinkled over the edge and into the abyss. “They’ll find out.” She sobbed, shaking her head violently. “They’ll know it was you.”
“I bloody well doubt that.” His hands loosened on her arms, but she knew he wasn’t letting her go. He only wanted to make sure she didn’t take him with her.
Before she could even think how to save herself, his fists came up to center on her chest…and pushed.
She screamed. Arms flailing, hands clutching for his jacket, she sensed her left foot had already slipped over the edge. Her right foot shot forward seeking firm ground, missed.
Marie felt herself go weightless.
But, in the second before she plunged, she saw something amazing. Reflected in Gregory MacAlister’s eyes, she glimpsed her own face, lips lifted in a secret smile of triumph.
Don’t you know a mother will always protect her child?
“You’ll hang!” she screamed into the snarling wind. “I kept them, you bastard.”
Even as she plummeted, his silhouette shrinking against the dying light of the stormy sky, she wondered if he’d heard her. It didn’t matter. He’d never find the damning evidence she’d hidden. But Beatrice, or one of the maids, would. And her child? She’d made certain her little girl would be cared for—better than Marie herself ever could, had she lived.
It was a rapid descent. The rocks came up fast. A single vicious jolt of pain when her body broke across them, before the chill of the incoming waves mercifully numbed flesh and bone, taking away her last breath.
Then Marie was away…away with the angels.
38
It grew dark early. All day long clouds had rolled in, blanketing the sky. Building thicker, higher, blacker. Then came the wind across the Solent, the normally calm body of water separating the island from the English mainland.
Beatrice sat with her mother in the salon. They were still not speaking—at least the queen wasn’t. But the queen summoned her daily nonetheless, expecting her to be nearby. As if she might, on a whim, decide to readmit her to the human race.
Ponsonby entered the room, his white hair no less perfectly groomed than any other day, although an hour earlier Beatrice had seen him outside in the yard, among swirling leaves, dust and the first stinging rain. He been talking with two men she recognized as coming from East Cowes, the nearest village. His black jacket and trousers now looked as if they’d been brushed within an inch of their life.
“Yes, Ponsonby?” Victoria said when he stopped in front of her chair.
“Your Majesty, I fear it will be a bitter, mean night. We’d best have the men secure the shutters.”
“We’ve weathered worse at Osborne House,” the queen said without looking up from her correspondence. “But yes, if you think it wise. Get boys from the stable to lend a hand. Put that strong young man from Scotland in charge of them. He’s quite capable.”
“MacAlister, ma’am?”
Beatrice smiled a little, hearing his name. Yes, he was strong. Yes, he was capable. Her mother’s trust in him gave her another taste of hope for the future.
“Yes. Gregory.” The queen looked up at Beatrice, sitting nearby and drawing her mother in profile on a sketch pad. “I’m glad we brought him with us, Baby. He’s useful and most pleasant. Mr. McAlister reminds me of—”
“I know who Gregory reminds you of, Mama. But he’s not John Brown.”
It suddenly struck her that the queen had actually spoken to her. To her, directly. Without the usual intermediaries—Tell my daughter I wish for her to…
For months there had been no verbal communication between them, only the endless notes passed by staff and servants. Now, suddenly, the woman was talking again, as if nothing had happened. No apology. No explanation. Just carrying on a seemingly normal conversation.
At least, this was a sign her relationship with her mother might be saved.
Beatrice lifted her gaze to the heavens in relief. Why was being a daughter so difficult? She decided the best thing to do was not to comment on the restoration of civility. Perhaps her mother had decided the proper penance had been paid?
“A younger version of Brown perhaps,” her mother said.
“Yes. But a darker one.” The thought came to Beatrice out of nowhere. Maybe it was the weather—so very oppressive with the storm coming on.
“Really? You think so? I see him as more fair—at least his hair is a lighter color.”
“That’s not what I meant.” What did she mean? She liked Greg. More than liked actually. He was intriguing, a bit of a mystery. And the few times he’d touched her she’d reacted—not unpleasantly.
But sometimes when they rode out together, and he wasn’t aware she was watching him, she imagined seeing the shade of the man. His ghost. His soul. She’d heard it claimed that, out of the corner of one’s eye, one might glimpse the true nature of a person as a pale, shimmering sort of aura—the personal essence they hid from the world. Strange, really, that she should think of that now. She wasn’t normally prone to superstition or mysticism. She hoped she wasn’t turning into a dotty old crone, inventing apparitions, obsessing over the trivial or nothing at all.
Beatrice drew a few more lines then gave up with a sigh. “I’ll never be another Louise.” She set down drawing pad and pencil with a discouraged sigh.
“Thank the Lord for that,” her mother muttered. “As fine an artist as she is, your sister gave me more trouble than all the rest of you girls together.”
Beatrice frowned at her. “You never really told me what came between the two of you. Something happened, didn’t it? Something terrible when she was young.”
“Certain matters are beneath discussion,” the queen said with a sniff.
It was always this way. The most intriguing gossip about events in their family, Beatrice was deprived of knowing. “We must protect our innocent Baby,” she’d heard her mother say more than once to one or another of her relations.
Was she forever to remain Baby in her mother’s eyes? In the eyes of the world? Beatrice felt a surge of rebellion. “I’m going for a walk.” She stood up.
“In the dark? With this horrid weather so near?”
“You’ve dragged me out in worse at Balmoral.” Miserable carriage rides in the freezing Scottish drizzle. Oh how her bones had ached!
“But that was in daylight and in a covered carriage,” her mother protested.
Suddenly inspired, Beatrice decided to use one of her mother’s own arguments. “Yes, and sometimes a little fresh air is necessary. I remember hearing that from you often enough, Mama, when you wished to escape a meeting with one of your least favorite ministers.”
The queen laughed. “And what do you have to escape from but a warm, well-lit room?”
“Oh, please,” Beatrice murmured under her breath. Then, a bit louder, “I’ll take Marie for company.”
Beatrice returned to her room. When she didn’t find the French girl there she tapped on the connecting door that led to her lady-in-waiting’s smaller room. There was no answer.
Annoyed that Marie had disappeared and would now need hunting down, Beatrice took her cloak from the chiffarobe, wrapped it around her shoulders and ran down the stone steps to a side door that led directly into the garden. Wasn’t that where the girl had said she was going? To cut fresh flowers before darkness closed in. Or had that been earlier in the day?
When she stepped out into the evening air, the wind rushed at her, fiercer than she’d expected. A gritty spray stung her face, even though it wasn’t yet raining very hard. She pulled the fur-lined hood over her head to protect her hair. Marie had pressed hot waves into it and arranged it; she would be annoyed to have to do it all over again before dinner.
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br /> The wind played impossible tricks, sucking her breath away even as it struck her full in the face. She gasped and looked back at Osborne House. The staff had made short work of sealing it up tight, shutters latched, their sturdy slats blocking the glow of gaslights from behind scores of windows. She turned her back on the immense stone structure. She hungered for adventure, not a crypt.
No one was about now, although it wasn’t late. Even the staff from the stables and the kitchens in the lower level of the main house looked to be tucked up for the night. Strangely, their absence cheered her. She felt daring to be out here alone. She felt awakened from a long, unnatural sleep.
Beatrice walked briskly through the garden, along the path that skirted the Swiss cottage where they’d played as children, to the top of the wooden stairs that led down to the beach. The rain had stopped, at least for the moment. Without the light of moon or stars, she couldn’t see the sand below. For all she knew, the storm tide was running so high that the ocean had devoured the beach entirely.
She stood looking out over the black sea until the dampness in the air permeated her clothing and prickled her skin. Clearly Marie wasn’t out here. Beatrice took the long way back, through the garden and around to the front of the house. She was goosepimpled and chilled to the bone by the time she reached the entrance foyer.
Their butler rushed at her from his station. “Princess, are you all right?”
“I’m fine.” She laughed plucking her hood off. “Why does everyone in this household fuss so over a little weather?” She felt brave, fearless—having ventured out when no one else would.
An amused spark lit the old man’s eyes. “Yes, Your Highness. If you pardon me, you are so like the queen. How she loves a good storm.”
I am not like her! she wanted to scream, but didn’t.
He took her cloak from her. “I’ll ring for your lady, shall I, when this has dried?”
“Yes,” she said distractedly. “I’m sure I won’t need it until tomorrow.”
He nodded his gray head. “The locals say tomorrow will be a day to not venture out at all.”
“We’re well provisioned,” she said. “I shouldn’t worry about spending a cozy day or two indoors.” But the idea of being cut off from the mainland was a bit unnerving.
When Beatrice reached her bedchamber she found it as empty as when she’d left. This time she didn’t knock on the door connecting her room with Marie’s. She flung it open in annoyance and marched straight in, prepared to scold the girl for her neglect. Instead, she stood stock still and looked around. The bed wasn’t mussed from having been lain upon—so Marie hadn’t taken a nap and overslept. A Bible rested, as it always did, on the bedside table beside a carafe of water and clean glass. The room was in perfect order.
It wasn’t at all like Marie to neglect her duties, or to be absent from Beatrice for long periods of time. The stone mansion was spacious, but there were only a few places the French girl was likely to spend any time: the library, gaming room, one of the smaller salons where they both liked to read. And outside, the garden through which Beatrice had just now passed. But Marie had often commented that she didn’t enjoy strolling the grounds unless the weather was fair, so there was small chance she was walking for pleasure in the deepening gloom and wicked wind tonight.
Maybe she’d gone to the kitchen to fetch something to eat?
Beatrice arrived at the basement level of the house and approached the community room where the servants took their meals. The door was shut. She hesitated, but then there was no other way. At her knock, the clatter of pots and clink of glassware stopped, as did all conversation.
Mrs. Herrington, Osborne’s cook, came to the door and opened it. “Your Highness?” She craned her neck to look up and to her right, checking the service bells. “I didn’t hear you ring.”
“I didn’t,” Beatrice said. “I was wondering if Marie was with you.”
The woman frowned. “Why no, would there be a reason? She didn’t miss lunch, did she?”
“No, and I realize dinner will be served soon, but I’m having trouble, well…finding her.”
The woman chuckled then immediately sobered. “I’m sure she ain’t doin’ anything improper, Your Highness. Not Marie. I might worry ’bout some of these local girls hired on temporary for the queen’s stay. Flirting with the staff gentlemen, if you know what I mean. But not Lady Marie.”
It hadn’t occurred to Beatrice that Marie might find someone here on the island that she liked better than anyone in London. After all, she had been acting odd lately. Perhaps her behavior had something to do with a man?
“Never mind. I’m sure she’ll turn up. If you see her, please let her know I’ve been looking for her.”
“Of course, Princess.”
Beatrice climbed two floors of thickly carpeted stairs, passing only a few maids scurrying silently along the high-ceilinged corridors. Somehow she still half-expected to find Marie—contrite, offering a breathless explanation in French for her absence—when she arrived at their rooms. But when she opened the door to Marie’s room, the girl still was not there.
Beatrice tentatively stepped inside, leaving the door open between the rooms. She crossed the blue Persian wool carpet to Marie’s bedside table, opened drawers and shuffled around inside, searching for anything that might tell her where the girl had gone. Nothing out of the ordinary there. She picked up the Bible and bent back the spine to splay open the pages, shaking the book. A sheet of paper fell from between pages to the floor. Instinctively, she looked over her shoulder to make sure that no one had entered the room behind her. She hated the idea of being caught snooping. But what else was she to do?
She picked up the paper.
It was a letter, addressed to Marie at Buckingham Palace.
Beatrice immediately thought of all the letters she’d written to Henry. Notes of love that he’d ignored. Who had written to Marie? The girl had kept the letter. It much be important to her.
With only a twinge of guilt, she unfolded the plain white sheet. The writing was in French, but that wasn’t a problem. All of Victoria’s children had been taught French, as well as Latin and German, from the time they were very young.
She told herself she’d only read a little. She easily translated the words:
Charlotte is well. Cheerful little soul as ever. Quite the good girl.
Suddenly ashamed for prying, Beatrice refolded the note without reading further and stuck it back where it had been. Marie’s sister writing about her niece? No, her lady-in-waiting had told her she had no family. She had no living parents or siblings. A friend then. How nice.
Beatrice returned to her room and sat on the canopied bed, feeling a little at a loss. She couldn’t remember a time when she’d had to dress or undress herself. She wasn’t entirely sure she could reach all of the tiny buttons down her back and hoped there was a button hook handy if Marie didn’t return soon. The dampness of the fabric, from being out in the elements, was becoming uncomfortable. She shivered. Maybe she should summon one of the upstairs maids to help her? But that thought just increased her sense of uselessness. Surely she was capable of changing her own clothing.
When another half hour had passed, and she knew the queen would soon expect her for dinner, she started tearing off her soggy clothing as best she could. She dried herself and, with much struggling, managed to get herself loosely laced into a fresh corset and her pale blue dinner dress.
39
Henry Battenberg had been to sea with the Prussian navy. Thus, sitting in his private compartment in the train heading southwest from London and across the English countryside, he only had to look at the threatening sky to know a squall was in the making. He also knew the risks of getting anywhere safely by water in a bad storm. A ship might get caught in open water during a storm and successfully fight its way into the nearest port, but no captain in his right mind would deliberately choose to set out in raging seas.
By the time he transferred to a hired carriage and was racing toward Southsea and the ferry docks, the sky had turned a slimy greenish-black with bloody streaks. The color of putrefying flesh, he thought. The air felt as if the oxygen had drained out of it, leaving him short of breath. His shoulders ached with tension. Pressure built in his head. And then the rain started in earnest. And didn’t stop.
He could only hope that Louise and her American had already made it to Osborne House.
Henry rapped on the roof of the carriage to get the driver’s attention. “How much farther is it?”
“If the rain stops, another two hours, sir. If it don’t, we’ll be on the road the night long.”
“No-o-o,” Henry groaned.
“Chances are you’ll have a good long wait afore a boat goes out from Southsea, if that’s your plan, sir.” And hadn’t he already told himself as much?
“I’ll make my own chances, thank you,” Henry growled. “Just drive.”
But fellow seemed unfazed by his passenger’s curt tone. “You’ll be better off, sir, finding shelter. Not six hours ago I picked up a couple from the station, bound for the queen’s house on the island.”
Henry’s heart leapt with hope. Louise and Stephen Byrne! “You got them to the boat, and it sailed?”
“No, sir. The gent, he were smart enough to know not to try. Wind was blowin’ up fierce. I left them at the inn in the village.”
Henry swore then made a hasty decision. “Take me to the inn.”
“That I will, gov’ner.”
Henry threw himself back against the seat cushion and stretched his legs out, crossing his boots over his traveling bag on the floor of the carriage. His trip had been pell-mell, every step of the way from the docks in Dover. But he’d been reassured by his belief that Louise would have reached Beatrice by now and made sure she was safe. Something must have held them up.
The most maddening thing about this mess was realizing all that he didn’t know. A flirtation with a groom wasn’t the end of the world. But his last communication with Louise made it sound as if there was something more threatening about the man than his being a cad. She’d also implied that the letters Henry had sent Beatrice still hadn’t reached her. How was that possible? He’d sent dozens.
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