The Wild Princess

by Perry, Mary Hart

  “Then I’m not shot?” she asked, only then reality sinking in.

  “Apparently not, Princess,” Byrne said. “Your attacker was trying to make a point but not with bullets. Still, the powder burns have ruined your dress.”

  “Even if they hadn’t, you’ve certainly finished the job,” she said ruefully, peeking beneath the shielding blanket at shredded layers of lace and fine muslin.

  Brown looked relieved. “No one hurt then. All right.” He wiped the back of his hand across his barn door of a brow, dripping with sweat. “What say, Mr. Byrne, we take precautions? Change our route, just in case another loony has a wee surprise in mind.”

  “Agreed. Local roads all the way, the more circuitous the better.” Byrne’s eyes hadn’t left Louise’s. They were darker than dark, solemn as Judgment Day, brimming with closed thoughts. They made her shiver. “Give me a moment to tidy up here, Mr. Brown, before the party re-boards. Have one of the princess’s ladies bring her a fresh gown and shawl.”

  “Will do, lad.” And the Scot was off again, bawling out orders for a change of horses in the next town, an altered route, and a faster pace with fewer stops along the way.

  Louise sat very still, trying to catch her breath. Her knees burned where they’d struck the hard coach floor. Other than that she felt no pain. Stephen Byrne sat down on the bench across from her, his long legs eating up the space between them. He stared at her in a way that reduced the panic and terror of minutes earlier to a gray shadow, but made her uneasy and mindful of her disastrous appearance.

  “You’re being rude,” she said, “looking at me that way. Leave me to rearrange myself.”

  He didn’t move. “Why?” he said.

  “Why? Isn’t it obvious? So that I may restore my appearance in privacy.” She smoothed her skirts, happily in much better shape than her bodice.

  But the dress as a whole had well and good been ruined, if not by powder burns then—as she’d already accused him—by his big hands. His big, strong hands that had touched her flesh and left it feeling pleasantly, if disturbingly, warm. She dared not meet his eyes. Dared not let a hint of cordiality into her voice or he’d know that she was feeling things she shouldn’t be feeling.

  “No,” he said. “It’s not that. I want to know why you intentionally sacrificed yourself. You put your body between a gunman’s weapon and the queen.”

  “You think I was being patriotic?” She laughed. Did she sound a little hysterical? “She’s my mother.”

  “Of course. But you didn’t know there were blanks in his pistol.”

  “No, I didn’t. And I wasn’t trying to make a martyr of myself. Or take a bullet for her. I was attempting to smack his arm out of the way, dislodge the gun. But I lost my balance and fell into his gun’s path as a result of my haste. It was quite clumsy of me.”

  She felt more embarrassed than anything, what with the lingering sensations of his fingers plying open her bodice. And why was he staring at her so critically? The nerve of the man.

  “That was one of the bravest acts I’ve ever witnessed,” he said, his stone-cold-sober gaze holding her eyes, making it impossible for her to look away.

  She didn’t know what to say, but he gave her no time to say it. In the next second he was up and out of the carriage, making way for Lady Car who, with frightened eyes and tear-stained face, rushed in, carrying an armful of clothing.

  Eight

  “Off on her honeymoon, she is. Lucky gal,” Amanda said. “Oh, Henry, I wish you’d been there.”

  “Been where?” Her husband’s attention remained on his black medical bag. He carefully wrapped two more vials of amber liquid in gauze and packed them, with several white paper envelopes of powders, into it.

  As a physician Henry Locock diagnosed illnesses and diseases and dispensed medications but left broken bones and other injuries to the lowly surgeons. Because surgery required work with the hands, its practitioners were afforded less prestige. The theory being that manual labor of any sort was ungentlemanly—a notion that she thought laughable.

  As the wife of a physician, if Amanda wished she could be presented in court, whereas the spouse of a surgeon or pharmacist could not. But the intrigues and formalities of Victoria’s court held little interest for Amanda. She only cared for their effects, good or ill, on her dearest friend, the Princess Louise . . . and for the chances she sometimes got, as Louise’s guest, to hear the exquisite music of great composers and musicians of the day.

  “Been where? Why, at the wedding concert, my love. Weren’t you listening to me? The music, it was like nothing I’ve ever heard.” She came up behind Henry and hugged him around the waist, lying her cheek against his shoulder blade. “It was so very beautiful, the Great Hall all hung with garlands of flowers, and more violins, harps, and trumpets than Eddie could count on his little fingers.”

  “I always say, more musicians than you can count on your fingers is far too many.”

  She laughed at him. “You never said such a thing.”

  Henry Locock turned to face her, his eyes twinkling with mischief, and captured his wife in his long arms. He towered over her petite figure by two heads and was a good deal thinner around than she, even when she wasn’t pregnant, but she felt there could be no more perfect match for her.

  “How do you know what I say when I’m away from you?” he teased. “Do you know me that well?” He kissed her on the mouth, and she let her lips linger on his. This was more happiness than she believed she deserved.

  “You are an ongoing mystery to me, sir. But I am learning a little more each day. I doubt that caring for your patients has given you time to even think about royal orchestras and such.”

  He smiled down at her. “So true.” He gently freed himself from her embrace. “And now, I must be off. I have more calls to make than will fit in one day. Yet I must make every one or we lose patients.”

  “If you had fewer, you’d have more time to spend at home with your wife. We might have succeeded all the sooner at making a brother or sister for Eddie.”

  “It’s hardly work, with you, my dear.” He bussed her affectionately on the cheek. “I promise, we’ll send the little bugger off to bed early tonight and spend some time together, alone. Shall we?”

  Amanda let out a little squeal of delight, which attracted the attention of her son, sitting on the floor amid an assortment of pots and spoons, whacking out discordant music and singing gleefully as though to drown out his parents’ chatter.

  “It’s all right, darling,” she reassured her son as she patted her husband’s backside on his way out the door. “Mummy’s just happy.”

  Eddie shrugged and banged away.

  “Oh, that’s a good merry tune it is,” she told him. “Just a few more minutes, though. Then we need to be off to the shop.”

  Amanda had been working at the Women’s Work Society since Louise opened it a few years earlier. The consignment shop was already a grand success. Its purpose was to provide women without means of support a place to sell their crafts and handwork. Amanda would have gladly worked there for nothing—just to help those who were now in the same desperate situation she’d once found herself.

  Thankfully, she had a husband to provide for her, but she still enjoyed the satisfaction of earning a small income to benefit her little family. Despite Louise’s generosity, which had helped Henry set up his practice, and the money he earned from his patients, they would be eating less well without the salary Louise pressed upon her.

  While Eddie finished his concert, Amanda sat down at her kitchen table with a cup of hot Darjeeling tea and recalled times past, just to remind herself of the blessings she’d been given. She recalled, with crystal clarity, that first day when she met Louise at the art school . . .

  Amanda had been down on her knees, scrubbing the stone steps that led up from the street to the door of the National Art Training School in Kensington. She slopped soapy water from her wooden bucket onto the sooty slabs. Her chapped fingers c
lamped down on the boar bristle brush, and she scrubbed until her arms and shoulders ached.

  The carriage must have come and gone without her noticing. When she looked up at the sound of a soft cough, Louise was standing there, watching her with those too-perceptive hydrangea blue eyes of hers and that proud tilt of chin. There had been no doubt in Amanda’s mind who this young woman was. Hadn’t everyone in London seen scores of pictures of the royal family in London newspapers, on postcards, and in souvenir shops?

  But if a person was already down on the ground, a curtsy seemed pointless and not a little awkward. And so, Amanda sat back on her heels and looked up at the princess, waiting for her to pass so she could get on with her work.

  Louise didn’t move. She stood at the foot of the steps, observing Amanda. Stood in her pretty, pearl gray walking dress, matching gloves, fringed silk shawl, doeskin slippers, and mandarin-style rose-topped hat with its long white satin ribbon streamers falling down her back.

  Irritation blossomed in Amanda’s breast. The nerve of the girl. Watching her labor, in her lye-soaked skirts, with her raw hands and throbbing knees. Watching her as if she were an ox plowing a field.

  Before she could stop them, words spurted from her lips, “Never seen steps washed down afore, missy?” Not Your Royal Highness as was proper but missy, of all things.

  But Louise didn’t seem offended. Only a slightly elevated brow indicated she’d even noticed the impropriety. “I was unsure whether I can climb the wet steps without making the job worse for you,” she said. “I’m sure to drag in more dirt from the street.”

  Amanda was touched and more than a little surprised by her consideration. “I expect they’ll be more behind you traipsin’ up to that door. Don’t matter to me. I’ll be scrubbin’ ’em again tomorrow.”

  “Yes, I suppose you will be,” the princess said, sounding thoughtful. She placed a delicate foot on the first step then stopped and looked down at Amanda again. “By the way, I know how hard that is. I’ve done it myself.”

  Now Amanda knew she was having fun at her expense. “Ha! Likely I’ll believe that, Princess. The day I see one of your family down on their hands and knees with a bucket of dirty water is the day I know I’ve passed on to the next life.”

  Louise propped her hands on her hips and scowled down at her. “You think I’d lie about a thing like that? I’m serious.” She tapped her toe impatiently. “The baron, who was put in charge of our education—he thought it a fine educational experience for us to spend a summer learning how a house is kept. We each received tasks. Scrubbing the floors, washing the windows, baking bread, sweeping the porch, doing laundry, and—”

  “You did this for a whole summer?” Amanda interrupted. She still wasn’t sure she should believe the princess.

  “For five whole weeks. Then we were obliged to return to our studies.”

  Amanda nodded her head. “Five weeks for some, a lifetime for others.”

  Louise gazed down at her as if she were fast becoming bored with the conversation. “The baron told us, ‘It is your lot in life to prepare to rule nations. Others’ lots are to keep nations clean.’ ”

  Amanda laughed wickedly. “I’ll bet he never in his life got down on his knees for anythin’ . . . but to please a lady.”

  Louise frowned at her, as if she didn’t understand. Amanda thought it best to just let it go. She’d hoped to shock the princess, but if the girl was so innocent the ribald joke went over her head, well, why bother . . .

  “Anyway,” Louise continued, stepping over the tread where Amanda’s brush had returned to work, “those weeks made me understand how doing something with one’s hands could bring satisfaction. That was when I first tried to sculpt. Since then, art is all I’ve cared about.”

  Savin’ my skin from Roger Darvey is all I care about, Amanda thought. Only a month had passed since, in her desperation, she’d eluded the bawd and begged a job as a maid of all work at the school. Since then, she at least had a bed in the attic she didn’t have to share with the men Darvey sent. And regular meals, without squirming maggots.

  Amanda felt Louise’s gaze again and looked up to see she’d climbed to the top step and was about to let herself in through the front door of the school.

  “Your Highness?”

  “Yes?”

  “How is it the queen lets you come here on your own when she don’t even let any of her court mix with commoners?”

  Louise flashed her a radiant smile. “I tell her I speak to no one.”

  “Go on!”

  “I do. And I bribe my driver to leave me here and go off for the day to his daughter’s house.”

  Amanda giggled. “They say you’s the wild one of the family. I guess it’s true.”

  Louise looked pleased with her reputation, but she still hesitated before going inside. “Would you be offended if I asked to sketch you someday?”

  “Me? An artist’s model?” Amanda swiped at her cheek, where she’d just splashed sludgy water. The thought pleased her. “You goin’ to dress me up in a fine lady’s gown?”

  “No. I’d like to sketch you as you are now, at your work.”

  Amanda frowned and went back to her scrubbing with a fury. The princess was making fun of her. It would be an ugly painting, made for posh friends of the queen to laugh at.

  But Louise seemed to read her mind. “Please, don’t be hurt. I want to show how women struggle to support themselves and their families. Women in the real world. I hope to have a special place one day where only women may display their art and things they make with their hands. Drawings of women at work would be perfect for the walls. Please?”

  Amanda shrugged. Even when the princess said it like that, so important like, it still sounded silly to her. “If you like, Your Highness.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Amanda.”

  “Thank you, Amanda. I hope to chat with you again sometime soon.”

  Then Princess Louise breezed through the door to the school, and Amanda went back to digging every little bit of grit out of the granite with the bristles of her brush, her hands burning with the lye, her eyes running from the fumes. And it didn’t for one minute occur to her that this conversation might be the beginning of a friendship with the power to alter her life.

  Nine

  The Balmoral of Louise’s childhood had been neither more nor less beautiful than it was now. The early spring had teased life out of the budding hawthorns, chased away the snow, called back the larks—and yet the air still chilled her to the bone. She breathed out, and a frosty cloud puffed in front of her face before drifting away. Her fingers felt numb. Her toes, though encased in good Scottish wool stockings, stung with the cold, and her face stiffened until either smiling or frowning required a concerted effort.

  Louise trudged on through the prickly gorse, up the hill smelling of sweet heather, and away from the castle her parents had built the year she turned three. It was the fairy-tale castle of her youth, complete with clock tower, turrets, woodlands, gardens, baronial outer buildings, and unlimited, deliciously clean air to breathe.

  But even here, Louise could not escape her despair. Her chest felt as tight as a clenched fist, and the tears she’d fought off for days finally came, freezing on her cheeks before they could drop off. Ever since they’d arrived in Scotland, her head had hurt, her eyes burned. Now that she’d let herself start crying, she couldn’t seem to stop. Less than two weeks had passed since her wedding day, but the long hours had been the loneliest of her life. This could not go on. It simply couldn’t. She must somehow clear her head enough to think about her future.

  If only Amanda were here. She longed to confide in her, to ask her advice. After walking on a good deal farther, she decided that she must write to her. Immediately. And hope she would have some wisdom to share.

  Louise found a fallen tree, warmed by the sun, sat on the smooth trunk, and took out the sketch pad and pencil she always carried with her on her hikes about the count
ryside. As stationery, the plain white paper lacked the prestige of her usual creamy vellum with its royal crest, but she knew Amanda wouldn’t care. She began:

  Amanda dear,

  You asked that I write, probably believing I’d find little time, so preoccupied would I be with my new husband. I fear this is far from the reality of my situation. I shall make short work of describing what transpired on my wedding night, as even now it is painful to think of.

  Lorne is not the man I believed him to be. To be blunt: his passions are directed in every way toward his own sex. He has no interest in me, in any woman, or in performing his duty as a husband. I am trying not to be bitter, but this is a terribly difficult pill to swallow. At the moment, I am trying to determine the wisest course of action. It is my hope that you will be able to help me puzzle through this dilemma. Here are my choices, as I see them now:

  First, I might divorce Lorne and hope to find a mate better suited to my own passions and character. But I would need to offer specific reasons for wishing to dissolve the marriage. To state the truth would destroy the marquess. He might well be sent to prison—which is his worst fear, and I would not wish it on him. I’ve confided in Bertie, and he told me they put men of Lorne’s persuasion to hard labor, force them to sleep in damp, crowded cells with no heat, no mattress or blanket for warmth, and give them too little food to restore their strength. I imagine the harassment of the guards is most dreadful. Under such conditions, even a short term of a few years might ruin a man’s health. It is just a matter of time before a prisoner succumbs to consumption. A delicate soul like Lorne would likely wither all the more rapidly.

  My second option is to maintain our charade, stay married to Lorne and pretend happiness. In time, I may convince myself that I am content with my lot. That would please Mama and silence London gossips. If I bury myself in my work for the poor and in my art, I may yet build for myself a fulfilling life. Do you remember my speaking of someday carving a life-size statue of Father to honor his memory? I still have so much to learn before attempting such a challenging project. But, married to Lorne, with no obligations or restraints made upon my time by pregnancy and children, I will be free to follow my muse, and dedicate myself to service to the poor. Shouldn’t that make me happy?