Louise heard someone shouting at her and looked up to see Stephen hanging off the bow of the trailing boat, waving and shouting at her. “Jump! Jump!”
She looked back at the two men. Rupert was reaching for the boat hook even as she pulled herself to standing at the cost of wrenching pain in her shoulder. Eyeing her with murderous intent, he lurched toward her. She hobbled to a spot as far behind the churning paddle wheels as she could, and threw herself over the side and into the river.
Byrne saw Louise go in . . . and under. She looked as weak as a baby bird spilling from its nest. He signaled the captain to cut his engines. Tying a line to his waist, he dove into the murky water, aiming for the place he’d seen her go down. Did she even know how to swim?
When he surfaced he bobbed in one place, treading water, looking around him for the slightest disturbance in the water’s surface. But it was so full of floating garbage he despaired of finding her. Then he heard a sharp, high-pitched cry. He turned.
Louise was not twenty feet behind him, coughing and wheezing for air. He swam to her—pushing aside half of a balsa crate, a green glass bottle. His arms closed around her. She clung to him but didn’t struggle as the drowning often did. She laid her head against his shoulder and opened her eyes wider at the sudden percussion of an explosion less than a hundred yards downriver.
“It’s over,” he whispered in her ear. “I’m here. You’re safe, my love.”
Epilogue
Osborne House, 24 January 1901
Louise laid down the gold Montblanc fountain pen. There. She’d written all through the night to finish her story.
She turned to observe the shockingly high pile of vellum pages that had grown beneath her pen. Well, she could have told Eddie more. But it was all that a boy, now a grown man, needed to know of his two mothers and how he’d come into the world. She hadn’t told him of her life in Canada. Neither had she shared news of her long visits in Bermuda, or the months at spas on the Continent, where she retreated with her lover whenever she could. Those were the happiest times of her life—more romantic, in many ways, than a traditional marriage. Stephen was true to his word. He always found her. And when they were together their love filled whatever room they shared. The rest of the world simply dissolved into inconsequential mist.
When Stephen was away from her he wrote her long letters describing his adventures, his assignments with the RCMP and, later, with his new employer, the American Secret Service. She read each letter exactly three times then burned it. What they shared was far too precious to expose to historians, gossip columnists, or even her son. Edward Locock would have become the next Duke of Argyll had she been able to acknowledge him publicly, for she and Lorne never did consummate their marriage, and therefore never had a child of their own.
She hoped her son was content with his life as it stood. He had taken up his adoptive father’s profession and was now a fine surgeon. Amanda’s talent for writing had rubbed off on him too. He wrote articles that were published in highly acclaimed medical journals.
No mother could have been prouder.
Louise sealed the thick envelope, using the same perfumed wax she affixed to each of Stephen Byrne’s letters, stamping it with the Duchess of Argyll’s seal. It somehow seemed right that her mother’s life had ended here at Osborne House, where little Eddie’s life began, despite the queen’s plans.
She sighed, holding that thought for a moment before a soft knock sounded on her door. Lady Car peeked around the edge. “Princess, you have a caller.” Her lady-in-waiting’s impish smile told her she’d be pleased. Bertie had arrived last night, along with Alix and the children. The Prince of Wales was now officially King George IV, and his princess had become Queen Alexandra. But Louise suspected her guest was neither of them.
She nodded for Car to allow her visitor to enter. “How did you get here so quickly?” she said when Stephen Byrne walked in and took her hands in his. She observed the subtle changes in his face, hair, clothing since they’d last been together. He seemed stronger and more handsome with each year, and here they were into the fifth decade of their lives, yet still lovers, still crossing oceans to be with each other for whatever time fate allowed.
“Beatrice telegraphed that your mother was likely not to last the month. I booked passage the next day.” Byrne took her in his arms and kissed the top of her hair, her forehead, her lips, then looked into her tear-filled eyes. “I wanted to be with you. I’m sorry I was too late.”
“It doesn’t matter. You wouldn’t have been allowed into her room at the end. Bertie stood guard over her. But how did you know we’d be here on the Isle of Wight and not in London?”
He shook his head and smiled. “I told you I’d always find you, didn’t I?”
“You did. And you have kept your promise, my love.”
He glanced down at her escritoire, the open inkwell, the sealed envelope fat with pages, then back to her. “You’ve told Edward then. All of it?”
“As much as he needs to know, yes.” She nodded. “I hope he will not think me evil . . . for my deceptions.”
“He’ll realize how much you’ve sacrificed for him. He’ll love his godmother all the more, knowing her as the woman who gave birth to him.”
He wrapped her in his arms and held her close as Victoria’s mourners continued to arrive by carriage, coach, and horseback. A new refrain echoed through Osborne House, and indeed, throughout the Empire: “God save the king.”
Afterword
The Incident at Vauxhall Bridge, as it came to be known at Scotland Yard, was hushed up by orders of the prime minister to minimize any positive press for the Fenians. All the public ever learned was that radicals managed to blow up a bridge and by doing so delayed the queen’s arrival at the church. The two dynamiteers responsible, reported the London Times, were so inept that they managed to blow themselves up in the boat they’d used to plant the bomb. Happily, the press noted, other members of the queen’s family who had planned to travel along the parade route had been ill and, unable to attend the ceremony, were out of harm’s way.
Missing from the story in the newspapers around the world was the fact that Victoria’s magnificent coronation coach was destroyed in the attack and had to be rebuilt from scratch. It was later used by Victoria’s great-granddaughter, the young Queen Elizabeth II, for her coronation. Very few people knew it wasn’t the original.
In 2003, the grandson of a Dr. Edward Locock attempted to prove he was a direct descendant of Queen Victoria, with rights to the throne, claiming that his grandfather was the illegitimate child of one of the royal princesses. But the good doctor had requested his body be burned at his death along with his private papers, the ashes strewn over the rose garden at Osborne House. Therefore nothing could be proved and the case was dropped from the court dockets. Why Locock chose this odd location for his remains to be returned to the earth, requiring special permission from the British Parks Service, no one seems to know. Except, it was said, the doctor cherished a love of roses.
To My Readers
What’s real and what’s make-believe? Here are a few hints. . . .
Yes, the royal family depicted in this story did exist. Queen Victoria ruled the longest of any British monarch to this date—sixty-three years. She and her husband, Prince Albert of Saxe-Coberg and Gotha, a first cousin, had nine children—four princes and five princesses. All of the children eventually married, and their offspring, in turn, produced rulers and enriched the noble bloodlines of many European countries. (See “Queen Victoria and Prince Albert’s Children and Grandchildren” on page viii.)
Much controversy surrounds Princess Louise (later also, the Duchess of Argyll) and her marriage. She was a beloved and respected royal both in her own country and in Canada, where she accompanied her husband, Lorne, on his appointment as governor general of the Dominion of Canada. Gossip, but never proof, surfaced regarding the marquess’s sexual preferences, but, in fact, he and Louise never had children. Another rumo
r whispered that Louise was unable to have children as a result of a botched abortion during her teenage years. But again, there is no proof. She was affectionately known in the queen’s court, and among the queen’s subjects, as the “wild child” of the royal brood. Her studies (at her own insistence) at the National Art Training School in Kensington (renamed the Royal College of Art) helped her become one of the few recognized female artists of her day.
Stephen Byrne is the fictional hero this author believes Louise deserved. Although various romantic liaisons were suspected during her lifetime, I know of no historian who has successfully confirmed that she indulged in romantic affairs. However, we do know that Louise spent a good deal of time away from Lorne, encouraged by him “for her health,” visiting various spas in Europe; she often traveled great distances on her own. Louise particularly loved Bermuda. The exquisite Hamilton Princess hotel on the island was named after her and opened in 1885. It would be difficult to believe that this fourth and high-spirited princess never experienced passionate love. Thus I gave her the dashing American Civil War hero Stephen Byrne.
The Fenians were a particularly militant group of Irish radical separatists, and they did blow up part of Parliament and various other buildings in London to make their point. Many attempts were made to assassinate Queen Victoria by different political factions. More than one theory exists of a plot to murder HRM on the occasion of her Golden Jubilee in 1887. In Fenian Fire, author Christy Campbell presents evidence that high-placed members of the British government actually planned to assassinate Victoria and blame it on the Fenians.
If you wish to learn more about Princess Louise’s real life, try checking out these books:
Princess Louise—Queen Victoria’s Unconventional Daughter, by Jehanne Wake (London: Collins, 1988)
Victoria’s Daughters, by Jerrold M. Packard (New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1998)
Darling Loosy—Letters to Princess Louise 1856–1939, ed. Elizabeth Longford (London: Weidenfeld & Nicolson, 1991)
The Life Story of HRH Princess Louise, Duchess of Argyll, by David Duff (Bath: Cedric Chivers, 1971)
Royal Rebels—Princess Louise and the Marquis of Lorne, by Robert M. Stamp (Toronto: Dundurn Press, 1988)
Still not sure what’s history and what’s Mary Hart Perry’s whimsical way of looking at the past? Ask her. You can reach the author at [email protected]. She loves to hear from her readers and will answer your questions. You can also “like” her Facebook page: Mary Hart Perry, or follow her on Twitter @Mary_Hart_Perry.
For more royal intrigue and Victorian romance, look for Princess Louise and Stephen Byrne when they return for guest roles in Seducing the Princess, by Mary Hart Perry, the next novel in the Novels of Queen Victoria’s Daughters series. Youngest of all of Victoria’s children, Beatrice is destined to remain forever her mother’s companion in her declining years, and if the queen gets her way, Bea will remain “pure” and never marry. But attending a royal wedding on the Continent exposes shy Beatrice to temptation in the form of not one but two charming suitors—Prince Henry of Battenberg (one of four famously handsome brothers) and a charismatic Highlander who resembles the recently deceased John Brown, favorite of the queen. Will Beatrice remain meekly loyal to her mother, or fall in love and into a political trap meant to draw England into war?
About the Author
MARY HART PERRY lives in Maryland with her two cats and her husband. She teaches at the Writer’s Center in Washington, D.C., and is an inspiring speaker for international and regional groups interested in the joys of writing and history and the promotion of teen and adult literacy. You can reach her at [email protected]. For news about her appearances and upcoming books, feel free to like her Facebook page, or follow her on Twitter @ Mary_Hart_Perry.
www.MaryHartPerry.com
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Credits
Cover design by Mumtaz Mustafa
Cover photograph by Ilina Simeonova
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. References to real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locales are intended only to provide a sense of authenticity, and are used fictitiously. All other characters, and all incidents and dialogue, are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.
THE WILD PRINCESS. Copyright © 2012 by Kathryn Kimball Johnson. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins ebooks.
FIRST EDITION
ISBN 978-0-06-212346-6
Epub Edition © August 2012 ISBN: 9780062123473
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