Fires of Delight

by Vanessa Royall

  “That is what bothers me,” Selena worried. “When I was in India, ten thousand miles away, Coldstream was a dream. When I was three thousand miles away from it in America, the reality was still remote. But now I am only a few day’s travel from hearth and home. And if I fail in my petition to the lords, all is lost. The closer I get, the higher becomes the risk. I don’t even know what I am going to say!”

  “Just tell them what is in your heart.”

  “There are too many things in my heart; that is the problem.”

  The scheduled appearance of a woman in Parliament, and a woman rumored to be beautiful at that, lent an air of episode and event to the normally ornate and stuffy chamber. With the wedding imminent, many of the lords were loath to don their wigs and robes and come here at all. What did it matter to them, after all, that a castle in far-off Scotland hung in the balance? Still, the woman in question had saved the prince’s bride-to-be, and they could not very well refuse to hear her out without risking the lift of royal eyebrows.

  They took to their benches insouciantly, some of them still half-asleep, and not a few of them already tipsy with wedding champagne.

  “I say,” rasped Lord Rittenham to his benchmate, Lord Pulvester, “is this MacPherson woman kin to old Seamus, who tried to make Scotland independent of the crown?”

  “One and the same, sir.”

  “What a cheeky wench, I vow. Has she no propriety whatever?”

  “It is my understanding,” whispered Lord Brockett to Lord Spencer, as those two stalwarts waited for Selena to speak, “that the woman, even now, is playing whore to that cutthroat, Campbell, right here in London.”

  “And ’tis not the first time, if I hear correctly,” nodded Spencer. “Many’s the man who has tended her garden.”

  The two looked at each other and chortled.

  The Duke of Sussex, languid and haughty as always, happened to overhear their ribaldry.

  “Perhaps she might give us a flower or two for our favorable votes,” he snickered.

  In the antechamber, where she waited with Royce until she should be summoned to speak, Selena fought to control her nerves. Her hands were wet and her lips dry. Countless times in the past she had used her mind and guile to persuade others to act in her behalf, but never before had she spoken to an assemblage. She tried not to feel intimidated, tried to remember with what ease, humor, and grace her father had addressed great throngs, always finding the right words and tone, no matter if his audience was comprised of peasants or nobles.

  “I will do it,” she murmured.

  “What, darling?” asked Royce.

  “Nothing.”

  The sergeant-at-arms appeared at the antechamber’s doorway. “They are ready to hear you now, madame,” he said. “Come with me, please.”

  Royce took her into his arms and kissed her gently on the lips. “Just let your heart speak,” he said, looking deeply into her eyes. “And remember this: even if you do not convince them, we still have each other.”

  Yet I must convince them, she thought. Royce and Coldstream are my life. God, give me the words!

  Taking a deep breath, she followed the sergeant-at-arms out of the antechamber and into the well of the House of Lords. There was a buzzing in her ears, which continued even as the buzz of conversation among the desultory lords subsided.

  Selena stood before them, all alone.

  “Hear ye! Hear ye!” called a bewigged speaker ceremoniously. “We are gathered at the request of one of our members, Lord Bloodwell”—Selena saw Sean smiling encouragement from his bench—“to entertain the petition of one Selena MacPherson.” Ah, it was wonderful to hear the MacPherson name intoned here. “So pray give your attention, my lords.”

  Dead silence.

  Every eye was on Selena.

  Her tongue seemed frozen, her throat dry as sawdust. What had she planned to say? My Lords, I stand before you…

  Yes, yes. Say it! Speak! Get it out, get started…

  Not so easy.

  Some of the lords began to shift in their seats. A few of them grinned. What travesty was this? The wench couldn’t even open her mouth, for God’s sake!

  But then, far back in Selena’s mind, she heard the wise, sympathetic voice of Davi the Dravidian, her teacher. “Selena, have you come all this way to be defeated? You don’t believe that, not even for an instant. Trust your heart, for the words are in it. Trust your life, for it has made your heart sing and be strong. Do not think! Open yourself and let that which is within emerge.”

  Go!

  “My Lords,” Selena began, lifting her chin, “I am Selena MacPherson, and it is as a daughter of Scotland that I stand before you.”

  Her voice, low and powerful, carried easily in the historic chamber. She had the attention of the assemblage. But what next?

  Don’t think, just speak.

  “I stand before you as one who has been cast out, cast out by time and circumstance and fate, cast out, yes, by folly, but who amongst us has not tasted the bitterness of life?”

  “Lord be praised,” whispered Lord Spencer to Lord Brockett, “the wench is a bloody orator.” He leaned forward to listen more closely.

  “I would ask you,” Selena continued, “to think now upon your homes and your lives. And upon England. Yes, think upon England too, for then, if your hearts hold mercy, you may understand my need, my torment, here this day.”

  “I thought she was a Scot,” wondered Lord Pulvester, harumphing to himself.

  “When I was still a young girl, my father fell upon bad times. I am not here to debate whether he erred, for it is not my right to judge him. He was good to me and kind to his subjects and acted according to the knowledge God had granted him. Because of his actions, he was dispossessed and later murdered. I love him still, no matter how men may gauge him, and I love my home as well.

  “Who among you,” she continued, “has not in some way, at some time, felt alone? Even in the comfort of your great halls, has there not been a moment at which life seemed to fall down upon you, in all its random complexity? I was abducted to India, and there I was very alone until befriended by Lord Bloodwell, who sits in honor among you. I was alone in America too, until I chanced to meet kindred spirits with whom my heart beat as one. Right or wrong in the eyes of the world, yet I was true to my heart as God had given me to know it.

  “Yet always I have thought of home, of Coldstream Castle, and of this green, mighty isle of which it is, and ever shall be, a part. We, all of us, have that feeling inside us. We, all of us, would do most anything to find the path back to hearth and peace.

  “If you can understand that, then you understand me as well.

  “I wish you all safe havens, and sweet journeys thereto.”

  She stopped and looked around. Every eye was upon her, but she could not read, in the rapt faces of the lords, any reaction to what she had said. The chamber was completely silent.

  I have failed, she thought.

  The sergeant-at-arms led her out without comment.

  “Oh, Royce!” Selena cried, throwing herself into his embrace. “It is all over. They listened, but they did not hear.”

  “I wouldn’t be too certain of that. You were magnificent. I almost had tears in my eyes.”

  “Almost?”

  “As you know, I am not easily given to tears. Neither, I think, are the lords.”

  Sean Bloodwell entered then, and kissed Selena on the cheek, taking her hands in his own. “It was beautiful, Selena,” he said.

  “But the lords did not react!”

  “How could they? They could do nothing in the spell of your words.”

  “What is going to happen now?” she asked, a trifle anxiously.

  “Well, they will take your plea under advisement, and make a decision in due course.”

  “In due course? You mean I must wait?”

  “Selena, many of these men have not, in twenty years time, decided anything more complicated than which horse to ride on a hunt. Bu
t their word will be passed in due time, and I believe it will be to your liking.”

  “You only believe it?”

  “All right, it will almost certainly be in your favor.”

  “Almost?”

  Sean smiled. “Selena, all I am trying to tell you is that you did splendidly, and everyone who heard you knows it. These matters take time. You must, for once in your life, be patient.”

  “I shall go mad being patient.”

  “Well, then do something distracting to try to put the matter out of your mind. Why not join Davina and me for the wedding festivities? We will be in the line of march from the palace to Westminster.” He turned to Royce. “You are welcome too, of course.”

  “You honor me, sir,” said Royce, bowing. “And may I add that you are possessed of more courtesy and grace than I have found in any man?”

  Yes, thought Selena. What Royce said was true. But would the rest of the lords prove to have even a portion of Lord Bloodwell’s gifts?

  Selena stood beside Royce and watched as Princess Francesca came out of the palace and walked, attended by the ladies of the court, to the carriage in which she would take her final ride as a maiden. She looked radiant, glowing, transported already by the wonder awaiting her. Trumpets heralded her appearance. She was a flower, a shining, white rose, and the ladies around her were as flowers too. The early morning had been gray, damp, foggy, but now the sun pierced through clouds. Always a good omen.

  A sign of sanguine portent also were the tens of thousands of cheering citizens who flocked the route of the nuptial procession. Some of them had waited all night for a choice spot along the thoroughfare from which to glimpse the bride. Their numbers and their unrestrained enthusiasm meant that the princess would be accepted in England, in contrast to the animosity that her aunt had engendered amongst the people of France.

  Adding to Francesca’s luster was the news, which had been widely bruited, of her spectacular escape from France, and many cheers were directed toward the open coach in which Royce and Selena rode with the popular Lord Bloodwell and his daughter. They were hailed all along the way, and when the procession slowed at corners, men, women, and children jam-packed in front of pubs and shops lifted glasses of ale or gin to toast the saviors of the princess.

  “Is it not passing fine,” smiled Sean to Selena and her man, “to be a king and ride in triumph through Byzantium?”

  Selena could not but agree that everything about the day was thrilling, and she would have enjoyed it more had the lords seen fit to hasten their decision. She noted, too, that Royce seemed a trifle reserved, he who always loved to cut a figure, to enjoy himself to the fullest. While they were disembarking from the coach and preparing to enter Westminster for the wedding ceremony, she inquired about the reason for his mood.

  “You oughtn’t to worry on my account,” she said, taking his arm. “As you said, we’ll be together no matter what befalls.”

  He smiled sardonically. “It is not that, Selena.”

  Something else? What? “You think they will deny my petition, don’t you?”

  “No.”

  She could see that he did not mean to speak further about whatever was on his mind, and she could not pursue it anyway because the time had come to enter Westminster. Among all the great churches of England, this was perhaps the most famous, yet it was nothing compared to the cathedral of love and devotion built between—and by—William and Francesca when they took their vows. Royce and I will be married at Coldstream, Selena decided as the ceremony ended. The very air shivered as the mighty organ blasted joyous chords, and a choir of two hundred voices sang in praise of love. Leaving the church down the main aisle, her arm upon her new husband’s, Francesca’s eyes met Selena. Momentarily, she eschewed protocol, stopped, and embraced Selena right there and then. It was something so natural, so moving, that people waiting and watching in the pews began to applaud, a tribute that increased in enthusiasm when the princess hugged Royce too.

  “That cannot have hurt your cause with the lords,” Royce said. Still, he seemed uncharacteristically subdued in the carriage on the return drive to the palace, where a great reception had been planned. Champagne did not alter his mood, and he barely partook of the feast: oysters, crabmeat pate, lobster, salmon, and roasts of beef, pork, lamb. Roasted chicken, coated with chocolate, proved a great favorite, and there were breads and fruits and vegetables of every kind.

  Selena found herself feted by hundreds of people. She did not have a chance to ask Royce what was troubling him, and saw that he watched the proceedings warily. As the dancing was about to commence, she made an attempt to break through his reserve.

  “What is the matter?” she asked directly.

  “Selena, perhaps it would be best if we left now.”

  “Now? The fun is barely started. I—”

  She was interrupted then by the Duke of Sussex, haughty and supercilious, who appeared before them out of the gay, swirling crowd. He had the reputation of an indefatigable—and successful—schemer in political matters, as well as a notorious and energetically earned record as a prodigious womanizer. He bowed formally and coldly to Royce, who returned the greeting in kind, and then stared into Selena’s eyes.

  “Pray grace me with the pleasure of your company in the minuet that is about to commence,” he said smoothly, as if he were doing her a favor.

  She had an impulse to refuse. His cold, thin, colorless face, while not unappealing in a primitive sort of way, possessed little human warmth. But he was one of the men who must vote on her petition—perhaps he wished to speak to her about it—and she could not afford to offend him.

  “I am honored, sir,” she said. Nodding to Royce in a plea for his understanding, she took the duke’s proffered arm and walked with him out upon the dance floor. To her surprise, however, he kept on going, past the people who were taking up positions for the dance, through the drinking, laughing onlookers beyond, and into a sunlit alcove near a tall window. The window looked out upon intricate gardens, and the sun flooding through it showed the duke’s cold face in all of its unsuccessfully veiled cruelty and ruthlessness.

  “My Lord?” she asked. They have turned down my plea for Coldstream. He wants to enjoy telling me.

  But no.

  “You are a very lovely woman, Selena,” he oozed, addressing her with casual—and calculated—familiarity.

  A proposition. Dear Lord. “Thank you,” she said.

  His smile was as quick as the slash of a blade. “I want you to know that I shall do everything in my power to convince my peers—some of whom are quite reluctant—to bless your petition with favorable votes.”

  “I am so grateful, My Lord.”

  “But it will be difficult.”

  “I appreciate that fact.”

  He paused, staring at her. Now he is going to ask me to go to bed with him, she thought.

  Wrong again. “I note that you are keeping company with the outlaw, Royce Campbell.”

  “Yes, that is true. We plan to wed. We are married, in point of fact, already.”

  “Yes, yes,” he shrugged, unimpressed and uninterested.

  “Nor is he an outlaw,” Selena went on, trying to keep calm. “His Majesty has conferred a pardon—”

  “I know all about that,” interrupted the duke. “But the pardon is for acts of piracy and espionage only.”

  “What…what else is there?”

  “Madame, I want you to tell me—and detail later in a written affidavit—everything you know of Campbell’s revolutionary activities in France.”

  Selena was astonished and alarmed. She did not understand why the Duke of Sussex wanted to know these things, but she saw the glimmer of a nefarious reason behind his request. If some form of anti-monarchist charge could be brought against Royce, something having to do with his association involving Sorbante, the reactionary George III might be persuaded that Campbell was not so worthy after all.

  “In return for such an affidavit, of course,”
the duke continued, “Coldstream shall be restored to your ownership with no strings attached.”

  “Why…why are you doing this?”

  Sussex grinned malevolently. “Inquire of your lover when next you are in bed together.”

  “Sir, I tell you that I must refuse to comply with your request.”

  “Then you shall never see Coldstream Castle again, my dear.”

  The pain must have shown clearly on her face. He did nothing to diminish it when he added, “And you will not have Campbell, either, because I shall be forced to challenge him again.”

  “Again?”

  “Yes. Ask him about that too. He ran away last time, but now I have him where I want him…”

  Selena saw the veins bulging in his neck, blood throbbing in the big vein at his temple. His fists were clenched in a fury barely suppressed.

  “I am the best swordsman in Europe,” he boasted. “That is why Campbell ran from me last time. So you see, my sweet, any way you look at it, your choice is between Coldstream and nothing! Think about it. Get used to it. The rules of this encounter belong entirely to me!”

  “How soon must I decide?” asked Selena, in an attempt to buy time.

  But he did not afford her such luxury. “The two of us shall go and confront Campbell right now. I assure you that delay will serve no purpose whatever.”

  The minuet had commenced, so she and Sussex skirted the dance floor, moving slowly toward Royce, who was speaking earnestly to Sean Bloodwell. Selena’s knees trembled as she walked, and her mouth was dry. Just when events seemed to have been moving toward a conclusion, this new threat had arisen. And it could not have been worse. In order to win Coldstream, she had either to renounce Royce or see him duel with the duke, whose confidence in his own prowess did not seem to be feigned.

  The four faced one another. Selena took Royce’s hand. Sean stared coldly at Sussex; there was no love lost between them. The duke was grinning.

  “Tell him,” he ordered Selena.

  “Darling,” she said, “I have been placed in a position whereby, in order to regain my estate, I must give an account of your activities in France.”