Betraying Season
Page 30
In the meanwhile, she leaned over Niall’s arm to peer at the forgotten letters on the sofa beside them. “Heavens, are those what I think they are?”
“Do you find the mail more interesting than me?” Niall’s face was muffled in her neck.
“No. I just don’t want to give Moylan apoplexy if he comes back in.” She picked up the letters and looked at them more closely. “Of course, if you’d rather not read a letter from Her Majesty—”
“What?” That got Niall’s attention.
“One for you and one for me.” She handed him his envelope, then turned hers over. “Oh, mine’s marked ‘Private and Personal.’ ” She slid off his lap and unsealed the letter.
31 January 1839
To the Hon. Mrs. Niall Keating
Loughglass House
Cty. Cork, Ireland
My dear Pen,
You must forgive me for not having written sooner. So many necessary but alas trying duties and obligations clamor for my attention that my personal correspondence must needs be attended to last, but I was quite determined to write you once and for all! I must wish you a very happy New Year, the first full one of your married life. Such a strange and wonderful thing it must be to be a married woman—I confess I wonder what it will be like to be so myself someday, and I hope and pray I shall find myself a husband I love and respect as well as you do your dear Mr. Keating.
It is of Mr. Keating, in fact, that I would like to devote a portion of this letter. When she visited me just before Christmas, your dear sister (we had such a lovely afternoon together—dear Lehzen made sure we were quite undisturbed while we had an “official” meeting of that most high and puissant order of, DASH accompanied by much mirth—though we sorely missed your presence there!) in between our bouts of laughter told me in great detail just what happened to you in Ireland last spring, and how you once more rescued me unaware from a most hideous peril. I assure you, I was appalled to hear what danger you endured to guard my life, and what danger too Mr. Keating faced. I am now doubly indebted to my dear Leland sisters, and can only thank our Heavenly Father for such dear, loyal friends as yourselves. Powerful friends, too, it would seem—for Persy made it clear that your own most extraordinary magical abilities have drawn the attention and approbation of very high powers. She was impressed, indeed, as am I.
Pen looked up from the letter and blinked back tears. She had never expected that the queen would know of what she had done—certainly telling her about it herself had never entered her mind. And Persy had called her magic most extraordinary—Persy. She went back to her letter, trying not to sniffle.
However, in your case I understand that I may address you not only as friend, but as cousin. Dear Persy acquainted me too with the fascinating (if shocking) story of your dear husband’s birth. I am most sorry that I cannot, of course, publicly acknowledge our connection, but I will always think warmly of you as family and look forward to meeting my cousin Mr. Keating someday soon.
It has puzzled me, since then, to think of something I might do for the both of you to demonstrate my deepest gratitude without, of course, drawing the attention of the world at large. But I flatter myself that I have thought of a possible gift, if Mr. Keating chooses to accept it, and my good Lord Melbourne has approved it and made all the necessary arrangements with the Foreign Office. If he does not, I shall understand perfectly. If he does, however, I will wish you now a fair and safe journey, and enjoin you to write me often and tell me everything, as both a friend and cousin and as one of my stalwart ladies of DASH.
Yr. most affectionate cousin and friend,
VICTORIA R
Pen read her letter twice, then turned to Niall. He was staring at the letter in his hands as if he could not quite believe what it contained.
“Well? What is it?” But she had already guessed.
“I don’t know what to say,” he murmured.
Pen extracted the letter from his unresisting fingers. “Six-month position, with option to extend on your or the ambassador’s request . . . ,” she read aloud, skimming, “special attaché to Her Majesty’s embassy to the court of Hanover . . . to aid in maintaining the strong bond between the two countries, based as they are on long association and family ties. . . .” She looked up at him. “The duke,” she said softly.
“The duke,” he echoed. “This means . . . I could meet him on my terms.”
“Your terms?”
Niall’s eyes were shining, either with happiness or unshed tears, or perhaps both. “I’d have my own position and purpose and reason for being there. I won’t have to meet him as a supplicant, the way I would have under Mother’s scheme. We can both decide if we want to acknowledge each other, if only in private—”
He dropped the letter and buried his face in her shoulder. Pen held him tightly and stroked his thick, gold hair. It would be exciting to travel and see more of the world, and to meet the duke—or king, as he was in Hanover—and see how much of him there was in Niall. She would miss Ireland, but they would return home soon.
She kissed Niall’s head and then smiled to herself as she looked hard at the door into the room. The door, slightly ajar, shut itself, and the bolt slid home with a sharp snap. Niall raised his head and looked around, then at her.
“Just a precaution,” she explained, taking his face in her hands. “We don’t want to shock poor Moylan again, do we?”