Seducing the Princess (11 page)

Beatrice barely had time to breathe. In the days following the posting of her bitterly sad letter to Henry, her mother seemed to need her at every turn—from dawn until dusk, and often late into the evening. Even Ponsonby wasn’t able to keep up with the queen’s sudden burst of energy and demands on his time.

In many ways, it was good to see her mother so busy. The gout that had returned to cause her such wretched pain in her foot didn’t stop the woman from attending official functions she normally would have refused. And she was more open to social occasions, all of which seemed to require her youngest daughter’s company. Victoria then decided it was time for the royal seamstress to fit her for two new dresses to replace the worn black gowns she most frequently wore. While the woman was at Buckingham Palace with her swatches and sketches, she also measured Beatrice for a new gown and a riding outfit. Bea became suspicious that all of this activity was intended to keep her so busy she wouldn’t have time to think about Henry.

It didn’t work. Henry Battenberg’s image haunted her all the day long, and he flitted through her dreams at night.

Falling into bed after a late night of theatre with her mother at the Royal Opera House, Beatrice waved off her lady’s offer of warm milk. “I’ll have no difficulty sleeping tonight, Marie.” She closed her eyes and rested her head back against the satin pillow. “I’ve never been so exhausted. Do you suppose she’s bribing me?”

“
Pardon
? Who bribes you, Your Highness?”

“The queen, my mother. First she nearly kills me by keeping me so occupied I hardly have time to think, then she buys me two new outfits of far more extravagant material and detail than she has allowed me in years.” Beatrice pushed herself up wearily onto one elbow. “And the riding suit is plum, Marie. Not black.
Plum
.”

“Very dark. Not a red-plum or cardinal, like other ladies wear.”

“No, but that’s not the point. It’s definitely a
color
. She knew how much that would please me. I could see it in her eyes when she chose the swatch from the seamstress’s samples.”

“She wants you to be happy.” Marie winked at her.

“No, she wants me to be
content
. There’s a huge difference.” If Beatrice was content, she imagined her mother reasoning, she would continue to do as Victoria commanded and forget about marriage. Forget Henry. That was clearly her mother’s intent.

“Why is she so against my marriage? She and Papa were so happy. She must remember what it’s like to be in love. Why does she deny me the chance to be as happy as she once was?”

Marie sat on the bed beside her and smoothed the hair out of her eyes. “
Ma Cherie
, after your father is gone, she feels such pain.
Non
?”

“Of course she did. She still does. She mourns him every day.”

“Just so. She feels the agony of his absence. And so, perhaps, she tries to save you from the greatest sadness.
Oui
? She is trying to protect you.”

Beatrice rolled away to her side, and squeezed her eyes shut. “I think you’re giving her the benefit of your sweet nature, Marie. I might have believed Mama was acting in my best interest before Henry came along and we fell in love. But now…I’m not so sure. Maybe she
believes
she’s protecting me. But I think she’s just looking after herself.”

Marie sighed. “What will you do, Your Highness?”

Beatrice started to open her mouth to say what she’d been thinking all day. About her options. About following her heart. But, as loyal as she believed Marie to be to her, the woman also had pledged her allegiance to the queen. And Beatrice knew, in the mind of each and every member of her mother’s Court, a mental line had been drawn, past which they would never step. If it came to choosing sides between their monarch and one of her children—Victoria would always win.

And so, Beatrice kept silent, pretending to drift off to sleep.

After Marie turned down the gaslights and left the room in darkness, Beatrice sat up in bed. Her heart beating wildly, she puzzled over her future.

Dare she defy the queen? Dare she even consider the impossible? If she ran away to be with her lover—that is, the man she wished could be her lover, because she and Henry had only ever kissed and shyly touched. Hands. Faces. His fingertips trailing through her hair. Not making love, of course. Just tender gestures and words. But she could imagine more. And those thoughts thrilled her. If she ran off to be with Henry, it wouldn’t be the first time a princess had escaped to marry the man she loved.
If
he’d still have her after receiving her letter, knowing they’d both be defying the queen—a dangerous thing to do.

She bit down on her bottom lip at this thought. Having read what she’d written, Henry might think her so immature and naïve, still tied to her mother’s apron strings (As if Victoria ever would wear an apron!) that she no longer interested him. But if he
did
still want her—could she really turn her back on the queen and her own country, run away to the Continent and into Henry’s arms? Was she brave enough, impulsive and daring enough to do
that
?

Tears seeped from beneath her eyelashes. Maybe not. Years of grief imposed on the entire family by their father’s premature death and their mother’s obsession with mourning rituals had crushed all the life out of her. It was a miracle Henry had seen anything of interest in her.

Even if she had tricked him into caring for her—for a few hours, days, or even weeks—it was only a matter of time before he recognized her for what she was. A drab, bashful, awkward, boring female who was past her prime.

What man could possibly find a woman like that appealing—let alone loveable?

The next morning Beatrice woke from the deepest sleep she’d experienced since leaving Darmstadt. Her cheeks and eyelashes were crusty with salt from her tears, but her head felt clear. She rose from bed before Marie appeared to draw open the draperies of her bedchamber. She felt a different sort of energy than she’d ever felt before, something akin to—courage.

She also sensed an urge toward mischief that she hadn’t indulged in since her very earliest childhood when she’d tried Nurse’s patience with her pranks.

Louise, of course, had been the truly naughty one. The defiant child who refused to be controlled by their parents or nurses or tutors. Lenchen was the peacemaker, and Alice always seemed caught in the middle of sisterly intrigues. Crown Princess Vicky had been the haughty one, who took on airs and always, always got what she wanted just because she was the eldest and her father’s protégé. Albert had been determined that his eldest daughter would rule a grand nation, even if it was through the man she would one day marry.

But
she
, Beatrice, had been the entertainer. The little girl who charmed everyone with her dances and silly rhymes and songs, making them smile and laugh and praise her cleverness. All of this before she turned four years of age. She truly was the blonde, blue-eyed darling of the English Court.

How times had changed.

Now, for the first time, Beatrice wondered if it was partly her own fault that all the joy had disappeared from her life. What would have happened if she’d been more assertive like Louise, more demanding like the Crown Princess…and resisted her mother’s insistence on gloom, black garments, dull mourning jewelry, and solemnity?

Louise had counseled her to stand firm, to not give up on having Henry, even in the face of disapproval from their mother. But Louise herself had married a man chosen by the queen. Beatrice was certain her sister didn’t love Lorne, now the Duke of Argyll. She’d never understood their relationship but, of course, had never asked Louise why she had agreed to marry Lorne when her sister seemed capable of withstanding their mother’s bossiness in every other situation. Someday maybe she’d uncover Louise’s secret heart. But for now, it was all she could do to work on her own problems.

Stand firm,
she thought. And again came that urge to do something just a little daring, a little wild.

If she, Beatrice, was to do battle with her mother for the right to marry the man she loved, she’d have to become a stronger, more independent woman. Beatrice sat on the edge of her bed and wondered how one went about changing one’s life. How could she become a different, better sort of woman? She tingled with excitement. Yes, she must analyze this process of redesigning oneself.

Louise made independence seem so easy. She opened herself to the world, traveling with or without Lorne as the mood moved her. She went out among commoners, attended women’s suffrage rallies, visited hospitals and women’s shelters. She had even opened a consignment shop where women with no other means of supporting themselves could sell their handmade items; for many it was just enough to keep them off the streets. Louise seemed afraid of nothing—not even Irish separatists who, years earlier, launched a violent plot against the royal family.

Beatrice thought for another moment. If only she could recall just one time in her life, as an adult, when she hadn’t felt timid and hopelessly awkward. Then she might be able to repeat that moment. She’d practice being brave.

It came to her all at once, the memory so poignant and vivid she laughed out loud with joy.

Yes!
She’d felt strong, in control, even bold and playful when she’d ridden with Henry at Darmstadt.

Well, she couldn’t have Henry, at least not just yet. But she could go for a ride. The royal stables had horses aplenty.

A soft knock sounded on the door, and Marie peeked around the corner before stepping inside. “Ah, Your Highness is awake.
Bon
. The queen, she is asking for you.”

“Please tell her that—” Beatrice took a deep breath. “—that I am busy.”

Marie stopped in the middle of the room and looked at her as if she had grown an extra head. “You are
busy
?”

“Yes. I will be engaged for the next two hours, at least. It’s been a while since I rode out into the park.” She pushed up off the bed and strode toward her wardrobe closet. “It’s too bad I don’t have the plum outfit yet. The old one will have to do. But at least it fits. And, in black, I won’t stand out among the other riders on Rotten Row.”

Marie reached out, as if to touch fingertips to the royal forehead to test for fever, but Beatrice stepped away. “Your Highness, is well?”

“Am I?” Beatrice laughed again. “I don’t know if I am yet, but I’m working on it. I’m working on a lot of things.” She looked at the young woman who was as close to her as any friend she’d ever had. “Will you go now and tell the queen? Then I’ll need your help dressing. I’ll be back in time for lunch and available after that to help my mother however she requires.”

“
Oui
, Your Highness.”

Beatrice watched Marie go and felt a trifle cruel. Her lady would likely be on the receiving end of the queen’s anger once she learned Beatrice wouldn’t be joining her for the morning. She’d find a way to make it up to the girl later.

“My apologies, Princess, but I don’t think it’s wise.”

Beatrice looked up at Elton Jackson and tried to remember exactly what Louise always said to members of their mother’s staff when they balked at giving her what she wanted.

She straightened her back, whacked her riding crop smartly against the palm of her gloved hand and narrowed her eyes at the man, trying to project an image of royal indignation. “I intend,” she said, “to ride out each day from now on, for healthful exercise. Will you bring my horse out to me, Mr. Jackson? Or do I need to go fetch her myself?”

“But, Your Highness, your mother will be—”

“Her wishes aren’t, at the moment, your most pressing concern. Your job is to see that one of your grooms saddles my mount and delivers her to me as quickly as possible. Any setback will delay my return to the palace. Which means I shall be late to join my mother. And you know how irritated the queen becomes when she’s kept waiting.”

The man closed his eyes for a moment as if weighing the consequences then glanced back at the stables. “Right, Your Highness. I’ll get to it. Do you prefer Tarff?”

“No, I’ll take my new pony, Lady Jane.” “I’ll do it,” a voice called from the shadows inside the barn.

Beatrice squinted against the sunlight to see which of the grooms had volunteered to bring her horse to her. A young man stepped out from the building with bridle in hand. “Leave it to me, Your Highness.” As quickly as he’d appeared, he dissolved back into the shadows of the mews.

She tipped her head to one side, surprised at his accent, a pronounced Scottish brogue. Although he was wearing the livery of a stable groom, she thought she’d caught a glimpse of chain and tassel, such as the Scots wore about their hips.

“Who is that? I don’t recognize him.”

Jackson turned toward the paddock. Another horse had been brought out, and a groom was stretching the animal’s legs by leading it in circles on a long lunge line. “The fellow’s new. Here to replace Tom Feigel.”

“Has Tom left us? Didn’t he have a good temperament for horses?”

“One of my best, he was, Princess. But he had a bad accident and can’t work no more. I told the queen ‘bout him, and she approved of the new boy. He’s older than many of them we get from the farms round about, but the advantage is he has a good deal more experience with fine horse flesh. From up north he is.”

“Yes,” she said thoughtfully, “I could tell. Has my mother met him yet?”

“Expect she will soon enough.”

Beatrice’s gaze strayed toward the dim interior of the barn. “I think I’d better go and see how he’s getting along, since he’s new on the job.”

“You don’t need to—”

But she was already striding in that direction, shutting out the stable master’s objections. She was tired of listening to people tell her what to do, or not do. After all, she wasn’t a child any more. She needed to remind the staff of that.

She turned to the right. Three stalls down, she saw the young groom talking gently to the mare, easing a bit into her mouth. His voice was so soft and low that, at first, she didn’t realize he was actually singing to the animal in his buttery Scottish accent. He cupped the horse’s muzzle with the palm of one hand and stroked her gleaming brown neck.

Beatrice stopped and watched, mesmerized. When he’d finished tacking her horse he led the mare out of her stall. The horse followed along with him docilely.

“She likes you,” she said.

The young man looked up sharply, as if surprised to see her there. “She’s a sweet lady, she is. I think she’s missed you, Princess. Seems ready to go for a ride.”

“Well, I’ll be spending more time with her now.” She felt sorry for having neglected her horses of late, but her mother had kept her so very busy. And anyway, they did most of their riding at Windsor, where the royals had more privacy along the trails. “Here, I’ll lead her the rest of the way.” She held out her hand for the reins.

“Very good, Your Highness. I won’t be a minute.”

She frowned as she watched the groom dash back into the recesses of the stable. “A minute for what?” she called to him. “Isn’t Lady Jane ready?” The horse appeared saddled, bridled, stirrups adjusted. Nothing missing that she could see.

“She
is
ready,” he shouted back, “but I need to get my horse. He’s further back.”

Beatrice shook her head. What was this all about?

She found Jackson in the yard, one boot braced on the rail of the paddock fence, watching his groom exercise the sleek thoroughbred she’d seen earlier. “Your new boy behaves as if he intends to accompany me.”

“Princess, you can’t go out into the park unattended. You know that.”

She did, of course. They never went for a drive in the carriage without at least two footmen, armed in recent years. When Brown was alive, he sometimes took her mother out alone, for a trot on her favorite mount. He had been a formidable man and protection enough.

But, in Darmstadt, Beatrice had found it so refreshing to roam woods and field on her own, and then with just Henry. She hadn’t wanted an attendant along today. She yearned for another taste of that same privacy and independence. Aside from that, she more than half suspected her mother used staff to spy on members of the family and Court.

“I will be fine on my own.”

Jackson looked horrified. “There are those, Princess, would like nothing better than to—”

“I know…wreak havoc on the Crown and bring down the government, using my family’s vulnerability to do so. But surely, not on Rotten Row!”

Elton Jackson removed his tweed cap and wrung it in his hands. His whiskered, leathery face contorted with concern. “Please, Your Highness, let the lad go with you. He’ll be most respectful, won’t pester you at all. If you’ve any trouble with your horse, he’ll at least be there to help.”

“I’ve never had trouble of any sort with Lady Jane.” The man was being insistent to the point of irritation. But she could see little point in arguing, out here in the middle of the yard for all to see. “All right then. I see him coming now. Help me mount. I’ll let him tag along if it makes you feel better, Mr. Jackson.” She sighed, resigned to the trade off. The groom’s company for a few precious hours of freedom from her mother.

As soon as he’d seen her safely up onto her saddle, the stable master glanced behind him at the younger man, now astride a magnificent black Arabian. She thought she saw a worried look flash across Jackson’s craggy features. Beatrice knew this particular horse wasn’t popular with the family, due to his unpredictable temperament. He’d thrown more than one groom, but her mother insisted upon keeping him because John Brown had purchased him as a foal, for the queen, not long before he died.

Just then, something else seemed to catch Jackson’s eye. Beatrice followed his gaze to a well-dressed couple, approaching on foot from the far side of the yard. At this distance, she recognized neither of them. Jackson quickly excused himself and rushed toward the pair, waving them over to the opposite side of a shed before Beatrice could get a closer look at them.

Odd,
she thought,
what are two strangers doing on palace grounds?
But movement closer to her robbed her of the fleeting thought.

She turned to see the new groom walking his mount up to hers. He stood the horse and waited patiently, erect in his saddle, gaze cast at a servant’s respectful mid-distance, not meeting her eyes.

“I hope you know how to handle that beast,” Beatrice murmured as she turned Lady Jane toward the gates. “Otherwise I’ll be the one helping
you
.”

He laughed pleasantly. “I can handle myself with any beast, four legs or two. Don’t you worry about me, Your Highness.”

His bravado was both off-putting and charming, in a strange way. Strong, hard-willed men appealed to her mother, but they had frightened Beatrice as a child. Now that she was an adult they still made her wary. She noticed the groom had strapped on a sword. She was about to object to the necessity of having an armed escort, but then Mr. Jackson might insist on a pair of the queen’s Beefeaters attending her. She’d be made a spectacle of and have to endure the stares of everyone she passed in the park.

“I prefer riding alone,” she said when he started to bring his horse alongside hers. “But since it seems you must do your job, I’ll thank you to give me some distance.”

He nodded but she sensed a smile not far from his lips. “As you wish, Your Highness.” He let her lead the way across the yard, then out through the tall wrought-iron gates with their gold-encrusted coat of arms, and from there across the road and toward the park’s entrance. As a child, she’d wondered if those spiky, black gates had been meant to keep commoners out, or royals in. Some days, she still wasn’t sure.

Beatrice rode sidesaddle, as her mother had always done and insisted upon for all of her girls. Only Louise had eventually refused the polite convention and chose to straddle her horse, horrifying the Court and amusing the gentility of the city.
If I had Louise’s pluck
, she thought,
I might even now be on my way to join Henry
.

But what if she was wrong and Henry didn’t love her enough to marry her in spite of the queen’s disapproval. Or, perhaps even worse, didn’t love her enough to stay with her always even if they did marry? If she cut her connections with her own family, and he later cast her aside for another woman, would her mother take her back? Or would she, Princess Beatrice, become one of those thousands of desperate women she’d read about in
The Times
, roaming the streets of London without home or income? Begging for money to feed themselves. Poking through garbage. Selling their bodies in exchange for a safe place to sleep.

“Princess?”

“Hmmm?”

Startled out of her dark thoughts, she turned toward the voice and suddenly remembered where she was and who had spoken. The groom. On his horse just behind her. And in front of her stood a horse-drawn omnibus loading passengers. She had missed the park gate and nearly run her horse into the back end of the thing.

“Oh, sorry. I was miles away in thought.” She laughed, embarrassed.

“Not a problem, Your Highness. Come then, follow me. I know another way.”

He led her across a strip of grass, between two ash trees whose lowest branches forced them to duck down against their horses’ necks, and then they were in among thick foliage. Just when she thought he’d got them lost, they came out onto the carriageway that ran parallel to Rotten Row, the riding path traditionally reserved for the nobility.

“Oh, I see, well done.” She laughed nervously, looking around, pleased that they hadn’t yet attracted the attention of other riders or occupants of the open carriages passing by, who seemed more intent upon themselves being seen than in watching her. “I’ll have to remember that short cut.”

He nodded at her and smiled. She noticed, for the first time, his reddish gold hair, slightly longer than was fashionable in the city, so that it brushed his collar. His eyes, she could now see from this close up, were a gray-green, as alert as a fox’s as they scanned the wide path and nearby woods. He sat his mount with confidence as they rode at a relaxed pace.

“What is your name?” she asked.

“Gregory, Your Highness.” “Gregory.” It suited him. Regal. A name of popes and kings.

“Most everyone calls me Greg. Fits my current situation better, I expect.”

He was modest after all. “And I understand you are a Scot?”

“Grew up in Aberdeenshire. Lived there all of my life, ma’am.”

Somehow, they’d come to be riding side by side again, and she didn’t object. Conversing comfortably with him while he followed her would have been next to impossible.

“Why did you come to London, Greg?” She knew her mother would never have carried on a relaxed conversation with a commoner or member of her household staff. Somehow it made her feel more liberal and modern to show a personal interest in the man.

“Adventure, I guess you’d say. There’s little for me to do up north. My two older brothers care for the farm and surrounding land, and the manor house, of course.”

She stopped her horse abruptly and stared at him. “What sort of fantasy is this?”

He laughed, his eyes dancing as if he’d known his last words would surprise her. “No fantasy, Princess. I’m not a peasant, you know.”

“No, I didn’t know. I assumed, like most of the boys who come to work in the royal mews, you were a tenant farmer’s son.”

“Well, we do run a proper farm on the estate, but we have a foreman to do the hiring and handle most of the actual labor. No, my dad’s a Lord, James MacAlister, and we’re an old landed family. He used to hunt with your father after your parents took over Balmoral and rebuilt her.”

She still felt confused by his unorthodox background. “Then you haven’t sufficiently answered my question. Why come to London and why work in the queen’s stables?”

“Why not?” He shrugged and grinned at her, revealing a captivating dimple in his right cheek. “What is the third son of a lord to do with his life except educate himself (if he’s wise), gamble and drink (if he’s not), and hunt? I was tired of living off my father’s stipend. Besides, I wanted to be useful. I love horses, and I’m good with them. So why not do something I enjoy?”

“You could breed a stable-full of your own in Scotland,” she suggested.

“Ah, but there’s another part to that equation.” He blushed and averted his eyes, and she realized she must have hit on a sensitive topic.

She asked anyway. “Which is?”

“Investing in fine horse flesh costs money. And keeping a large stable even more. My family has struggled to hold onto our property for as long as I can remember. My grandfather lost most of the family’s fortune back during Crimean War.”

And then she understood. It was a tragic and familiar tale these days. Working as an equerry for the queen, Gregory would never earn enough to make a difference in his family’s future, but at least he wouldn’t further drain their resources. She felt badly for him and sensed his discomfort, talking about his family’s financial ruin.

She changed the subject. “So, do you enjoy working in the Royal Mews?”