“I am to be married this spring,” she begins.
“Ah.” Cal’s smile hardens. “When?”
“Easter weekend.”
“That’s soon.”
“Yes, it is.”
“Tell me, is he an upstanding man? A gentleman?”
“You’ve met him.” She takes another sip. “The young man in Central Park. When we ran into each other several weeks ago.”
“Ah yes. Mr. Peyton.” Cal turns abruptly, calling, “Barkeep? I’m gonna need a whiskey.”
He sighs, stiff smile still fastened on tight. “I suppose congratulations are in order.”
“I suppose.”
Cal’s gaze roams across her features. “If you aren’t yet ina blushing bride state of mind, maybe... there is time to reconsider? Postpone for a while? Can’t imagine you’re in the right headspace to make such a decision, with everything that’s going on. In Württemberg.”
“No, unfortunately, this needs to happen,” she counters. “Immediately. My cousin... well, she is a very demanding person.”
“The grand duchess?” Cal supplies. “Demanding?”
“You have no idea.”
“Enlighten me.” Cal leans against the bar. “Here I thought you two were peas in a pod.”
Cora lets out a bitter laugh, studying the swirling gold liquid in her glass. Good God, she cannot cry in front of this man.
She blinks the swell back. “She considers it my duty...to Württemberg...to do whatever she asks, whenever she asks, including going forth with this wedding. Thing is...”
Cora hastily raises the pint to her lips, the ale a strange sort of temerity fuel.
“I wanted to come to America, you understand, to assist my family. To be on the front lines of... soliciting help for our great nation. But I worry that I’m...”
Cora pauses, recalibrating. “My late father, you see, the current king’s exchequer, was an overly trusting man. He understood that Württemberg has suffered greatly for years, that King Charles has stood by idly for far too long as outside forces took advantage and pillaged our homeland. My father hadagreedwith Prince Wilhelm and the other nationalists calling for change.” She pauses. “And yet he still fiercely believed that his king would do the honorable thing. My father blindly deferred to him, trusting him, doing his bidding, until his dying day, just like a fool.”
Cora stares once more into her frothy, fast dwindling glass.
“I suppose I worry that I’m more like him than I ever realized.”
If Cora’s ad hoc, thinly veiled soul-baring is giving Cal any pause, he doesn’t let on. The man appears wholly engaged, even empathetic, those blue eyes considering her, nonjudgmental. “Is that so?”
“Maybe I am no more than my cousin’s pawn. My personal interests, welfare, barely considered, if at all. Maybe the grand duchess values her mission more than anything else,anyoneelse, and in serving her so unquestioningly, I’m only ruining my life in the process.” She looks away, cheeks burning. “Please understand, I do admire my cousin greatly. Really hoped I could learn from her—belike her, rather. Emulate her. You understand what I mean. She’s so regal, elegant—”
He murmurs, “You are more like her than you both realize, I’m afraid.”
Cora finds the compliment vaguely disappointing, which emboldens her. “Are you trying to call me pretty, Mr. Archer?”
“As a reporter, that’s a hard fact to deny. But no, I wasn’t calling you pretty,” he repeats with disdain. He downs his whiskey, eyes never leaving hers. “Resilientwas perhaps the word I was looking for. Resourceful, and ever so refreshing.” His eyes lose their playful sparkle, turn serious. “Possibly even exceptional.”
As she struggles to recall how and when Cal Archer would have ever spoken at length to the “grand duchess” in order to glean their similarities, he leans closer.
And all thoughts scatter from her mind.
“Your cousin would be a fool herself not to be proud of you,” he murmurs. “Though I must come clean. The only reason I’m admitting all this”—he gently taps her head—“is that I don’t think you’re writing anything down in there either.”
