Then the old lady on the red and gold velvet chair said, “We are glad of your return, Miss Lexham.”
Confounded, utterly confounded, utterly lost, Zoe yet managed to say, “Thank you, Your Majesty,” because it had been drummed into her as a safe thing to say. She couldn’t have said any more than that in any case, she was so thunderstruck by the Queen’s words.
Glad of your return.
Queen Charlotte said, “You favor our good friend, your grandmother. We shall look forward to seeing you again.”
Zoe understood this was a signal to withdraw. She murmured thanks and started backing away.
One did not turn one’s back on the Queen.
One of the princesses—Zoe wasn’t sure which one—stepped forward before she could commence curtseying herself out of the room.
The princess said, “We greatly admire your courage, Miss Lexham.”
Only that. One quick sentence and one quick smile before she returned to her sisters.
Zoe had to be content with that, though she had a hundred questions to ask. But in such a crowd, the royals hadn’t time to talk to everybody. Most of the time, they let people pass with no conversation at all.
She was halfway to the door when a very fat gentleman, most elaborately dressed, stopped her. “We are very glad of your return, Miss Lexham,” he said.
She dared to look up into the pale blue eyes. She saw tears there.
She became aware of Marchmont: She felt his presence before she actually saw him.
“Your Highness,” came his deep voice from somewhere above her right shoulder. “I thank you for your kindness.”
“A brave young woman,” said the Prince Regent—for that was who the fat gentleman was. “Stay a moment with us, Marchmont.”
Zoe breathed thanks and curtseyed and curtseyed and curtseyed until she was safely out of the room.
She found her mother and met her gaze but only squeezed her hand, because she couldn’t trust herself to speak.
She was afraid to say anything. She didn’t want to spoil it. She was afraid she’d wake up and find it was all a dream and the Queen had not given her the golden gift of approval, with a princess and the Regent himself echoing it.
She couldn’t stand stock-still, gaping, though, so she blindly followed her mother into the sea of people, the voices rising and falling around her.
What seemed like hours later—and might have been, progress through the rooms was so slow—she felt a hand at her elbow. Even without looking she knew it was Marchmont’s hand. But she did look up at him, into his beautiful face, and saw the smile hovering at the corner of his mouth.
“Well done,” he said.
A thousand feelings welled up in her heart. She looked away, because she knew her eyes would tell everything, andeverythingwas far more than she wanted him to see.
He guided her through one room after another and on to the staircase and a descent as slow as the ascent.
Again a crowd milled about them, but if the ladies were holding their skirts over-tightly and edging away, she didn’t notice.
She’d done it. She’d made her curtsey to the Queen. She existed, in the world into which she’d been born.
They spent an eternity getting down the accursed staircase, and Marchmont was dangerously near exploding with impatience by the time they reached the entrance hall.
“It will be a while before we can get through this crush to the courtyard,” he said. “There’s a painting I want you to see in the next room.”
“But my mother will be looking for me,” she said.
“Everybody’s mother will be looking for her,” he said. “And there’s my mad aunt Sophronia, whom I should prefer to avoid for the moment.” He’d glimpsed the figure in black from time to time as they’d made their progress through the rooms. With any luck, she would be gone by the time they went out for their carriage. “Come along.”
He took Zoe’s hand, gave a quick glance about, and slipped into a quiet corridor. He was an old hand at finding his way through royal quarters. He knew all the nooks and crannies. The Duke of Marchmont had his role to play at court, and he’d danced attendance on royals in one way or another for nearly half his life.
