“Do you care to talk about it? Is that why you’re here?”
“No, I’m here on another matter.”
“Whatever it is, I can see it troubles your soul.”
Mrs. Caldwell returned with the tea and scones, giving the men and the conversation a moment to breathe. Gain direction.
Stephen stirred his tea, his spoon clicking against the china cup. He peeked at the archbishop, who drank his tea with a look of contentment, offering nothing to Stephen but the space to speak.
Which he didn’t exactly know how to fill. Setting aside his tea, he stretched his legs and cramping ankle. Lately the pain seemed much more intense. He was starting to believe the injury would be with him the rest of his life.
He regarded the spiritual leader. “Sir, may I ask you a question?”
“Isn’t that why you’re here?”
“Why did you marry us? In secret? Corina and me? We woke you up in the middle of the night, asking you to break Brighton royal law.” Six years ago, the archbishop was a servant of the House of Stratton and the Church of Brighton, avowed to keep the nation’s and God’s laws.
The sister island nations were hobbled together by a hundred-year-old entail until Hessenberg discovered their own long-lost princess last year and established themselves as a sovereign nation once again.
“You tell me,” Mr. Caldwell said.
“Why you married us?”
“Yes, why do you think I agreed to your request, keeping quiet all these years?”
“Because I’m the prince? Because you . . . I don’t know . . . wanted us out of your hair so you could go back to bed? Leave me to sort out my own mess?”
The man laughed. “I’ve said no to kings and queens. Do you think I’d have any qualms about denying a young prince his seemingly impetuous request?”
Stephen sat back, holding his teacup in his palm. “Her twin brother died. In Afghanistan. I was there.”
“Ah, I see. Is that why you’ve been apart?”
“Yes.”
“And what does she think of this arrangement?”
“She says she loves me. She only recently learned the entire truth and why I cannot be with her.”
“Can’t be with her? Are you still married?”
“She signed annulment papers.”
“And it’s bothering you?”
“A little. I want to know why you married us.”
“Why did you want to marry Corina a month before you deployed?”
“I just wanted to be with her. Not just for a night, not to . . . you know . . . and then leave. I wanted to give her my name, a title. I wanted to spend my life with her. I love her.” He set down his tea, having no desire for it.
“And she loved you?”
“Yes, she loved me. She says she still loves me.”
“There’s your answer. Why I married you. That night, when you knocked on my door rousing me from sleep, I was a bit irritated. Then I opened the door to two people very much in love. I saw my reflection in your eyes. The way I felt about my missus when we married forty-five years ago. Otherwise, don’t think I’d have hesitated to send you back home. Prince or not.”
“You see, sir, when I look at her, I see . . . her brother . . . bleeding and dying. I’ve had a dream of her walking among the dead, wailing, her white wedding dress splattered with blood.” Stephen gripped his hands together, squeezing, cleansing away the invisible stain. “I did that to her, to those men.”
