Alix and Eddy looked so maddeningly perfect together, like the set of matched dolls that Hélène had been given as a child. Alix’s docile sweetness, her perfect blond hair, the way her every gesture was underscored with etiquette and forethought—she was exactly what a future queen should be, as if she had been custom-designed to stand next to Eddy and show off his kingliness.
Alix looked up, apparently feeling the weight of Hélène’s gaze. Then, to Hélène’s surprise, she said something to Eddy and started over.
God, it would be so much simpler if Hélène could hate her. Shewantedto hate her. Yet there was a good-natured earnestness to Alix, a sweetness that shone through her shy reserve. Ever since that episode at the opera last year, Hélène had felt oddly protective of Alix: the way an older sister might feel, though Hélène was hardly a year older.
In other circumstances—if Alix weren’t publicly courting the man Hélène secretly loved—perhaps they could have been friends.
“I’m glad to see you today, Miss d’Orléans,” Alix began, a bit coolly. “There is something I’d like to ask your adviceon.”
Hélène nodded, caught off guard. “How can I help?”
The two young women drew aside, away from the photographs that lined the walls. Hélène realized that Alix was thrumming with tension like a newly strung bow.
“What would you do,” Alix demanded, “if someone betrayed your trust in a cruel and hurtful way?”
Oh.This was no rhetorical question; it was an accusation.
Alix knew about Hélène and Eddy.
Hélène’s mind whirled. She could deny it, of course: insist that Alix had the story all wrong. But that would only add a lie to the wounds she’d already inflicted.
“I’m sure that the person in question didn’t set out to hurt you,” she said swiftly. “Any damage done must have been inadvertent, not malicious.”
“Then this person was thoughtless, which is as condemnable as outright cruelty.”
So much for Alix being a shy wallflower. It would seem that when push came to shove, she was ready to defend her ground.
Hélène nodded, chastened. “You are right. A lack of foresight is no excuse for harming others, no matter how unintentional the damage was.”
At that, the anger seemed to deflate from Alix, and she gave a weary sigh. “I just…I had hoped you might be more discreet.”
Before Hélène could reply, Alix turned and walked away, her face smooth and sphinxlike. You would never know from looking at her that she’d just confronted her fiancé’s lover.
Hélène stared after her, regret curling in her stomach.
She needed to find Eddy. But she wasn’t like Alix; she had no claim on him, couldn’t just march over and grab his elbow. Hélène was forced to head over slowly, chatting with other guests along the way, weaving around swishing petticoats as various people pretended to admire the Princess of Wales’s handiwork.
When he saw her approach, Eddy nodded to a picture of Alexandra with her daughter Louise. The two of them hadposed on the terrace at Sandringham, parasols perched over their shoulders.
“I must say, I’m not sure Mother should get credit for thisone.”
Hélène’s breath caught. She couldn’t help it; the moment she saw him, the old familiar longing pulsed through her body, to pool warm and hungry in her core.
Unaware of her distress, Eddy kept talking. “She can’t have taken the picture if she’s in it. Which raises the question: what does self-portraiture mean in photography?”
“Eddy…” Hélène meant it as a warning, or a reprimand, but it sounded more like a sigh.
He took an imperceptible step closer. It was reckless, having him this near to her—so close that she could almost feel the heat of his body.
“You haven’t come over since Balmoral,” he whispered. “Is everything all right?”
“Of course not!”
It came out harsher than she’d meant, but the image of Eddy and Alix together was still branded onto the back of her eyelids like the aftermath of a photographic flash.
Eddy stiffened. “So it’s true? You’ve been avoiding me?”
Yes, she’d been avoiding him since Balmoral, stung by the way he’d publicly courted Alix—dancing with her, sitting next to her at every meal,marryingher onstage—then giving wildflowers to Hélène in secret, as if an illicit flower could somehow fix everything.
