It means nothing, it means nothing, it means nothing, she chanted in her head, even as she pretended to stretch forward andlean. Just as she broached the window, the carriage turned from the main road onto a long drive.
“Oh, perhaps we’ve arrived,” Ryan said, and pressed her face to the window again. The small road led away from the forest, positioning the tree line behind them.
“But are you certain you’re alright, my lady?” Agnes asked.
“Yes,” she said. “Fit as a fiddle. Forgive me, Agnes, I’m simply...” she turned away from the window “...I suppose I’m just nervous to drop in on a royal princess unannounced. How do I look?”
“You look...” Agnes studied her with a wary expression “...well, you’re rather flushed, to be honest, my lady. But are you overwarm?”
Ryan shook her head, raising her hands to her cheeks. She felt nothing through her gloves—in fact, all feeling seemed to have left her body. Or was it that she felt everything? She was hot, and cold, and dizzy, and sitting perfectly still in the center of this road while the world spun around her.
Why had he come?
“Did the luncheon disagree with you?” Agnes wondered, and Ryan was forced to pay attention. My God, how ill did she look?
“Luncheon was perfectly suitable. It’s merely nerves, as I said. Oh look, here we are.”
The carriage slowed, and Ryan used this as an excuse to dive to the window. Gabriel was nowhere to be seen. They’d reached the main house and the tree line was some hundred yards away, at the edge of manicured parkland. He was gone. Naturally. Or perhaps she’d imagined the whole thing. Ryan took a deep breath and forced her brain to the matter at hand.
The centerpiece of Mayapple was a charming manor house in the Palladian style. The smooth stone shone gold and gray in the midday sun. There was a small rise of steps and a little stoop and a giant front door. Ryan swallowed. She must pull together some little speech that would introduce herself and her problem without sounding deranged. She must mount the steps and knock on the door. She must save her family and not think about Gabriel Rein/Gabriel d’Orleans, riding with breathtaking balance and grace through the wood beside her carriage.
“Right,” she said again to Agnes. “Here we are. If the family are at home and have time for us, I’ll send for you. If not, I’ll turn round and we’ll negotiate with the driver about travel to London. You’re sure you don’t mind the carriage? Are you comfortable, Agnes?”
“Oh yes, I’m very comfortable, my lady. But are you certain you’re—”
“Fine, fine, everything is completely...” a deep breath “...fine.” She gathered her skirts and reached through the open door for the driver’s outstretched hand.
“If you are unwell, we can always depart for London now andwriteto these princesses or whomever they are?” Agnes called after her.
Ryan gave her a reassuring wave and spoke brieflyto the driver about waiting. After that, she raised her chin, took up her skirts, and strode across the gravel drive to the steps. At first glance, the house appeared smaller than Winscombe, but the closer she got, the grander it seemed. Winscombe was large but crooked and slumped and bleached ashy by sea winds and rain. This house was pristine and immaculate—a small palace, if Ryan was being honest.
And good for you, Princess Elise, Ryan thought. To have a lovely home after all she’d been through.
Ryan reached into her pocket and felt for Gabriel’s letter. She patted the bun at the back of her head. She adjusted her hat. She’d worn her pale green dress—not her favorite, but it was a nice dress, just the same, not to mention her only remaining garment after ruining the blue traveling suit. The green dress had been her mother’s, remade in a more modern style. Say what you would about Agnes, but she was an excellent seamstress and took loving care of Ryan’s wardrobe.
Do not look, Ryan thought, trying to slice through the nonsense in her brain.Don’t look for him; don’t expect him; do not think of him.The trees were a green wall in the hazy distance. If he was there (a very significant “if”), he would not leave that wall. It was pointless to look.
And then Ryan was at the front door, and she felt so charged with jittery energy that she did not hesitate, she rapped on the door three times, very quickly.
After the knock, silence. No footsteps from within. No movement at the nearby window.
Tightening her gloves, Ryan reached up to knock a second time. Before her knuckle made contact with the wood, the door was wrenched open.
“Hello,” said a woman in a pretty lavender dress with dark hair and hazel eyes. In her arms, she held a baby—a girl—gnawing toothlessly a crust of bread, crumbs dribbling down the front of her dress.
The woman looked informal—no hat, no gloves, hair loose—and a little harried, but very beautiful. And not unkind. She smiled expectantly at Ryan.
“Can I help you?” She hitched the baby higher on her hip.
“Sorry, Mrs. Crewes!” came a man’s voice behind. “You are too quick for me. Again.”
“Noelle was making a run for the door, Wallace,” the woman said over her shoulder. “It’s no problem. I can manage.”
A resentful-looking butler appeared behind her. Now all three of them—the pretty woman, the butler, and the baby—stared at Ryan. After a beat, the baby held the bread out. “Bah!” she said, a wordless offering.
“Hello,” Ryan began.
The trio in the doorway considered her.
