“Stop—please stop,” he said, holding out a hand. “You have not offended me. Your innocence is an undeserved gift—one that should be opened by another man.Iam the unfit person in this boat, not you.”
Her eyes were huge, her cheeks pink. The wind blew ebony curls across her face. He looked away, biting off his gloves and rubbing the back of his neck.
“I hesitate,” he continued, “because words fail me. Rest assured, it’s not bad news—what I have to say. That is, it’s not bad as in hurtful. Or threatening.”
The wind blew, and the boat began, slowly, to spin.
“Is the betrothal off?” she asked in a rasp.
He eyed her. He realized that shewantedto marry him. Having her want him was better than having her recoil from him, but the fonder she became, the more complicated this would be. Even so, he felt the sail inside of his chest fill and puff out.
“No,” he said. “It’s not the end of the betrothal, it is the reason for it. Moreover, it’s information for which you’ve asked. Repeatedly. Information you deserve. I beg your pardon in advance. You’ve waited far too long to hear...” an exhale “...what I’m about to tell you.”
He looked to her, and her expression was so raw and desperate, he looked away.
“What I’m trying to say is,” he continued, “if I addressed you properly, I would invokeyourtitle. I would say, ‘Your Serene Highness.’?”
“What?” She searched his face. She had the look of someone given a riddle to solve.
“In France,” he went on, “this title, ‘Your Serene Highness,’ is the form of address attached to princesses of the blood. And you, Danielle Allard, are actuallynotEnglish. You areFrench.”
“I am French?” The words came out in a whisper. She looked down at her arm as if to find a label that said this. She touched a hand to her dark curls. She gaped at him.
He forced himself to continue. “The parents of your birth were French. You come from a long, and in fact, very distinguished line of French aristocrats. Forgive me, I am only learning your precise lineage myself, but I do know that your surname is not Allard—that is, Allard is only part of your name. There is more, and the second part of your surname is part of your title as well. It isOrleans.”
“I am French,” she repeated.
“Your full name is...” he swallowed “...PrincessDanielle Allard d’Orleans.”
“Princess?”The word came out on a little choke. She pushed forward, sitting on her knees.
He went on. “The reason you were taken as a baby from France and from the family of your birth, is—was—the Revolution. In France. Twenty-some-odd years ago. Your family, which is a cadet branch of the French royal family, was being hunted down, imprisoned, and executed by rioters. Your tutors, surely, taught you about the French Revolution. Do you understand?”
She shook her head. The confusion and trepidation on her face tore his heart. He had the overwhelming urge to go to her; to pull her to him and speak the rest of it into her hair in a soft voice. He must not, of course, touch her. He could tell her, but he could not comfort her. They weren’t friends and they must not be lovers. It was foolish to enter into a negotiation with your friend and disastrous to enter one with your lover.
He sighed. “Your uncle and aunt, the king and queen of France—”
“Myunclewas theking of France?” she asked.
“Yes. King Louis. He was executed, along with his wife, Queen Marie Antoinette. Your cousins, their sons, died in prison. Your birth father was also executed, I’m afraid. Because of the inherent danger, you were stolen out of the country to exile in England—a ward of the British royal family. At the same time, Miriam and Silas Dinwiddie, trusted retainers within St. James’s Palace, were contemplating retirement. Their proximity to Queen Charlotte made them privy to the news of your exile. They were childless but desperately wanted to be parents. They offered to serve as your surrogates. They intended to retire to a modest life here in Kent, and this was thought to be the safest way to conceal you. And you know the rest: they raised you as their own. You were, in fact, perfectly safe. When they speak of your tumultuous history... when they say your family was under dire threat... they mean the bloodlust that swept France during the Revolution. The violence could’ve very well claimed you if you’d not fled. It was not, at the time, a safe place for someone calledPrincess DanielleAllardd’Orleans.”
“No,” she said, shaking her head. “I am not a princess. I am a village girl; I am a maid of Kent. I hang sheets on the line, and scrub potatoes, and mount letter-writing campaigns to restore parish halls.
“If I was a princess,” she continued, “someonewould have told me.
“My parents,”she insisted,“would have told me.”
She finished:“I would have known.”
“Almost anyone would be a better candidate to explain this to you than me,” he said. “I know this. And I’m sorry.”
“No,”she repeated, head still shaking. She scrambled to her feet, fighting against her tangled skirts, struggling for balance in the rocking boat.
“Careful.” He reached out.
“If I am a princess, why hasn’t some royal family come for me? Why haven’t I been collected and installed in a castle in France?” She let out a bitter laugh. “Ha! Do you hear these words? ‘Castle’? ‘France’? It’s preposterous! And unbelievable. It’s unbelievable becauseit cannot be true.”
“I know this comes as a shock,” he said, holding his hands out, “and—”
