“God help me if she requires an entire street of houses to be comfortable,” Luke muttered. When Luke married the girl, he intended to install her in the house given to him by the Prince Regent. He’d not seen the place, but it was grand enough to have a name rather than a number—Eastwell Park, it was called—so it should be sufficient. He’d wanted to clap eyes on the princess before he’d sorted out the house. His plan had been to quietly study the village, observe her surrogate family from afar, get a sighting of the girl. He would make discreet inquiries, watch how the family lived, gauge her displeasure with life in exile. When he knew more, Luke would leave his card and request to call.
Best-laid plans. He’d studied nothing and inquired of no one. His opportunity to research had vanished when he’d strode up her garden walk. Her surrogate parents sat, gaping at him, from the other side of an open Dutch door. He had two choices: introduce himself or run.
He’d opted to say his name. The lot of them stared back, their expressions registering shock and mild terror. There was an old man—stooped, white-haired, watery-eyed. He looked like a cobbler but introduced himself as Silas Dinwiddie. Next to him—taller and straighter, her jaw clenched, her nose high—was an old woman, Mrs. Dinwiddie. Luke knew these to be the names of Princess Danielle’s surrogate parents.
There were also two young women. The first was smallish, plumpish, with pale yellow hair. She stared at Luke as if he glowed. A relative, Luke thought, or a neighbor. She had the look of someone paying a visit; gloves on, hat on, with the delighted, rapt expression of someone observing gossip rather than playing a starring role in it.
Lastly, the other young woman was—
—the princess, Luke realized.
The other woman standing in the parlor was Princess Danielle Allard d’Orleans.
Luke knew this like he knew a dark cloud meant rain. The realization was a cold, brisk wind. The air pressure dropped and there was a sharpness to the color of the light. He could but stare.
“How do you do, Captain Bannock?” she said. “Please do come in.”
Oh no, Luke thought.
I won’t come in.
Oh no—pleaseno—not you.
She rounded shabby furniture and scattered cats, walking to the door. She had ebony hair and ivory skin. Her expression conveyed disbelief and wariness—but also forbearance.
The very last thing I need at the moment, Luke thought,is a beautiful, forbearingstorm.
He felt himself begin to sweat. The force of all he did not know began to capsize him. In his mind’s eye, he saw himself rapidly sink. Words failed him.
“Forgive our rudeness,” Princess Danielle was saying. “You’ve taken us by surprise. We’d only this moment been speaking of you.”
“Have you been?” he asked.
Up to this point, Luke had divided his life into two parts:beforehe’d learned to read and comprehend things—and after. Since the “after,” he’d sworn never to return to the blind, bumbling helplessness of the before. Largely, he’d succeeded in this, Surcouf’s surprise attack notwithstanding. He was, Fernsby once observed, the most well-read smuggler in the history of contraband.
Except no book would help him now. Staring into the heart-shaped face of someone who appeared nothing like a pawn or an institution and even less like a person pining for France. She appeared so young, could she be twenty? She was easily ten years younger than Luke’s own thirty-three years. Why had he not considered her age? Or the possibility that he would find her beautiful? Luke was drowning in all the things he’d been so foolish as to not consider.
Behind him, he could feel Fernsby craning to make his own assessment. Luke stepped up, pointlessly blocking the man who’d been brought along to smooth over situations just like this.
“Indeed we have, sir,” she was saying.
Indeed we have,sir, Luke repeated in his head. He struggled for the next thing to say. Years ago, he’d taught himself the vocabulary and accents of genteel speech. Smugglers made a better living if there was no man in the middle, and he preferred to negotiate directly with buyers. He’d wanted to speak like a gentleman because quality paid quality its due. It had been no effort to learn proper English, but now, in this moment, he could barely remember his name.
“We should be delighted to join you, miss,” Fernsby volunteered, peering around Luke. “James Roundhouse, Viscount Fernsby, at your service.” He swept off his hat.
The visiting girl with the hat made a gasping sound and reached for the arm of a chair. The two old people bobbed in deference. The loss for words inside Luke’s head whistled on.
“Pleasure to meet you, my lord,” said the woman who was the princess. Her voice was regal and bold. The voice of royalty.
It’s her, he thought again. He was so certain this woman was Princess Danielle, Luke wondered how she’d hidden in the plain sight of this Kentish village for so many years. Did everyone in the village simply acknowledge that a princess lived among them?
“Welcome to our home,” she was saying, ushering them inside.
“You’re too kind,” said Fernsby, striding to a chair. Luke followed, head bent, heart pounding. The room teemed with cats, coiling around boots, flicking tails, darting beneath furniture. Fernsby sneezed and yanked a handkerchief from his waistcoat. A white kitten was grooming itself in one of two unoccupied chairs.
Mrs. Dinwiddie said, “We’ve a tabby who’s just had kittens I’m afraid. Please excuse the little ones.”
Luke said nothing. He was somehow eight years old again, illiterate and ignorant, running wild on the docks, trying to survive the many challenges of life in the same moment they happened.
