Page 37 of The Heir
“Excellent,” said Victoria. “And if you learn anything, and we can’t talk, you can leave me a note.” She furrowed her brow at the volume between them. “Perhaps in a book? But not this one. Sir John might see it as his property. We’ll use Wordsworth’s poems. Mama is used to me reading those and won’t wonder at it.”
“But—” began Jane.
“But what?”
“Why are you doing this?” Jane spoke the words in a rush, as if she did not want to give herself time to take them back. “What could it possibly matter to you whether it was Dr. Maton or a gardener or Father Christmas who died?”
“Because Dr. Maton’s death is not a small thing,” Victoria whispered. “This is not one of Sir John’s usual lies about my temperament or why Mama was late for the reception. This is about the security of the palace and the security of my person. If I can prove Sir John was involved, that would mean that he meant to deceive me, and that he schemed to deceive Their Majesties. I can tell Queen Adelaide, and she can tell my uncle king. They can use it to force the hands of the Kensington board into giving me my own household.”
“That is why I am doing this,” she said. “And why I intend to succeed.”
Chapter 16
“How did matters progress with the princess today?” Father asked Jane.
They sat in the stuffy carriage again, facing each other. This time, instead of gazing out the window, Father leaned forward, watching her with greedy expectation.
How do I do this?She’d known that Father would quiz her when they were alone, but she didn’t expect him to start the second the carriage door was closed. They hadn’t even reached the palace gates yet.
“She liked the book,” said Jane, to gain herself a little extra time.
“What else?”
She’d imagined all manner of answers. Now that Father was actually in front of her, all those ideas flew away. Did the princess realize what a position she’d put Jane in? Probably not. But what if she did? What if she knew full well she was effectively asking Jane to choose the princess’s hopes or her father’s?
Choose her trust or his.
Anger burned inside Jane, at them and at herself. After all, she’d started this mess when she walked out across the green. It had seemed like a good idea at the time. Now she had no choice but to play the cards she had laid out for herself.
“Come, come, Jane, don’t sit there like a block.”
Jane lifted her eyes. She saw her father and thought of all the stories she’d heard him spin to get what he wanted.
She took a deep breath. “She knows you lied.”
Father frowned. “What do you mean?”
“The . . . the corpse on the green. He wasn’t a gardener. She knows it. She knows you lied to her.”
She expected him to deny it. She braced herself for his angry shout. But instead, he was silent, regarding her without seeing her. That felt worse somehow.
“Does she know who it was?” he asked finally.
Jane’s heart thudded hard. She had this single moment to decide whether she would turn over the next card. This one moment to decide what she would try to make him believe.
“Not yet,” Jane told him. “But she means to find out.”
Father smirked. “Has she said exactly how she means to do that?”
Just say it. He’ll take any hesitation as you being afraid of him. You are always afraid. You are poor, whey-faced, slowpoke Jane. And he knows that.
She watched her hands twisting together in her lap. “N-not exactly, but she seems very sure she can.”
“And that is entirely like her,” said Father. “She is a thoroughly spoilt young woman. Although I do not have to tell you that.” It was a mark of confidence in her—a shared secret, a shared contempt. Jane felt her cheeks heat up. “She constantly overestimates her own capabilities.”
Jane made herself turn up one corner of her mouth in a small smile.
“And what did you say to her about it? When she told you she meant to solve this troublesome riddle?”
