Page 74 of A Queen's Match
They were in the White Drawing Room at Buckingham Palace. Sir John had painted all of Her Majesty’s portraits here, insisting that it offered the best natural light. May had arrived an hour earlier to sit for her and Eddy’s official engagement portrait.
So far, the groom hadn’t shown up.
No one had dared remark upon it. A bevy of maidservants whirled about May, smoothing her hair, adjusting the skirts of her white-and-gold gown, helping Sir John set up his easel. May was just wondering if they would begin the painting without Eddy when the sitting room’s door burst open.
“Your Majesty!” Sir John bowed, flipping a paintbrush behind his back with a flourish. “As always, it is an honor to commemorate these historic moments for your family.”
May hurried to stand and curtsy at the queen’s arrival, knowing that Sir John would have to restage her entire pose.
“We are still waiting for His Royal Highness Prince Eddy,” the painter apologized.
Then another pair of footsteps approached the door. “Don’t worry, I’ll be standing in for him.”
George strode into the room, wearing the Robe of State—a massive thing of purple velvet, embroidered and trimmed in ermine, linked across his chest by a heavy gold chain. Underneath, he had on a gold brocade waistcoat of the same fabric as May’s gown. The garment was a bit long on him and straining at the shoulders; it had been cut for Eddy, and George had always been the stockier brother. Beneath all those layers of fur and chain, his chest was broader than Eddy’s.
May flushed a little at the realization that she was thinking about George’s bare chest.
“I’m afraid Eddy won’t be joining us.” Queen Victoria said this carelessly, as if she were remarking upon the weather, but May sensed her annoyance. As Eddy’s fiancée, she probably should have been irritated, too. But May didn’t care all that much—not when George had come instead.
“Georgie has agreed to fill in for his brother,” the queen explained. “John, I trust this won’t present a problem?”
“Not at all. I’m just beginning initial sketches today,” the artist assured her.
Victoria nodded. “As we discussed, our jeweler will arrive later with the Imperial State Crowns.”
May didn’t mean to gasp. When the queen turned to her, one eyebrow raised expectantly, May stammered a reply. “I’m sorry, I just—I didn’t know we were to be painted in crowns.”
Victoria eyed May with unmistakable disapproval. “Sir John here will study the crowns so that he can sketch them atop your heads, but under no circumstances will you or Eddywearthe Imperial State Crowns. A crown is not abonnet,May, to betried onat a milliner’s shop. It is a sign of the divine power that God grants you through the sacrament of coronation, and only after you have been anointed with sacred oil may you put it on your brow.”
“Of course, Your Majesty.” May looked down, her cheeks flaming.
Victoria stared at her a moment longer, then shook her head and turned back to the painter. “Sir John, please leave your sketches on the easel before you depart. I will stop by this afternoon to review them and ensure your progress is satisfactory. Do make sure that Eddy”—she hesitated—“that is, George, is standing. I despise portraits of kings sitting onthrones. I’d like to see him in a commanding frontal pose, with a hand on a table. Or holding a saber, as my own dear Albert did in his first portrait.”
Sir John bowed in silent obeisance, and the queen swept from the room.
There was a flurry of hushed murmurs as the various attendants helped May sit back down, adjusting her skirts and the fall of her robe. Sir John attempted several poses for George before settling on one that was surprisingly intimate: standing behind May with a hand on the back of her armchair. Then the artist retreated behind his easel, and the only sound was the scrape of charcoal over paper.
May kept her gaze resolutely forward, though she was hyperaware of George standing just behind her. She imagined that she could hear the rhythm of his breaths, could feel his hand mere inches from her head, close enough to play with a few strands of her hair.
“Don’t worry about Grannie,” George murmured, once Sir John had turned aside to sharpen his charcoal. “She’s in a bad mood. Eddy has been acting strangely, and then—” George hesitated. “She got some unexpected news. And you know Grannie never handles the unexpected very well.”
May decided to say it. “The news about Missy?”
“You heard?” George whispered.
“Lady Ely told me. Are you all right?” May dared to look back at him, ruining her pose. “I know you and Missy were…”
“Grannie always wanted us to marry, which is why she’s so upset. But Missy and I were never more than friends.”
“But you were always so affectionate with her!” Dimly, May was aware that she shouldn’t say this aloud, but shewas still rattled from that confrontation with her father and couldn’t think clearly. “That day at the Earl of Stafford’s house, when you rushed to help her…”
George looked confused. “Of course I rushed to help. Missy was stung by a wasp.”
May didn’t understand why her chest felt suddenly tight, why her mouth had gone dry. It made no difference that George didn’t love Missy—that his running after her that day was just George’s innate sense of chivalry.
Belatedly, she realized that she needed to reply. “It seems like I misread things between you and Missy,” she whispered.
The silence between them felt suddenly weighty, heavy with something new—something that May wasn’t sure she dared look in the face.
