Page 85 of A Queen's Match
Louise didn’t smile, and an odd shiver traced up Hélène’s spine.
“Come on,” Louise said simply, pulling Hélène toward a waiting carriage and gesturing that Violette should follow in the buggy cart. “I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve arranged for you and your lady’s maid to stay with our neighbors, Lord and Lady Wyclif. They are most eager to host you.”
Hélène blinked at Eddy’s sister. “I’m not staying in the main house? Did Her Majesty refuse to see me, or are you keeping me a secret?”
“Grandmother isn’t at Sandringham. You know how she is about illness,” Louise explained. It was true; Queen Victoria abhorred illness, and was always fleeing London when there were outbreaks of scarlet fever or influenza. “I just…I acted somewhat on my own, bringing you here. I didn’t want to alarm Mother.”
“I take it Eddy still hasn’t told anyone about our engagement, then?” Hélène asked carefully.
“Ah, so you did reconcile!” Louise nodded sharply. “I thought so.”
Hélène glanced out the window to hide her confusion. When she’d gotten the telegram, she’d assumed it was all Eddy’s doing, that he had asked Louise to send for her. But he clearly hadn’t told Louise anything. Why had Louise summoned her here, then?
They turned up the front drive, and Hélène caught her first glimpse of Sandringham, a sprawling brick structure with stone gables and cupolas that gleamed in the evening light. The estate had not been in the royal family long; it was the last property that Prince Albert purchased before his death. He’d gifted it to the Prince and Princess of Wales, supposedly in the hope that it would strengthen their marriage: that its remote location in Norfolk would keep Bertie away from all the temptations of London—namely, all his mistresses.
As it turned out, Bertie only came here for shooting weekends. But Alexandra loved it. Hélène suspected that she thrived in this English country air, in a way that she never did in Scotland. This was her house, after all, and Balmoral was the queen’s.
“Eddy has told me so much about Sandringham,” Hélène said, in an attempt to break the silence. It seemed like one of the happier places of his childhood. He’d described skating parties on the lake, lit by colored torches, where servants handed out mugs of mulled wine or steaming chocolate. He’d told her about the pranks he and his father had pulled everyChristmas morning, leaving pudding in people’s shoes or filling bicycle pumps with water and squirting his sisters. With the royal family’s typical quirkiness, Sandringham was one of the places they were most relaxed, yet they held tight to rigid court etiquette. Dinner was ruthlessly formal, requiring women to wear diamonds, men to wear their full decorations and orders.
Louise sighed heavily. “Hélène. You know that Eddy is quite ill, don’t you?”
No. There was a note of something in Louise’s voice, but Hélène refused to hear it. “Oh, influenza has been everywhere this winter. Have you all been taking your daily dose of quinine? It will cure most anything….”
She trailed off as their carriage approached the front of the house. Louise didn’t wait for a footman to open the door; she hopped out, jerking her head toward the front steps. “Why don’t I take you to him now.”
Hélène had a vague impression of the hallways they walked through: scrolling wallpaper hung with swords or suits of armor, painted porcelain plates arranged in circles and mounted to the walls. In one sitting room she saw a stuffed bird in a glass case.
Finally Louise paused at a wooden door. “He will be so glad to see you. Yours is the only name he keeps saying.”
Hélène nodded in reply, her throat dry, and turned the door handle.
Eddy lay in bed, the covers pulled up around his shoulders. He was so pale. For a terrifying moment Hélène thought the worst—until she saw the soft rise and fall of his chest, and her heart was able to beat again.
“Excuse me, miss.” A nurse who’d been seated in an armchair quickly stood. She left with a curtsy.
Hélène rushed to the side of Eddy’s bed and pressed a hand to his brow. He was too cold, wasn’t he?
“Hélène.” His eyes opened, and he smiled, the old winsome smile that lit up his face. Seeing it made her feel better.
“Eddy! I’m sorry I didn’t come sooner. I had no idea you were this sick,” she insisted.
He reached for her hand, lacing their fingers. Hélène pressed a kiss to his knuckles, fighting back tears. How had so much changed in the span of a week? Eddy looked like he didn’t have the strength to get out of bed, let alone talk to his grandmother about their engagement.
“You should leave,” he said weakly. “I would never forgive myself if you got ill….”
“Please, I’m as strong as a horse. I don’t get ill.”
“That makes sense.” He started to say more, but dissolved into a fit of coughing. Hélène hated that she could do nothing. She just stood there, helpless, as he gasped for air, his hands clawing at the bedcovers.
“Damn this sickness,” he said at last, in an old man’s voice—high, wheezing. “You’re here, alone in my room, and I can’t even enjoy it.”
This time the old flirtatious smile was strained.
“Let’s see what we can manage,” Hélène said, with forced lightness.
They were already flirting with impropriety, having her in his room unchaperoned, under the roof of a royal residence. A residence that Hélène wasn’t even supposed tobeat.
She didn’t care. If they found her like this, she would suffer the consequences.
