Fifty-one
Louise felt the carriage jolt. She opened her eyes and looked out at the cheering crowd lining the street as the carriages left Buckingham’s gates. She loved London, loved its people. It broke her heart to think of leaving this city. But what she most missed, already, was her Raven.
She had said nothing about this to anyone, of course, but somehow her husband must have read her thoughts.
“I’m truly sorry you’re unhappy, my dear.” Lorne kept his voice well below the camouflaging roar of the cheering crowd. “But it’s all for the best, you know.”
“What’s for the best?” she said dully, staring at the lump under her glove made by her engagement and wedding rings. A glint of diamonds peeked through the lace. Gold, diamonds—what could they mean to a woman when they failed to signify love?
“The American’s dismissal. He wasn’t your type. I was wondering how long it would take you to realize that. You do understand that now, don’t you?”
She glowered at him then shot a look at her sisters on the facing seat. Both were so engrossed in waving to the ecstatic crowd they showed no interest in anything she or Lorne might say. Even Alice’s duke seemed overwhelmed by the sheer volume of the celebratory mob.
“My type, sir,” Louise hissed, “is not for you to decide.” It came out rather more vehemently than she’d intended. But her patience with the marquess was fast running out. She hadn’t slept a wink since she’d last seen Byrne the day before. It seemed so unfair that, at last, when she’d found a man who not only excited her but truly moved her, she couldn’t have him. He was everything a lover should be—strong, ruggedly handsome, a born protector, and sensitive to her physical as well as emotional needs. How could she not fall in love with such a man?
“I’m sorry,” Lorne whispered. “Truly I am. But there’s nothing to be done about it. He’s dismissed and ordered out of the country. I’ll do what I can to help you . . . you know, find someone appropriate, once we’re established in Ottawa.”
She’d told Lorne about her assignation with Stephen. To keep secrets would do neither of them any good. But why couldn’t he understand? It wasn’t just any lover she wanted. It was Stephen. Or no one. Ever.
Her head pounded with fatigue, her body ached with restlessness. But she reminded herself of the one thing she could cling to—Stephen’s promise. They might need to wait for a while, but he’d come to her. They would find times to be together. She would live for those golden moments.
Lorne patted her hand, as if to say, Poor, poor girl. How naïve you are.
But she wasn’t. Not anymore.
She knew all about love—that beautiful, exquisitely painful but precious journey. Donovan had come and gone. She no longer mourned his loss, no longer cared where he might be or why he’d left her. It was enough to know he was safe and living his life as he chose somewhere in the world. And as to Lorne and her hopes for their marriage? In truth, she didn’t now and never had felt married to the marquess. It was all for show. A relationship that would never be consummated, despite their vows. This was not love.
She pulled herself erect, determined not to stew through the entire day. Stephen Byrne had pledged himself to her. She trusted his word. She’d focus on future stolen moments they’d share. They would create a marriage of the spirit—although they could never appear in public as a couple. To the world she would be the Marchioness of Lorne, and after Lorne’s father passed on, the Duchess of Argyll. But in her heart, she was the Raven’s bride.
She tested her smile for her mother’s subjects. They lined the street, four and five deep, waving flags and bowers of flowers, shouting, “Long live the queen!” It occurred to her that many of them still thought Victoria was in the coronation coach with her. She covered her mouth with one gloved hand to hide a wicked smile. If her mother realized she was being overlooked, she would be furious.
“We’re going too fast,” Beatrice complained. “We always parade at walking pace. The people want to see us.”
“It’s all right, Bea,” Louise comforted her. “We must be behind schedule. The guardsmen need to get us to the church in time for the ceremony. I’m sure we’ll travel at a more leisurely speed on our way home.”
Beatrice pouted, playing with the lace ruffles of her gown. It was an exquisite dress, in three colors, which had recently become all the rage in Paris. An underskirt of blue faille with gathered flounces, an apricot overdress trimmed with pale green silk ruches, and a discreet bodice designed to hide any suggestion of a bust—which no doubt pleased the queen, who still was intent on keeping Baby an innocent.
“By then everyone will have gone back to their homes, I’m sure,” Beatrice fretted.
“You’ll have plenty of chances to show off your pretty new dress when we arrive at the church, my sweet. Journalists from all of the newspapers will be waiting outside Westminster Abbey, writing down everything about your gown and how lovely and grown-up you look.”
Alice rolled her eyes but said nothing to Louise’s obvious flattery of their youngest sister. Beatrice seemed mollified and took to leaning out the side window to better extend her arm and wave. By the time they’d passed half a mile down Vauxhall Bridge Road toward the river, Bea had collected a lapful of posies, nosegays, and woven crowns of wildflowers thrust into her hands by well-wishers.
Flowers, Louise thought.
They reminded her of that day when Byrne had first kissed her in her shop, where she always kept a bouquet. Or rather, she had kissed him, little knowing where that would lead. She knew he must have taken himself out of London by now. She wondered where he was. Already on a dock waiting for a ship to America? Or maybe it would take him a while to arrange for transport.
Strangely, she felt his presence even now. As if in his absence he still watched over her, letting her know that he loved her, that he cared for her safety.
It was silly, of course. She knew that. He wasn’t here. She hadn’t caught so much as a glimpse of him. He would have been easy to spot in the courtyard while they were boarding the carriages and waiting for her mother to appear. She sighed but did her best to turn a cheerful face toward the window and greet the people of London. The people she’d come to feel so much closer to than any of her brothers or sisters possibly could.
She felt a moment of pride. She alone had ventured beyond royal walls, sat with commoners in parks and pubs, invited them into her shop, worked alongside them, painted them into her art. She loved these people, from the grimiest street urchin to the eldest gin-guzzling granny, from the corner flower sellers to Fleet Street’s paperboys and the penny-desperate little crossing sweepers. From the costermongers wheeling their barrows of produce up and down cobbled lanes to the bootblacks and market stall hawkers, draymen, performing mountebanks, and even the disgusting but necessary rat catchers. They were her people. Being among them, and helping as she could, had brought her immense satisfaction and friends far richer than she might have cultivated within the closed circle of her mother’s court.
She had earned for herself a truly rich life, and she was more hopeful than ever for the future of women, and not just those in London. She would do what good she could in Canada and, God willing, elsewhere in the world to bring women into their own.
Louise tossed a kiss to a little girl in the crowd as the carriage climbed toward the middle of Vauxhall Bridge. It was then that the explosion shattered her world.
Beatrice cried out at the deafening noise.
“Oh Lord, what’s happening?” Alice shrieked, reaching for her husband’s arm. The duke frowned out the window.