CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
May
MAY CAUGHT A GLIMPSE OF herself in the ballroom mirror and bit back a sigh.
Like everything else at Balmoral, the evening attire seemed especially designed to show her at a disadvantage.
Her red-and-black tartan, borrowed from the Balmoral stock, hung despondently over her shoulders, refusing to stay put despite the brooch May had pinned it with.
Really, it was absurd of the queen to insist they dress like this; no one actually looked good in tartan.
Except, of course, for Alix, who looked stunning in a soft blue pattern interwoven with navy and gray, which brought out the impossible blue of her eyes.
No one else in the ballroom was wearing that print; it must have been the one she’d mentioned on the train, designed by her mother, Alice, for the Hessian branch of the family.
May would have loved to take Alix up on her offer and borrow her extra—it would have been so much more flattering than this old, mothball-ridden one—but it didn’t feel right, making any demands on her budding friendship with Alix.
Not after May had gossiped about Alix to Maud.
The ballroom was full to bursting. The guests, and all the neighbors from the nearby estates of Birkhall and Abergeldie, jostled for position with the castle’s staff: this was Queen Victoria’s annual Ghillies Ball, held at the end of every summer to thank the servants.
The final night of their visit, and May had nothing to show for her efforts toward Prince Eddy.
She couldn’t be sure whether Maud had spread word about Alix’s ailments, but if the queen had heard, the news clearly didn’t perturb her, because she kept throwing Eddy together with Alix. And as if that weren’t enough of an obstacle, Eddy seemed to have forgotten May’s existence altogether.
He never paid her more than the most cursory attention, his gaze constantly sliding over her as he searched for someone else.
At first she’d assumed that someone was Alix, but after ten days of discreetly watching them, May was convinced that they didn’t care about each other.
Their courtship had continued only from a sense of inertia, or obligation.
Still, there was something out of place about Eddy, a restlessness or emotion that May couldn’t quite identify.
Just this morning while standing at her window, she’d seen him wander distractedly to the edge of the gardens, where he knelt down for a bright yellow flower and tucked it in his pocket.
Perhaps he was plagued by money troubles, or an issue with his family?
Given his ambivalence toward Alix, May doubted it was romance.
She stole another glance across the ballroom at Alix, who had drifted away from Eddy to stand alone.
“Maud, shall we take a turn around the room?” May suggested, looping an arm through her cousin’s.
Enormous iron candelabra hung overhead, their gas lamps casting the room in a cozy amber glow.
May tried not to look at the boars’ and stags’ heads mounted above the ornate stone fireplace.
Apparently they could never be removed, as they had all been shot by Prince Albert.
When they reached Alix, May smiled as brightly as she could. “Hello, Alix. Are you enjoying the dancing?”
“Oh yes! This is always my favorite night at Balmoral.”
It was a surprising statement from shy Alix, given the rambunctious atmosphere.
The male servants in particular seemed indefatigable, hurtling through dance after dance with hoarse, rowdy cheers.
Already two glasses had shattered on the floor.
May suspected that the men were sneaking off to drink something stronger than the wine and sherry served by the queen.
“Look at Grandmama! She’s enjoying herself,” Maud observed, gesturing to a line of dancers. Sure enough, the queen was beaming. “It’s almost as if she recently got some good news.”
Alix colored at that, but all she said was, “I do love seeing Grandmama dance. She never does so at home.”
Because it would be vastly inappropriate for the queen to toss aside her cane and dance a quadrille in a London drawing room!
To May’s utter shock, Victoria—wearing her tartan sash over her usual black gown—had joined in tonight’s jigs and reels, clapping vigorously to the music of the piper.
Her limp seemed to have temporarily vanished, and there were spots of color on her cheeks, as if she’d shed decades along with her dignity.
“I’m sure it’s easier here,” Alix added, almost to herself. “So many of the Scottish dances are done in a group, rather than requiring a partner—which probably makes her think of Grandpapa, and how much she misses him.”
Alix, always the sappy romantic. “You’re right,” May agreed.
As one song ended and the lines of dancers bowed to each other, Prince Eddy started toward them. He glanced back over his shoulder at his grandmother, as if checking to make sure she was watching, then beelined for Alix.
See, his actions seemed to say, I’m doing as I was bidden, are you happy?
“Would you join me, Alix?” he asked, holding out a hand.
“Of course.” Alix paused as the opening bars of the next song filled the room. “But it’s the Dashing White Sergeant! Maud, come with us?”
“I was just about to get some air,” Maud demurred, retreating a step.
“May?” Alix prompted.
May stared at her blankly, and Alix repeated, “It’s the Dashing White Sergeant! Dance with us, please?”
“It’s a dance of three, typically performed with two women and one man,” Eddy clarified. “Alix is right; we need a third.”
Two women and one man—how utterly Scottish. If someone tried to introduce this dance in London, the society matrons might die of shock.
“I would love to, though I don’t know the steps.” May hated that she was once again drawing attention to her outsider status, to the fact that they all knew these Balmoral quirks and traditions, while she was behind a veil of ignorance.
“The steps are easy!” Alix exclaimed, with evident relief.
It was so strange how she didn’t seem to want to be alone with Eddy.
“First you make a circle in one direction, then you spin with your right-hand partner…” Alix kept going, rapidly listing a series of dance steps, though May had given up listening.
She would learn the movements on the fly; she was good enough at following someone else’s lead. God knows she’d been doing it with her father for years now.
Everyone raised their hands to clap over their shoulders as the music sped up.
Eddy and Alix each reached for one of May’s hands, and the three of them began spinning: first one direction and then, as May began to feel dizzy, the opposite way.
After a few bars of music, their circle merged with another circle—composed of George, Louise, and Hélène d’Orléans—and the six of them began wheeling ever faster.
May was half a step behind the others, always struggling to catch up to what they had just done, but it didn’t seem to matter.
She felt buoyant, seized by an unexpected and utterly childlike joy.
It was all so silly, as if she and her cousins had gone back in time and were playing ring-around-the-rosy on the lawn.
Eddy was just as lanky and laughing as he’d been at age ten; across the circle, George furrowed his brow, focusing intently on the steps. The sight struck May as endearing.
She met Alix’s gaze and ventured a smile as the other threesome broke apart, then began a funny little jig in their direction, all of them prancing and pointing their toes.
And then May saw it. A single yellow blossom was tucked behind Hélène’s ear.
It had been discreetly done; May would never have noticed if the heated dancing hadn’t slipped Hélène’s hair from its pins. But it was there, as unmistakably gold as when Eddy had plucked it from the gardens this morning.
Logically, of course, May knew this could be some other flower. There were certainly thousands on the grounds of Balmoral. But some primal feminine instinct made her feel certain that it was not.
Eddy had picked this flower specifically, and secretly, for Hélène.
It all fell into place, stray questions resolving themselves in May’s mind.
Eddy had been distracted at Balmoral, but as she’d suspected, it wasn’t because he loved Alix—it was because his grandmother wanted him to marry Alix while he had feelings for Hélène.
Who was at best an erstwhile princess: a royal without a throne, without a country.
It also explained the puzzling fact of Hélène’s presence at Mar Lodge, which May had been curious about, since Louise and Hélène weren’t exactly friends.
Of course, Hélène could never be considered as a bride for Eddy. Aside from her family’s exile, there was the insurmountable issue of religion. A Catholic queen? No, May assured herself. Hélène would never get Queen Victoria’s stamp of approval.
Still, she was a complication.
It had been hard enough when May thought she was up against Alix, the queen’s clear favorite.
Now she had another princess to contend with?
Hélène might be unsuitable as wife material, but Eddy clearly cared for her—which was far more than he’d ever felt about May.
And if Hélène was wearing his secret love flowers, then his sentiments were returned.
Stomp, stomp, spin, spin: the dance kept whirling about her, breathless and relentless.
May stumbled, the pin of her brooch digging into her skin, her good mood viciously deflated.
She’d been smooth enough when her mind was focused on following the others, but now she’d lost her rhythm and couldn’t get it back.
She kept tripping over Eddy or turning the wrong direction.
Shame clouded her vision, and bitter tears stung her eyes.
Stupid of her to think that she might have ever had a chance at Eddy—at freedom.
May would be stuck with the Tecks for the rest of her life, forever relegated to the fringes of the royal world, a poor relation only invited to events out of pity or obligation.
If she didn’t feel so miserable, she might have laughed at the circumstances of this dance, which placed Eddy between two women as if he were the prize they were fighting over.
Except that there weren’t just two women who wanted him: there were three.