CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO #2
“Happy?” Agnes laughed sharply. “You said it yourself; there’s no such thing as happiness for a woman, just security and position.
And you could have had the greatest position of all, that of a future queen.
You could still have it,” she added caustically, “if you can set aside your misgivings and see this thing through!”
That was when May heard the note of cruel avarice in Agnes’s voice.
“This isn’t about me at all, is it,” May said slowly. “You want me to be queen because it suits your own purposes.”
Agnes crossed her arms over her chest. “May, you’re too smart to be the wife of a man who doesn’t actually matter.
You should be the one meeting diplomats and presidents, bestowing knighthoods, having your picture printed on stamps.
You should wear the Crown Jewels and ride in parades and be famous throughout the world.
Not some French slut who threw away her reputation, sleeping with a commoner on hay bales! ”
May flinched at her crudeness, and Agnes let out a breath.
“I just want what’s best for my friend,” she said heavily. “Is that so wrong? I was trying to help!”
My friend, she’d said. Except that May was starting to doubt that they were friends at all.
She thought back to the night they had met. Agnes had appeared out of nowhere, right after Eddy had been so dismissive of May, and had started making conversation with her—charming her. Manipulating her, the way she tried to do with everyone else.
How had May failed to see it?
She’d thought their conversation began organically, but she realized now that Agnes had preselected May as the ideal tool for her purposes: highborn enough to be useful, but insecure and lonely enough to be easily played.
At first Agnes had probably just wanted someone to introduce her around—a foothold into London society, a rung on the ladder of her social climb.
But then, as May shared her hopes about Eddy and made inroads with Maud, Agnes’s quest had escalated.
It wasn’t enough for Agnes, just being friends with a Serene Highness. She wanted the access that came with knowing a future queen.
“Am I your friend?” May asked quietly. “Or am I just another stepping stone, someone you can use?”
Genuine hurt seemed to flash across Agnes’s features.
“Of course you’re my friend. A real friend, not like those society women who claim to adore each other, but all they ever talk about is babies and hairstyles!
You and I shared the ugly truth of our experiences.
We both faced our own kind of adversity, and were frank enough to admit it—and ask for each other’s help.
That’s why I wrote that letter to Princess Hélène for you,” Agnes insisted.
“I’m a good enough friend to do what you aren’t brave enough to do yourself! ”
May wanted so desperately to believe that Agnes had meant well, to fall back under the spell cast by Agnes’s wealth and determination and bold American conviction. She ran a hand over the fabric of her skirts and felt ill with a sudden realization.
All the beautiful things that Agnes had given her this past year?
They weren’t gifts at all. They were bribes, each of them binding May tighter into Agnes’s debt.
Their friendship was really just a transaction.
Agnes had made a significant investment in May, and now she wanted a return on that investment.
May felt her spine straighten, almost of its own accord. She wasn’t as lonely as she’d been a year ago; she didn’t need Agnes, was better off without her.
She rapped on the carriage ceiling, prompting the driver to halt. “I’ll walk from here. And, Agnes? You and I are done.”
“Please, wait—” her former friend began, but May slammed the door on her words.
IT REALLY WAS A SPECTACULAR wedding. May was accustomed to the Anglican service, with its predictable readings and bouquets of generic white lilies; she had never seen a ceremony like this one before, in all its Byzantine splendor.
The Orthodox priest’s vestment was even more ornate than Sophie’s wedding gown, woven with cloth of gold, and an enormous jeweled crucifix hung over his chest. Incense spilled out of censers, and a choir chanted from behind a gilded screen.
Not that May could really enjoy any of it, with her father’s anger looming over her like a thunderstorm.
She sensed that something was wrong the moment he entered the church.
It was clear from Francis’s tense jaw, the flush stealing along his neck.
He was probably livid that May had ridden to the cathedral without asking his permission: he hated when anything fell outside his control.
Or perhaps he was upset with May’s mother.
Mary Adelaide would normally have been effusive at a royal wedding, whispering about her various distant cousins and the convoluted way they were all related.
Yet today she was subdued, her gaze fixed on the toes of her slippers rather than the bride.
When they reached the reception, Francis’s hand tightened over his daughter’s forearm. “May. I need a word with you,” he growled.
May cast one pleading glance around the palace ballroom.
It was filled with white roses—they framed doorways, cascaded from golden epergnes set upon tables, their scent mingling with perfumes and tight-packed bodies as all the royal guests swanned about in their glittering finest. She wasn’t sure who she was looking for, because of course no one could really save her.
She had to face her father alone.
Somehow May pasted on a smile as she stumbled along in her father’s wake, letting him drag her toward the terrace. When they were far enough from the other guests, he let go of her arm. May resisted the urge to rub at the place where his fingers had dug into her skin.
“You idiot girl.” Her father’s voice was low but venomous. “Have you really been cavorting with some American trash?”
Oh, so this was about Agnes. May realized that some part of her had worried her father knew about her plans for Eddy—or her secret hopes for George. He would have thought she was making a fool of herself.
“I am sorry that I came to the wedding without telling you,” she said hastily. “Miss Endicott’s maid was with us, so there was no question of impropriety.”
Francis gave a caustic laugh. “You think I care about your reputation? Maybe if you compromised yourself with some young man, I could wash my hands of you. No, I’m angry that you accepted charity from that girl.”
Before May could say anything, Francis yanked at the fur trim lining her gown. “Is this one of her old dresses? You would really debase our family name by taking things from people like that?”
He must have overheard Agnes’s remark that the dress had been hers. Or one of the servants had overheard and told him; it didn’t matter. May supposed she should count herself lucky that he hadn’t caught on sooner.
“Agnes never even wore this gown. The dressmaker cut it wrong and refused to take it back,” May babbled, lying. “No one saw her in it!”
“I don’t care whether she wore it. I won’t have you taking handouts from anyone, especially not some American nobody.
” Francis’s breath smelled of ale; he must have been drinking before the wedding ceremony.
“What about the gown that was delivered last month, the one you said had the fringe repaired? Was that hers, too?”
When she said nothing, a vein pulsed along her father’s forehead. “You are a Teck, and we don’t need anyone else’s money.”
“Except we do, because you and Mother spent ours long ago.”
May hadn’t meant to speak that thought aloud.
Her father’s face lit up with frenzied rage, and he lifted a hand to strike her.
She winced and closed her eyes, bracing herself.
Her father would hit her, and she was powerless to stop him, because in the eyes of the world—of the law—she was not even really a person.
She was just a woman, not entitled to vote or hold property or have any rights at all, outside those granted to her by her father.
Or eventually, if she could ever find one, her husband.
“You stupid girl,” Francis said at last. May dared to open her eyes and saw that his rage had ebbed.
He was staring at her with sneering disgust. “Go ahead and wear a charity dress. It’s not as if it’ll make you pretty enough for any man to want you, though God knows I pray one would.
I’m done with you and your failures. Actually,” he said slowly, “I have been done with you a long time.”
He turned and walked away without another word.
May put a hand on the stone railing. An unfamiliar emotion coursed through her, pounding through her blood in a molten rush. She closed her eyes, trying to regain control over her breaths, but the insides of her eyelids were tinged red.
It took a while before she recognized the feeling as hatred.
She had wanted to escape her father’s house for as long as she could remember, yet it no longer seemed like enough just to get out. She wanted to destroy him.
May needed to marry someone higher-born and wealthier than Francis of Teck had ever been, someone who would put her in a position where she would be invincible, untouchable. She would climb so far above Francis that she could protect herself, and her mother too.
And someday, when she was staring down at him, she would make him feel as helpless and insignificant as he’d always done to her. He would learn how it felt to live in fear of someone else’s whims.
On her way back to the ballroom, May caught sight of her face in a darkened window and gasped. Her features didn’t look like her own; they were spiteful and sharp and hateful. She drew in a slow breath, trying to settle her demure court smile on her face like a mask. It didn’t fit right.