Chapter Four Hélène
Chapter Four
Hélène
Hélène had become enough of an Englishwoman not to mind a bit of rain. Not even a wild thunderstorm at sea.
“We should have gone from Calais,” grumbled Antonia, the lady’s maid whom Amélie had sent to chaperone Hélène back to England.
Hélène didn’t bother acknowledging that remark.
They both knew that it was impossible for an Orléans to set foot in France.
Hélène was forced to travel from Portugal to England through the rougher waters of the Atlantic, instead of the calmer winds of the English Channel.
Not that she minded. Hélène had always been tough of nerves—a sailor’s stomach, her brother Philippe had said approvingly, that fateful day they were exiled from France.
Hélène’s mother and sister had spent the journey vomiting into a pair of buckets, but not Hélène.
She’d stood at the window, staring out at the rain-lashed waves, wondering what their new life in England would hold.
When Hélène turned to leave their shared cabin, Antonia made an incredulous noise. “You’re not going up in this weather?”
“I want to see England.” Ignoring Antonia’s muttered commentary, Hélène shut the door behind her.
Rain thrummed on the planks of the deck. Hélène lifted one hand to shield her eyes, not caring that her green traveling dress was getting soaked through. She fixed her gaze determinedly on the horizon, willing the shore of England to appear.
When she finally saw it, a darker shadow against the blurred gray of the ocean, elation seized her chest.
She wiped the rain from her eyes, ignoring the curious glances of the sailors as they prepared the ship for landing.
Eddy was standing on that very island. A large island, yes, and he was probably countless miles from her, but he was there all the same.
For the first time in months, she would be within reach of him.
When they disembarked at Portsmouth, Hélène saw a waiting carriage emblazoned with her family crest. Thank goodness her parents had sent for her; Antonia would have complained at a hired hackney. Hélène hurried to throw open the carriage door—only to blink at the figure of her mother.
“Try not to track too much water inside.” Marie Isabelle reached for a dry cloak that was folded on the opposite seat, as if she’d expected Hélène to show up bedraggled and rain-soaked.
“We’re headed to Farleigh, to stay with the earl.
You’ve brought one of Amélie’s maidservants with you, yes?
She can go in the second carriage, with the luggage.
” Marie Isabelle gestured for her daughter to take the seat opposite her.
“I didn’t know you were coming, Mother.” As Hélène stepped inside, water dripped down the folds of her skirts, pooling on the carriage floor.
“I need to speak with you. I’m afraid it’s a matter of some urgency.”
Hélène’s hands, which were fumbling to unwrap the dry cloak, fell still. “Is Father all right?”
“Your papa is fine. Though I must admit, he was devastated to learn about you and Prince Eddy,” her mother admonished.
“Philippe had grown rather fond of the idea that his grandson would be King of England. I think he secretly hoped that child might unite England and France again, the way they were in the fifteenth century.”
“As if that worked out the first time,” Hélène muttered.
The carriage jolted forward, and her mother sighed.
“Why didn’t you tell us that you and Eddy had broken off the engagement?
Philippe found out during a card game, when the Prince of Wales mentioned his regrets that you had ended things.
I believe your father would have happily forced you to go through with it,” her mother continued, “except that the Prince of Wales seemed to have abandoned the whole notion. Needless to say, Philippe lost a small fortune in that hand.”
“I’m sorry,” Hélène said curtly. She was grappling with too much heartache to worry about her parents’ disappointment.
Marie Isabelle stared at her. “What happened, Hélène? And don’t give me that nonsense about your religious change of heart. Your father might believe you don’t want to convert, but I know better. I saw what you and Eddy were like together.”
Hélène stared out the carriage’s small window. The scene outside was blurry, rain still drumming on the uneven paving stones. Where was Eddy right now? What was he thinking?
“I can’t explain what happened with Eddy,” she said helplessly, though a part of her longed to. She had a sudden urge to lay her head on her mother’s shoulder and sob like a child. To confess everything, as she had with Amélie.
Marie Isabelle’s eyes narrowed. “Did he hurt you? If he did, I’ll head straight to London and rip him limb from limb, future king or no.”
“Of course not! There were…obstacles,” Hélène said at last.
“Obstacles,” her mother repeated. When Hélène said nothing, she sighed. “And these obstacles were not religious in nature?”
“No.” There was no use elaborating, not when she couldn’t tell the whole story.
Her mother leaned back. “That’s a relief, at least. I’m afraid you must abandon this insistence that you cannot convert.”
Hélène looked up sharply. “I told you, I cannot announce an engagement to Eddy.” At least not until she’d figured out how to handle May.
“I’m not talking about Eddy,” her mother said levelly. “It’s your father. He’s already considering a new match for you.”
Hélène’s gown felt suddenly chilly, its damp fabric clinging to her rib cage. She wrapped her arms around her chest, angry that she hadn’t seen this coming.
Her parents had happily agreed she could marry for love—when the man in question was a future King of England. And now that Eddy was no longer an option, they would still expect her to marry.
She was a princess, an arrow in the Orléans quiver. An item for trade that they would ship off to some other family, hoping to gain support in their never-ending quest to reclaim the throne.
“I won’t do it,” Hélène said stubbornly. “I’ll scream all the way to the altar. This isn’t the sixteenth century anymore, Mother. No priest will marry me against my will.”
Her mother made a sound that was half exasperation, half amusement. “Nothing has been decided yet. I just wanted you to be aware that your father has begun discussing it.”
Marie Isabelle was trying to help, Hélène realized. To warn her.
“Thank you,” she said softly.
She spent the rest of the drive staring at the gleaming brass hinges of the carriage door, sorting through her mental family trees.
Who might her father be in talks with? The Spanish prince was too young, just a baby, and what had her mother meant by you must abandon this insistence that you cannot convert?
Was her father in discussions with one of the Protestant royal families?
Prince Carl of Denmark and Prince Gustav of Sweden were both of the right age.
Hélène highly doubted that her father would gravitate toward a German, though she supposed it was possible.
Everyone always said wonderful things about that one German prince in particular… Maximilian of Baden, wasn’t it?
No matter. Whomever he decided to match her with, Hélène would refuse to even consider it.
And then, as soon as she judged it safe—as soon as she was certain that her history with Laurent wouldn’t explode into public knowledge—Hélène would find Eddy, and tell him that her heart was still his.
That it always had been.