Chapter Ten May
Chapter Ten
May
The Earl of Stafford was nearly apoplectic with delight at having so many royal guests attend his gallery tour.
He bent in a horribly exaggerated bow, glancing nervously from Princes Eddy, George, and Nicholas to the two Coburg sisters.
“Your Royal Highnesses, Your Imperial Highness, I’m so honored that you’re here.
” He practically tripped over his own feet as he led the group into the two-story entrance hall, where several other members of society already waited, casting curious glances at the royal party.
May knew most everyone there, of course—elderly dukes, society matrons and their beribboned daughters, and even a deacon.
Unfortunately, Hélène d’Orléans had come, too.
May had thought Hélène would flinch at the sight of her: because as far as Hélène knew, May really was the author of the blackmail note, threatening Hélène with all her sordid secrets.
But Hélène had hardly spared May a glance.
She’d just walked right past May—and Eddy—to stand near Nicholas, giggling flirtatiously at something he’d said.
Perhaps Nicholas was the one who’d alerted Hélène to this little outing. May was not such a fool as to think it was coincidence.
The Earl of Stafford cleared his throat. “Thank you all for coming! This is a much larger group than normally attends my little tours. Please, if you’ll join me in the conservatory…”
May followed the group into a massive room with a domed glass ceiling. Sunlight glinted on classical statues in various attitudes: heroes brandishing swords, satyrs, at least three sleeping nymphs.
“One of my greatest acquisitions is this fragment of a Roman temple from Pompeii. Please, if you’ll note the bas-relief along the bottom…” the earl began, but May stopped listening. She was looking at Ducky, who must have felt May’s gaze, because she glanced up and nodded.
When the group moved on, the two of them lingered, ducking behind a marble statue of a reclining young man. The sculpture was nude, May noted, and not at all covered in the usual carved loincloth or bunch of grapes.
“It was a good suggestion, trying to bring us all here,” Ducky whispered. “What do I do now?”
May had been pondering the best way for Ducky to cultivate Eddy’s disinterest. Based on what she knew from Eddy after a lifetime of family events—and what she knew about Hélène, the one woman Eddy had fallen in love with—May had put together a plan.
“He should think of you as delicate, sensitive, the sort of woman who wants a man to hover over her. Act as though you’ll demand all his time. Talk as much as you can about the wedding.”
“Anything I should avoid?”
“Perhaps don’t talk about all your recent travel,” May added, thinking of Eddy’s instinctive restlessness. “Or remind him what an inconvenience it is.”
There was a sound nearby, almost like a sharp intake of breath. May whirled about, but no one was there.
Ducky smiled nervously. “All right, then. Wish me luck.”
They rejoined the group just as Lord Stafford was leading everyone into a picture gallery, its walls nearly obscured by heavy gilt frames. At the far end of the room, a pair of double doors had been thrown open to the sunshine-drenched lawn.
“My collection of oil paintings,” the earl explained, lifting his arm. “Please enjoy yourselves. I am available to answer any questions.”
The group quickly dissolved, everyone drifting off alone or in pairs to examine a favorite work. May pretended to be studying the paintings alone, lost in thought, though she was really following several paces behind Ducky.
Ducky came to stand near Prince Eddy, who slowed with visible reluctance. He had clearly also been told that they were courting.
“What do you think of Lord Stafford’s collection?” Eddy asked politely.
May watched Ducky transform before her eyes.
She tipped her face up, looking at Eddy through her lashes, an expression of silly infatuation on her face.
“It’s so romantic, don’t you think? It makes me want to paint something!
Why, perhaps I could paint you,” she added breathlessly. “Would you sit for me?”
“I didn’t realize you painted,” Eddy replied. May noted that he had ignored Ducky’s request. “You’re more of a rider, aren’t you? We could go out in Hyde Park tomorrow, as long as it doesn’t rain.”
“You must be thinking of Missy. She is the rider,” Ducky simpered. “It’s far too active for me—not to mention how dirty one gets! But of course, I adore painting.”
Eddy frowned. “Really? We raced through the grounds of Sandringham just a few years ago at Christmas. And didn’t you pick the winner at Ascot two summers ago?”
Fear flickered through May. She hadn’t considered that Eddy and Ducky might actually be a good match. Perhaps Queen Victoria had been onto something, pushing them together. Ducky was nearly as horse-mad as Hélène.
There was a flash of emotion from Ducky; then the vapid mask settled back over her features. She turned aside, and gave a dramatic, horrified gasp.
“Oh my!” Ducky lifted both hands to cover her eyes. “That painting is far too salacious for my taste!”
Eddy turned to look at it with evident confusion. May—who was standing at a distance, pretending to study a rather grim-looking Perseus and Medusa—did the same. It was a landscape, a forest scene with a river twining through it.
“This painting? The one of trees, and—” Eddy floundered, clearly as confused as May. “And oxen?”
“Near the cart, look! That man!”
May stole another furtive glance. She could just about make out the small human figure near the stream, alongside the cart and oxen. The man had been painted wearing pants, but his bare chest gleamed in the sunlight.
“Let’s go examine something in better taste,” Ducky sniffed, leading Eddy forward.
Ducky, who’d just been whispering near a statue’s carved genitalia, pretending to be shocked by a bare chest? May was impressed.
“Here, this one is far more appropriate.” Ducky led Eddy in May’s direction, pausing at a Dutch still life of a gourd surrounded by fruit, arguably the most boring painting in the room.
“This is utterly brilliant,” Ducky said reverently.
Eddy looked as though he wanted to laugh, but then he glanced at Ducky’s face. “Brilliant? A painting of…carrots and apples?”
“But they’re not just apples! They are symbols,” Ducky insisted.
“Of humanity’s fallibility, of course, and original sin.
Of life’s transience and our moral obligations.
And since you buy apples at the market, there are connotations of commercialism and expansion, and the commoditization of everyday items in the rise of international trade… .”
May wondered if Ducky’s governess had taught her this nonsense, or if Ducky had adopted the decidedly unladylike habit of reading newspapers. This sounded suspiciously like what might be written in the arts and culture section.
“Indeed.” Eddy looked half-ready to turn and flee, but Ducky didn’t seem to be done with him yet.
She flung a hand up, indicating the painting. “Seeing this beautiful image reminds me to ask, what is your favorite food?”
Eddy seemed confused. “Venison, probably, with baked potatoes. Why?”
“I need to start learning your preferences if I’m to manage your household someday. Actually, is your valet here?” Ducky made a show of looking around. “I’d like to speak with him.”
Eddy looked bewildered. “I really don’t see what business you can have with my valet?”
“I need one of your shirts,” Ducky replied, her voice painfully sweet. “I shall have to cut it apart to learn the pattern, but never fear, I promise to sew it back.”
May turned aside so they couldn’t see her fighting not to laugh. Ducky really was outdoing herself.
“Ducky, while I appreciate the gesture, you don’t need to be cutting apart my shirts,” Eddy insisted.
“Of course I do! A wife’s primary duty, aside from having children, is to care for her husband. Mama always stitches Papa’s shirts herself,” Ducky added piously. “I hope you don’t imagine she entrusts that sort of thing to a maidservant!”
Eddy’s reply was so quiet that May could only just hear it. “Thank you, but I assure you that my valet is perfectly capable of handling all aspects of my wardrobe.”
“Very well,” Ducky said in a placating tone. “I suppose that means I shall have to focus all my energies on our children. I assume that if we have a girl first, she will be named Victoria. But for a son, would you prefer Albert or Edward? Or perhaps George?”
There was a beat of silence. May desperately longed to look behind her at Eddy’s expression, but she didn’t dare.
“Are you pleased?”
May whirled around, her throat dry. She’d been so focused on Ducky and Eddy that she hadn’t noticed Prince George coming to stand near her.
Are you pleased? he’d asked. Surely he didn’t mean, Are you proud of what you’ve done?
“The gallery tour,” he went on. “Are you pleased with it?”
“Oh—yes,” May replied swiftly. “I so rarely get the chance to look at art.” It was true; May never went to picture galleries unless it was for a social occasion.
George tucked his hands into his pockets. “Which painting is your favorite?”
May’s eyes drifted to a portrait she’d noticed earlier, of a man in a sixteenth-century ruff with a slashed doublet. “Him,” she declared. “He reminds me of what you wore to the Cadogans’ fancy-dress party.”
“You remember that?”
May must not have been thinking clearly, because she blurted out, “Of course I remember. We danced that night.”
The Cadogans’ party had been the first time she’d felt this pulse of affection, or attraction, or whatever it was, between her and George. May instantly feared she’d said too much, but George’s eyes were warm.
“I don’t think I’ve danced since that night. Not a lot of dancing on board the ships of Her Majesty’s Navy.”
The two of them drifted toward a far corner of the room, where a wistful-looking water nymph stared at them from a canvas.
“I haven’t heard much about your tour,” May admitted. “Where did you go this time?”
“To Australia.”
“A nation of thieves!” she exclaimed, and George laughed.
“Perhaps it was that way once upon a time, but not anymore. And besides, we’re a nation of thieves too. Constantly stealing things that aren’t ours.”
May looked at him in surprise. He sounded positively socialist. “Don’t let Her Majesty hear you say such things.”
“Oh, she knows my opinions.” George shrugged. “Speaking of places we’ve stolen from, I’ve been thinking I’d like to go to India next. Perhaps I could serve as viceroy someday. Might as well find a way to be useful to the Crown,” he added, his tone self-deprecating.
“You are useful to the Crown right here in England,” May said firmly. “And really, India is too far. Everyone would miss you.”
“Would you? Miss me, I mean?”
He was turning her words on themselves, and yet May was about to agree, to say that of course she would miss him—
The moment was cut off by a scream out on the lawn. An instant later Missy was stumbling inside, grabbing at her arm, where a red welt was already forming.
“I was stung by a wasp!” she cried out, voice shaky with tears.
George mumbled something about needing to help, then sprinted toward his cousin. He shrugged quickly out of his jacket and wrapped it over her shoulders. As if feeling warmer would cure a wasp sting.
May stood there, watching him handle Missy with infinite tenderness, and felt the tiny hope that had bubbled in her chest quietly deflate.
What a fool she’d been, thinking George saw her as anything but a friend. It wasn’t like May to make the same mistake twice. She must have some kind of willful blindness when it came to George.
She wasn’t Hélène or Alix, to dream of marrying for love; she was May of Teck, and could only afford to be brutally practical. She didn’t chase childish fantasies. She would marry for the only reasons that mattered: security, practicality. Position.
And if her plan worked, she reminded herself, she would have them all.