Chapter 10 #2
but he could not comfort her. They weren’t friends and they must not be lovers. It was foolish to enter into a negotiation
with your friend and disastrous to enter one with your lover.
He sighed. “Your uncle and aunt, the king and queen of France—”
“My uncle was the king of France?” she asked.
“Yes. King Louis. He was executed, along with his wife, Queen Marie Antoinette. Your cousins, their sons, died in prison. Your birth father was also executed, I’m afraid.
Because of the inherent danger, you were stolen out of the country to exile in England—a ward of the British royal family.
At the same time, Miriam and Silas Dinwiddie, trusted retainers within St. James’s Palace, were contemplating retirement.
Their proximity to Queen Charlotte made them privy to the news of your exile.
They were childless but desperately wanted to be parents.
They offered to serve as your surrogates.
They intended to retire to a modest life here in Kent, and this was thought to be the safest way to conceal you.
And you know the rest: they raised you as their own.
You were, in fact, perfectly safe. When they speak of your tumultuous history .
. . when they say your family was under dire threat .
. . they mean the bloodlust that swept France during the Revolution.
The violence could’ve very well claimed you if you’d not fled.
It was not, at the time, a safe place for someone called Princess Danielle Allard d’Orleans. ”
“No,” she said, shaking her head. “I am not a princess. I am a village girl; I am a maid of Kent. I hang sheets on the line,
and scrub potatoes, and mount letter-writing campaigns to restore parish halls.
“If I was a princess,” she continued, “someone would have told me.
“My parents,” she insisted, “would have told me.”
She finished: “I would have known.”
“Almost anyone would be a better candidate to explain this to you than me,” he said. “I know this. And I’m sorry.”
“No,” she repeated, head still shaking. She scrambled to her feet, fighting against her tangled skirts, struggling for balance
in the rocking boat.
“Careful.” He reached out.
“If I am a princess, why hasn’t some royal family come for me? Why haven’t I been collected and installed in a castle in France?”
She let out a bitter laugh. “Ha! Do you hear these words? ‘Castle’? ‘France’? It’s preposterous! And unbelievable. It’s unbelievable
because it cannot be true.”
“I know this comes as a shock,” he said, holding his hands out, “and—”
“A shock? It’s a lie. How foolish I have been—I see it now.
To take you at your word about an arranged marriage, and Eastwell Park, to allow you to lead me about.
And my poor parents—they are easily deceived, it’s been years since they lived in London.
We were carried away by your heroism and the promise of a fine home.
But strange men do not appear on doorsteps and bestow royal identities on random women. It doesn’t happen.”
Her wild protestations rocked the boat, and he slowly stood, trying to balance them. “Can you please sit, Miss—Dani—Princess. It is possible to capsize this thing.”
“I will not sit. I will not be trapped on this boat . . . with you . . . and lied to—”
“Look,” he cut in, “I’ve acknowledged that, of all the people to reveal this news to you, I am the least likely—and the least
welcome. But it cannot be helped. Your parents have kept this from you. You’ve admitted their willful concealment again and
again. Perhaps they’ve been selfish, or perhaps there was no easy way to explain. Perhaps they thought it was safer if you
did not know. The Terror in France was a deadly rampage that destroyed the lives of so many. Even now, nearly fifteen years
on, the French aristocracy is an uncertain hodgepodge of exiles; their ranks are riddled with pretenders and opportunists
and hangers-on who make claims on property and power. You were always safest and had the most peaceful life here, with the
Dinwiddies.”
“And so what are you saying?”
“I’m saying that many in your family were killed. You have survived, and this is better than . . . not surviving. You are shocked, I know, but there are worse things.”
“If any of this is true, I am alive—yes. But I’m also forgotten. By this family. What did you say they’re called?”
“The Orleans. You father was the Prince d’Orleans.”
“Right. The surviving members of the Orleans lot fled the Revolution, were scattered to the winds, and forgot to recover a missing . . . missing . . .”
She’d been gesturing wildly with her hands, but now she dropped them to her sides.
She finished in a whisper, “I cannot say the word.”
“Princess,” he provided simply.
She made an anguished face, threw out her arms like the conductor leading a symphony, and let out a little scream. The wind
blew, carrying the sound away. Her skirts swung and she grabbed them, but not before the hem caught on the hook that held
the pole to the side of the boat. The unexpected snag yanked her back, and she lost her balance. She yelped, hands swimming
through the air, arms flailing. Luke lunged but not in time. She pitched over the side and hit the green water with a splash.
One moment she’d been ranting and making grand gestures, the next she was a blur of purple, arcing through the air. The water
enveloped her with a splash, and droplets slapped Luke across the face.
Luke tore off his jacket and yanked off his boots. Muttering a curse, he dove into the center ripple where she’d disappeared.
The water was cold, but it barely registered. He felt the shock of panic instead, as unfamiliar as it was motivating. He was
a strong swimmer, as comfortable moving through water as he was walking on land, and he’d fished dozens of men from the roiling
sea. This was a serene pond on a dry day, but he thrashed about, blinking against the burn of murk in his eyes, desperate
to find her.
The underwater world was aquatic green, hung with floating blobs—none of which were the princess.
He came up for air, bent at the waist, and dove under again, kicking deeper.
Could she swim? He had no idea. Would her wet petticoats pull her down?
He’d never been in the water with a fully clothed woman.
Fear rose like water in the hull of a boat.
He kicked harder, lashed his hands out wilder, and spun in every direction, trying to see through thick algae and sediment.
From the corner of his eye, he saw a graceful sort of flutter, as slow and weightless as smoke. He spun. It was a ribbon suspended
in the depths. He kicked to it, but his lungs were burning and he was forced to emerge, gulp air, and kick down again. The
green water burned his eyes but he barely blinked, searching for the ribbon. He saw nothing and he cursed, spun, saw more
of nothing.
Then something nudged his foot. Luke flipped upside down and saw a vague, woman-shaped lightness floundering eight feet below.
Arms and legs thrashed and skirts floated out like the petals of a flower. Thank God. Luke stroked downward.
It was too murky to tell which was her top and which was her bottom, but he could distinguish her middle. He wrapped an arm
around her waist and kicked toward the light.
Gasping, he yanked her to the surface. Miraculously, she was right-side-up; long black curls floated to the top and fanned
out. Her face came next, surging in a cacophony of sputters and coughs and gasps and spitting.
“That’s it,” he said, speaking between pants, “breathe, breathe, breathe, Danielle. Don’t force it, slow and steady. Good girl. That’s it.”
“I can swim,” she panted between coughs. But she wasn’t swimming, she was slapping hair from her face, kicking, clinging to
his forearm.
He dodged her thrashing and paddled to keep them afloat.
“We’re in luck, then. We’re both swimmers.
At the moment, why don’t you allow me to do the swimming while you concentrate on catching your breath?
I’ve got you—there you are. Breathe.” He jostled her, getting a better grip, trying not to squeeze her lungs.
Luke whipped his head, flinging his wet hair from his eyes, and scanned the pond for the boat. It was twenty yards away, blown
by the wind into the lilies.
“You can let me go,” she huffed. “I can swim.”
“Not in shoes and a dress. You’ll sink like a wet mattress.”
The little island in the center of the pond was the closest dry land, and he tucked her against him, leaned on his side, and
began to kick.
“The boat,” she called.
“Lie still, Danielle. You’re harder to buoy when you strain. Allow your legs to float. That’s it. Kick if you like—ouch, not
me. Kick to the side. Relax your grip on my forearm so I can stroke. You need breath more than you need to hold on. I have
you.”
“Sorry,” she said, sniffing. “I can’t believe I fell.”
“I can’t believe you remained topside so long. There’s hardly room to stroll about the deck of a punting boat. Are you hurt?”
“No.” She rested her face against his heart. The crown of her head was just beneath his chin. Soft tendrils of her hair floated
inside his cravat and tickled his throat. He felt her skirts wrap about his legs.
“Here you are again,” she said weakly, “rescuing a royal cousin from the depths.”
“You believe me, then?” he said, kicking.
“No. I don’t believe you. But there is no denying this rescue.”
“You’re far less bulky than Fernsby. And you complain less. The events don’t compare, really.”
“Where are we going?”
“That island is the closest,” he said. “I want you to catch your breath. You should peel off your shoes. Your hat is lost, I’m afraid.”
“What of the boat?”
“I’ll go for it in a moment. For now, empty your lungs of water and recover your wits. Hold tight.”
He made the island in ten strokes, giving a final, hard kick and drifting to the little beach. He caught hold of a tree root
and pulled, anchoring them on the sand.