Chapter 10 #3
“Careful,” he said, tipping to roll her off. “Can you grab hold of a tree root? That’s right. Scoot upward. Again—keep going.
Your skirts will weigh five stone, use your arms to pull yourself. If we can make it to the small ledge where the sod leaves
off, we’ll be out of the water.”
She crawled, dragging her heavy skirts. Her hair was stuck in black tendrils to her face. She left tracks in the sand like
a mermaid. Luke crawled after her, yanking his neckcloth free.
When she was entirely out of the water, she curled her legs beneath her and hugged her arms. She began to tremble.
“You’re cold,” he said.
Through chattering teeth, she said, “When the wind blows.”
He unbuttoned his waistcoat, gave it a shake, and draped it over her shoulders. She folded herself inside it, curling up.
“Thank you.”
He moved away. He eyed her, his heartbeat finally slowing.
He asked, “You’re certain you’re not hurt?”
She shook her head. He nodded, still watching her. He reached for his feet and peeled off his stockings. He loosened two buttons
on his shirt. He came up on one knee and squinted across the pond. If she was safe, he would swim for the boat before it was
too mired in—
“It cannot be true,” she said.
“What?”
“I am not a princess. I am not.”
Luke dropped back down. “It is true, I’m afraid.”
“Well, there’s no proof, is there?”
“Your parents will have proof. I’ve shattered the secrecy—or dunked it, as it were. They’ll have no more reason to hide the
fine details. When you ask them, they will tell you.”
He paused, allowing her to consider this. She shivered in silence. He itched to pull her against him.
“They know all about the Orleans family,” he went on. “If Miriam and Silas feel certain of their place in your heart, they’ll
find the courage to tell you.”
He moved closer—just a bit. He could smell her. Honeysuckle, and water grass, and wet. “You might also think on your childhood
in Ivy Hill. Your education. Compare it to what your friends had. You’ve said the Dinwiddies gave careful consideration to
tutors—especially French language. Were there other privileges? Wardrobe? Musical instruments or the means to pursue other
artistic endeavors?”
“Perhaps I did have more than most.”
“And think of your natural penchant to lead.”
“To lead?”
“You’ve a passion for serving your community that I’ve rarely seen in someone so young; certainly in a woman.
Solving problems for the larger group seems inherent to you and, if you’ll permit me to generalize, not traceable to the old couple who raised you.
When I came upon you, you were endeavoring to save the bloody town.
When you were presented with a small castle, you launched yourself at the great pile of it with absolutely no trace of intimidation.
In fact, you seemed right at home; if possible, you would have moved in that very day.
It was as if you’d been waiting your whole life to manage an estate. ”
“Stop,” she begged softly, shaking her head. “I am strong-willed and motivated to help—this hardly means I’m royalty. A better
test would be, where are these French relations? Why haven’t they come in search of me? Are princesses so easily cast aside?”
Luke swallowed. This was the second time she’d asked this. Her priorities were clear. The value of being royal was secondary
to the heartbreak of being forgotten. He wanted to touch her so badly, he felt pain in his arm. He looked out across the pond.
After a long beat, he said, “I cannot guess how long it might take for you to reckon with this, admittedly, startling news,
Danielle.”
“Don’t you mean Princess Danielle?” she asked bitterly. “At least I understand your confusion about how to address me. ‘Princess.’
Honestly, of all the preposterous—”
“Perhaps some time should be devoted to denying your true history. However, eventually, you will move beyond disbelief into
whatever emotion comes next. If there’s any useful advice I might impart, I’d say you’ll find more peace in acknowledging
the love of your surrogate family rather than speculating on the motivations of your birth family. Do you see?”
“I know, I know, Miriam and Whittle are dear—the very dearest. But—”
“In the end, you may discover that’s all that matters,” he said. “My surrogate father was—first and foremost—present when the parents of my birth were absent. But he also provided for me in ways that many parents, even blood relations, don’t bother. As I said, in the end, this is what matters.”
“But surely you understand how one might wonder what became of the family of her birth? Why they’ve not come for her? I’ve
done as you suggest for years—I didn’t allow myself to speculate. I convinced myself that Miriam and Whittle were enough.
And they are enough. But surely there is room to love them and also to wonder why and where and how? Especially in light of
this . . . this assertation of yours.”
Luke nodded. Of course she wondered. And rightly so. “Something you don’t know about me,” he said, scooting closer, “is that
the course of my life was, years ago, transformed by the simple act of knowing things. Researching. Discovering. Learning. I came up in an environment of what I’d call casual illiteracy. I was surrounded by impoverished fishermen and sailors mostly.
I ran with a group of boys who were little better than dock rats. But from the moment I was taught to read, I was able to
change my path.”
“Perhaps I took my London tutors for granted,” she said.
“If you never knew the shame of illiteracy, then you should take them for granted. Reading is a right owed every child.”
“Who taught you?” she asked.
“My surrogate father. When I stumbled upon his camp on the beach, I was underfed, clothed in rags, surviving on my wits and sloppy pickpocketing. And I could not read or write, as I’ve said.
But he worked with me patiently, filling first my belly, then sorting out a winter coat.
Boots. Finally, teaching me. He had a little dog, and I would pretend to visit only to toss a stick for the dog.
But the real enticement was the lessons.
Here. Look.” And then he was rummaging in the pocket of the wet waistcoat he’d draped over her.
She laughed and squirmed, tickled by the effort.
The sound sent a lick of desire through him, and his hand lingered, just a bit, inside the pocket. Finally, he produced the fossil.
“What is it?” she whispered.
“A section of jawbone and teeth.” He held it up. Never had he shown this to anyone.
She propped herself on her elbows, examining it.
“You keep it in your pocket?”
“I do. It came from the skull of a prehistoric creature, and I found it on the beach some twenty-five years ago. Despite my
wildness, I was a curious boy, and I had a collection of marine ephemera from tide pools and dunes.”
“Did you?” she whispered, fingering the fossil. He hadn’t meant to say so much, but she sounded so enchanted, he simply kept
talking.
“Indeed. I’d just begun to lurk about the camp of the man who would become my surrogate father, when he saw me studying this
fossil. I tried to hide it—I nearly chucked it back into the sea. I’d been teased by other boys for my collection of shells,
and driftwood, and sharks’ teeth. Curiosity is not prized along dockyards. But this man—Linus, he’s called—did not make fun.
He sat on a rock beside me and studied it with me; and then he did the most life-changing thing. He demonstrated how I might
use my newfound literacy to research the age and source of the bone. As gifts go, it was very simple, but it was revolutionary
for me. And I keep the fossil with me always as a reminder of the life-altering act of being able to know things.”
“I understand,” she said quietly, tears in her voice.
“Yes,” he said, tucking the fossil in the pocket again.
He rolled back, lying shoulder to shoulder beside her on the beach.
“On the one hand, I urge you to revel in the incredible good fortune of having the Dinwiddies as parents and to not overthink the others. On the other hand, I can see your frustration with not knowing more about the Orleans. It’s fitting and natural to want to know.
And you should have a clearer understanding.
It pains me very much to admit that I know so little about your exile.
I can help you uncover it, but in the meantime . . .”
He let his sentence trail off. It was true, he didn’t know much about her exile. Except for one thing. The French captain Vincent Surcouf. Who wanted to marry her for her ancestorial lands in Western France. Was he her family?
No, he was not. He was an opportunist neighbor with so few connections to her, he’d failed to locate her. And she’d already
absorbed so much. She’d fallen into the bloody pond. She was overwhelmed.
He also knew she had siblings (which she did ask)—a sister for certain, but he’d not yet learned anything about the woman. He’d hired a man to look into it, but there
was nothing yet to report.
The spirit of his declaration was true. He’d hated riding into this quagmire knowing so little. He was sorry. He understood the frustration of not knowing. Eventually, he would help her. If she was still speaking to him by the end, he would help her.
“Tell me again,” she said. “The name, the title. Can you say it all again?”
“Your Serene Highness, Danielle Allard d’Orleans, Princess of the Blood.”
She looked at the sky. “And you believe this?”
“Yes.”
“You believe it, but you didn’t tell me right away. You value information and knowing so highly, and yet you withheld this from me?” She had begun to ever so gently lean against him. His body tingled where their shoulders touched.
“There is no excuse, but I’ll make one. On the first morning, in the parlor of your parents’ cottage, you left the room to
prepare tea. In the moments you were away, your father informed me that you did not know, and he asked that I not tell you.