Chapter 13
“Princess Danielle,” the captain asked, “when you spoke of your true identity with your parents, did they mention anyone else
in your family?”
“And would you be referring to my aunt and uncle, the bloody king and queen of France?” Dani chuckled, not looking up from
her sweeping.
“Well, any other family members? Any at all?”
“What they said was,” she recited, “my real father is—was—from a cadet branch of the French royal family, executed during the Revolution, just as you’ve said.
After he died, I was stolen out of France by crown loyalists.
Because I was only a vulnerable baby, someone—they could not say exactly who—made the decision that I should be raised up in secret by a surrogate family.
Whittle was serving as a social secretary to King George at the time, Miriam a lady’s maid to Queen Charlotte.
They were married but childless and desperately wanted to be parents.
Their proximity to the king and queen afforded them the chance to appeal directly for my adoption.
My real family was in crisis, and the ruling households of Europe were flooded with exiled French aristocrats.
It was easy, I think, for the English royal family to accept Whittle and Miriam’s offer.
Before anyone could change their minds, the Dinwiddies retired from the palace and relocated, quickly and quietly, to Kent, taking me with them.
They hoped, I think, that if they asked for nothing and never inquired about my family—if they vanished—both English and French courts would forget about me.
And that is what happened. I was forgotten. ”
“Well I was wondering if they knew of sisters or brothers who remained in the royal court. Or who exiled with someone else?”
“I beg your pardon?” Dani paused with the broom.
“It’s just that there were more Orleans children than only you. This is why I ask.”
“We’ve discussed only our family of three.”
“Right,” the captain said. “Well, I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve done some research these last few days, and I’ve learned
a bit more about . . . about your early life. From Abbott’s stash, if you can believe it.”
Dani dropped the broom. The handle hit the floor with a clatter.
“Tell me,” she said. “Please tell me.”
“So what I’ve learned is, in 1803, a woman called Princess Elise Allard d’Orleans of France married a man formerly employed
by St. James’s Palace. I believe this woman, Princess Elise, may be a sister. To you. Your sister.”
Dani’s heart stopped. “My sister?”
“Yes. An older sister. Elise d’Orleans. Princess Elise.”
“And you believe her to be my sister because of the surname?” She was inundated by emotions—hope, and doubt, and loneliness, and love.
She stood in a deluge of these feelings with no protection.
If she’d learned nothing this week, it was not to get carried away.
“The Orleans surname,” she prompted, “it matches to mine?”
“Well, the name, the date, her unexplained time in St. James’s Palace. She’s thirteen years older than you, so she would’ve
been fifteen when you entered exile at the age of two. I’m only guessing here, but it would have probably been more difficult
for someone like her to disappear to a backwater village with surrogates. She had already debuted in the French court; she
had been out in Paris society. Unlike yours, her exile was probably spent in plain view, but under the protection of Queen
Charlotte’s court.
“The man she married is called Killian Crewes,” he went on. “He’s the son of an earl, but a second son, not the heir, and
he made his living inside St. James’s Palace, working for King George as sort of diplomatic security. One can assume Princess
Elise d’Orleans met this man during his years of service to the king. They were married in Spain but returned to England after
the wedding. That would have been ten years ago.”
Dani could but stare. She held her hands away from her body, fingers wide, like she was feeling her way through a dark hallway
at night.
“Elise,” she repeated.
He crossed to a window and looked out. “I could be wrong, of course. She could be some other relation, but my instinct is
to believe she is your sister. She appears to have been alone in the palace—no other Orleans family with her.”
“Elise . . .” Dani repeated, listening to the two rhyming syllables, the long s. She looked at him. “It is familiar to me.”
“Princess Danielle.” There was a sad note of warning in his voice.
“I know, I know, it’s implausible—impossible, even—but I’ve never encountered anyone called ‘Elise.’ I’ve never read a character called ‘Elise’ in a book or heard of anyone called ‘Elise’ in life.
And yet, it has this familiarity to it. Like a known smell that brings on a rush of memories.
When you say it, when I repeat it in my head, I feel .
. . goodness? I feel something bright and lovely? ”
With no warning, fresh tears sprang to her eyes, a burning mist followed by a silent stream. Dani dropped her face in her
hands and wept. There was no help for it. She thought there were no tears left to give, but now she cried and cried.
At last, he went to her. She barely heard his footsteps, but then he was there, wrapping her in his arms. He pressed his lips
to the top of her head.
“I don’t know why I’m crying,” she said brokenly. “This is— This is progress. There is potential. If I—” She looked up. “The
sound of this name . . . Elise . . . touches something so deep inside. There is a sort of . . . echo in my mind when I say it. I can barely hear it, but I do hear
something—something important.”
More tears came, and she burrowed deeper against him, pushing her face into his shoulder. She grabbed the lapels of his coat
and squeezed. He pulled her tightly, whispering, Shhh . . .
“Do you regret being told?” he asked.
She shook her head. “Oh no. I’m so very grateful.
But could we find this woman? ‘Elise d’Orleans’?
” She lifted her head to look at him. “Whether she’s a relative or a .
. .” another sob “. . . sister—if she shares my name, I would endeavor to locate her. Has she remained in England, do you think? Perhaps you could appeal to the Prince Regent? If she lived inside St. James’s Palace, if her husband was employed by the king, perhaps Prince George knows what became of her? ”
The captain cleared his throat. “We can endeavor to find her. I’ve already begun, actually. Before I sought you out, I hired
an investigator to learn more about the Orleans family. His report is not yet in, but eventually he’ll send word.”
“But how did you discover—?”
“Abbott,” he answered. “As I’ve said. His careful cataloging of the newspapers in the Eastwell’s library has proved very useful
indeed. We are fortunate that the previous owner had an interest in London society as well as Roman relics and cricket. The
old baron subscribed to a gossip rag that was most informative. The wedding of Elise Allard d’Orleans to Mr. Killian Crewes
was featured in a small column in the Morning Chronicle circa 1803. Before that, I found a few stray references to a ‘Princess Elise d’Orleans.’ She was one of many courtiers at
various royal functions hosted by Queen Charlotte. After the piece about her wedding, she’s not discussed again; but her husband’s
name is mentioned occasionally in the business pages. He’s no longer a palace equerry, but an investor. He buys derelict properties
and refurbishes them to be resold or leased. Assuming Princess Elise is still alive—which I have every reason to believe she
would be—the couple either live in London or travel there with some frequency. Mr. Crewes’s properties are there.”
“My sister,” she whispered. “Living in London. Did the newspapers describe her? Was there a portrait?”
“There was no portrait. She was only named; there was no mention of how she looked, not even her wardrobe, which is rare for a gossip rag. What I’ve told you is all I know to this point.
Vague, I know—but a start. Mr. Crewes’s business has enjoyed considerable success, so it shouldn’t take long for my man to find him. ”
Dani stared at him through fresh tears. “Truly?”
He exhaled. “Yes, of course.”
She let out a half laugh, half sob. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I’m crying. It’s simply . . . I feel like a part of me—some
part that was perhaps buried but not dead—is, in a way, unfurling. It’s reaching for the light.” She sucked in a tearful breath.
“Please do not cr—”
“It’s not sadness,” she assured him. “I feel very much alive. Living can make you cry, can it not? Living can be painful.”
“Yes,” he said. He closed his eyes. “Living can be painful. Would you like to see the articles in the broadsheets?”
“Oh absolutely. Do you have them?”
“Not with me, but I can show you.” He gave her a slight squeeze and released her.
Dani slid her hands from his shoulders and stepped away. She took the hem of her apron and patted her puffy face. She looked
at the dusty hall. She took up the broom again and began to sweep. A sister, she thought. Elise. In London.
“If I have the papers, I can share them with Miriam and Whittle,” she mused.
“Share them?”
“Well, I’ll want Whittle and Miriam to see the good news. They’ll be hesitant at first, perhaps, but it will pave the way.
If ever I am to meet her. No more surprises.”
“How considerate you are. Your thoughtfulness is a credit to you.”
She shrugged. “It’s impossible to remain cross with Miriam and Whittle. Perhaps you feel the same way about your surrogate
father?”
“Sorry?”
Dani paused in her work, watching him. “The man who brought you up? Mr. Kelty, was it?”
“Welty,” he said quietly, turning away. “Linus Welty.”
“Right. Is he easy to forgive, in view of his love for you?”
“He is . . .” began the captain, but then he trailed off.
Dani paused in her sweeping to study his back—broad shoulders beneath the fine wool of his coat. Had she offended him by mentioning
this man? It frustrated her—not knowing exactly how to navigate their conversations, and she’d grown too fond of him to risk
saying the wrong thing.
“Sorry,” she offered. “It is rude of me to pry.”
“It’s no intrusion,” he said. “It’s simply, I can think of no occasion where he might seek my forgiveness. On the contrary,
it should be me, asking for his forgiveness.”
“Oh?” she said carefully, eyeing him. She willed him to say more. She willed him to say anything about his life before he
met her.
“Forgive me,” he said dismissively. His expression was closed off. “You’ve absorbed enough personal information. I’ll not
heap on more. You’ve learned the history of your life, all in a week’s time.”
“Well, a very abbreviated version, full of gaps. Maybe I wanted to hear someone else’s story. To balance things out.”
For a long moment, he said nothing. Finally he said, “Another time, perhaps. Twice now, I’ve brought on tears; that is enough
for one day, surely. Let me get those newspapers for you, shall I?”
Dani was disappointed, but she wanted desperately to read of this woman called Elise who might be her sister. “Alright, Captain,”
she said.
And then she added, “May I speak with Abbott about his staffing choices? For Eastwell? The absolute most important thing is that he hire locals. The correct talent for the correct jobs—certainly. But locals above all. Miriam will help me.”
“Of course you should speak to Abbott,” he told her, pulling on his gloves. “I’m on my way there now. I’ll collect the papers
and send Abbott to you straightaway. Work with your mother—in fact, allow your parents to choose a suite of rooms for their
use. You should make the house your own; arrange it however you like it.”