CAROLINE #2
Her hands flustered with nerves, and the queen’s coat slipped out of the pile onto the floor – all thoughts of rushing to the waiting car had gone.
Simultaneously, they both stooped to pick up the coat, their heads almost touching, making her move aside, a breath of laughter as he balanced it back onto the pile she was holding. And in that moment, she realized that he, too, was unsure.
She swallowed. ‘It must be strange, being back here in the palace after all these years?’
‘It’s like stepping back in time. If only we’d seen what the war would bring. I don’t think any of us were prepared.’
She suddenly remembered that was how he had been – questioning, challenging, never taking anything at face value.
‘At least we both made it out alive.’
He glanced away. ‘It wasn’t easy.’ His mouth was set in a firm line, his forehead frowning – what had he been through that he’d never been in touch with her since his return?
Without thinking, she took a step towards him, but then quickly pulled back.
The gesture had been meant to comfort him, an automatic reaction, the magnetism drawing her in.
But she remembered Betty’s warning, to keep it polite, and she took the conversation onto safer ground. ‘Are you bringing up any new racers?’
He told her about a mare who was doing well, and a young filly with potential. ‘The queen likes to visit them when she’s in Balmoral, ride when she has time, too.’
‘She talks about her horses when dressing,’ Caroline said. ‘There’s an old stallion in Balmoral that she adores. What’s his name again, Brodie?’
‘Yes, he’s the one. He’s getting on a bit now, but what a sprint on him!’ He laughed, suddenly relaxed. ‘Once I rode Brodie as fast as he could go, right through the heather across the glen and up to the peak. He went like the devil across the moors.’
And there it was, that flash of the man he used to be, the passion, the humanity. She murmured, half to herself, ‘It must be heavenly living in the mountains.’
‘The Highlands are dramatic, stark, but it’s a good life, too, with the queen’s visits, the royal hunts and the Scottish reels.
’ He smiled, and she remembered how he’d taught her the dances, Strip the Willow and the Gay Gordons, spinning around the palace corridors.
He’d brought out a set of bagpipes that New Year’s Eve and played ‘Auld Lang Syne’.
How much she’d adored him – how she still felt that giddiness with him, that inspiring presence that lifted life out of the normal and into something bigger and more magical than the everyday.
‘And what about you?’ he asked. ‘Do you have a garden, a dog or a pet?’
‘No pets, but there’s a robin that sits on the wall opposite the kitchen window every morning.
He greets me with a song.’ She smiled at this one small connection with nature.
‘And then off he goes, soaring over the rooftops.’ She looked at the floor.
‘Sometimes I wish I could go with him, open my wings and fly away.’
She felt him move a little closer. ‘I sometimes think about that, too.’
And suddenly it was all too much for her. Would she ever be able to let him go if she spent more time with him? And what about those burning questions in her heart: Why hadn’t he replied to her letters? Why had he abandoned her?
‘I have to get these things to the car.’ She stepped back, almost tripping over her feet as she turned to leave.
‘But can we . . .’ His voice trailed and, desperate to keep her there, he caught her arm in his hand.
At once, the electrical warmth of him shot from her arm through her body. Her eyes went from his hand to his face, his mouth so close to hers that she felt a sudden longing to touch her lips to his, to pull him to her and hold on to him for all she was worth.
As if sensing her thoughts, his eyes went to hers.
‘Can I see you again?’ he said softly.
Words failed her for a moment. How could she see him? She was a married woman.
And not only that, but there was also so much at stake.
How could she risk his finding out about Annabel if he didn’t already know?
Her life was difficult enough as it was without his wanting to meet her, or worse, be part of her life after so many years of silence.
She’d spent so long hiding her past, covering any traces that Annabel’s father might have been someone other than Frank – hadn’t Frank made her promise never to let anyone know?
She couldn’t jeopardize her marriage, the fragile web of her life.
And especially not when it felt so out of control – when she felt out of control.
She had to escape.
‘I’m busy,’ she said, barely able to hear her own words, to see the hurt on his face. ‘I can’t, not now. I just can’t see you.’
And with that, she turned and sped away from him, running as fast as she could down the corridor, his soft Scottish voice calling her back, ‘Caroline, Caroline,’ as she turned into the stairwell, the door closing behind her.
There, on her own, she sank down the wall to the stair, sobs coming out of her, hot and unstoppable.
How much she had loved him!
How could he have deserted her when she’d needed him most?
But a lingering question lurked at the back of her mind: why didn’t he know about Annabel?