5. “Lone Warrior” - Mindshift #2
“Aren’t you going to read aloud?” Henry has found another object to study—this time a shadowbox holding my father’s butterfly collection—and looks over at me when I don’t answer right away.
It hadn’t even occurred to me. “You want me to?”
“For old times’ sake. I’ll be the Watson to your Holmes.”
I arch a brow but comply. He settles into the armchair I’ve just vacated as I begin to read.
16 May 1837
There was a garden party today. Helena was very fidgety, nearly anxious.
I kept smelling salts nearby all day. She seemed especially excited about the ship newly arrived from Ireland.
Asked me all manner of questions about it, as though I would know something.
I presumed she might have some family visiting, since she is Irish herself, but I struggled in vain to get an answer from her about it.
18 May 1837
There have been a few new hires. The ship from Ireland brought several maids and a footman. A ball was held at the palace tonight. Helena wore her scarlet gown and black diamond necklace. She looked radiant.
5 June 1837
A storm this afternoon made the walkways wetter than usual. Helena and I had to cut our walkabout short. I came into her bedchamber later to find the hem of her gown soiled much more than would have been possible during our short jaunt. She must have gone back out later.
“Wait a second,” Henry says. “Helena, as in Queen Helena?”
“Way to keep up.”
“You could have told me. She’s my ancestor.”
“Breaking news from Captain Obvious.”
Helena had married William I in 1834, who ascended the throne after his father’s death later that year. They had two children, Catherine and William II, and that’s where Henry’s and my shared family tree splits into separate branches.
“Forgot I’m talking to the expert. Go on.” He leans his head against the back of the chair. “I can’t wait to find out more about Helena’s soiled dresses.”
“You’re such a child,” I mutter under my breath before starting again.
The diary continues in much the same manner, accounts of Helena not acting like herself, flighty and nervous. One particular entry catches my eye.
16 October 1837
Helena is a different person these days.
She cannot sit still for more than a few minutes at a time, and when she does sit, she gazes out of the window, and I see that her mind is a million miles away.
Today I caught her tracing the path of a raindrop on the windowpane.
When I spoke, she simply looked at me and smiled, her cheeks flushed and her eyes sparkling.
She is hiding something, I am sure of it.
More cryptic entries follow. What in the world does Maisie want me to find? Finally, the entry for 4 December hints at something more.
4 December 1837
Today was beautiful. The sun shone all of its glory down on the freshly fallen snow that came during the night.
When I asked Helena if she would like to venture outside after the full fortnight of overcast weather we have recently had, she said she was not feeling well.
I had a cup of soup brought up, but she emptied her stomach shortly afterwards. I do hope she is well soon.
25 December 1837
Helena is still not well. King William insisted she attend the Christmas party in the Grand Ballroom.
She asked me to loosen her stays, and it is a good thing I did as she requested.
She was weak and shaky the whole time, the poor dear, and could not manage more than a bite or two before needing to be escorted out.
One of the footmen helped me get her upstairs.
The whole thing was a wondrous embarrassment for her.
31 December 1837
Helena is on the mend, although she tells me she still feels weak, and just in time for the new year.
She is more reserved than she has been for so very long.
I fear the sickness has drained the life from her.
King William does not seem to have noticed and requested she join him in his bedchamber this evening.
It has been nearly a year, and it is no secret he has no regard for her, preferring the company of his mistress.
The pieces are starting to fall into place, and I do not like the final picture.
28 February 1838
A small birthday celebration was held for little Catherine today, marking two years since her birth. Helena asked me to have her seamstress let out the waists on her dresses. She has never had her gowns altered except during her confinement, and I know there is something she’s not telling me.
“Hold on.” Henry’s elbows are on his knees, his brows drawn together in a quizzical frown. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
My ears are ringing with the blood pounding past them. “No. Definitely not.”
He runs a hand through his hair, causing it to stick up at all angles before falling back into place, like a perfectly choreographed dance. “What else, C? First she’s sick, and now she needs bigger clothes?”
I refuse to believe it. Helena can’t have been pregnant. “It was probably a virus of some sort. Before people knew about the importance of hygiene—”
“The dates line up with William the Second’s birth.”
I take a deep breath. “But it says she hadn’t been with the king for a year. Think about what you’re implying.”
“It’s the only thing that makes sense.”
“Not if they hadn’t . . . you know.” I can feel my face flame.
“You do realize it’s possible to have sex with someone besides the person you’re married to, right?” He smirks at me, the bastard.
I glare at him. “Thank you for that intel. If you don’t mind, I’m going to continue.” It’s the only way to prove this ridiculous theory wrong.
29 March 1838
Helena has shared her news with me, although I have so many questions I dare not ask. I have pondered the calendar at length but cannot make sense of it. She said the end of July, but how can that be? Unless . . . But I cannot consider it.
15 May 1838
A downpour has taken over the country for the past three days. The fields are flooded and the roads are impassable. Helena remains in good spirits, but I know she is anxious for her time to come. Things are not as they used to be between us. I know she is not telling me all that is on her heart.
8 August 1838
Helena has been delivered of a son. He was christened William, and one day he will be king, William II.
He is a bonny lad with dark red hair. She has not said a word to me about her secret, but I pray she knows it is safe with me all the same.
I would never tell another soul. It shall go to my grave with me.
I lay the stack of pages beside me on the floor. I can’t read any more. A cold heaviness expands in my stomach as I process what this means. It isn’t possible. It can’t be possible.
If William II was illegitimate, that meant King William I only fathered one child—Catherine.
I mentally trace a path down the family tree I know like the back of my hand, following the oldest male, or female when there were no males, in each family: Catherine to Elizabeth Anne, to Joseph, to Frank, to Theodore.
Maisie is right. This changes everything.
Henry sits motionless in the chair. His eyes are glued to the floor, unseeing. What is going through his head? If this is real—which it can’t be—it’s as life-changing for him as anyone.
“There’s no way it’s true,” I whisper.
He raises his eyes with effort, as though they weigh a hundred pounds. “You think someone made this up?”
“I don’t know what to think.”
He shakes his head and rubs his fingers over the creases on his forehead. “It’s pretty obvious the writer of that diary thought Helena had an affair and gave birth to another man’s baby. We’re in agreement on that, right?”
“It seems that way,” I say. “And if the baby wasn’t William’s . . .”
“Then my father is not the rightful king,” Henry finishes.
I study his face for a sign of what he’s feeling, but it gives nothing away. Then his brow furrows again, and his head swivels up. “If my father doesn’t belong on the throne, who does?”
Guilt plays at the edges of my conscience—guilt over something I didn’t do, something I couldn’t have prevented if I’d wanted to.
I watch Henry scan the room, finally finding the framed family tree that hangs in a place of honor over the fireplace.
My father was proud of his lineage, even if he wasn’t close enough to the throne for bragging rights.
Henry uses the torch on his phone to illuminate the diagram and works his way over to the correct branch, then follows Catherine’s lineage down, down, down.
Because if William II was illegitimate, that means his older sister, Catherine, should have reigned instead of him.
I know the instant Henry figures it out, the same thing I realized just moments ago. The room becomes as still as a coffin, waiting breathlessly for what comes next.
“It’s you, isn’t it? You’re the rightful monarch of Wesbourne.”