33. “Let Her Go” - Passenger
“Let Her Go” - Passenger
Rain is beating against the windows of my suite like a snare drum, sunlight a hazy memory. I stayed with William last night until Argos died, about an hour after I arrived. We were both late to dinner, and neither of us ate much, both of our appetites having fled in the face of heartbreak.
I haven’t heard from Bea, even though she can see that I viewed her story. She and Henry will be home soon, and I’ll have to face them both, but dwelling on that makes a knot form in my stomach. I’m better off trying to forget about it.
“That’ll be all. Thanks, Daphne,” I say. She’s arranged my hair into a loose chignon for my speech this afternoon at one of the secondary schools in the city. Until then, I have several hours’ worth of agendas to review, phone calls to return, and emails to respond to.
I’m slipping my phone into my bag when it rings. It’s Maisie.
“Your solicitor just called. He said it’s urgent.”
“How urgent? Does he want me to call him back?”
“Urgent, as in he’s already on his way.”
I catch a glimpse of my frown in the mirror. Hearing my mother’s voice in my head harping about premature wrinkles, I force my face back into a neutral position. “Okay. I’m headed down now.”
I tell my stampeding heart there’s nothing to worry about. More than likely, he just has some simple paperwork for me to fill out and this will all be resolved in a few minutes.
Mr. Weston has represented my family since before my birth, having known my father since childhood. I could have used one of the solicitors on staff at the palace, but it seemed the wiser option to use someone from outside.
He’s waiting in the antechamber outside my office when I arrive. He greets me with a formal bow at the waist. “Good morning, Your Royal Highness.”
“Hello, Mr. Weston. Sorry to keep you waiting.” I lead the way inside and set my bag down.
Rather than taking a seat behind my desk, I move to the grouping of armchairs clustered near the fireplace.
Mr. Weston places his briefcase beside one of them and waits for me to sit.
I try to determine from his face whether I should be concerned, but he gives nothing away.
He’s one of those men who could be anywhere between sixty and eighty, with a ring of salt-and-pepper fringe surrounding an otherwise bald head.
“How can I help you, Mr. Weston?”
“Actually, ma’am, I’m here to help you.”
My eyebrows fly up of their own accord. “I beg your pardon? I was told you needed to see me about something urgent.”
He chuckles briefly. “I have good news.” Lifting his case onto his lap, he unlocks it and pulls out a file. He also removes a pair of reading glasses and slides them onto his nose. “I was told you’ve been very anxious to settle this matter.”
Is it possible he has me mixed up with another client?
He hands me the file. “It’s all in there. Read it over, and then we can move on to the signatures. Your husband has already signed.”
As I take the papers from his outstretched hand, trepidation creeps into my chest and lays a ginormous egg there. Mr. Weston’s confidence that I’ll be eager about this only makes me more nervous to see what’s inside.
I flip open the cover. An official document greets me, with the words In the High Court of Justice, Principal Registry of the Family Division at the top. The names listed are mine and Henry’s, followed by the date of our wedding. An official seal is located in the right corner.
I scan the rest of the pages. This is it, then. The annulment papers I thought were my golden ticket. Henry must have had them drawn up before he left. He’s so eager to get rid of me that he couldn’t even tell me face-to-face. Not that I was exactly planning to tell him either.
“I don’t understand,” I say. “The whole purpose of our marriage was so we could jointly ascend the throne.”
“Yes, ma’am, that’s correct. But I understand Henry found evidence that proves you are the rightful ruler of Wesbourne. You will ascend the throne by yourself in just a few weeks. I’m here to help you arrange everything.”
“I’m sorry.” I lift a hand to my brow, urging it to soften. “This is all a bit of a shock. What evidence did you say Henry found?”
“Ah, yes. I believe everything you need is in here.” Mr. Weston hands me another large envelope, this one less official looking. “He was adamant that you get this.”
I slip the flap open and remove the contents. There’s a folded piece of linen stationery and a small face-down card inside. On the back, someone has scribbled My Dearest Philip, 1838. I turn it over and gasp.
It’s a painting of a man in his early twenties with dark eyes and dark hair, a defined jaw, and a strong nose. He’s dressed as a member of the working class, which is surprising, as the lower classes often couldn’t afford them. Helena must have paid for it herself.
But that isn’t the most shocking thing. Most startling of all, startling enough that my blood is thrumming in my ears, is the fact that Henry’s face is staring up at me from the picture.
There are differences, of course, mostly the result of the passage of time and changes in cultural customs. But there is no mistaking the similarities. Philip is Henry’s doppelg?nger.
“Have you seen this?” I ask Mr. Weston.
He shakes his head, and I hand him the pocket-size painting. His bushy brows rise to the height of his now-extinct hairline. “Well, there’s no disputing that, is there?” He passes it back.
“I don’t think so,” I say absently, my mind still processing everything.
My eyes alight on the piece of paper still in my lap.
I can’t decide if I’m eager to see what it says or dreading what I’ll find.
I fiddle with it for a moment, unsure if I should read it now or force myself to fret over it all day.
Mr. Weston rises to his feet. “Why don’t I leave you to collect your thoughts for a bit? I have a few calls to make, and if your secretary doesn’t mind me sitting on the sofa out there, I’ll wait until you’re ready to discuss these matters.”
I nod my appreciation and return my attention to Henry’s letter as Mr. Weston leaves the room. When I can no longer bear the agony of not knowing, I unfold it.
Celia,
If you’re reading this, it means your solicitor has given you the annulment papers and the painting I found of Philip.
Crazy, huh? It was in the same dresser we found the letters in.
It occurred to me a few days ago that, after finding the letters, we never thought about checking the rest of it for anything else.
So I went back, and there it was, wedged in so tightly I didn’t think I’d be able to get it out at first.
I tried to make it as easy for you as I could.
Mr. Weston will handle everything from here.
I’m told the annulment will only take a few days to file, and then we’re both free to move on with our lives.
I’m sure you and Beck are glad of that. I wish you both the best. Despite what I said before, if you are happy with him, that’s all that matters.
Please know that hurting you has never been my intention, although it seems like that’s all I ever do anymore. Forgive me, C.
I know you’re scared to face this new step alone, but I also know you have what it takes.
You’re the most powerful woman I know, and if anyone can lead Wesbourne to greatness, it’s you.
I wish I could be there, but my presence would only complicate things.
You don’t need that, so I’ll be watching from afar.
Make her great for both of us.
Henry
P.S. Please don’t worry about me. I’m fine, simply keeping my distance so you can do the right thing. I’m letting you go so you can let go.
I read it several times before oxygen returns to my lungs. It’s everything I thought I wanted. I should be elated. Instead I feel like I’ve been kicked in the ribs.
The fairy tales don’t warn you about this. They promise a happily ever after and dashing off into the sunset with your hero. They don’t mention hearts bleeding on the floor or heroes who hook up with your sister.
They don’t prepare you for the dreams that turn into nightmares.